A Chance Encounter
April, 2004
A little town in North Dakota
It was raining again when Logan pulled up under the overhang. He turned off the '75 Chevy Monza's engine and stepped out, worn leather boots on the oil-stained concrete. The wind blew hard enough to whip rain against him, even though he was sheltered under the glaring white lights of the gas station. The convenience store was closed and dim lights glowed in the beer fridges at the back. Logan swiped the stolen credit card through the reader and put in premium. While the petroleum fizzled through the hose and the rain pattered on the tin above him, he took out a cigar. Logan lit the end, inhaled gently, puffing out his cheeks, and blew out, the earthy aroma hovering around him in a steamy cloud. With a bone-weary sigh, Logan leaned back against a sign that read "No smoking, gasoline is flammable."
An SUV pulled up next to him, ignoring the ten other open spaces under the awning. It pulled up on the other side of the meter and killed its engine. The SUV's windows were tinted, hiding whoever was inside. Logan didn't turn his head to look. He listened as the door slammed shut and sneakered feet squelched on the damp concrete. The driver came out from behind the gas pump as Logan tossed away his still-smoking cigar butt.
The feet stopped and Logan looked at the person. It was a woman, her mouth slack like she'd been about to say something. She looked at his dark hair, his faded suede jacket and wife-beater tee. Her eyes lingered on his faded blue jeans. In that moment, Logan knew that the woman had decided she knew all she needed to know about him, and she dismissed him. All this, and her pace never slowed.
Logan watched, eyes half-lidded, as she stepped out from under the awning and into the rain. She jogged over to the convenience store. She was wearing gray velour tracksuit bottoms and her ass bounced as she ran. She tugged at the glass doors and when they didn't budge, she shook them.
"They're not open." Logan called. His voice was dark, low, and a little hard at the edges. A voice that hadn't spoken in a while.
The woman looked over her shoulder at him, her face mostly obscured by her hood, which she wore up. She returned to the shelter of the overhang, slower now. Logan watched. She wore a low-cut white camisole under a navy blue zip-up hoodie.
"How am I supposed to pay for gas?" she asked. She bore the non-distinct midwestern accent and pronounced every letter, her pitch going down at the ends of sentences.
"There's a card reader," Logan told her. The gas meter on his side clicked and the stream of petrol stopped.
"Well, I've only got cash."
Logan returned the hose to the meter and snapped the gas tank's little door closed.
"Hey, you think you could use your card if I give you cash?" The woman had come around to his side and was offering him a handful of ones and fives. Logan reached out his large veined hand and took the cash. As their fingers brushed, he saw she had painted her nails purple and bitten them down to the quick.
"How much do you need?" he asked. She led him around to her car and Logan ran his card again.
"Just as much as that cash will get me." The woman leaned against her car, hip jutting out, and watched as Logan plugged the hose into her vehicle. The wind had died down and the rain only sputtered.
"Think it will clear up?' asked the woman. Logan sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring and the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He shook his head.
"Naw, it'll be on and off all night. Maybe it'll pick up again in the morning."
"Shit. Really not looking forward to driving all night in the rain."
"You in a hurry or something?" Logan glanced up at the woman when she didn't answer his question right away. Her hair was pulled back and hidden under her hood, but her bangs shone with grease.
"No, just didn't feel like searching for a motel this late at night.'
The numbers on the gas meter rose, past what the woman had given to Logan, but he let it run until the tank was full and the handle released.
"Thanks," the woman said. She watched Logan slip the nozzle back into the meter.
"Sure, no problem." Logan returned to his car, rounding the hood, and sank into the driver's seat. The engine rumbled to life and he pulled out of the light, into the spitting rain. As he crossed the lot, he glanced at the rear view mirror and caught sight of the woman's car. He heard the engine rev, then go silent. Logan's brake lights came on as he slowed. Again, the SUV's engine tried to start but couldn't catch. The woman's door swung open and she slid out, going around to pop the hood. Logan shifted into reverse and backed around to her side of the meter. He rolled down his window.
"Battery?" He asked. She turned from the exposed engine, a muscle in her jaw bulging.
"No, it's the goddamn starter again." She slammed her fist on the body of the vehicle. "Had this problem about two weeks ago and I thought I got it fixed, but apparently not."
"I could give you a jump," Logan suggested.
"I think I'm just gonna call AAA." She slammed the hood down and the hood of her sweatshirt fell away, revealing thick red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
"How long do you think they'll be?" he asked. She folded her arms under her chest and sighed.
"Two hours. Maybe three if they're in the next town over."
