Gas, Food and Lodging
It had been several hours since Trey Landis crossed the New Hampshire state line near Portsmouth and ventured into the southern portion of Maine. When he left Marblehead early that morning, he had actually been looking forward to the drive to Canada. So much of his time was spent indoors shackled to a desk that the idea of trekking through sparsely populated territory appealed to him. But after driving for five hours in a part of New England where pine trees reigned and fast food restaurants, shopping malls and office parks were as rare as honest politicians, he wondered what he had been thinking when he made his travel plans.
The long drive over miles of monotonous highway without so much as a billboard, rest area or roadside picnic table to provide distraction quickly bored him. Before the trip was even halfway through, he had already exhausted his small collection of music CDs. And as far as finding a good radio station in the middle of nowhere—well, he was just as likely to see Angelina Jolie hitchhiking on the side of the road.
As Bon Jovi's Cross Road began playing through a third time, he reached over to the stereo, ejected the disk and put in Bruce Springsteen for the second time that day.
I should have gotten one of those audiobooks, he thought, but hindsight was pointless.
The afternoon wore on. Eventually, Trey's weariness and hunger urged him to find a place to stop for the night.
"I'll pull off at the first exit with a hotel," he promised himself as he changed the CD again.
With the greatest hits of Creedence Clearwater Revival coming from his stereo, he drove for nearly fifty more miles, his stomach growling with increasing regularity.
"I'd trade my retirement fund for something to eat right now even if it was only a greasy burger and French fries."
Just when he was beginning to feel like one of the three kids in The Blair Witch Project, he saw a sign advertising GAS, FOOD AND LODGING AHEAD. It was an old wooden sign, not one of those blue-and-white international, no-need-to-read-English picture signs that sprung up like weeds along America's interstate highways. Its wood warped and the paint faded, the old sign looked as though it had seen one too many years of harsh Maine weather. Some people may have been leery of trusting such a hand-crafted sign, but not Trey Landis—not in his present state anyway. He was so tired and hungry that he would have followed smoke signals.
* * *
After turning off the highway, Trey drove for nearly twenty-five minutes along a dark, windy single-lane road. Given the obvious age of the wooden sign, it was entirely possible that the gas station, restaurant and hotel were a thing of the past. As he thought about turning around and driving back to the highway, he spotted another wooden sign ahead proclaiming STONY'S DINER AND GETAWAY CABINS, NEXT RIGHT.
Trey cringed. While he hadn't expected the road to lead to a Sheraton or Marriott, he had hoped for a Holiday Inn or Best Western and would gladly have settled for a Motel 6. But cabins?
"Oh, well," he said with a sigh. "Beggars can't be choosers."
Besides, his main concern was food. If the cabins were dirty or infested with cockroaches, he could always sleep in his Lexus.
A half mile up the road he saw the lights of the gas station, an antiquated Exxon. Above the door of the service station, the original Esso emblem was visible beneath the chipped and faded paint.
Welcome to the land that time forgot! Trey thought, realizing with regret that had he chosen to fly, he would already have been in New Brunswick, eating a good meal at a clean, modern hotel.
Just beyond the gas station was the driveway for Stony's Diner. There were two cars in the parking lot, but when Trey went inside, the place was empty.
"Hello?" he called, his voice echoing through the room. "Is anyone here?"
A few moments later an immensely tall, heavy-set man came out of the kitchen, removing his stained apron and tossing it behind the counter.
"Howdy!" the big man said. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping I could get something to eat. Are you open?"
"Yup!" the man replied. "We're always open: twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year."
"Great. Can I see a menu then?" Trey asked as he slid into the first booth he could find without torn upholstery.
The man picked up a menu that had been lying on the counter and handed it to his sole customer. Then he stood beside the booth, waiting. The man's towering height made Trey uncomfortable.
"Can I get a Coke while I read the menu?"
"Sure thing. One Coca-Cola coming up."
The big man took two steps toward the counter and then turned.
"Will that be regular or diet?"
"Regular."
"In a can, glass or bottle?"
