Incident at Shady Oaks

We had been on the road all day, the last four hours in the pouring rain. Having had less than four hours sleep the previous night, I was near exhaustion, and Charley hadn’t blinked for miles. Her vacant stare concerned me. She was usually an animated driver -- chatty, idly commenting on the blunders of other drivers, not quietly staring straight ahead. Was she sleep-driving? It was nearly midnight, and we were somewhere in central Kentucky. I was desperate to find a place to sleep.

In an area that bore no other signs that offered services, I spotted a partially burned-out marquee that read ‘Welcome to the Shady Oaks Motel.’ Pointing anxiously, I read it aloud. I was relieved to see Charley show signs of awareness. The word ‘vacancy’ was not lit up, but we took a chance and pulled into the parking lot, anyway. Yawning, getting soaked to the skin as we dashed from the car to the building, we entered the lobby of the shabby little motel and found an old man at the front desk. He had been peacefully puffing on a cigarette as he watched the rain through the glass door, but his eyes lit up with friendliness as we crossed the threshold.

The clerk was old and looked frail. Tall, thin, partly bald, he seemed amicable enough. Although the temperature had been in the upper nineties that day, he was wearing a hooded jacket zipped up to his chin. A large tin can on the counter was overflowing with cigarette butts, some still smoldering. Needless to say, the room reeked.

I could’ve cheered when he told us there was a vacancy. I had mixed feelings because of the smell, but in my weary state, I decided I could live one night with Eau Du Ashtray if a bed was part of the deal.

The clerk introduced himself as Gus, and began taking down our information. He was a talkative, accommodating man with trembling, withered hands, but he eyed me with undisguised interest. Charley was openly amused, but I was discomfited by the old fart’s lusty leer. Patiently enduring his painfully slow movements, we waited for him to get us checked in. Our wet clothes dripped on the linoleum, leaving large puddles around our feet.

I mused on whether to mention it to Gus, or to let him come shuffling around the desk where he could possibly slip and splat out on the floor, maybe break a hip or something. Old folks have brittle bones and a fall could easily cause a serious injury. I sighed inwardly. Though he was obviously an indiscreet, bawdy peeper who couldn’t take his eyes off my tits, I couldn’t let him get hurt. I wasn’t that petty. I pointed out the puddles. How could I feel bad about contributing to the safety of a senior citizen?

Without missing a beat in his rambling dialogue, he ambled over to a row of shelves that contained linens, chose a torn bedspread, and arranged it on the floor at our feet. As I watched the material soak up the mess, an ominous shiver passed through me. I had a flicker of an image of blood, brutality, rage, sadness and pain. Emptiness. In the spot where we were standing, a violent act had either happened in the recent past, or it would happen in the near future. A full-body shudder rocked me out of the partial vision. I leaned against Charley for support. As always, her arm immediately closed around me. I was thankful for Charley.

I had had predictive episodes all during my childhood, often foreseeing gruesome videos of things yet to come. When standing within the perimeter of the scene of an accident or a brutal act, I sometimes recounted it, even though I had not personally witnessed it. Disturbingly, one after another of my dreaded visions became reality. I wanted them to be false, to be mistaken, but every detail of every scene was played out to exactness. If I saw it in that special psychic realm in my consciousness, it happened. It was my gift and my curse.

My family and the people in our church were not receptive or supportive when I tried to warn them of impending danger, and even when one of my visions could have saved one of them from injury or death, they condemned me for using a wicked tool to obtain information unfairly. I learned young to keep my thoughts to myself. Being an outcast because of my ‘gift’ became such a frightening possibility to me that I tried desperately to quell my own visions for years. They came anyway, unbidden.

It was only after Charley and I became friends that I was able to make peace with the entity that created those visions. I still couldn’t talk to anybody else about it, but Charley’s acceptance, her love and her quiet, cynical common sense gave me sanctuary from those who had so harshly judged me. But then, of course, she and I became lovers, which, in my family’s opinion, had they known, would have even more adamantly excluded us from their Heavenly circle.

I no longer cared what others thought about my lifestyle. I loved my girlfriend, and she loved me. In these modern times, they weren’t going to burn us at the stake or anything quite so unpleasant. I hoped.

As far as the psychic episodes were concerned, though, I was still too terrified to share them with anybody but Charley.

When Gus had collected his money, he handed me the key and promised to meet us at Room 4 in five minutes (give or take a couple seconds) with fresh towels. Plunging back out into the rain, we moved the car to the parking space directly in front of the door with the upside-down 4.