"You don't want to wait out here." Logan glanced around at the darkness. A block away, a street light flashed red. "It's not the safest neighborhood."
"You from around here?" The woman came up to his car and leaned against the window ledge, her sweatshirt falling open and revealing the pale curve of her breasts.
"No, but it's not the first time I've been here. There's a small motel two miles down the road that you can wait at. Hop in and I'll give you a lift."
The woman took a step back from his car, casually, but he could smell her suspicion and it hurt a little.
"Naw, that's okay. I'll just wait here for AAA."
"You sure? They have free coffee in the lobby."
Logan saw her brow soften at the mention of coffee, as if it could wash away her troubles.
"You know, that doesn't sound too bad."
"Climb in." Logan rolled up his window and the woman walked around the front of his car. She was illuminated briefly by the headlights, which caught her red hair and made it glow like fire. For a second, another redhead was overlayed with this one and Logan had to shake his head to clear it. The woman sank into the passenger seat, smiling, and looking nothing like the other woman.
It had begun to pour again when they arrived at the hotel. The woman dashed into the lobby and Logan followed her, glancing out into the dark night as he stepped inside. He shook out his hair, spraying droplets of water like a dog. She laughed and stepped away.
"You looking for a room?" A sleepy, pimpled concierge was rotating in his spinny chair behind the desk. Jazz music drifted from the phone in his hands.
"I'm too tired to keep driving tonight, so I might as well crash here." The woman reached into her hoodie pocket. "You take cash?"
The boy took the woman's money, handed her a keycard, and made her sign some insurance papers. Logan leaned up against the desk and watched out of the corner of his eye as she signed her name.
"You wanna join me for some coffee in my room?" the woman asked. "You'll have to help me find it. It's number nineteen."
"Sure." Logan led her out into the night again. The wind had returned and it had grown chilly. They walked briskly under the motel gable, passing door after door. They found number nineteen and the woman scanned the card with no trouble. The light flashed orange, then green, and the door swung inward with a click.
Logan followed her into the room and flipped on the light. The room had blue curtained windows, a heater, and a queen bed with a matching blue comforter. A floor lamp provided tired yellow lighting for the bedroom, and a sterile fluorescent lit the bathroom and closet. The woman went into the bathroom, which smelled a little damp, but looked spotless. She filled up the coffee pot in the sink there and poured it into the coffee machine that was sitting on a barren desk behind the door.
Meanwhile, Logan took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair by the heater, and sat down on the pullout couch. There was a television, which he turned on. An old black and white episode of Gunsmoke was playing. Logan had seen it before, years ago, when it first aired. He muted the television and leaned back, setting his booted feet up on the coffee table.
"So, Mia, what is it, or should I ask, who is it you're running from?"
The woman, who had been tearing the crinkly plastic from the styrofoam cups in the bathroom, froze. She gave the plastic one last rip and joined Logan in the bedroom, two empty cups in one hand.
"How do you know my name?" She stood with her hips jutted out, her arms resting at her sides, but Logan sensed she was ready to spring to safety. He moved slowly as he sat up, careful not to spook her.
"I saw your name back there when you were signing for room insurance."
"What makes you think I'm running from someone?" The woman asked. She still hadn't moved. Logan rose, his muscular frame taking up a huge space in the room.
"I know enough to tell you that Mia isn't your real name, and if you're using a fake, it means you don't want anyone to find you."
Logan waited for the woman to decide what she would say. A tense silence passed and then she slipped past him, ignoring him. She went to the coffee pot and pressed a hand against it. It was hot and she drew away quickly.
"You're right," She said. "Mia is not my real name. But that's none of your business."
"Fine by me." Logan crossed to the chair by the heater and picked up his jacket. "I don't know and I don't want to know."
The woman looked up from the pot and saw Logan slipping into his jacket.
"You're leaving already? I haven't even poured your coffee."
"Look, I don't want any trouble." He lifted the curtain just enough to peek out at a set of headlights. They flashed into the room, briefly, then passed on. The woman had tensed at the sound of the car, but as soon as it passed, her shoulders relaxed and Logan heard her release a shaky breath. He turned to her.
"Jesus, you're scared out of your mind, aren't you. Who's chasing you?"
"I'm fine." The coffee machine clicked, and hot brown liquid streamed out of it, into the pot. A steamy aroma filled the room instantly. The woman was suddenly very interested in placing the cups and adjusting the pot. "You're probably right to go." Her voice was barely audible. "There's always trouble around me. Trouble that could get you killed."
She looked up, and a brief smile lit her face, making the tears in her eyes glisten like raindrops. "Thanks for the hotel reference," she said. "And the gas."