"A glass will be fine."
"Ice?"
"A little."
"A straw?"
Trey smiled. He'd never had to put so much effort into ordering a drink.
"A straw won't be necessary."
The big man disappeared into the recesses of the kitchen and came back several minutes later.
"Here you go. A glass of regular Coca-Cola, with ice, no straw."
When the man leaned over and placed the drink on the table, Trey caught a whiff of strong soap, a decidedly unpleasant odor.
"I'm ready to order now."
The big man grinned, showing gaps where several teeth were missing.
"What can I get ya?"
"I'll have the meatloaf and a tossed salad with bleu cheese dressing."
The big man stared dumbly at him.
"Is there something wrong?"
"The waitress isn't here right now, and the cook is busy. I don't know if I can make a meatloaf."
What else could go wrong? Trey wondered.
"How about the spaghetti?"
The big man scratched his head.
"I guess I can try to cook spaghetti, but I can't make any promises."
"Forget the spaghetti. What do you know how to cook?"
The big man's eyes brightened.
"I can fry you a hamburger," he said eagerly. "I'm a regular Ronald McDonald with burgers."
"A hamburger it is then. No. Make that two hamburgers."
"With cheese or without?"
"With."
"Onion?"
Here we go again, Trey thought.
"Yeah. Two hamburgers on buns with cheese, onion, ketchup and pickles, if you have any."
* * *
While the big man was at the grill frying the hamburgers, Trey decided to take a much-needed trip to the men's room. The bathrooms, he noted, were on the far end of the diner. The men's and ladies' rooms were side by side, marked by stick figures, one in pants and one in a dress.
When Trey stepped out of the men's room, the smell of frying beef and onions reminded his empty stomach of its need to be fed. As he headed back toward the booth, he passed a door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. He hadn't noticed earlier that the door was ajar. Now he did, and he could clearly see why. A woman's foot, clad in an orthopedic shoe worn mostly by nurses and others who spent most of their day on their feet, was caught between the door and the doorjamb.
Hoping to help the poor woman, Trey pushed the door open wider. When he saw her glazed lifeless expression, he knew there was little he could do. The sight of the pooling blood beneath the dead woman mixed with the smell of frying beef and onions made his stomach lurch. He ran back to the men's room and vomited, although his stomach had been empty except for the Coke.
After he rinsed his mouth, Trey tried to analyze what he'd seen. The woman hadn't injured herself in some work-related accident; she had been brutally murdered, stabbed repeatedly. While Trey was no Sherlock Holmes, it seemed pretty damned elementary, even to him, who the killer was: the mentally deficient mountain of a man who was in the kitchen frying his burgers.
Suddenly, the little clues that he hadn't caught earlier came to mind: the missing waitress, the stained apron the big man was taking off when Trey first entered the diner and the smell of strong soap. Obviously, the killer had attempted to wash off his victim's blood.
Trey froze. Was the cook dead, too? Probably. And the $64,000 question: Just who was the man in the kitchen? A diner employee who had a grudge against his co-workers or the garden variety lunatic, the kind that killed without rhyme or reason?
Trey reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and prayed that there was 911 emergency service in that remote region of Maine, but whether there was or not proved to be a moot point. He was out of range and couldn't get any cellular service. He angrily pocketed his phone, wishing he could ring the neck of the annoying "can you hear me now?" guy on the Verizon Wireless commercials.
"Damned cell phones," he spat, as he tried to formulate a plan.
He mentally enumerated the known facts. One, he was miles away from civilization. Two, the waitress was dead, most likely murdered by the big man at the grill. Three, the cook was not there; he could be dead, but he might also be alive. There was even the outside chance that the cook was home watching the Red Sox game, assuming there was television reception in this area. Four, Trey was not much of a fighter, and the killer was nearly a foot taller and roughly a hundred pounds heavier.
All facts taken into consideration, Trey had two options. He could run or he could stay and look for the missing cook, who may or may not need his help. Quickly coming to the conclusion that he was no hero, Trey decided to run. He quietly opened the door and tiptoed toward the exit. He made it halfway across the room when the big man came out of the kitchen with his food.
