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Chapter Twenty-Six
Joel
Ihit the road for Ohio after an uncomfortable breakfast with Gina and her father. Sometimes a clean break is the easiest way. I needed some time to sort out my thoughts, and the drive would give me space to do that.
I don't know what I was expecting, coming up here, but I never thought I would be heading back to Texas with a wife. I didn't expect to fall for her, but I guess that's what happened.
I only know that when I stood on her porch and said my goodbye, I never wanted to do it again. This shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish, as the trip to Willoughby will be a quick one. I'll be back tomorrow.
I pull into town after dark and take care of a few details. I call Layla to check in and see if any new jobs have come through. She doesn’t answer, but she’s usually busy most nights.
Later, I park behind the old motel. The Highway House, as the sign vibrantly displays. The place looks ancient. It’s a quiet and cold night, too cold, the kind of weather that makes you want to get down to business.
Unfortunately, that’s not what happens. The man I’m looking for is nowhere to be found. A trip that was supposed to take a day ends up taking over a week.
Eventually, though, I find him.
Robinette Mason or Robbie Hanson, as he’s calling himself these days, is staying in room number eleven at the Soft Mill Inn, two towns over from where I was told he’d be. It’s perfect, the last room right before an outdoor hallway that leads to the pool. I knock lightly on the door and then hide in the shadows. Sure enough, just as I presumed he would, Robbie opens the door and sticks his head out. I’ve never seen him in person, just a photo, but even in the pale light, I can see that he is exactly what I expect.
“Who’s there?”
He glances from one end of the breezeway to the other, and I make my move just as he's about to close the door. I shove it open, and Robbie staggers backward, looking surprised. “Sit on the bed,” I say, “and don't move.”
He's about to object, but I speak before he can. “Hands up!”
He does as I say.
“Keep them where I can see them,” I tell him. I know where he keeps his weapons—his shotgun is in the bathroom and there's a pistol under his mattress. Neither are within easy reach. I emptied both of their chambers earlier, but he doesn't know that. “On the nightstand,” I say. “Or under your pillow. Not much point having a weapon if you can't get to it.”
“Who are you?”
“Never mind that,” I say, as I slide my bag into the room. I close the door behind me, putting the chain in place. The room smells like a giant ashtray, but also like whiskey and evil.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice trembling.
“Let's start with your name,” I say, as I reach into my back pocket for a pack of cigarettes. The movement makes him nervous. He is expecting a gun, but that will come later. I shake a cigarette loose from the pack. I don't smoke, but Robbie does.
“My name?”
“That’s what I asked, isn’t it?”
“Robbie…”
“Robbie what?”
“Robbie Hanson.”
“Your real name?”
He looks like he’s trying to swallow a mouthful of dry sand. “Robinette… Mason.”
“Your mother didn't like you much?”
He scoots backward on the bed.
“Want a smoke?”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug.
