The Upside of Death

The Motel Part 5

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The chink-chink of a chain registered first. Keera opened her eyes. A white ceiling came into view, veered sideways. She closed and reopened her eyes. The ceiling stayed in place. She tried to rub her eyes but her wrists jerked against something. Chains.

Oh God. 

Tape over her mouth. Sticky and claustrophobic. Turning her head one way and the other, she established that she was spread out like a staked trophy. 

Helpless. Frightened. Defiant.

She tugged at the chains. Real. Not dreamt, not ethereal imagery. She tried to sit up but the chains wouldn’t let her. The room swayed and she closed her eyes again until she felt stable. Her throat stone dry, her tongue thick. Those Russians. Those bastards. That drink. 

She was in a motel. The inoffensive prints on the wall, the beige color scheme and the cheap furnishings attested to it. Lifting her head, she saw the embossed folder of information on the bedside table that proved it. She couldn’t see an address from her position and what good would it do if she could?

They hadn’t blindfolded her so they didn’t care if she knew where she was. Did that mean she wouldn’t live to tell anybody? She brushed that thought aside. A few days, they’d said. And then?

Why have I been brought here? she asked Bardo. No reply. She was never sure when he would respond to her but now, right now, with her life at risk, he was silent? Bardo had been a part, an important part, of her life for the last half dozen years. Her early development, long before Bardo, had come at the hands of other guides. They had appeared and instructed her when she was a young girl who saw the dead, received bewildering visions about other people, and found it hard to assimilate it all. When she was able to control those otherworldly aspects of herself, another guide appeared. 

“You’re it? My new guide?” she’d cried, astonished when Bardo had materialized one night in her living room. A rotund monk sat on her couch, his bowl haircut uneven, the front of his robes streaked with food stains.

“This was my outward form in my past life on earth,” he said with a slow smile. “And I chose to go with the look. I can stay immaterial if you want.”

“It’s okay,” she said, sinking into the couch opposite him. “I can live with this.”

Bardo made it clear she wasn’t his first choice to guide, he’d heard talk she was difficult, headstrong even, but he had no option and could she be a little more cooperative with him, please?

“I have my own life to lead,” she said, making a statement, hoping it would stick. “I can’t do stuff just because you tell me.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “I’m only here to help.”

Which he was, most of the time. Except when he wasn’t. Like now.

I’m tired and thirsty, she said to Bardo. I have strange chemicals in my body. I am fighting to stay calm. I need help. Please. Talk to me.

Silence. A crucial silence. It told her everything. A clear message from Bardo that she had everything she needed.

She listened for the sound of footsteps outside the door but heard none. There was no lock or chain on the door, it wasn’t an external one. The men must be in other rooms. 

Her watch was gone; she didn’t know what time it was. Daylight showed through the curtains but it was weak, a late afternoon light. 

Zach would be looking for her. Maybe talking to the police. Not getting a big response from them either, she knew. She couldn’t have been listed as missing yet. Another twenty-four hours before the police took her absence seriously. What would Zach do? He had contacts everywhere, was a resourceful guy, but he had no way of knowing about these Russians.