"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Five -
"Learning to Scream in a Whisper"
It was fully dark now, at 6:30 p.m., and the wind was turning bitter; the loss of the sun had lowered the temperature by at least ten degrees.
House left Route 295. Crossing the river into Delaware, he connected with US 95 South and headed to Havre de Grace in Maryland at the upper arm of Chesapeake Bay. If he could make it to the giant truck stop and motel there, he would be well on his way. He would be safe from any sort of scrutiny that would make him nervous.
No one in that part of the country would give a second look to some fool cripple on a motorcycle, pulling up in front of a motel to pay cash for a room for the night. At least he hoped that was how it would go.
He pressed on through the night and the thinning traffic on the highway. House found his senses becoming dramatically attuned to close proximity of vehicles careening around him, and in the interim found himself blinking his eyes in an effort to clear his vision. His leg was a pounding ache in his consciousness. Ten miles to go.
He knew he was close when he saw the mushroom-shaped glow in the sky. The giant truck stop was easily as large as one of the many shopping malls on the eastern seaboard. It was probably also twice as bright with the large number of mercury vapor lights on tall poles illuminating every inch of macadam within its many acre boundary.
To House's way of thinking, it resembled the Johnson Space Center or Cape Canaveral just before a shuttle launch. Its bright lights illuminated upward-reaching plumes of diesel exhaust that rose high into the night air.
His gaze wandered over the idling eighteen-wheelers with reefer units, and other rigs with their engines running to keep their heaters in operation. These monsters filled the waiting areas and fueling stations to near capacity. Others, already fueled and ready to hit the road, sat snorkeling through the night while their drivers slept in their cab bunks or in one of the motel units.
Complexes like these, House knew, put a blight on the landscape and dug gouges in the ozone layer, but they were necessary for commerce and essential to the spoiled American way of life. These huge trucks supplied the supermarkets and the fashion outlets, and the warehouses and the factories. They kept the economy rolling, even while they represented a menace to the highways and an imminent danger to anything that had to share the roads with them.
As the Repsol approached its destination, the atmospheric glow seemed to settle closer and closer to the ground. The huge light standards pulled down the smoggy mushroom cloud and drew House's eyes inward to the brightly lit buildings with their neon signs and illuminated marquees. He could hear the clamor of traffic now, as the bike made its final approach off the exit ramp that led from the highway.
He leaned slightly to the right and eased off the gas feed to the powerful little engine. The bike responded immediately, and he clicked down through the gears as it slowed to enter the mammoth parking lot. Headlights bounced past with bug-eyed intensity, while vehicles of all sizes and shapes trundled across and buzzed narrowly around him. A close call with an old VW Beetle produced a shot of adrenaline that forced him to stay focused.
The reduction in velocity caused his ears to pop and the wind shear across his body to drop off rapidly. The change went through his bloodstream like a bullet through water as the Repsol decelerated. The sensation caused a momentary heaviness in his leg that made him hitch his breath and bite down on his tongue. He'd forgotten how an extended road trip at accelerated speeds affected the blood flow at the infarction site, and his body trembled at the initial shock. His hands reacted by losing their grip on the handlebars, causing him to fumble with the gas feed.
The bike responded by bucking, and he nearly lost his hold on the controls. A lightning bolt of pain stung his nervous system and jolted him back to immediate attention as he tightened his fingers and brought the excitable machine back under control.
Christ!
He grimaced, lips curling back to bare his teeth in a snarl of anger, as he felt his right foot slide off the bar and dangle uselessly just above the asphalt. The jolt to his adductors accelerated the pain. Another one like that, and he would be flat on his ass on the ground with the fucking bike on top of him. Not a pleasant thought.
House cruised the parking lot slowly, maneuvering around cars, trucks, tourists not paying attention to where they were going, and boisterous children skittering about and making things difficult for drivers and pedestrians alike. He avoided them cautiously, and finally pulling up in front of the office of one of the motels located at the rear of the complex.
House shut down the Honda's engine, clicked down the kickstand, and sat still for a moment. He looked around, making a show of scanning the area to get his bearings. In reality, he knew without a doubt that right then, he had not the strength to dismount without folding into a puddle on the sidewalk.
His ass cheeks were dead asleep, and both legs felt the consistency of Play-Doh. He did not dare attempt to stand or walk right now. He removed the heavy riding gloves and placed them temporarily across the gas tank. He slipped off the lightweight helmet and hung that on the right handlebar. Immediately he felt the intrusion of the cold air against his neck and up the sleeves of the insulated leather jacket.