While still sitting in the car, I studied our surroundings. It looked desolate, cheerless and abandoned, but I knew there were occupants. I could feel them. Another of my bizarre ‘gifts,’ I could usually sense the presence of other people in my immediate area the way most folks felt it when someone was staring at them – especially if the mental processes of the nearby people were anomalous in any way. And these presences were extremely anomalous. I couldn’t get an exact count, but guessed that there were more than two, less than ten.

Because of my fear of being scoffed at or stoned, I wasn’t the typical psychic. I’d never found a lost child, saved anyone from death, led the police to a kidnap victim -- never did anything spectacular -- but I was hyperaware of everything around me. I just happened to be occasionally conscious of unsought things to which I shouldn’t have been privy. I was grateful that Charley didn’t try to make me feel destined for hell. She did often chide me for being a ditzy, softhearted pacifist, but she gracefully accepted my other abnormalities, and loved me anyway.

We were not alone.

A curtain parted in the window two doors up the walk from us, Room 2, a lone male figure peering out at us. I was comforted that we weren’t completely secluded with the old man. His actions had reminded me of a character named Norman Bates from the movie Psycho. There was something sinister about the scenario, although it was hard to define. I couldn’t actually picture Gus peeping through pre-drilled holes in the bathroom walls to catch a glimpse of his female guests in the act of undressing. He just didn’t seem that depraved.

The residents of this building weren’t ordinary folks. In fact, I had the oddest feeling that they were a little like me, and as conscious of us as I was of them. The door to our neighboring Room 5 opened a crack, and a woman’s form filled the space. When I stared back, both motel guests regressed back into their rooms. The lighting was so dim that they couldn’t have seen me clearly, couldn’t have known I was staring, but then, as I said, most people sense being watched. And I felt the affinity.

They were like me, only moreso. Way moreso.

I wished I could’ve seen their faces, heard their voices. I wanted to feel their many auras, to touch their faces, to share their dreams. I know. I was completely idealistic. I was a hopeless romantic. What can I say?

But then, I’d always been social like that. I enjoyed the interaction. Even with my bitter background, I loved people, loved getting involved with their problems and trying to find a solution. Charley wasn’t so outgoing. I couldn’t label her a misanthrope, but she wasn’t exactly a people person. She liked my company, but preferred not to socialize with others. I’d always heard that opposites attract. Charley and I -- we were the perfect example.

I thought it was strange that there was only one other vehicle in the parking lot, a large van with an air conditioner on the roof, which was equipped with a side door for wheelchair access. I counted ten doors down the length of the sidewalk. If the other nine were occupied, where were all the cars? Commune living was a possibility. Prostitution also crossed my mind, but Gus didn’t fit my idea of a pimp.

I was way too tired to be speculating.

I could have slept straight through the rest of the week. I was euphoric about the opportunity to rest my weary head, even if only for less than twelve hours. Not that I was in the habit of sleeping that many hours. Since childhood, my schedule had been fairly regular – up at six or seven, off to bed by ten or eleven, but since Charley and I had taken the public relations and booking agent jobs, my sleeping schedule had been seriously upset. As a result, I often found myself wanting to oversleep as a means of compensation. I hated the inconsistent hours, the constant long-distance traveling, and how miserably worn out I felt all the time.

The available room was furnished with one queen size bed, as well as a substandard structure with one missing and one lopsided drawer that served as a dresser, and a bedside stand that hosted a dusty lamp and a retro-style telephone. On the shelf beneath the lamp was a tattered phone book. I had doubts that it was for the current year. There was no television, no clock, and no offer of coffee or ice. Stark, but for thirty bucks, we couldn’t expect much.

The closet was merely an indentation in the wall with a broomstick nailed up on both corners, and for our convenience, two hangers had been strategically placed on the stick. The way to the tiny bathroom was a tight little path around the bed, past the rusty window-style air conditioner that roared like a jackhammer, and over a carpet bar that, when one stepped on it with bare feet, the aged host informed us as an afterthought, could deliver a notable electrical shock. I promised to be careful to step wide when going to the bathroom as I crossed my arms over my breasts to shield them from his lewd view.

Charley’s blank gaze followed Gus as he made his exit after his short guided tour of the ten by ten room. He had brought towels and other supplies wrapped in a trash bag to keep out the rain. Even with the precaution, the towels were damp, so I hung them over the shower curtain rod, made use of the grimy facilities, took off my clothes and hung them alongside the towels, and then managed to step on that damned electrified carpet bar on my way back to bed. I uttered an obscenity that Charley didn’t acknowledge. When I got to the bed, she was already undressed and beneath the covers. She had hung her soppy clothes on the two hangers. Sleepily, I crawled in beside her, trying to ignore the musty smell of the linens.

