ought to say anything to her. No, better not. There might be an argument, and he wasn’t quite ready yet to face her. Let her look if she liked. Poor, sick old lady, chained to the house here. Let her watch the world go by.
That was the child speaking, of course. But he was willing to make such a concession, as long as he behaved like a sensible adult. As long as he locked the downstairs doors when he went out.
It was locking the doors all week long which gave him his new sense of security. He’d taken her keys away from her, too—the keys to the house and the keys to the motel. Once he left, there was no way she could get out. She was safe in the house and he was safe in the motel. There could be no repetition of what had happened last week as long as he observed the precaution. After all, it was for her own good. Better the house than an asylum.
Norman walked down the path and came around the corner toward his office just as the towel-service truck drove up on its weekly rounds. He had everything ready for the driver. He accepted the fresh supply and gave him the old, dirty linen. The towel service handled the laundering of sheets and pillowcases, too. That made it simple. Actually, there was no trick to operating a motel these days.
After the truck departed Norman went in and cleaned up Number Four—some traveling salesmen from up in Illinois had pulled out earlier in the day. Left the usual mess, too. Cigarette butts on the edge of the washbowl, and a magazine on the floor next to the toilet seat. One of these science fiction things. Norman chuckled as he picked it up. Science fiction! If they only knew!
But they didn’t know. They’d never known, and they must not know. As long as he was careful about Mother, there’d be no risk. He had to protect her, and he had to protect others. What had happened last week proved it. From now on he’d be extra careful, always. For everyone’s sake.
Norman walked back to the office and put the towels away. There was already a fresh supply of linen in every unit. He was ready for today’s business—if any.
But nothing happened until around four o’clock. He sat there watching the roadway outside, and he got bored and fidgety. He was almost tempted to take a drink, until he remembered what he’d promised himself. No more drinking. That was part of the trouble, when there was trouble. He couldn’t afford to drink, not even a drop. Drinking had killed Uncle Joe Considine. Drinking had led to the killing of the girl, indirectly. So from now on he’d be a teetotaler. Still, he could use a drink now. Just one—
Norman was still hesitating when the car pulled in. Alabama plates. A middle-aged couple climbed out and came into the office. The man was bald and wore heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. The woman was fat and perspiring. Norman showed them Number One, way at the other end, for ten dollars, double. The woman complained about the stuffiness in a high, whining drawl, but she seemed satisfied when Norman switched on the fan. The man took their bags, and signed the register. Mr. and Mrs. Herman Pritzler, Birmingham, Ala. They were just tourists; they wouldn’t present any problems.
Norman sat down again, riffling the pages of the science fiction magazine he’d found. The light was dim; must be around five o’clock now. He switched on the lamp.
Another car rolled up the drive, with a lone man behind the wheel. Probably another salesman. Green Buick, Texas license.
Texas license! That girl, that Jane Wilson, had come from Texas!
Norman stood up and stepped behind the counter. He saw the man leave the car, heard the crunch of his approaching footsteps on the gravel, matched the rhythm with the muffled thumping of his own heart.
It’s just coincidence, he told himself. People drive up from Texas every day. Why, Alabama is even further away.
The man entered. He was tall and thin, and he wore one of those gray Stetson hats with a broad brim that shadowed the upper
That was the child speaking, of course. But he was willing to make such a concession, as long as he behaved like a sensible adult. As long as he locked the downstairs doors when he went out.
It was locking the doors all week long which gave him his new sense of security. He’d taken her keys away from her, too—the keys to the house and the keys to the motel. Once he left, there was no way she could get out. She was safe in the house and he was safe in the motel. There could be no repetition of what had happened last week as long as he observed the precaution. After all, it was for her own good. Better the house than an asylum.
Norman walked down the path and came around the corner toward his office just as the towel-service truck drove up on its weekly rounds. He had everything ready for the driver. He accepted the fresh supply and gave him the old, dirty linen. The towel service handled the laundering of sheets and pillowcases, too. That made it simple. Actually, there was no trick to operating a motel these days.
After the truck departed Norman went in and cleaned up Number Four—some traveling salesmen from up in Illinois had pulled out earlier in the day. Left the usual mess, too. Cigarette butts on the edge of the washbowl, and a magazine on the floor next to the toilet seat. One of these science fiction things. Norman chuckled as he picked it up. Science fiction! If they only knew!
But they didn’t know. They’d never known, and they must not know. As long as he was careful about Mother, there’d be no risk. He had to protect her, and he had to protect others. What had happened last week proved it. From now on he’d be extra careful, always. For everyone’s sake.
Norman walked back to the office and put the towels away. There was already a fresh supply of linen in every unit. He was ready for today’s business—if any.
But nothing happened until around four o’clock. He sat there watching the roadway outside, and he got bored and fidgety. He was almost tempted to take a drink, until he remembered what he’d promised himself. No more drinking. That was part of the trouble, when there was trouble. He couldn’t afford to drink, not even a drop. Drinking had killed Uncle Joe Considine. Drinking had led to the killing of the girl, indirectly. So from now on he’d be a teetotaler. Still, he could use a drink now. Just one—
Norman was still hesitating when the car pulled in. Alabama plates. A middle-aged couple climbed out and came into the office. The man was bald and wore heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. The woman was fat and perspiring. Norman showed them Number One, way at the other end, for ten dollars, double. The woman complained about the stuffiness in a high, whining drawl, but she seemed satisfied when Norman switched on the fan. The man took their bags, and signed the register. Mr. and Mrs. Herman Pritzler, Birmingham, Ala. They were just tourists; they wouldn’t present any problems.
Norman sat down again, riffling the pages of the science fiction magazine he’d found. The light was dim; must be around five o’clock now. He switched on the lamp.
Another car rolled up the drive, with a lone man behind the wheel. Probably another salesman. Green Buick, Texas license.
Texas license! That girl, that Jane Wilson, had come from Texas!
Norman stood up and stepped behind the counter. He saw the man leave the car, heard the crunch of his approaching footsteps on the gravel, matched the rhythm with the muffled thumping of his own heart.
It’s just coincidence, he told himself. People drive up from Texas every day. Why, Alabama is even further away.
The man entered. He was tall and thin, and he wore one of those gray Stetson hats with a broad brim that shadowed the upper
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