Jesus! My ass hurts … and I'm hungry. Wonder if there's a pizza joint …?
The cold was not conducive to sitting any longer in the windy night. After a time, sensation stole back into his extremities and he began to experiment with the effort of maneuvering his leg over the bike's saddle. It balked, and he ended up grasping it above the knee and finishing the retrieval manually. He reached over and pulled the cane away from its clamps, dropping the rubber tip to the ground, leaning on it before the leg buckled beneath him. Pain! "Ow!"He fumbled around for a few more moments, grabbing the heavy leather driving gloves off the gas tank, killing time until his reluctant body finally began to cooperate with his demands.
With feeling coursing through his muscles once again, he turned away from the bike and moved cautiously toward the motel's front door. He pushed it open and stepped into the office, approached the desk gingerly and lay the gloves down on its surface. He hung the cane from the countertop and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, running a fingernail across the seam.
The casually attired attendant had just finished with a group of customers. His back was turned and he was placing a message into a pigeonhole message box along the far wall. House cleared his throat loudly, and the man turned around.
"Yes sir. What can I do for you?"
House squinted and pulled a face filled with long-suffering patience. "I came to pick up my dry cleaning! " He said sarcastically. He shifted his weight in a dramatic fumble to the left, and sighed. "Actually, I thought you might know someone who could get me a room for the night?" His pain made the sarcasm kick up another notch.
The guy stared at the cane and the obvious cant to House's body. His features softened immediately as he saw that the man was quite lame. "Maybe I can help you out with that. Sorry. How many?"
House leaned across the counter and took more of his weight off his leg. "Just me."
"One night?"
"Yeah. Ground floor, okay? I don't do steps very well …"
An aluminum key attached to a plastic paddle jingled down beneath the man's meaty fist. "Room 7-C, down the concourse to the right. Sixty-seven fifty. Cash or charge?"
"Cash," House replied. "Any of the restaurants around here make deliveries?" He dug in his wallet and drew out four twenties, laid them on the surface and flattened them out.
The guy took the money and hit a series of keys on the cash register. Handed House the change. "Yeah … Bonfatto's Pizza. They're open all night. Anything else?"
House shook his head and straightened. He picked up his gloves and cane, and turned to leave. His knee buckled suddenly and he nearly fell.
Behind him, the attendant was out around the desk in an instant, his hands buoying House upright with pressure beneath his elbow.
House looked at the man with wide-eyed surprise, hop-stepped once and regained his balance.
"You okay, sir?" He let go of House's arm and stepped back.
House nodded. "Yeah … thanks. Sorry about that …"
"It's okay. You need some help getting down to the room?"
"No. I'm fine. Long time on the road. It's … I'm …tired …"
The man nodded briefly and returned to his place behind the desk.
House could feel curious eyes digging into his back as he limped through the door and returned to the bike.
He lifted his leg over the saddle again and restarted the engine.
The Repsol hummed to life, and he accelerated slowly, letting it idle along the short distance to 7-C. He parked it and shut off the engine again, withdrew the ignition key and slipped it into his pocket, then zipped it shut.
He fit the motel key into the door lock and went inside. It was nothing fancy, but it would do. He dropped the gloves, the helmet and the backpack on the double bed and turned around to retrieve some things from the bike's saddlebags. He got what he needed and activated the locking mechanism on the transmission, then went back inside. He closed the door securely and set the lock.
He sank down on the bed wearily and pulled the necessary meds from his backpack. He swallowed the pills one at a time until the dose was complete. He removed the riding boots and tossed them aside. Removed the leather jacket and threw it on the chair in the corner. It was warm in the room, and he was grateful for that. His tired body needed to be thawed out.
After awhile, House finally summoned the energy to order a small pizza, a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bag of chips. Bonfatto's told him to expect delivery in about an hour.
He got undressed and languished in the shower, letting the hot water seep into his bones. His leg radiated with pain that made him want to weep. He didn't. He bit his lip until he could taste his own blood. Even then, a whimper escaped unbidden.
House deposited the threadbare jeans and smelly tee shirt in the garbage and changed into fresh clothing. He sat down on the bed, turned on the TV and rubbed at his thigh.
When the pizza finally arrived, he ate two slices and dumped the rest. He finished off a Mountain Dew, wishing like hell for a beer instead, and stashed the other five cans in the backpack.
His leg tamed down a little and he tried to sleep. He was only partially successful. The ache was insistent.
He sucked it up and rode it out and screamed in a whisper inside his head …
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