In Laymon's Terms

“Snow,” Dirk said by way of explanation, shaking it off his shoulders and boots. “How much for a room?”

The old man peered around Dirk, through the window and perhaps at his pickup. “You alone?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Suppose not,” the man said. “Forty dollars. And we’ll have coffee here by six in the a.m.”

Dirk sighed. Any other night, he was sure, the room would go for half that. “Fine,” he said.

“Got just one left, in fact,” the man said. He stood, slowly, methodically, and with a shaking hand took down the last key from a nail on the wall behind him. “Room 5. Go around the side here, behind me, and it’s down the hall, second from the end, on your right.” But he still held the key.

Dirk fished two twenties from his wallet and slapped them on the countertop. The old man grinned, showing a missing tooth and accentuating a scar that ran across one cheek from lip to ear, and held out the key. It was attached to an old, orange oval with a faded 5 hastily scribbled on it.

Dirk took the key and turned to go. “Pleasant dreams,” the old man said.

Out the door, Dirk returned to his truck to retrieve his overnight bag and keys. Four, five hours sleep, he’d worry about starting his beast in the morning.

For a full motel, there didn’t seem to be many other cars out there. Dirk saw only two, in fact, one a pickup in worse condition than his, the other a station wagon with Quebec plates.

The hall was short, four rooms on either side, rather bland and barren. The usual accoutrements afforded to even the sleaziest motels, like payphones and plastic trees, had been excluded. With some effort, Dirk keyed into his room and dropped his bag on the floor next to the bed with a thud.

The clock said 1:49. The room was cold, almost as if the heater hadn’t been on at all. But it chugged away, blowing out all the hot air it could manage. Against the windows, the wind sounded like a wailing banshee. The road was too far to the side to be visible, even when the snow eased. Dirk yanked the drapes shut and sat, disappointed, on the side of the bed.

Another hour and a half, or less, and he would have been in Montreal. Saint Catherine Street. A stripper on either side and whiskey to warm his gut. He’d still do the job tomorrow night, and be back home in Centerport by dawn.

Maybe he was better off without the distractions. But he sure could’ve used at least a beer.

He heard the first scream about ten minutes after closing his eyes. The second followed immediately, and he heard a woman’s voice through the wall saying, “It’ll be alright, hon, don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

Something heavy shifted in the next room, someone opened a door onto the hallway, and a little girl called out for Fluffy.

Ten seconds later she called out again, and Dirk knew he wasn’t about to get any sleep until the damned dog was found.

He shrugged his clothes back on and stepped out into the hall. The lights, though dim, were bright compared to the darkness of his room. He shielded his eyes as he glanced in both directions.

“Have you seen Fluffy?” the girl asked.

“Not yet, kid.”

She came into view only gradually: three foot tall, cute in a little girl way but without the pigtails, tears welling up in her eyes but refusing to fall.

Behind her, the mother was pretty cute, herself, even partially concealed in the shadow of her doorway. Killer body under that nightgown, maybe more visible than it should be because Dirk only saw her in silhouette. He couldn’t even tell what color her long hair was.

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” she said.

“Just got in,” Dirk said truthfully. He didn’t move closer. “Haven’t had time to fall asleep.” He bent at the knees so that he was on the kid’s level. “So, where was Fluffy?”

“In bed,” the girl said.

Dirk nodded. A glance at the mother gave him no help. He figured the little dog—he imagined it was one of those white, powdery dogs a person might have taken to a show if it had been better groomed—hadn’t gone outside. Too cold. And he’d never find a white dog in the snow.

The girl and her mom were in the last room of the hall, which ended at a bare wall and a tightly shut window. No escape that way.

No one else seemed to have been roused. Dirk swept his eyes down the hall, meaning to check the remaining six doors—four across the hall and two on his left—but there was no need. Directly in front of him, the door was ajar.

He undid his lock to make sure he could get back and then knocked on the open door. “Hello?” No answer. “Fluffy?”

He knocked again, hard enough to push the door slightly open. It was dark. No one answered. The old man up front had said Dirk filled the motel; he half expected to find a groggy-eyed traveler—on her way to Montreal, like him—petting the straggly dog that had somehow gotten in. She’d look up at Dirk, shrug, and say, “Yours?”

That didn’t happen.