I sighed in exhaustion, snuggled up close against my girlfriend’s naked body and closed my eyes. As usual, her arms automatically went around me. The raucous air conditioner, the foul smells, the mattress lumps beneath my hip and shoulder, the prickles of feathers poking through the pillow, and the overall aura of the room would have kept me awake any other night, but that night, in my sweet Charley’s embrace, I slept like the dead.

“Morning, sugar,” Charley murmured in my ear. She nuzzled my neck and placed a kiss on my jugular vein. It tickled pleasantly. “It’s daylight outside, and it stopped raining. Can’t listen to the weather report because there’s no TV or radio in here, but my spider sense tells me it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“Your spider sense,” I echoed dully. I wasn’t ready to be awake. I was willing to blatantly ignore her if necessary. “How long ‘til checkout time? Can we sleep another hour?”

She reached for her cell phone, squinting at the screen. “It’s a couple minutes to eight,” she answered, smothering a yawn. “Checkout time is noon.” Rolling away from me, she got up and followed the narrow path around the bed to the toilet.

I stretched, inhaled a long pull of stale, moldy air. Wincing, I coughed. It sounded like a smoker’s cough. I wasn’t a smoker. Well, to be perfectly honest -- I’ll put it this way -- I never smoked tobacco.

I drifted, still loathe to submit to total alertness, but the thought process, as usual, ran rampant in my psychic brain. I couldn’t turn it off, that annoying clarity that invaded my every waking moment, and sometimes even permeated my dreams. Some people took medication for such conditions, but I considered my myriad morning ponderings entertaining. I embraced my muses, or demons, or whatever name the little imps that squirmed around in my subconscious realm preferred to be called. Who could ever get bored when endless supplies of thoughts, dreams, and fantasies were easily obtained and completely free of charge?

My fantasies usually involved Charley, especially the sexy ones. Even my dreams of winning the lottery included her. I couldn’t even think about the future without making plans for the two of us together forever. I was obsessed with her, and I was convinced that she was just as obsessed with me.

Charlene and I had met and became friends in high school, but it wasn’t until our college years that we got together as lovers. We had been living as a couple for nearly eight years, and we were comfortable. Our life together wasn’t spectacular, and we weren’t really ‘out’ to the world, not even to our families. Especially not to our families. My older brothers were still actively trying to hook me up with every available stud they knew. Charley’s mom didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She was too busy making money, and too preoccupied with her campaign to become the next governor of Alabama, to notice that her only child was a lesbian. We chose discretion, both for our sakes and theirs. But we weren’t ashamed. Neither of us would ever deny our relationship.

Not telling the truth was quite a different matter than telling an untruth. We didn’t have a rainbow painted on the side of our car, but if the question of my status was ever directly posed, I would have declared my undying love for Charley.

After Charley and I graduated from college, we breezed through a number of shit-jobs, finally lucking into the higher-paying positions of being road agents for the Southern Cross Wrestling Federation. The only drawback to an otherwise lovely opportunity was the travel: booking shows in multiple far-away cities so the business could expand and make the illustrious Cross family and their brood more widely recognized. I couldn’t complain about the money. All the bills were paid, our wardrobes were improving, and we were even considering a move to a better neighborhood. We might even get a dog.

My only real problem was the crazy hours we had to keep. This trip had been to Detroit, which was the farthest point we had driven from our home in Mobile. And when we did get home, we would only have a couple of days to rest before we’d be back on the road again, off to some other far-away arena. The endlessness of it all gave me spiritual fatigue.

Sometimes, I thought, I would rather live in the ghetto, work in a factory that made water-guns, calendars, wooden spoons, or some other product either trivial or significant, and have my schedule back the way it was before I’d hired on for the sleep-depriving agent job. I wasn’t materialistic. Femme, yes, but I wasn’t the high-maintenance lipstick type. I could live in a lot worse conditions and remain content. I just needed my girlfriend, enough money to keep the lights on, and to get my proper amount of sleep during the proper hours. Was that too much to ask?

Blearily, I watched as Charley returned from the bathroom. Unlike me, she stepped wide over the metal bar. Instead of walking all the way around the bed, she climbed over me, pulled the covers over herself and settled in comfortably.