"Here are your burgers. I didn't know if you wanted the pickles on your sandwiches or on the side, so I just put them on your plate next to the potato chips. That way if you want them on your hamburgers, you can put them on yourself."
"Thank you."
Trey managed with difficulty to remain calm or at least give the appearance of calmness.
"I hope you don't mind that I did that. 'Cause some people don't like their pickles next to the potato chips on account of the juice from the pickles can make the chips soggy."
"I don't mind. Really."
Trey sat down, picked up the bottle of Heinz Ketchup and poured some on his burgers. His hopes of escape were dashed when the killer sat down in the booth across from him.
"I hope that's how you like your burgers cooked. I don't really know the difference between well done, medium rare and rare, so I cook them all the same."
Trey Landis forced a smile.
"I'm not that fussy, just hungry. Ummm! They look delicious."
He picked up a burger in both hands, raised it to his lips and gingerly took a bite, praying it wasn't poisoned.
"Does it taste okay?" the killer asked eagerly.
Surprisingly, it did. If there was poison in it, Trey couldn't taste it.
"It's very good," he replied, hoping the big man would take the hint and leave him alone.
No such luck! The killer stayed put.
Despite his fear, Trey's hunger returned. He quickly ate the two burgers and the potato chips and washed them down with another Coke.
"Can I get you anything else?" the killer asked. "More chips?"
"No, thank you. Just the check."
The mindless smile vanished from the big man's face.
"Check? I don't know how to write a check. The waitresses always take care of that."
"No problem," Trey assured him as he reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and put a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "I'm sure that will more than take care of it. And keep the change for yourself as a tip."
"Thank you," the big man said, his face beaming like a young child's.
Now came the moment of truth. Would the killer let him simply get up and walk out? Trey rose slowly and, keeping the big man in his peripheral vision, he made it to the door.
So far so good, he thought as he walked out into the parking lot.
He got behind the wheel of his Lexus and promptly locked the doors. Then he let out a sigh of relief; he was safe! After a moment, he got his keys out of his pocket and tried to start the car. Nothing happened. Trey felt his heart sink as he tried again. Still nothing. His third attempt also failed. He looked up and saw the big man smiling at him through the window of the diner. No wonder the killer hadn't tried to stop him from leaving. He must have sabotaged the Lexus while Trey was in the men's room.
Trey closed his eyes, fearing the worst.
"Dear God, please let it be quick and painless," he prayed.
It was funny, he thought wryly, how in times of danger even the most skeptical agnostic resorted to prayer. Then he heard the bell above the front door signaling the killer's emergence from the diner. Trey broke out in a cold sweat. He prayed harder. When he opened his eyes, he saw the killer looking into the driver's side window of the Lexus.
"Having car trouble?"
Trey nodded.
"It's too late to do anything about it now. Why don't you spend the night in one of the cabins? I'll get a tow truck out here first thing in the morning."
Trey wanted to stay right where he was: in the safe haven of his sixty-four-thousand-dollar automobile. But would even a Lexus SUV keep out the killer if he were determined to get it? In the end, bravery (or perhaps stupidity) triumphed over fear. He got out of the car and followed the big man up the small hill to the cabins.
* * *
"Wait here a second," the big man instructed. "I'll go inside the office and get you a key."
Trey looked around. Should he run and try to find a place to hide?
The sound of a snapping twig caught his attention. He peered through the darkness and saw a young girl pressed against the side of the first cabin. Trey's eyes met hers, which were wide with fear.
"Stay there," he warned when he saw the killer emerge from the office.
"Here you go. I'll put you in cabin two. There are clean sheets and towels in there, and there's a TV with one of those videotape players. Normally, we charge a dollar a piece to rent the movies, but in your case, they're on the house. Just go in the office and help yourself."
Feeling like Janet Leigh checking into the Bates Motel, Trey followed the plus-sized "Norman" to cabin two. As they passed cabin one, Trey saw a red smudge on the door handle.