Instead of leaving, Logan stood still and watched her. He watched her pour the coffee with shaking hands, spilling a few drops on the desk. He watched her struggle to tear open a sugar packet with numb fingers. She brought the pink packet up to her mouth and tried to use her teeth. Logan reached out and wrapped his warm hands around her cold ones. Gently, he took the packet from her and tore it open.
"Thank you." She watched the grains of sugar flow slowly into the coffee cup and dissolve into black swirls of steam.
"It's funny that you think trouble follows you," Logan said, reaching around her to stir the coffee with a tiny red straw. "If you knew me, you'd know that it doesn't just follow me. I am trouble."
He let go of the straw, and it spun in the current of his swirls. The woman kept her eyes downcast, but Logan had learned patience over the decades and he kept his gaze on her until she lifted her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were the rarest true green.
Their faces drew together and Logan kissed the woman tenderly. She melted against him, her soft curves fitting into his hard lines. Her tongue tasted like cinnamon. Logan wrapped one arm around her waist and took a fistful of hair at the back of her neck. He tilted her head upward and kissed her more roughly.
She pulled away long enough to gasp, "Who are you?" Logan growled his name in her ear and she shivered, her whole body breaking out in gooseflesh. Logan pressed her hard against his body.
"My name..." she tried to speak, but she couldn't catch her breath.
"It doesn't matter," Logan told her. He shoved her down on the bed and crawled on top, shedding his jacket as he went. She was still shaking, her fingers working unsuccessfully at her hoodie zipper. In one swift jerk of inhuman strength, Logan tore her sweatshirt open. Her camisole underneath was sheer. She wore no bra and her dark nipples shone through the nylon fabric.
As Logan's fingers trailed over her breasts and stomach, toward the waistband of her velour pants, the woman clawed at his white A-shirt, sliding it up over his stomach. It rolled under his armpits and he sat up to strip it off, exposing a hairy chest criss-crossed with ancient scarring. The woman's frantic movements stilled and her hands reached out touch him.
"You are so much more than you seem, Logan," she said, reaching up to brush his sideburns. Her hands locked behind his neck and she drew him down to her.
As Logan slipped his hands into her pants, out of sight, a low thrumming filled the air. As fast as his reflexes were, Logan didn't have time to react before the room exploded in a blinding flash that tore him away from her. Logan heard a scream, felt his head hit a sharp corner, and he blacked out for a minute.
When his head cleared, Logan struggled to his feet, nothing more than a shadowy figure in the ruin. Logan stumbled through the room. Beams, drywall, and upholstery smoked around him and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
"Where are you?" He called into the dark night. The only answer was a lightning bolt that tore across the sky, illuminating the wreckage like a strobe for only a second before leaving darkness even deeper than before. The after-image burned into Logan's retinas and he studied it as the rain poured through the gaping roof. He pictured the table thrown aside, the mattress torn jaggedly into large chunks, the lamp cover punctured by the shattered bulb. In the corner, the wall had collapsed and the bureau holding the television was lying on top of it. A sneaker peeked out from underneath.
Logan leapt over the mess, heedless of the blood dripping down the side of his head and the collapsed lung on his left side that was slowly inflating and healing itself. He grabbed the bureau and tossed it aside like it was nothing. He uncovered an arm and hand, bent at odd angles. He dug through the broken wall and uncovered the woman. Her skin, so unblemished and glowing only moments before was now dirty and scraped, gouged and bruised. Only her face was miraculously unblemished except for a small slice that marred her lip.
"Hey, hey," Logan lifted her head and patted her cheek. He wished he had gotten her name, so he could use it to call her back from the darkness.
"Wake up." He slapped at her cheek a little harder. "Come on." Gritting his teeth, Logan let go of her head and grabbed her shoulders. He gave her a shake and her head lolled back, eyes closed.
"Goddamn it." Logan felt at her neck for a pulse, but it was gone. Behind him, a motor started and headlights flared. With reflexes almost as fast as the lightning, Logan leapt from the broken room, out into the parking lot. A dark car spun away, tires screeching on the asphalt, and roared into the night. Logan roared furiously at it.
Across town, a siren wailed its warning cry. Logan looked back at the woman, her figure nothing but a dark outline in a heap of rubble. Then he crossed the parking lot to his car, got in, and drove away without looking back again.
In what was left of the motel room, rain fell on the face of the red-haired woman wearing a white camisole and velour tracksuit bottoms. The water pooled in the corners of her closed eyes and beaded her eyebrows. Lightning flashed again overhead, and the dead woman's eyes flew open, green and glowing.
To be continued…?