Disclaimer: the following is a work of fiction. Any characters that may appear to resemble actual people (whether alive or deceased) or scenarios that seem to depict real world events – are wholly coincidental and not the intent of the author.
Author’s note: It’s strongly suggested that the Rendezvous series be read in consecutive order. At some point I may provide recaps of the previous installment(s) within the text, but currently there are none.
Rendezvous — a Novella
(Volume IV)
RUMINATIONS
Matt’s Nighttime Drive
An obsidian ocean spread out before us as we drove the highway.
The streetlamps that once lit the road like fiery beacons were long forgotten. Sheena and I had reached the countryside after hours, and hours, and countless miles of driving. The Moonlit Motel was now leagues behind us – and she hadn’t said a word, simply gazed through the translucent window, her breath creating a small patch of fog on the reflective surface. I tried to keep my eyes on the road, an ever vigilant driver; my career as a cabbie guaranteed that, but at the moment, I was a little too interested in my sideseat passenger. The things I had seen her do; the power that radiated off her in palpable waves. She possessed a natural beauty that was at once mesmerizing as well as pacifying, like a soothing tune in a moment of turmoil, or a picturesque scenic view that untightened the nerves: a piano tuner unwinding and adjusting strings accordingly.
“How far are we from the forest I described Matthew?” My passenger asked me, a hint of exasperation colouring her tone.
“Not far now, maybe…about one-hundred and twenty miles, give or take,” I said in reply, then finishing my thoughts, “But we’re going to have to stop for gas before we reach our destination. We’re hovering just above E.” I looked down at the gauge, gesticulating with my face to emphasize my point – Sheena’s eyes followed mine – but misted over at the sight of the esoteric dials, blinking lights, and knobs that made up the dashboard.
I noticed her brows knitted as they furrowed; like anyone’ s did, but hers, did so in a rather exquisite way. I’d made the assumption that after her enchantment had worn off, the swirling attraction I felt would as well – but now I was having trouble differentiating between my own emotions – and the ones she had left behind.
(Maybe, just maybe, this was the effect she had on every soul she met?)
“I have no idea how these malevolent machines work, nor do I want to,” Sheena stated, she turned away from the dizzying array of lights; the dashboard’s gizmos seemed to present an obstacle to her. I had to wonder how she would be making this trip if she had made it alone. And if she detested automobiles so much, how had she travelled up until this point? The answer was sure to involve some discussion of the metaphysical: a topic that I usually opted out of when engaged in conversation with new-age thinkers and the so-called “open minded”. Some buffoon bringing up astrology or tarot was usually how those conversations started and around a dinner table much less, always the most inconvenient timing, hell, many nights with my ex-wife, an avid lover and embracer of Eastern Philosophy were spent that way. But that was close to twenty years ago – and this was now. And this woman Sheena’s ability was not something to be skeptical about; I had witnessed it firsthand for myself.
“If I had my own way Matthew, I’d be moving through the woodlands as an incorporeal ghost – it’s quite fun actually.” She said with uncontained whimsy.
“Shapeless. Formless. And completely invulnerable; such a rush! I mastered the art of phase manipulation many, many seasons ago. And it far outsurpasses the not so dissimilar, but wholly lesser feat of astral projection…but as I explained during our talks in my room at the Moonlit Motel: my powers can attract unwanted attention, especially from those intent on capturing us – which means – currently – I am very limited in my abilities. Unless absolutely necessary, I must not risk displaying my full potential while we traverse the countryside.” Sheena’s eyes flashed like a wildcat’s as she verbally exposed this important detail, the eyeshine was not a trick of the light but a display of raw, visceral energy. I could feel the hairs on my arms react as they stood up on end: static electricity? That’s what it felt like…
The light from the full-moon and stars clarified the road for us a bit, clouds rearranging themselves in the sky to allow for some visibility within our little capsule. My Ford Taurus taxi-cab was fairly new – so, the seats were comfy enough for a long drive – my purchase of gel seat covers would pay off. Something I only now realized was a great decision. As we pushed through the rolling hills, serpentine roads, and loose groupings of trees my back began to ache from a sports injury acquired in the height of my college years. But there’s no doubt it’d be ten times worse if I hadn’t invested in a little comfort. So at least there’s that.
We drove in silence for another half-hour.