I groaned. I didn’t want to move a muscle, but I had to go pee, damn it. Clumsily, I got out of bed, remembered to step over the inch-high bar as I stumbled into the bathroom, and plopped down on the toilet. I leaned over on the greasy basin as I emptied my bladder, wondering what sort of gunk I was getting all over my forearm and cheek. I could take a shower later, but would probably need some strong grease-cutting formula to make me feel clean again.

On my way back to bed, I switched off the ridiculously noisy air conditioner. I cuddled up in Charley’s welcoming arms and sighed, ready to return to dreamland.

“You do realize that it’s hotter than hell outside,” she said, grudgingly getting up to round the bed again. I sat up on my elbows, prepared to be repentant. Through a haze of weariness, I watched her stand and stare at the sagging window unit. When she turned it back on, the tremendous noise was revisited tenfold. It vibrated the entire wall, drummed like bass in very large speakers with the volume blaring. I felt slightly ill from the effect. It almost drowned out her voice as she added, “It is August, you know.”

There was a pool of water on the rotted windowsill that ran down the wall and streamed off to the left and right, lining both sides of the electrical outlet where the unit was plugged in. Charley and I assessed the dangerous fire hazard for a quiet minute before she gave me an offhand shrug and plodded back around to her side of the bed. When she cuddled me up again, I hugged and kissed her, and closed my eyes.

I was perfectly content to lie there, safe in her arms, forever. I just needed some earplugs.

It seemed like only five minutes had passed when Charley announced that it was eleven o’clock. We had one hour to vacate. Grumbling, joints creaking, I got up and headed for the shower. A minute into the soothing warm spray, Charley joined me. She scrubbed my back with a soapy washcloth, gently washed the globes of my ass, slid her hands beneath my ample breasts to wash beneath them, then danced me beneath the dwindling spray to rinse away the soap. I returned the favor, washing her body, but instead of using the rag, I tossed it aside and began to lather her up with my bare hands.

“I never get tired of your touch,” she breathed huskily. “I love you, Eve.”

“Love you, too,” I said, meeting her kiss. “When we get home, I’ll give you some special good loving.”

“That sounds good to me, baby,” she said, running her fingers gently through my long, wet hair.
“God, you’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” I countered teasingly, and kissed her again.

When we ran out of hot water, we dried off and got dressed, gathered up our belongings and stepped outside to greet a bright new day. The sun was high in the sky, the temperature was somewhere in the nineties, and the humidity was sweltering. Immediately, sweat began to pop out all over my freshly-showered body.

I carried the room key to the lobby, hoping the front desk would be unattended so I could drop the key into the mail slot without the inconvenience of getting ogled by the old man again, but when I opened the door, he was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. My heart hammered at the sight. His head and upper body were drenched with blood, as was the floor beneath him, but I couldn’t see his injury. I didn’t spend much time searching.

Breathing erratically, I bent to lift his wrist, checking his pulse. He was alive, but didn’t respond to my touch or to my voice. In my mind, I saw a flash of the demented face of an angry man staring down at him. I would never forget that face -- the face of the old man’s attacker. He was a stranger to me, but I would recognize him in an instant. Dark, unkempt hair, twisted mouth, narrow hazel eyes, slender body, he would be easy to pick out in a line-up.

The only problem was that I hadn’t seen the actual attack, and if I told the cops that I was psychic, they would think I was a crackpot. The terror of exclusion and scorn returned. There was no way I could divulge what I had seen.

Opening the door, I shouted for Charley. She came at a run. “What the hell happened to him?” she asked, staring at the unconscious man.

“Somebody hit him.” The bedspread he had put down to soak up the rain was gone. “We should probably call an ambulance or something.”

She looked surprised. “He’s breathing?”

“Yeah, he’s not dead,” I answered. “At least, not yet.”

“Then, yeah, we should call an ambulance!” She rushed to the desk and reached for the phone, but drew her hand back without touching it. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What is it?” I moved to her side to see what had caused her to hesitate.

The cash drawer was standing open, emptied except for small change. There were bloody marks on the keyboard, and two distinct fingerprints on the drawer itself. We stared for a minute, digesting the situation.

“He got jacked,” I said. “For the money.”

Charley nodded. “Looks that way, babe. Damn.”

We watched cop shows on television, so we knew the rules about crime scenes. Charley dialed 911 on her cell phone and summoned the police.

The ambulance and two fire trucks arrived minutes before the cops, and before long, the tiny lobby was swarming with uniforms. Charley and I moved aside to give the EMTs room. We quietly discussed slipping away, hoping no one would notice, but I was afraid that would make us suspects.

