As he sucked the crisp air, he looked at the dozens of identical doors
and windows, all of them closed and lightless . . .
And he wondered, suddenly, why he had not screamed for help when the
stranger had first attacked him with the ax. Even though they had been
clear at the back of the motel, and even though the thunder of rain and
wind was a blanket over other sounds, his voice would have carried into
these rooms, would have awakened these people. if he screamed as loudly
as he could, surely someone would have to come to see what was wrong.
Someone would have called the police. But he had been so frightened
that the thought of crying out for help had never occurred to him. The
battle had been strangely noiseless, a nightmare of nearly silent thrust
and counterthrust which had not reached the motel guests.
And then, remembering various newspaper stories he had read, accounts of
the average man’s indifference to the commission of a rape or murder in
front of his eyes, Doyle wondered if anyone would have answered his call
for help? Or would they all have turned and put pillows over their
heads? Would these people in these identical rooms have reacted
unemotionally and identically: with reluctance and perhaps apathy?
it was not a nice thought.
Shaking violently now, he tried to stop thinking about it as he pushed
away from the rail and walked down the rainwashed promenade toward their
room.
Fourteen When Doyle finished drying his hair, Colin folded the white
motel towel and carried it into the bathroom, where he draped it over
the shower rail with the rain-soaked clothes. Trying to handle himself
in a calm and dignified manner-even though he was wearing only
undershorts and eyeglasses, and even though he was obviously quite
frightened-the boy came back into the main room and sat down in the
middle of his own bed. He stared openly at Doyle’s bruised right side.
Alex cautiously explored the tender flesh with the tips of his fingers,
until he was satisfied that nothing was broken or so seriously damaged
that it demanded a doctor’s attention.
“Hurt?” Colin asked.
“Like a bitch.”
“Maybe we should get some ice to put on it.” “It’s just a bruise. Not
much to be done.”
“You think it’s just a bruise,” Colin said.
“The worst of the pain is gone already. I’ll be stiff and sore for a
few days, but there isn’t any way to avoid that.”
“What do we do now?”
Doyle had, of course, told the boy everything about the ax battle and
the tall, gaunt man with the wild eyes. He had known that Colin would
recognize a lie and would probe for the truth until he got it.
This was not a child whom you could treat like a child.
Doyle stopped massaging his discolored flesh and considered the boy’s
question. “Well . . . We definitely have to change the route we’d
planned on taking from here to Salt Lake City. Instead of using Route
40, we’ll take either Interstate 80 or Route 24 and-”
“We changed plans before,” Colin said, blinking owlishly behind his
thick, round glasses. “And it didn’t work. He picked us up again. ”
“He picked us up again only when we returned to I-70, the road that he
was using,” Doyle said. “This time we won’t go back to the main roads at
all. We’ll take the longer way around. We’ll figure a new way into
Reno from Salt Lake City-then a secondary road from Reno to San
Francisco.”
Colin thought about that for a minute. “Maybe we should stay at new
motels, too. Pick them at random.”
“We have reservations and deposits waiting for us,” Doyle said.
“That’s what I mean.” The boy was somber.
“That sounds like paranoia, ” Doyle said, surprised.
“I guess.”
Doyle sat up straighter against the headboard. “You think that this
character knows where we intend to stop each night?”
“He keeps picking us up in the mornings,” the boy said defensively.
“But how would he know our plans?”
Colin shrugged.
“He would have to be somebody we know,” Doyle said, not warming to the