'Queensbridge.'
'You walked from Queensbridge? That’s more than fifteen kilometres.'
'Yes it is.’
She fell silent. King knew he was being uncooperative, but there was nothing he could say. He scrawled out a signature and slid the paper back across the counter, along with a fifty-dollar note. She took it and handed over a key. As he reached for it, she let out a gasp.
'Oh my god!' she cried. 'You’re cut real bad.’
King looked down and swore internally. The blood had caked dry on his exposed arm. A thin, jagged gash ran the length of his tricep. Adrenalin had forced his mind off the wound in the heat of combat. Now that he was paying attention to it a dull ache appeared in his upper arm. Funny how the brain worked.
'The trees along the road are deadly,' he said. 'Caught my arm on one of the branches and it ripped all my skin off. Terrible luck.’
'My goodness. Do you need me to ring Jonas? He can open up the medical centre for you.'
'No need for that. If you have some bandages and antiseptic that should do me until the morning.'
She gave him a strange look before opening a drawer and taking out a bottle of Dettol and a thin roll of gauze.
'You remind me of some of the farm boys around here,’ she said. ‘They all play the tough guy until it’s too late. Last year Terrence dropped dead of a fever. Doctors said it was a bad batch of pneumonia and he’d have been just fine if he hadn’t tried to tough it out at home. I don’t want that happening to a strapping young man like yourself.'
King smiled. 'I’ll be okay.'
‘You sure won’t be in that T-shirt. Aren’t you freezing?’
King recalled throwing his leather jacket away before he’d chased Buzzcut into the forest. He had never bothered to retrieve it. ‘I guess I didn’t prepare for this weather.’
‘Well, we can’t have that…’ she trailed off. Hesitated for a moment. Then made up her mind and retrieved a large grey windbreaker from underneath the desk.
‘Take this,’ she said, holding it out.
King paused. ‘I can’t do that. It looks expensive. I’m just a stranger.’
‘It was my husband’s.’
‘Is he around?’
‘Not since a month ago,’ she said, bowing her head.
‘I’m awfully sorry to hear that.’
‘So you have it,’ she said, composing herself and looking back up with a warm smile. ‘I’d rather it be put to use.’
He took the windbreaker and looped it over his arm. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘Now, you be careful. Go to the doctor’s tomorrow. Double checking that cut can’t hurt.'
'Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice night. Sorry to disturb you.'
'Not a problem, Mr…'
'King.'
‘I’m Yvonne. Goodnight, Mr. King.'
He left the office and checked the tag on the keyring. There was a small '4' scrawled into the plastic in permanent marker. He headed up a flimsy set of wooden stairs and unlocked the door to room 4.
A simplistically designed room, as almost all motel rooms were. Nothing out of the ordinary. King had seen a hundred just like this. A thin double bed in the corner, a small television opposite a set of plush chairs and a kitchenette. The door set in the far wall led to an adjoining bathroom and toilet.
King dropped his only possessions — his wallet and the ‘Jameson Post’ key — on the bed and made his way through to the bathroom. He removed his shirt and studied the graze in the small mirror above the sink. The bullet had barely touched him, but it had drawn a large amount of blood. There was nothing to worry about. The skin would heal in a few days. He had been lucky.
He took a shower to wash his arm clean. As usual, the nozzle barely reached past his shoulders. The water stung as it crept into the damaged skin. He grit his teeth and squashed the pain back down. After turning the water off he dried himself and trickled a stream of the antiseptic down his arm. It dripped into the wound, flaring his nerve endings. He let out a soft grunt to manage the burning sensation.
He wrapped the gauze Yvonne had provided around his arm, barely managing two loops. She hadn’t given him much, and he was a big guy. The bandage would stop the bleeding for now. He could stitch it up later, if need be. He walked naked to the bed and slid under the covers.
It didn’t cross his mind that he had killed two men earlier in the evening. He had overcome that feeling years ago. He didn’t kill recklessly, but if someone aimed a gun at his head, he couldn’t stop himself from reacting. Two hitmen were dead, and the world was no worse off.
He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER 6
The sun woke him at seven in the morning after a undisturbed night’s sleep. He had left the curtains open specifically for that purpose. When it was daylight outside, there was no use sleeping. Five hours was more than enough to refill the tank.
He rolled out of bed and went through an exhausting hour of calisthenics. A gruelling routine, but King had long ago mastered his mind. When there was no gym available this was what he did to stay fit. He no longer saw it as an option, or a chore, or enjoyable. It was simply nothing. It just happened, and there was no disrupting the routine.
Agility was important, so he finished off the workout with a set of vinyasas. It didn’t matter how strong he was. If he wasn’t fluid with his movements, all the raw power in his frame would be useless.
Dripping with sweat, he took a second shower in the cramped tub, dressed in the same clothes from the night before, then tugged the windbreaker over his massive frame. Surprisingly, it fit well enough. Yvonne’s late husband must have been a big guy too.
He headed out of the room and down to the main street. By now the early risers were up and moving, drinking coffee outside the cafe and preparing themselves for a hard day’s work. Scanning the community, he noted that the majority of the town’s occupants appeared to be farmers.
Jameson Post was open. King had nothing better to do, so he crossed the road and walked in. There was nowhere he needed to be. He could spend as long as he liked in Jameson. It was worth checking if Buzzcut’s key led to anything suspicious.
The door jangled as he opened it, but none of the customers turned to look. They were concerned with their own matters, busy sealing envelopes and scrawling letters in freehand. The man behind the counter was in the process of serving a long queue. Too preoccupied to notice King. He had a few moments to himself.
He made for the row of PO boxes on the far wall. Two thirds of the wall was taken up by the small rectangular slots. King tried the key in one, but it was too large. That eliminated the majority of the work. He eyed the last third of the boxes, each larger and more thickset, designed for a greater amount of storage. Definitely more expensive. He slotted the key into the first one.
It didn’t turn, but it fit.
It only took King five more attempts to find the right one. He moved fast, trying to prevent unwanted attention. On the sixth and final box, the key twisted and the small metal door sprang open.
It was empty.
King had to make a decision now. He could leave the key here, move onto the next town and forget any of this ever happened. Or he could continue prodding. He pondered for a moment.
There was no reason to hang around. A pair of construction workers were dead. It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. There were four roads leading far away from this little town and it didn’t matter which one he took.
A croaky voice from behind said, 'Morning.'
King spun on his heel. Standing behind him was an elderly woman, dressed in an olive green blouse and white slacks. A white sunhat rested atop her head. She looked to be in her seventies. Her face was wrinkled with age, but her expression was jovial. As if she was simply happy to be alive.