The Sixth Station(45)

Weary but determined, I drove another 143 miles to Syracuse, exited, and found a Best Rate Motel. I took the satellite phone charger, the registration, and, yes, Sadowski’s ATM card with me; I didn’t want to leave anything in the car.

One look at what passed for a lobby and I knew that for sure no one would remember me here, because, for one thing, no one was around. I actually rang the desk bell (OK, to be fair, it was after midnight), and a sleepy Indian lady came shuffling out in her bedroom slippers and sari.

The deluxe single room with continental breakfast came to fifty-four dollars. I complained, and the woman lowered it to fifty. I signed in as “Rochelle Cherry.” Don’t ask.

It sounds like a whiny stripper.

She handed me the room card and didn’t ask if I had luggage, just pointed to the door and told me to drive around to the back, where I could park my car right near the stairs to my room.

Room 204, which reeked of cigarette smoke, had one sad, sagging double bed, with a crumpled-up tissue still left on the spread.

It partially covered the large cigarette burn in the middle of the horrid orange-and-red quilted bedspread. The whole room looked as beat up as I felt. No need to worry about bedbugs. Even they wouldn’t stay there. I pulled the rubber blackout curtains together and then the white-ish sheer drapes over them, turned on the heat, which sounded like a tambourine band, and headed toward the bathroom-ish.

The 1970s pink tiles and matching toilet had seen better days. Or maybe not. Regardless, I unwrapped the miniscule bar of Cashmere Bouquet soap in the dish and scrubbed my face with the rough washcloth so hard I nearly bled.

I ran the shower until it approximated something like hot water, peeled off my clothes, and jumped in. I washed my underwear under the shower with the Cashmere Bouquet and prayed I wouldn’t develop a giant perfume rash on my southern regions. I remember Donald telling me once that all men who cheat in cheap motels get caught because they come home smelling of Cashmere Bouquet. If a man smells of it, he’s cheating. Period.

I put my wet undies on the heating unit to dry and, naked, I crawled into the bed and immediately rolled into the middle sag. I plugged Sadowski’s phone in next to the bed, set it to wake me at 6:00, and fell into a fitful sleep.

I was alone in an ancient city in front of a great wall. Everyone was passing by, but only I could see that there was a code written on the wall. Why couldn’t anyone else see it, and, more important, why couldn’t I interpret it?

I tried to climb up to the top of the wall but fell back and landed hard on my head. I started bleeding profusely onto the road, where I lay helpless.

No one came to my aid, and I could feel the life draining out of me.

If I could only read the code, I could save myself.

Then someone, a woman, standing over me, unwilling to help, said, “You can’t save the world. You are not the Chosen One.” And she began laughing so hard that tears—which were made of blood—were pouring down her face.

I woke up sweating like a lady in the middle of menopause and sat straight up. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode.

Totally disoriented in the blackness of the room, I felt around and felt the creepy polyester quilted bedspread and knew immediately I was in a motel.

I flicked on the light, still disoriented but grateful that I’d been dreaming—until I remembered that the truth was far worse than bleeding on a street in a foreign country unable to read a code.

The reality was that I was being hunted by the police for murder in my own country—and followed by God knows who from God knows where—and my real prospects for getting away with murder, or even getting away alive, were, well, slim, none, and you’re kidding me, right?

I slammed my head back down on the skinny thing that passed for a pillow and tried to get back to sleep. Right then the only thing I had going for me was my brain, and when it was sleep deprived it was a nasty, unworkable thing.

Somehow, I felt like I had been tossing and turning until dawn, but in truth I must have fallen deep asleep, because the next thing I knew I was startled awake by the alarm: Sam Cooke’s version of “You Send Me” on Sadowski’s phone. It was 6:00 A.M. I switched on the light and crawled out of bed.

I made the little cup of coffee in the machine they provided, loaded it up with sugar and white powder nondairy “creamer,” and gulped it down. I still wasn’t functioning, so I pulled on my clothes (underwear was still damp, so I went commando—forgetting I’d bought some nice old lady underpants at the drug store) and headed down to the lobby for the free continental breakfast. I don’t know which continent it is exactly that serves frozen cheese Danish in a bag for breakfast, but there must be one. Somewhere.