"We got a good selection of movies to choose from," the killer continued. "We got all the Lord of the Rings, and the Harry Potters, that movie with the penguins and The Polar Express, but since it ain't Christmas time, I don't think you'll be too keen on seeing that. We also have a few movies with naked ladies. Those we keep under the counter so the little kids don't see them."
"I'm pretty tired," Trey explained. "I think I'll skip the movies and go right to bed."
"Suit yourself," the big man said as he opened the cabin door and then handed Trey the key. "Well, good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. I'll see you in the morning when you come down to the diner for breakfast. I'll call the tow truck for your car then, too. I won't forget."
"Thank you. Good night."
"Sweet dreams."
Through the slit between the drapes, Trey watched the big man walk down the hill and return to the diner. When the killer was out of sight, he opened the door and walked back to cabin one.
The girl emerged from the shadows.
"Is he gone?" she whispered.
"Yeah. He went back to the diner. Quick, come inside my room."
When Trey saw the girl in the light, he drew in his breath. There was blood on her blouse.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. I cut my arm, but it's just a flesh wound. Nothing to worry about."
"We have to find a way out of here. Do you have a car? Mine is dead."
"We have to stay put. If we leave, Ossie might see us."
"Who's Ossie, the big man in the diner?"
"Yes. His parents own the place, so they let him earn spending money doing odd jobs around here. He's mentally retarded, you see."
"Where are his parents now?"
"Dead. His father's in the storage room with a carving knife in his back, and his mother ...."
"... is the dead waitress?"
"Yes."
"We can't just sit here and wait for him to come and get us. Where's your car, down at the diner?"
"I don't have a car. I got a ride here."
Trey quickly surveyed the room. There was a phone on the table beside the bed, but when he picked up the receiver, the line was dead.
"There were two other cars in the diner's parking lot when I arrived. Do you have any idea who they belong to?"
"One belongs to Ossie's parents and the other to the man in cabin one."
Trey remembered the blood on the door handle.
"Is he...?"
The girl nodded.
"He was the first to die. The parents came next, the mother and then the father."
"I'm going into the cabin next door and see if I can find the man's car keys."
"No," the girl cried, throwing herself into Trey's arms as though seeking protection from the horrors outside.
"I have to," he said firmly as he pulled himself free. "We've got to get his keys and sneak down into his car."
And hope Ossie hasn't already done something to disable it, he thought.
* * *
The man in cabin one was much younger than Trey Landis had anticipated. He was probably in his late teens, about the same age as the terrified girl he had left in cabin two. As Trey searched the pockets, he found the dead boy's wallet. Something compelled him to open it and read the victim's driver's license.
"A local boy," he said with surprise, recognizing the name of the town. "What's he doing staying here in Stony's Cabins when he lives nearby?"
Trey looked around the room. There was no luggage, but there was a bottle of rum and a six-pack of Coca-Cola. The young man had come to Stony's to party, most likely with the girl in the next cabin, and instead of getting drunk he had been butchered by a homicidal maniac.
When his search failed to turn up the dead man's car keys, Trey returned to his own cabin.
"The keys weren't on him," he informed the girl. "They're probably in the car. We've got to go down and find out."
"I'm not leaving this room. I don't want Ossie to find me."
"All right. You stay here and lock the door. I'll go down and see if the keys are in the car. If they are, I'll come back and get you."
Trey managed to make it down the hill and to the parking lot without incident. Apparently, Ossie was still in the diner, perhaps cleaning up the mess he made or trying to dispose of his parents' bodies.
As Trey walked toward the dead boy's car, he saw headlights approaching.
Thank God! he thought, once again forgetting his agnosticism.
When the headlights pulled into the parking lot and he saw that they belonged to a police car, Trey was fast on his way to becoming a true believer.
"Thank God, you're here!" he cried, running over to the middle-aged police officer who stepped out of the car.
"Who the hell are you?" the uniformed cop demanded to know, his hand instinctively reaching for his service revolver.