I hadn’t heard the name of the town until the officer in charge, an overly assertive woman in her forties, approached us and asked, “What are you ladies doing here in Carversville?”

Out of character for her, Charley didn’t seem to be as offended as I was by the condescending tone in the cop’s voice. “We’re road agents for the Southern Cross Wrestling Federation out of Mobile, Alabama,” she disclosed frankly. “We just booked a show in Detroit and we were driving back home. We stopped in for the night to get some sleep.”

“Gus was fine when we checked in,” I said.

The officer didn’t smile. “So, you found him like that this morning?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling semi-defensive. “I came to return the key and there he was.”

“Did you see anybody else?” the officer asked.

“You mean did we see the person who whacked him?” I clarified, trying to keep the obstinacy out of my voice. “No. I’m pretty sure if I’d walked in on them during the robbery, I’d be lying there on the floor beside Gus.”

“You might have a point,” the cop agreed, turning to glimpse at the unconscious victim. She poked the EMT with her pen. “What’s the story?” she asked. “Is he going to make it?”

The balding Emergency Medical Technician gave her a doubtful shrug. “It’s bad. Blunt-force trauma. That means he took a hard lick on the noggin. Looks like a tire iron.”

“A tire iron?” I said. “But he lost all that blood!”

“Scalp wounds bleed real bad,” the cop said with hardly any inflection. “A pretty serious head injury.”

Charley and I were horrified at the graphic realization. “He could die,” I said.

“It could happen,” the officer said.

“Then whoever did this is an attempted murderer!” Charley said. “Shouldn’t your people be dusting for prints and shit like that?”

“They will,” the cop assured us. “They have to go back to the station and get their equipment. In the meantime, I want to get your statements and home addresses so you can be on your way. I’ll give you my number. If you think of anything that might help us find out who did this, be sure to get in touch with me.”

I considered the face that I’d seen in my vision, but staunchly elected to hold my tongue. They had the bloody fingerprints, so if they were competent, they would find the person responsible for the crime.

A mile down the road, we found a small-town service center that was a combination diner, gas station, and garage. In the same lot, we were told that tire repair and oil change coupons could be obtained at the car wash, which was connected to the local auto parts store. We passed on the car wash, gassed up, and went inside the diner for breakfast.

The waitress, a plump, middle-aged woman, walked with a cane. As I was pondering on how she managed her job with her limitations, she pushed out a serving cart laden with scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, and a carafe of coffee. Conversationally, she asked us about what had happened over at the Shady Oaks Motel. We divulged that there had evidently been a robbery, but didn’t tell her that the cops figured poor old Gus was at death’s door.

“My name’s Debbie,” the waitress said with an introductory wave and a half smile. “I’ve known Gus all my life. He’s quite a character.”

“I gathered that,” I returned. I could see her burning curiosity. “I’m Eve. My friend, Charlene.”

“Hi. Good to meet you.” Debbie plopped down in a chair borrowed from the next table over and began to speculate. “A few folks around here didn’t much like Gus. He wasn’t never convicted of it, but some think he’s one of them there sex offenders. He never came onto me, so I can’t say, but my youngest daughter says he looks at her like she’s a big, red apple that he’d like to bite into. Maybe he looked at somebody else that way, too, and maybe some jealous husband didn’t like it.”

I averted my gaze, unable to come up with a response that didn’t sound lame. I had to bite my lower lip to stop it from trembling. Charley spoke for us both. “The hell you say. You mean to say that sweet old man was a perv?”

“Was?” Debbie was quick to pick up on the tense of the verb.

“Well, is,” Charley corrected.

The waitress was sharp. “Is he dead?”

“When we last saw him, he was breathing,” I answered diplomatically. I fidgeted and took a bite of my eggs. I couldn’t taste them.

“He’s got helpless folks living in that motel, you know,” Debbie imparted. “Folks that ain’t right in the head, couple of real messed-up gals. One or two of the men have been to prison. One of ‘em got beat senseless in the pokey. One of the men is mentally retarded since birth. Gus keeps ‘em out there, lets them live in the rooms. I hear he takes their monthly social security checks and just gives ‘em what they need to survive.”

I frowned at the news. “Is he taking advantage of them?”

“Don’t know for sure,” she answered. “At least he’s taking care of them. Nobody else was willing to. They ain’t living on the street or out in the woods. They got a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Ain’t none of ‘em got enough sense to make it on their own.”