*****
” …you comfortable over there – Sheena?” I asked her, in a halfhearted attempt to avoid my own thoughts.
“Oh very.” She replied, obstinate in not uttering any further words. Obviously, her own ruminations preoccupied her… the look of consternation across her face all but shouted the fact.
The sign that pre-empted the village that I knew had a gas station open late, appeared beside us on the right: Greensbury, that was the name. As I slowed the car down and turned off to the right I noticed a nondescript newer SUV parked by the pump that was labeled ‘No 1’. The lettering was stark bold red.
There were four spots to fill up on gas, in total. And the vehicle in question, with its tinted windows and shaved door handles, was parked at the spot closest to the convenience store. An attendant was already helping the driver with the task of pumping gas into the plain looking silver SUV. I glanced at the licence plates, and saw that they were from out of state. Colorado, they appeared fresh; stamped yesterday, that fresh. Brand spanking new, in other words. This sent alarm bells ringing in my head – but I calmly parked and got out of my ride. Cool as a cucumber.
Next I closed the door and glanced down at my passenger, Sheena, who seemed only concerned with the night sky at the moment – shifted slightly in her seat. I shuffled towards the pump as casually as I could.
– Pump 3. –
That’s the one I had settled on. It was positioned at a diagonal to Pump 1. Which eliminated the direct eyeline between me and the suspicious looking Toyota. I could see the make of the SUV now, no idea on the model still. Maybe a Landcruiser or a 4Runner. Hard to tell when you’re trying not to get caught looking. I wasn’t made for this, what do they call it, going “incognito”? I don’t know if anyone even says that…
“Have you seen this person?” A gruff voice, a man’s, jarred me from my preoccupied musing.
The question was barked at me perniciously, advertising that: there was to be NO bullshit.
Aggressive, curt, and commanding.
It was one of the men from the unmarked vehicle; had to be. He was returning from a walk, or some quick recon; he had snuck up behind me since all my attention was currently on his ride. I guess it pays to “check your six”.
“I’m just going to fill my cab up, I only got clientele in th–” Before finishing I was spun around by the shoulder.
The man was around 6’1, which was a good deal taller than me, as I stood at a comparably paltry 5’9″ – in shoes – but it was the 30lbs he had on me that really made the difference. The extra weight was clearly muscle, that much was certain from the way that his freshly-pressed Italian suit bulged at the seams of the shoulders, and chest areas. Thick-set meatheads working security, always looked a bit odd when forced into designer suits – or at least to me they did. Sort of like a gorilla stuffed into a tux. And this one was rabidly frothing at the mouth.
“Shit man! I need you to look at the picture: not go about your merry business – like it’s no big deal.” He shoved the photo underneath my nose, keeping his hand on my shoulder, reminding me who was alpha in our little exchange.
“You a cop?” I responded – defiantly.
The man held the photo, the one I had as of yet refused to lower my eyes to look at, and gave me an even gaze for a few moments. His eyes were granite – each iris a steely blue.
“No…” He began, “We’re a private security firm that gets enlisted for high-level bounties from time to time – although this little fiasco–” he tapped the photo with his finger, “is off the books.”
“Ahh. So, not the cops then. More like some shady men in black, huh?” I gave my adversary a baldfaced smile. It probably read sarcastic, or maybe sardonic; either way – it was extremely ballsy of me to do. I felt that displaying flippancy was the best course of action; only the guilty took things like this too seriously.
He unstiffened a bit; the man must’ve realized I wouldn’t be unnerved by assertiveness – even if it verged on outright aggression.
“Sure, yeah, whatever you wanna’ call us. We’re a private outfit; can you just look at the damn thing?”
“Closely mind you. Give yourself a minute to really study the features. It’s good if you commit the face to memory…then – if you see this individual at any point in the future, you can let us know.” The man in black (his suit was, literally) started to pull a business card from his breast pocket, the left one: and after a second’s hesitation (to confirm he wasn’t drawing a weapon) I took it. It was simply a small square of card paper, printed and embossed, glossy. A rather opulent looking business card. So after tucking it away – I finally lowered my eyes to the photograph he had presented me…
It was a very old, maybe mid-70s Polaroid print, the red hue of the eyes gave it away instantly. But the person in the picture was the most troublesome aspect about it. I figured this had been coming, but it was no less unsettling than being blindsided with it…
The picture detailed a clear shot of Sheena walking down a street in some far off bustling locale; maybe Croatia, maybe Uzbekistan, or maybe not. I’m far from being an aficionado when it comes to recognizing a specific geographical area based on a picture alone – who was after all?