"I'll answer all your questions later, but right now there are two dead bodies in the diner and a third up in one of the cabins."
"Are there now?"
The cop clearly didn't believe him.
"Yes. I saw the woman's body myself. She was a waitress here. She's on the floor of the janitor's closet, near the restrooms. I also saw the body of a young man in cabin number one."
"And the third body?"
"There's a young girl in cabin two—still alive. She told me about the body in the storage room. The guy here, Ossie, killed that boy in cabin one and then killed his parents."
"Ossie murdered his parents, you say?"
The cop raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
"Is that a fact? Hell, I've known Ossie all my life. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, he hasn't the mental capacity to tie his shoes much less murder three people."
Trey was losing his patience.
"Look, there are two bodies in that diner. Now why don't you do your job and go inside and check it out?"
"Sure, let's go do that, Mr. Smart Aleck. And if we do find any bodies, you're going to have a lot of explaining to do."
When Trey and the cop walked into the diner, they found Ossie sitting at the counter, trying to read the comics in the daily newspaper. When he looked up and saw the two men, the big man smiled.
"Howdy, Officer Cox. Did you stop in for a cup of coffee and a piece of Dad's homemade apple pie?"
"Not exactly, son. Where is your father? I'd like to talk to him."
"He's working in the back of the kitchen."
Then Ossie turned his attention to Trey.
"Is something wrong with your room? Or did you come down for a late-night snack? Oh, wait. You changed your mind about watching a movie."
"Where's your mother?" the cop asked.
"She must have gone home. I haven't seen her for a while, not since before this fellow got here."
The cop looked at the stranger with suspicion.
"Okay. Why don't you show me where she is?"
Trey Landis led the cop to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Just inside was the body of the dead waitress.
After a cursory examination of the crime scene, the cop ordered, "Let's go take a look in the storage room before I radio headquarters."
Just as the young girl had said, the body of Ossie's father, owner of Stony's Diner and Getaway Cabins, was lying on the floor between two shelves stocked with food supplies. The dead man had a carving knife protruding from his back.
The cop turned to Trey and asked, "And you said there's another body in one of the cabins?"
"Yeah. A kid about eighteen or so, name of Ryder Loudoun."
"Ryder Loudoun? Are you sure? Shit! That's the mayor's son."
"There's alcohol in the room. He must have come here to party."
"I'm not surprised. Ryder was always a wild kid. His father was always getting him out of trouble."
At that moment Ossie came through the door.
"I just made a pot of coffee. Do either of you want a ...?"
He stopped when he saw his father's body on the floor.
"Daddy? What happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm sorry, son," the cop said gently, "your father is dead."
Ossie broke down and cried. His were not the silent, strained tears of a grown man but the heartrending wails of a child.
"Did you do this to your father, Ossie?" the cop asked.
"No. I'd never hurt Daddy. I love him."
"What about your mother? Would you hurt her? And your sister? Where is she?"
Trey's eyes widened. He hadn't known the big man had a sister.
"She's with her boyfriend," Ossie said. "Mommy and Daddy don't like him much, but Cassie still sees him anyway."
Was the terrified woman in cabin two the killer's sister, Cassie? Had she arranged a tryst with the mayor's son, a date that led to three deaths?
"What about you?" Trey asked. "Did you like your sister's boyfriend?"
The cop gave Trey a frosty look.
"If you don't mind, I'll ask the questions here. Let's not forget you're still my prime suspect in these murders."
Ossie, confused and distraught over his father's death, took the cop's statement as proof that Trey Landis was the murderer.
"You killed my Daddy," he screamed in anguish as he lunged forward and grabbed Trey by the neck with his two beefy hands.
The smaller man was no match for someone of Ossie's size and strength. The big man would easily have strangled him had the cop not come to Trey's rescue. It took two shots to subdue the grief-stricken son; unfortunately, the second shot proved to be fatal.
"I can't believe it," Officer Cox said, clearly shaken. "Ossie always seemed so harmless, so passive. I can't believe he'd turn violent like this. Must be like a dog with rabies: one day it's a gentle pet and the next a vicious killer."