I remembered the two figures I had seen in the doorways, and the man’s face in my vision, and it occurred to me that she was right. Maybe the old fucker was trying to do a good thing. He probably ended up spending their money on repairs, doctors, prescriptions, or dental appointments that benefitted his guests. At least, that’s the version of the story I would keep telling myself to give the old man the benefit of the doubt.

Another thought occurred to me. If Gus died, who would take care of those poor people?

A bell dinged, announcing customers coming through the front door. I pasted on a smile and tried to pretend I would miss our discussion as Debbie struggled to her feet and went to seat them.

“We are not going to stay here in this one-horse town and play the Whodunnit game, Eve,” Charley said. “We’re not! We’re just... not.”

“No,” I said. “I... I just want to...”

“I don’t want to be here, and this thing might never get solved!” she scolded.

I wanted to go visit those people living in the motel rooms. Because our room had been the only one available, I guessed that there were nine residents, and I had the distinct feeling that eight of those nine were going to need help in the near future.

But the ninth person was a criminal. And I had seen his face. I would tell Charley about that later. At the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. “Can’t we just stay one more night?” I tilted my head and put on my best pleading look.

She looked exasperated, but I could see the look affected her. It never failed. “Where are we going to stay? You really want to go back to that dump of a motel? The whole place should’ve been condemned a long time ago! Anyway, the cops will probably have it taped off so nobody can get in there. And besides -- who would we pay?”

“Do you think Gus ran the place all by himself?”

“Sure looked that way to me. Did you notice that big can of butts sitting on his desk?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I noticed.”

“We both know the old guy was a pervert. We saw the way he was staring right straight at your boobs.”

“Well, technically, that doesn’t make him a pervert. That just made him obvious. But yeah, I hear you. I felt... visually violated.”

“Yeah, I know. Pissed me off a little bit,” she said. “On my bad days, I’m not above punching a senior citizen right square in the nose, but I let him slide because he kept his hands to himself.”

“I wish I could check on the people living in the motel,” I lamented.

She shook her head. “What if one of them is the guy who cracked Gus in the head?”

“One of them is,” I imparted. “I still have our room key. When I found Gus like that, I guess I stuffed in it my pocket and forgot about it. We can go back and use the room. The police couldn’t have blocked the whole place off if people are living there! If they’re as dependent on Gus as Debbie said, they’re going to need help! What if they’re hungry or need medication? Somebody needs to check on them.”

“Don’t you think that’s a job for the cops?”

“You would leave the welfare of those people to the officer we talked to a while ago? She didn’t seem like the nurturing type to me.”

She heaved a long sigh. “I was afraid you were going to say that,” she groaned.

Three police cars were at the motel, but there was no yellow tape in sight. A group of people were gathered beneath a massive weeping willow tree at the corner, viewing the investigation from a distance. I assumed, judging by the state of their wrinkled, ill-fitting clothing and their uncombed hair, that these people were the room residents. As we parked and got out of the car, I studied them.

Ironically, it was Charley who prompted me. “Well, go on. Go introduce yourself.”

I hesitated. “You think I should?”

“They’re human beings, not animals. If anybody attacks you, the cops are right there.”

I glimpsed at the young policeman who was wrapping the door handle with wide, clear tape, and suddenly, I had second thoughts. “Why are we involving ourselves in this again?”

“Because you’re a bleeding heart who cares too much,” Charley answered. “And you’re a total airhead. You’ll fit right in. So go.”

“I am,” I agreed. “And I do.” I opened the car door. “And I will.”

“And that’s all of the reasons I love you, baby. So get over there and mingle with the loons.”

I didn’t think ‘loon’ was the right word for them. Wasn’t that a type of duck or something? But I sauntered over to the group and tried to unobtrusively blend with them. I thought I stuck out like a turkey in the henhouse.

Their curiosity put me on the spot, but I was even more curious about them. “I’m Eve,” I said, sticking out my hand to the nearest woman. She was in her thirties, extremely thin, obviously anorexic. She wore a shapeless orange dress that matched her orange hair. She was barefoot, and her toenails were filthy. “You live here?”

She nodded. I detected no mistrust in her green eyes. “Yeah, I’m in Room 1. I’m Allison. Somebody must’ve killed Gus.”

A heavy, black woman wearing sweat pants and a bright yellow T-shirt had more information. “Mickey done it. Mickey. He’s hiding in them woods so the police don’t get him. He’s the one done it, the sorry motherfucker.”