But the picture was definitely taken in Eastern Europe. The signage and fashion, as well as the people, gave that much away. There was some Russian writing; with the Soviet Hammer & Sickle on several signs and the people wore the colourful, flowing robes that were common in some of those places. Sheena was walking with an old man in the picture, engaged in conversation. A procession of people trailed behind her and the elderly man. A gaggle of followers dressed in ostentatious looking garments; hoods gilded, intricate lacing at the wrists and collars; the whole nine yards. A red circle had been drawn with a sharpie around Sheena to indicate her importance, presumably by one of the “men in black”, a member of the private security firm.
The scene taking place in the picture looked – very odd – to say the least.
“I have never seen any of these people before in my life.” I replied, after spending what seemed a lengthy time examining the photo.
Then, I handed it back to my new acquaintance and departed toward the convenience store – opting to have the gas station attendants pump gas for me. This gave me a chance to escape the interrogative presence behind me, not to mention I needed to use the bathroom, and quite badly. As I walked, I threw a backwards glance towards my cab, hoping not to be confronted with a strike team stealthily approaching it. With firearms drawn at the ready.
Calm down Matt. Calm down. My inner voice pleaded.
Thankfully, not only had the man returned to his SUV, but Sheena’s head couldn’t be seen above the seat in the passenger side of my vehicle. This meant she had either hidden herself – or outright bolted for the safety of some bushes off from the highway.
I exhaled a shaky sigh of relief, before entering the store front.
*****
Carmen Travels to the Moonlit Motel
I hated riding the subway; with its gauche looking paint job and acrid smell of urine. Spare refuse and newspapers littered the floor, the car was uninhabited cept for a few passengers here and there, faces turned downwards to their devices. I much preferred the bus – it smelled considerably better (most of them anyway, one out of every ten had their own putrid eau de toilette) and there were usually less fights, muggings, and random scuffles over personal space. This was the way of the world: public transit was not high on the priority list for those in power. Taxes collected; taxes spent. The city paid for the subway cars to be cleaned twice a week, when really, nightly would’ve been a much more rational, and even, dare I say, sensible idea. Whoever had the job of sanitation, those were some of the cities’ bravest souls. Oh jeez, I almost forgot, I never even mentioned the name of my hometown; my stomping ground; the good ol’ city of ‘Sierra Shores’.
I stared out the window at the twilight skyline, hints of azure still lingered, but it was quickly becoming an endless chalkboard; a few bright specks in the sky were starting to stand out (the first stars of the night). I figured one of them must’ve been Venus, but I didn’t really have much of an interest in astronomy. Stargazing just wasn’t my thing, unless I was thoroughly bored and on the D-line. That’s the metro route I was riding at that very moment – the dreaded D-line – one of the more risky ways to make the long journey from Westside Dr. over to route 29; a four-lane highway that exited the city, Northeast of the downtown core.
I couldn’t wait for the ride to be over; that smell was starting to work its way up into my nose trying to find a home there. At least I’d managed to snag a seat that didn’t reek like a cat’s litter box; that overpowering ammonia smell wreaked havoc on the olfactory. Unpleasant smells were one of my biggest pet peeves.
As the subway car slowed, then rattled, and halted its onward progression, I stood: grabbing an overhead handhold for good measure. I ignored the sticky residue left on my palm – and exited the train car, giving it one final disdainful look.
God, I wished the bus route ran 24/7.
*****
I had to hike for a good twenty minutes before reaching the motel. The bus had dropped me off close, but it was not quite doorstep service to my destination. It really wasn’t worth it to hitchhike; and the highway had very few spots to do so, so I just hoofed it. The worst part was that it was straight uphill; probably at least a 45° ascent. By the time I crested the slope – it was getting good and dark, the sky had turned the colour of burnt pitch. The Moonlit motel did indeed live up to its name: a waning gibbous moon hung above it, framed by an enclosure of clouds – like a Picasso or Monet – that someone had gone and gleefully stuck in the sky. It really did look like beautiful tapestry had been draped across the heavens: I wasn’t used to the striking colours that the sky held when you weren’t within city limits: artificial lighting blocked out nature’s beauty. Parfaite splendor made up the views surrounding Sierra Shores. The gorgeous mountains, the sky overhead; nothing short of pristine.
