The Duplicate

Chapter Ten

Sundown.

The overcast sky makes it difficult to tell. It has been gloomy and dark all day. But my last glimpse of the clock on the dashboard read 6:21. The sun has dipped below the horizon by now.

I sleep on and off, opening my eyes every now and then to catch the gleam of a streetlight or a pair of headlights that flare over the windshield. If I have dreams, I don't remember them. There is only a constant sense of unrest that grips me, like an animal clawing the back of my mind. In my dazed state, I am somehow under the impression it is Trip giving off the tension. I can almost picture it radiating off him, poisoning my blood.

That shouldn't make any sense, but in these racing, overtired thoughts, somehow it does.

When the car stops, the sudden halt in motion causes my eyes to fly open. I shift to sit straighter in my seat. I look at Trip.

He is the dark figure again. Just barely can I see the gleam of his eyes.

"Why are we stopped?" My voice is thick. It sounds strained, worried. It sounds like someone else talking. Not me.

A light sigh presses from Trip. He cuts the engine. "I'm tired."

Now my eyes dart around us. We're sitting in the parking lot of a motel. I don't know this street. I don't know exactly where we are. But I recognize this enough to know we are on the outskirts of the City now. It is just as uninviting, just as bleak and worn-out as I remember.

I catch movement in the corner of my eyes. A shadow in high heels looms across the street in the parking lot of a liquor store. I watch it through the back windshield as it wanders towards the boat of a car that has slowed to a stop on the curb.

I turn back, quickly. "I don't like it here."

Two gleaming eyes lock on me. "We aren't going anywhere else."

My mouth fastens shut at the callousness in his voice, warning me not to argue with him.

He pauses to glance up towards the dimly lit windows of the office to our right. When he speaks again, he tries to tone his voice down, just a tad. "It's best if you go in and get a room."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone."

Turning my head, I look over the grimed windows of the office again. From here a wall blocks the view of who is behind the counter, but I can see the flashing colors of a TV reflecting off the windows. I look back at Trip—his eyes, which are still warning me.

"Okay," I mumble. I grab my purse and climb out of the car.

The temperature has dropped again. My breaths appear in mini-clouds of fog in front of me. Shivering, I pull my coat, which is still slightly damp, tighter around me as I trek across the parking lot.

Upon opening the door, I hear voices. My steps falter for a second until I round the wall and realize it is only the mutterings of a soap opera on the TV. Then my eyes land on the skinny man behind the counter.

He's asleep, his rotating chair turned towards the TV, his head lolled back, his jaw slack. A dab of drool in the corner of his mouth glints in the light of the TV.

Approaching the counter, I clear my throat in an attempt to wake him.

He doesn't move.

I try again. A bit louder this time.

Nothing.

I glance over the single lamp lighting the closet-sized room, and my eyes stop on the bell set next to it. With a quick step forward, I hit the bell once. And the man lurches in his chair, letting out a cry that sounds like a cross between a pig and a little girl. It would have made me laugh if he didn't scare me half to death as well.