Hitchhikers Read Online Free PDF

of my legs and
see that I am not.
    I can’t breathe. Where’s the blood? Why am I
naked?
    The world tilts as I roll off the edge of the
bed and stand as far away from the mattress as I can with my arm
still attached to the bedpost.
    And heave a sigh of relief.
    There’s the blood.
     
* * *
     
    I shouldn’t be so relieved. This is a big
problem. BIG problem. I’m handcuffed to a crime scene.
    First things first. Get my hand back.
    I try pulling it out, but the cuff is tight.
These are no kinky handcuffs. Stainless steel. Maybe even police
issue.
    There must be a key here somewhere. I lean
over the body of Paul, a piece of it, anyway, and feel in his
pockets with my fingers. Nothing. Roll him over and try the other
pocket. Nothing.
    His suitcase is on the floor at the foot of
the bed, open. He took the cuffs from that suitcase; it would stand
to reason that the key would be in there. But I can’t reach it. My
fingers barely reach the end of the mattress.
    I stretch and stretch. The cuffs are rubbing
the skin of my wrist raw.
    Then I see the ring of keys on the nightstand
on the other side of the bed.
    I scramble right over Paul, sliding through
the blood, and snatch them up. A handcuff key would be small,
silver – there it is!
    Freedom!
    I shouldn’t be so relieved, but I am. Backed
up against the tacky motel wallpaper, my eyes darting from the
splatter on the walls, the leg up on the radiator with the sock and
shoe still on, the open suitcase –
    Lights glints off of the sharp, shiny objects
in there.
    One step closer, curiosity, the instruments
neatly tucked into pockets on the lid, a box of gloves, a large
plastic sheet. A lump forms in my throat.
    Paul wasn’t just any pervert.
    My mind refuses to focus. I’m frantically
searching for my clothes, my shoes, then forget about it, rushing
into the bathroom running the shower with an itch to be clean, to
scrub this all away. The bathroom is clean. No sign of blood here,
the toilet paper folded just so, the little packets of soap and
bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner still neatly placed by the
faucets, towels white and fluffy.
    I stay under the hot stream of water so long
the bathroom is enveloped by a thick fog. I look myself over: a few
new bruises, and the chafing on my wrist, but everything else
intact. Paul never got a chance to use his torture devices on
me.
    Once I’m done and toweled off I feel more
together. Take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. Paul himself
told me that.
    Open the door and again look upon the
chaos.
    First, I need clothes.
    I spy my shirt, pants and underwear half
under the bed. Paul must have cut them off of me, although they
look torn to shreds rather than cut. They were almost shreds
anyway. There’s another bag, which Paul must have gotten out of his
truck… after… I paw through it, find some jeans, which are too big,
and a belt to keep them on. A white t-shirt that’s big, too, and a
gray hooded sweatshirt with sleeves I roll up.
    I don’t touch his underwear. I’ll find some
someplace else.
    My shoes and socks are on the other side of
the bed, near the window. I lean against a bare spot of wall to
pull them on. I want a coat, but it looks warm enough out for
now.
    Next, see if Paul the Serial Rapist Killer
had any money.
    His wallet’s on the nightstand next to where
his keys were. I’m lucky he was what he was: lots of cash, no
credit cards. His driver’s license was issued in Washington State
and says his name was Gary Lafayette. I take the cash and leave the
wallet.
    I consider taking his keys and driving off in
the van, but since I’ve never driven a vehicle before I think this
would be a bad idea. Not to mention the likelihood of getting
pulled over. If Paul/Gary hasn’t already been put on the police
wanted list, the night clerk might have the license plate number or
description handy when the motel people discover that one of their
rooms got a blood bath.
    On my way to the door to leave, a