The moon was completely full the night before, that would’ve been quite something to see…
*****
The motel itself was rather plain:
stucco exterior, a long row of rooms that connected the main office, the layout was an L shape – like a sectional – no different than most rinky motels. The area behind the office was clearly a type of living quarters for the manager, the general upkeep of the place made it clear that the owner of this establishment was not swimming in bucket loads of cash. As Granny said; places like this usually catered to ne’ re do wells. My take was a bit more to the point – this is where bums and people on the lam stayed. The peeling paint around the main entrance door-trim made this fact perfectly abundant. Not that the neighbourhood I lived in was The Ritz or Plaza Hotel or whatever… but still.
I quickened my steps as I made for the door, hurrying my pace in as much anticipation (or trepidation) as those first Roman soldiers must’ve felt when tasked with crossing the daunting Rubicon river. Or maybe, I was finding my way into a trap, like a fly does as it mistakes gossamer strands of a spiderweb for open air. Either way, being a few feet from the door – there was no going back now.
I reached for the door handle, my palm sweaty; a mix of expectancy and cautious impatience swirled in the pit of my stomach. My mind wanted to know who had left that note in my wallet, yet I was fearful of what they knew about me, what they wanted. The smarter decision would’ve been to stay home.
Fighting back anticipation I steadied myself. My hand grasped the door knob and twisted. Then, unintentionally, my nerves caused the door to open with wild abandon, and the door was flung wide like a vaudevillian performer announcing their entrance in a grandiose fashion.
Or maybe not, no way to know, but that’s how it felt. Damn these nerves.
*****
The man inside the office was clearly having a moment. His managerial area was in complete disarray; books and papers were strewn everywhere, the front-desk counter looked like a fearsome squall had rolled through. How high pressure and low pressure fronts have formed in the front area of a motel – was beyond me.
“Hey! –name’s Carmen. Someone told me to meet with them here. Did any of your customers leave a note or anything?” My words fell on deaf ears: the portly man behind the counter was too busy bustling around to hear or notice. It was readily apparent he was searching high and low for something. So I rang the bell, viciously.
The motel manager spun around like a top; his round face was clean shaven, a bit flabby, but otherwise unremarkable. His eyes were a bit wild like a man who had just woken up to find his house missing and a freeway in its place.
“Yes, yes. I know who you are. She told me to give you something. And after that – these last few weeks will fade from my recollection – just like that!” The man exclaimed this in an almost manic sort of way.
just play along.
I hesitated, not knowing what to say at first, then it came to me:
“Yeah, totally man. She told me that too.” I shrugged, agreeing.
“She did?” He looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“Yeah, she did.” I put it to him, thinking worriedly: I hope this isn’t a mistake…
The round, shortish man looked at me for what seemed like a long minute or two – and then like an albatross dive-bombing from above, a realization lit upon his face making the whole thing crinkle with his wide smile. He seemed almost carefree in that moment.
“Ahh yes! That’s it.” The man proclaimed as he turned his bulbous mass around to grab at something that was tucked under a houseplant.
“Here, this is it.” He stated simply, dropping a small, jet velvet bag into my hand. The black pouch held a few round objects, that much I could feel. And also what felt like a small piece of scrap paper.
“Uh, okay thanks. Did she say anything about why I would want this…?” I asked him, wishing for further explanation.
“Umm…yes.” He licked his lips before expressing the rest, “Yes, she said, Sheena that is, said: you should be careful on your travels. And to keep those stones close to your person – at all times. No matter what.”
And that was it.
After that he retreated into his living quarters and locked the adjoining door – indicated by an audible click. I was left standing in the front area, with the bag held in my left hand. I squinted at the unknown object(s) contained within the small velvet pouch, and made a decision right then and there – slipping it into my back pocket I took leave of the unkempt front office.
I’m not going to open this thing until I get home.
*****
My stroll back to the D-line station was the antithesis of the meeting that had just transpired between me and the motel manager; it was uneventful, in every way possible.
Plus it was all downhill. Thankfully.
END OF PART IV