Allison took it on herself to make introductions. “This is Jolene. Pat, Bob, Steve, Tammy, Robin.” I studied each person as they were named. Jolene looked nothing at all like Charley, but her attitude was similar. I immediately liked her. Pat, Bob, and Steve were all nondescript white men, in their middle years. Tammy and Robin were young white women who seemed intimidated by the outside world. Robin’s eyes stayed averted as if, in the past, she had been punished for visual confrontations. They were, indeed, a pathetic bunch, but my heart went out to them. I wanted to help them. I had no idea what needed to be done, but leaving them in this god-forsaken motel in the boonies wasn’t the solution.

I tried to focus on the issue at hand. “Did you see Mickey do it?” I asked Jolene.

“Nope, but nobody else woulda done such a thing. He’s got that rage thing going. Never see him when he’s not foaming at the mouth, all pissed off at the world. His room is full of holes where he’s punched and kicked in the walls when things don’t go his way. Asshole motherfucker. A button pops off his shirt and he throws a chair through the wall. Gus gave him a place to live when nobody else would, but the stupid asshole hated the old dude, threatened to kill him a couple of times. Yeah, it was Mickey.”

I didn’t tell her that Gus wasn’t dead -- at least he hadn’t been when we’d last seen him. “Where did Mickey live?” I asked.

“In nine, right next to me. I’m in eight.”

“Who lives in ten?” I asked, peering at the row of doors.

“Nobody. That room’s got big leaks in the roof and shit,” Jolene said.

“Nobody in four, either,” Allison said. “Except you and your friend stayed there last night.”

“We might stay again tonight,” I told her. “If the cops don’t object. If Gus really is dead, whoever inherits the motel might not want us all living here.” My ploy to include myself was meant to incorporate me in their circle, and it seemed to work. Without having to do much to earn their trust, I had been accepted. It distressed me that they were such easy marks for unscrupulous people, which increased my desire to help them.

“That would be me.” Standing between the other two men, Bob stood straighter and made his claim. “Gus is my grandpa. I’m the only kin he’s got left, so I reckon that means I get the building.”

“And what are your plans for it?” I asked hopefully. It was plain that Bob was mentally challenged, so I had my doubts about his ability to handle the responsibility.

Bob shrugged and spit on the ground. “Don’t know, yet. Leave things the way they are for now, maybe.”

“Don’t you receive income from social security?” I said. “There have to be apartments or mobile homes you can rent in Carversville.”

“Us?” Jolene snorted. “We’re a bunch of rejects! Who would rent to us?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” I asked.

Pat, the tallest of the three men, spoke up. “I was in prison for twenty-five years. Doubt anybody would want me living in their neighborhood.”

“What was your crime?” Charley asked as she joined us. I reached out to draw her close beside me, comforted by her presence.

“Rape, murder.”

“Who did you rape and murder?”

Pat’s blue eyes darkened. “It was a mistake. It wasn’t rape. The bitch was willing, but then she went nuts because I wasn’t hung well enough to satisfy her, and she didn’t get her rocks off. She started calling me all kinds of nasty names. She busted me in the nose a couple of times, and I just snapped. I grabbed her neck and shoved her off of me. Got my clothes on and left. I guess she cracked her head on something, ‘cause the law found her dead later on.”

I shivered at the graphic details. “You spent twenty-five years locked up for an accident!” I said. “And now you can’t even rent a home because your reputation follows you around. That’s not right.”

“I was in the asylum over to Hopkinsville,” Robin said in a high-pitched tremor, her eyes steadfastly lowered to ground level. “Thirteen years in that place. I’m sure nobody would ever rent me a trailer, either.”

Consolingly, Tammy put an arm around Robin’s shoulders. “Like Jolene said, we’re rejects. This place is the only home I’ve ever had. I lived on the streets in Louisville most of my life.”

“I’m no stranger to the cold outdoors either,” Jolene said. “I came here from Indiana, looking for work, but what I found was more of the same shit I grew up with.”

The last to speak, Steve cleared his throat and announced, “I had a home, once. Had a job, a family, nice things... All went to hell when I lost my job. I wandered around loose for a while, got put in jail for public drunkenness a lot.”

“You’re all just victims of circumstance,” Charley said. “Gus isn’t the only person who can help you. There are shelters and stuff.”

I looked around the misfits, picked out Jolene as the person who would be most likely to state the bald truth, and asked, “Did Gus mistreat you? Was he kind and generous, or was he ripping you off?”

Jolene sighed. “Both,” she answered. “He was good as gold to us all, but he did pocket them checks. He took every cent, but we had a roof over our heads, bed to sleep in, plenty of food and clean clothes.”

