Kiss of Death

Out of the back room came an older lady with graying hair tied back in a ponytail. Claire couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like a serial killer, actually—she looked like a classic grandma, even down to the small, round glasses. She was wiping her hands on a dish towel and was wearing an apron over blue jeans and a checked shirt. “Help you, honey?” she asked, and put the towel down. She looked a little nervous as the others came in behind her. “Y’all need a room?”

“Yes ma’am,” Claire said softly. Michael and Shane were doing their best to look like nice boys, and Eve was, well, Eve. Smiling. “Maybe two, if they’re not too expensive?”

“Oh, they’re not expensive,” the lady said, and shook her head. “Ain’t exactly the Hilton, you know. Thirty-five dollars a night, comes with breakfast in the morning. I make biscuits and sausage gravy, and there’s coffee. Some cereal. Ain’t fancy, but it’s good food.”

Michael stepped up, signed the book, and counted out cash. She read the register upside down. “Glass? You from around here?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “We’re just passing through. Heading for Dallas.”

“What the hell possessed you to come all the way out here?” she asked. “Never mind; glad you did. Fresh sheets and towels in the rooms, soaps, some complimentary shampoo. You need anything, you just call. You kids have a good night. Oh, and no hell-raising. We may be outside of town, but I know the sheriff personally. He’ll make a special trip.”

“Why does everybody think we’re so insane?” Eve asked, and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, we’re nice. Not everybody our age rolls with anarchy.”

“You would, if anarchy offered free ice cream,” Michael said. He accepted the two keys and smiled. “Thank you, ma’am—”

“Name’s Linda,” the lady interrupted. “Ma‘am was my mother. Though I guess I’m old enough now to be ma’am to you folks, more’s the pity. You go on. Let me finish up my baking. You stop back later. I’ll have fresh chocolate chip cookies.”

Eve’s mouth dropped open. Even Michael looked impressed. “Uh—thanks,” he said, and they retreated out to the parking lot, staring at one another. “She’s making cookies.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Terrifying. So, how are we doing this thing?”

“Girls get their own room,” Eve said, and plucked one of the keys out of Michael’s hand. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that face. You know that’s the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “Looks like they’re right next door to each other.”

They were, rooms one and two, with a co

“Shut up,” Eve said, and flopped on one of the two beds, crossing her feet at the ankles as she reached for the remote on the TV. “Okay, it’s not Motel Hell. I admit it. But it could have been.... Hey, check it out—there’s a Saw marathon on HBO!”

Great. Just what they needed. Claire rolled her eyes, went out to the car, and helped the boys unload the stuff they needed—which was, actually, pretty much everything by the time they finished. Eve remained loftily above it all, flipping cha

Shane dragged her suitcase into the room and dumped it on the floor beside her bed. “Hey, Dark Princess? Here’s your crap. Also, bite me.”

“Wait, here’s your tip—” She flipped him off, without taking her eyes off the TV. “Nice to know we can still be just the same even outside of Morganville, right?”

He laughed. “Right.” He looked at Claire, who leaned her own suitcase against the wall and looked around. “So I guess this is good night?”

“Guess so,” she said. “Um, unless you guys want to watch movies?”

“I’ll bring the chips.”

Two hours later, they were lying on the beds, propped up, groaning and wincing and yelling stuff at the screen. The sound was turned up loud, and what with all the screaming and chain saws and such, it took a few seconds for the sound outside the room to filter through to any of them. Michael heard it first, of course, and nearly levitated off the bed to cross the room and pull back the curtains. Eve scrambled to mute the TV. “What? What is it?”

Out in the parking lot, Claire could now hear hoots, drunken laughter, and the crash of metal. She and Shane bounced off the bed, too, and Eve came last.

“Hey!” she screamed, and Claire winced at the rage in her voice. “Hey, you assholes, that’s my car!”

It was the three jerks from the truck stop, only about a case of beer more stupid, which really didn’t seem possible, in theory. But they were going after Eve’s car with a great big sledgehammer and two baseball bats. The glass in the front window shattered at a blow from the sledgehammer, which was swung by Angry Dude. Orange Cap swung a baseball bat and added another deep dent to the already horribly damaged hood. The last guy knocked off the side mirror, sending it to left field with one hard blow.

Orange Cap blew Eve a gap-toothed kiss, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out a glass bottle filled with something that looked faintly pink, like lemonade....

“Gas,” Michael said. “I have to stop them.”

“You’ll get your ass killed,” Shane said, and flung himself in the way. “No way. This ain’t Morganville, and if you end up in a jail cell, you’ll die. Understand?”

“But my car!” Eve moaned. “No no no ...”

Orange Cap poured gas all over the seats inside, then tossed in a match.

Eve’s car went up like a school bonfire at homecoming. Eve shrieked again and tried to lunge past Shane, too. He backed up to block the door and dodged a slap from her. “Claire! Little help?” he yelped, as Eve actually co

“Let go!” Eve yelled.

“No! Calm down. It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do!”

“I can kick their asses!”

Michael had already come to the same conclusion as Shane, and as Eve broke free from Claire, he got in her way and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to a fast stop. “No,” he said, “no, you can’t.” His eyes were shimmering red with fury, and he blinked and took deep breaths until he was himself again, blue-eyed Michael, under control—barely.

The three men in the parking lot whooped and hollered as Eve’s car burned, then scrambled for their big pickup truck as the motel’s office door slammed open.

Grandma Linda stood there, looking like the wrath of God in an apron. She had a shotgun, which she pointed at an angle at the sky and fired. The blast was shockingly loud. “Get lost, you morons!” she yelled at the retreating three men. “Next time I see your taillights I’ll give you a special buckshot kiss!”

She racked another shell, but she didn’t need to reload; the truck was already peeling out, spitting gravel from tire treads as it flew out of the parking lot, did a quick, drunken U-turn, and headed back inside Durram’s town limits.

Grandma Linda shouldered the shotgun, frowned at the burning car, and went back into the office. She returned with a fire extinguisher, and put the blaze out with five quick blasts of white foam.

Shane opened the door and got immediately mowed down by Eve, who blew past him, with Michael right behind. Shane and Claire followed last. Claire felt physically sick. The car was utterly trashed. Even with the fire put out, the windows were shattered, the bodywork dented and twisted, the headlights broken, tires flat, and the seats were burned down to the springs in several places.

She’d seen better wrecks at the junkyard.

“Those three ain’t got the sense God gave a virus,” Linda said. “I’ll call the sheriff, get him out here to write up a complaint. I’m sorry, honey.”