Trey was taking deep gulps of air.
"The girl," he gasped. "I think we should go check on the sister."
"Yeah. I reckon you're right."
When the two men walked out of the diner, Trey suffered a dizzy spell and nearly passed out.
"Are you okay?" the cop asked.
"I'll be fine. But if you don't mind, I'll wait here for you."
Officer Cox was hesitant.
"Well, I suppose you aren't about to run off. If you're considering it, though, just remember that there's nowhere around here to hide. Once daylight comes, you'll be easy to spot."
"I give you my word I'll stay right here by your patrol car until you return."
* * *
Nearly a half hour later Trey saw Cassie walking down the hill toward the diner. A smile appeared on her face when she saw him standing beside the police car.
"I'm glad you're still here," she said.
"Where's Officer Cox?"
"He's up by the cabins checking for fingerprints or something."
Trey noticed that the girl had changed clothes and that her hair was wet, as though she'd recently taken a shower or bath.
"He said you and I were to take his car and go into town for help," Cassie explained.
"He wants us to take the police cruiser? Why doesn't he just use the radio?"
"It doesn't work. Look, he gave me his keys," she said, holding up the cop's key ring.
"Okay, let's go," Trey said, reaching for the keys.
"No, I'll drive."
As the two of them drove along a dark, deserted road, Trey laid his head against the passenger side window. The nightmare was over, yet he couldn't banish the horrifying images from his mind. He was grateful when the girl broke the silence.
"Are you married?" she asked.
"No. I'm divorced."
"Got a girlfriend?"
"No one in particular."
"I had a boyfriend, but my parents didn't like him. They said he was nothing but trouble."
Trey didn't want to mention the dead body in cabin one. He had no desire to remind the girl of the boy's tragic end.
"I guess I should have listened to them," Cassie continued. "It turns out they were right; Ryder was nothing but a pig. He used me like I was some two-bit piece of white trash, and all the while he was going out with another girl."
Cassie's words struck a discordant note. True, people react to death in different ways, but the girl's reactions to the murder of her boyfriend and parents were bizarre, to say the least.
Suddenly several questions came to Trey's mind. Would a woman terrified for her life take the time to shower and change her clothes before escaping? Would any cop, even one from a backwater town in rural Maine, trust a stranger and a frightened teenage girl with his patrol car?
Cassie turned in Trey's direction, eyed him appreciatively and announced, "You know, you're kinda cute. I thought so the moment I saw you up by the cabins. Of course, you didn't seem too interested in me at the time, but I figure that was because I was covered in blood."
"That's right," he said, remembering the girl's blood-stained clothing. "You had cut your arm."
A shock raced through Trey's nervous system. The girl was now wearing a sleeveless shirt, and there was no sign of a wound on either of her arms.
"Yeah, but it's all better now."
"Good," he said nervously. "I'm glad."
"It's funny. I always thought Ryder Loudoun was too immature for me. I'm the kind of girl who prefers an older, more sophisticated man, one with lots of experience."
The invitation in Cassie's eyes was unmistakable.
Trey decided it best to play along for the time being.
"After we go to the police station, maybe I can take you out somewhere for coffee."
"Oh, we don't have to go to the police station."
"Yes, we do. You told Officer Cox we'd report the murders."
"That can wait. You and I are more important than five dead bodies."
Five?
By Trey's count, there were only four: the girl's father, mother, brother and boyfriend. When he looked at the cop's set of keys in the ignition, it wasn't too difficult for him to guess the identity of the fifth victim. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the barrel of Officer Cox's service revolver sticking out of the girl's purse.
"I think you and I would make a great couple," Cassie concluded, her green eyes sparkling with anticipation—or was it with insanity?
Trey Landis closed his eyes and once again leaned his head against the passenger side window. The nightmare wasn't over, after all. On the contrary, it was only beginning.
If you pull off the Massachusetts Turnpike and a sign leads you to Salem's Diner and Getaway Cabins, get away as fast as you can!
