CHAPTER THREE: He, The Chaser
Calmly caressing the worn steering wheel, he turned into the packed parking lot, narrowly avoiding a sedan speeding in the opposite direction towards the lot's exit.
Unfazed by the near accident, he continued on for another 30 feet before expertly backing into a spot. It wasn't the first open one he saw, but it was the one that would make for the quickest exit. He knew that probably wouldn't be needed, but you always have to be ready for the unexpected. That's something he'd learned years ago. Experience is the best teacher -- that's what his commanding officer had taught him in corps -- and experience had taught him that "better safe than sorry" was more than just a cliché.
Leaving his lambskin leather driving gloves on, he unfolded his lanky frame, gave his arthritic knee a tough knead and opened the door. He stopped. He contemplated grabbing his umbrella from under the passenger seat; it had been raining since late last night. His knee hurt too much for him to bend over. Plus, it had stopped raining sometime in the last minute or two. He decided to leave the umbrella where it was.
He got out of the car, and eased the door silently shut.
Walking quickly around his ancient yet remarkably unscratched car, he eyed it for any signs of damage. He didn't think his car had been kissed a few moments before, but he loved his old Mercury Zephyr -- it had been with him for over 175,000 miles and 20-plus years -- and had to be sure.
"Fuck," he muttered.
He took two steps and knelt down to get a closer look.
He felt a dull pain in his knee. The recently departed rain had amplified the pain.
He hated getting old.
He gave his knee a thorough rub, promised himself that he'd pick up some scentless Icy Hot later in the day, and refocused.
On the driver side, above the gas tank, a hint of foreign paint was visible, marring the otherwise unblemished two-year-old coat of white he'd polished before he'd embarked on this trip.
He studied the scratch. Paint must have gotten transferred when that other car had sped by, in a rush to who knows where. He wished the damn car had been less generic. He wished he'd seen the license plate. He wished his fucking knee hadn't started betraying him. He knew wishing did nobody any good. So, again, he refocused.
Gloves still on, he ran his hand along the scar. It couldn't have been more than two inches in length, but it bothered him. Like his body, the Zephyr was old, and scars take more time (and money) to heal now than they once did. For the first time in a while, he wished he hadn't said OK to this job. He wished -- no, he knew -- that he would retire after this. He wished the damn paint didn't have to be so red. It really stuck out, like a single rose growing on a white picket fence.
"Fuck," he whispered again, turning away from the scratch and towards the Motel 6’s entrance.
He'd been studying her ways for some time. He'd come close to catching her before, in Nebraska, but he was a little late, and she stalked and pounced her prey -- an elderly couple, seemingly harmless corn farmers -- before he could get there.
Since then, a lot had changed. She still had the advantage, but he was catching up. He had picked up on her predictably unpredictable routine. The motels, the cat, the Anaconda, and the rain. Oh yes, the rain.
Before he had taken on the job, he had heard rumor of a rain maker living in the United States. It was probably a farce, but he prayed it was true. If there was a rain maker, maybe there was a rain unmaker. And he needed to find that celestial being.
The guarantee of no rain was a pleasing one. Rain did things to his well-being that no man could imagine -- intolerable pain in his knee is just the start -- so who could argue with him for wanting to live in a rainless world? Who could argue with him for assuming the existence of a rain maker ensured the existence of rain unmaker? Who could? They could.
They – a collection of loved ones and friends -- they tried to argue. They told him that these beings didn’t really exist, and that even if a rain maker and unmaker existed, why would he assume that one would know the whereabouts of the other? They made a lot of sense, he admitted. So he had forgotten about the whole thing, the rain maker, unmaker and all. He embraced Advil, Icy Hot and the occasional Cortisone shot. Pharmaceuticals were his religion.
Until he found out that she was the One. Not the unmaker, but the Maker. At that point, he was still hunting her for his clients, but he was also after her for him. They needed her hunted to soothe their souls. He needed her to soothe his pain. Of course, chasing her meant constant agony. The closer he got, the greater the rain, the greater the pain.
As close as he had come recently, as much as intel as he had gathered, he still didn't know the W or the H: the Why or the How. Why did she kill? How did she choose her targets?
Even without this knowledge, he knew enough by now to realize that she was good. Very good. And at such a young age, too. If she wasn't already the best, she had the potential to be the best he'd ever seen. But he was good, too. Or, at least he used to be.
In his day, he was actually better than good; he was the best. After years in the corps and on the job, he never failed. Never let a client down. Never let himself down.
But now he was just an old man on his last legs. And one with a damaged body at that. The job had taken a toll on him. But for his sake, for the sake of his client, he hoped he could see this case through to its finish. See this Rain Bitch caught. Or killed.
But not before she pointed him towards the Unmaker.
With his adequate height currently draped in a black polo shirt and too-tight jeans, snow white hair massaging his scalp and barely a hint of a paunch, he was still handsome. Handsome enough that the young lady manning the front desk nervously toyed with her hair as he approached.
His voice was low and had a unique cadence to it. He spoke in short, clipped bursts, like a man on a mission. Not many men like him – distinguished men – came through the motel’s doors. So between giggles and flips of her auburn hair, she answered all his questions. He started to head towards the elevators. She called after him, noticing the limp in his gait as he swiveled around. She said something cute; a nervous shake was audible in her voice. He offered up a wrinkle-free smile, and promised to say bye before he left.
Heart fluttering, she brushed her hair back behind her ear and picked up the magazine she had knocked over earlier. By the time she looked back up, he was gone.
For a man who just charmed a girl many years his junior, he was not especially happy. He did not like to be noticed. He did not want anyone to remember his visit here. Still, her interest in him silenced some of his earlier worries. Maybe he wasn’t as old as he made himself out to be.
“That’s a comforting thought,” he mouthed. “And an absurd one.” Reflexively, he touched his knee and winced.
He walked to the end of the hall and stopped. The room was near the emergency exit. If she had been here – and based on his experience, and the weather, he was fairly certain she had been – this would have been her room.
He held his breath as he jimmied the lock. Unlike most things, he’d gotten better at this as he got older.
Click.
The knob went limp, inviting him into the room.
He took a few steps into the room.
The darkness inside enveloped him. He embraced it. And it returned the embrace.
He ventured further inside.
Gray cat hair was all over. The mirror in the bathroom still showed slight signs of steam. The towel folded near the bed was wet.
She had been here. And recently.
He was on closing in on her.
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