“Did he put the moves on any of the women?” Charley asked.

“Just me, I think,” Allison answered primly. “He usually slept in my bed, when he slept. Mostly, he stayed in the office.”

“Yeah,” Jolene affirmed. “He’s sweet on Allison. But he can’t do anything for her since he can’t get it up. He just likes to touch.”

My cheeks heated up in slight embarrassment. “So, what about Mickey?”

The group was silent, all eyes wandering toward the wooded area behind the motel.

“So,” Charley said, following their gazes. “He’s in the woods?”

“He’s afraid the cops will take him back to prison,” Allison said softly. “Killing is wrong.”

“Yeah, it is,” Charley agreed. She caught my gaze and asked, “Did Mickey whack the old man, Eve? Was it really him?”

Hesitantly, I shrugged. “What does Mickey look like?” I asked the residents.

“He looks like an asshole,” Jolene answered bluntly.

Steve took out his wallet, pulled out a photograph and handed it to me. In the picture, Steve, Bob and another man were standing in front of the office, both men giving Bob rabbit ears with their fingers. The third man was tall and slender, and even in the picture, I could sense malice in him. He was indeed the man I had seen in my vision. “This is him,” I confirmed, shuddering at those demented eyes. I handed back the photo. “He’s the one.”

“You saw him?” Jolene asked, staring at me.

“In my mind, yes,” I said.

I had their attention. The entire group waited for me to go on. After a long breath, I explained. “I could never tell anyone about this before. But I’ll tell you, because I know you’ll understand. I have psychic episodes. I see things that have happened, or are about to happen. I saw this guy standing over Gus. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I’m the one who found him lying there. When I touched him, I saw Mickey’s face.”

They were quiet a moment, and then Robin stepped close to me, held out her hand, and tremulously met my eyes. “What do you see for me?” she asked, desperation in her voice.

She was begging for hope for the future. I took her hand. I saw nothing, but I wanted to reassure her. “I see you overcoming your shyness, getting moved into a nice apartment, and living a normal life,” I said. “In fact, I see that for all of you.”

They surrounded me, and frantic hands were on me from every direction. A flash of past sexual abuse entered my mind, and surprisingly, it was from Jolene. I understood her resentment. I saw their pain, their futility, their surrender to the inevitable. I stood there, letting them touch me, trying to coax them into normalcy, but I knew it was next to impossible for them.

Allison’s touch gave me a new flash: that Gus was still in her future. He was in all their futures. My jaw dropped in astonishment at the revelation. He would survive and return to take care of his flock.

Finally, it was Charley who spoke. “Eve, are they going to be okay?”

My bleeding heart was maxed out. “Yes,” I said. “They’re going to be fine. All of them.”

“What about Mickey?” Allison asked.

I drew in a deep breath for courage. “I’m going to tell the cops what I know.”

“We’ll all go,” Jolene said, and they took a simultaneous step toward the building.

It warmed my heart that the whole group was prepared to back me up. With Charley beside me and the residents directly behind us, I walked to the office door.

The police found Mickey’s hiding place and dragged him from the woods in handcuffs. Charley and I made a trip to the hospital in Bowling Green to see Gus. He opened his eyes as we entered his room, and a warm smile greeted us. His head was bandaged, and his eyes were swollen and black. “Good to see you girls,” he said.

I smiled back, even though he was staring straight at my tits. “Yeah, Gus,” I said. “Good to see you, too.”

“Doc says I’ll live,” he went on. “I’ll have to take it easy a couple days, but then I can go on back to my normal stuff. I reckon I’ve got a hard head.” He beckoned at me, his eyes on the door, then murmured quietly, “Think you could sneak me in some cigarettes?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Gus. Sorry.”

He sighed in disappointment. “I hear they got Mickey.”

“Yeah,” Charley said. “They got him.”

“He needs a little time behind bars. Maybe it’ll teach him something.”

“I doubt it,” I said, stepping closer to touch the old man’s arm. I hoped to see a rosy future, but what I got was his grim past. He had been homeless himself until he had lucked into a windfall. He had used that money to buy the motel, and after a time, had begun taking in strays. Although I couldn’t see it in my mind, I had a feeling that he would continue his charity-type work for years to come. That was a good thing.

I bent to place a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “You should quit smoking,” I advised. “It’s bad for you. We have to get back to Alabama, now. We’ll stop in again sometime and see you, though.”

“You promise?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I promise.”