Monsters

Chapter Two

2

Three weeks later . . .

The cold, heavy raindrops drummed like a hundred impatient fingers on the roof of Doyle Godwin's 1972 Plymouth Roadrunner, drowning out even its raucous rattle as it idled in the motel parking lot. He sat crammed into the driver’s seat, tearing great bites from his helpless sandwich as he watched Room Four and waited for the arrival of the other half of the affair. As usual, the chicken tasted worse than it looked, but it didn't bother his twitchy gut on his long nighttime stakeouts like the Italian meat subs he preferred, and it would fill him up. Also, the young Jewish deli guy knew his order by heart, making it uncomplicated. Uncomplicated was good.

Doyle had been sitting patiently in the dark for an hour just far enough away that the shadows bathed his brightly colored car, but not so far away that he wouldn’t be able to get some good shots when Mrs. Lapham’s bit on the side showed up. He turned up the heat and sighed as he noticed his fuel gauge getting perilously close to empty and looked over at the gas station just beyond the Motel.

A glaring light hit Doyle’s eyes as a truck pulled into the lot and took its place beside the small Honda in front of Room Four. Doyle tossed his sandwich aside and scooped up his expensive Nikon as his clumsier, over-big left arm reached for the window winder. He painfully cranked the window down until it was low enough for him to slide a customized clip over the edge of the window. This allowed him to balance his camera without requiring support from the weaker side of his body. It also meant he could keep his over-sized arm down and out of the way, allowing him an unobstructed view of the damp rendezvous and leaving one hand free at all times.

A small gust of cold wind blew rain into his face as he leaned into his camera and rested his good right eye against the viewfinder. The camera had a large digital screen on the back that he could use to frame his shots, but it felt more intimate when he peeked at his unwitting subjects with one eye against the camera as he snapped. He adjusted his position to get comfortable and waited for the reveal. Who was Mrs. Lapham spending her nights with that wasn’t Mr. Lapham?

A tall, well-built man stepped out and ducked quickly through the uneven curtain of rain that flowed from the roof of the motel and spilled over from the clogged rain gutter. He shook himself off at the door, squirted some spray into his mouth, and raised his hand to knock, when suddenly the door flew open. The scantily-clad Mrs. Lapham leaned out and wrapped her arms around him, cutting off his oxygen with a deep kiss.

Doyle snapped some pictures, but none of them gave him a clear look at the guy as Ms. Lapham finally allowed him to breathe again. The pair exchanged some friendly words and then with her fullest pout, Ms. Lapham pulled the guy inside, slamming the door as the pair disappeared.

Doyle pulled the camera back inside his car and grimaced as he closed his window. He snatched up a towel from the passenger seat and wiped his camera, quickly scrolling through the digital images he had managed to snap to make sure he had enough.

He grinned to himself in the darkness. His car's candy apple red paint matched the adulteress's plump lips as she pulled her willing accomplice into the motel room, guiltily looking both ways but not really seeing anything. Especially not Doyle's camera lens as it quietly whirred and clicked, giving him a couple of excellent shots of his client’s wife.

Although it was dark, and the rain blew in sheets across the motel parking lot, the otherworldly yellow light cast from the motel frontage was enough to give him a few perfect pictures. The quick flash of new lingerie and the full cleavage just added spice to the already damning pictures, but he didn’t catch the guy’s face. While he had enough to at least prove his client’s wife was partaking in some extra-curricular activities with younger men, he felt that putting a face on it would add an extra layer of proof.