BOUNTY

Brian Wright
©2006

Almost at her destination when the rental car broke down on the lonely highway, she cursed and wished she was back home, facing a blazing fire instead of the coming trudge through the refrigerator cold of an autumn evening in Kansas.

Remembering that she’d seen just one other vehicle in the previous hour, she swore again. Her quarry - she still had to identify him or her for sure - was guilty simply for living in such a place.

She walked for what seemed like miles, freezing in spite of the thickly-padded coat, before she saw the sign displaying NO VACANCIES. The sky was turning purple, its one enormous eye growing brighter, as she approached the long, low building along a dirt road leading off the highway. Although there were several vehicles parked around, only the end cabin showed any lights.

This turned out to be a reception area. It was deserted, but she could hear the murmur of voices from beyond a glass door partially draped with a net curtain. She peered inside and saw half dozen people sitting close together in a small inner sanctum.

They were so engrossed in their conversation - all except for one bored-looking blonde young woman - that she had time to take in the details of the poky room: faded wallpaper clashing with rickety velour armchairs, black and white family portraits on every wall, an array of stuffed birds.

When the girl noticed her, they all turned to stare, as if seeing a ghost. She pushed open the door and said, "Excuse me, but I need some assistance."

"Hey, lady," one of the men said, "can’t you read?"

An older man, grey-haired and self-important, hushed him into silence. "Pardon my friend’s manners, ma’am," he said, "but it’s true what he says. The motel is fully booked."

When she explained her problem, they discussed it among themselves without showing the least inclination to offer any practical help. She was struggling to contain herself, afraid of losing her cool, when another young woman entered the room.

"What is it?" the newcomer asked.

Obliging and business-like, the young woman had things organised in no time, despatching one of the group to check out the rental car and someone else to fetch coffee. It was done very discreetly, the orders channelled through the grey-haired man in the guise of polite requests. Then the woman turned and held out her hand. "By the way, I’m Melanie. I own this place."

"Hi, I’m Diana."

They exchanged smiles. The others - all men now, the blonde girl was on coffee duty - huddled together in a corner. On being handed the Styrofoam cup, she swallowed the scalding liquid without a pause, ignoring the blonde girl’s look of astonishment. It would keep her warm for a few seconds at least. She noticed the grey-haired man, who had been introduced as Norm, draw Melanie to one side and whisper urgently to her.

The man sent to inspect the rental car returned and said that it must have blown a gasket; he couldn’t do anything about it at night, without any parts.

"It looks as if you’ll have to stop here," the motel owner said. Norm suddenly seemed angry, but Melanie turned to him and said in a soothing voice, "It’s OK, she can stay with me in the house."

She was led to the back of the motel, where a two-storey building stood on a slight rise about thirty yards away. "My house," Melanie announced.

She stood basking in front of the log fire in the cosy living room while her hostess explained the situation. "Now you might think they’re a pretty unfriendly bunch, but they have their reasons. And it’s true what they said - they’ve booked the whole motel for the weekend."

"But there’s only six of them," she said, "and you must have at least a dozen cabins."

The motel owner smiled. "They like their privacy."

"People have strange passions, don’t they?" Melanie continued. "I know I did. Money, that was my passion." The woman’s voice had taken on a wistful quality, but then she shook her head energetically. "No more, though, people are more important. Even that crew down there."

"And what’s their particular form of strangeness?"

"They’re the Kansas City Chapter of the Norman Bates Appreciation Society. All six of them. Well, five to be exact, the girl has only come along to play the victim. You know, Marion Crane."

Melanie went on, "You see, they like to spend time in places like this, small, old-fashioned motels, anywhere that looks similar to the one in the film. Made of wood with a pitched roof and a stoop running the length of the building, a big house nearby. There aren’t many such places left, even in the backwoods. That’s why they keep coming back here for their conventions." Stressing the incongruity of the last word, but with a gentle smile.

"To be truthful, they keep me going during the winter months."

Seeing her bemusement, the woman chuckled dryly. "Would you believe they spend the whole weekend talking about the film or Hitchcock, you know, things they get off the internet or from newspapers?

"Oh, and they always re-enact the murder in the shower at least once. That’s why they have to have a blonde woman. Curt seems to me like a nasty piece of work ..." - she had already made a note of the rude young man - "... but he brings along a different girl every time."

Still blissful at the hearth, she became conscious of Melanie’s enquiring stare. "My, you certainly feel the cold, don’t you? It looks as if you’d like to climb in among those flames. I’ll bet you’re from California or somewhere nice and warm."

When she nodded, nostalgia returned to Melanie’s voice. "A long way from home."

"A long way," she echoed dolefully, recalling the interminable walk along the exposed highway. Then, to break the mood, she asked, "So you haven’t always lived in Kansas?"

Melanie gave a pained smile. "Oh, I was a stranger here once myself. New York City, that was my home. I loved it. The energy, the people, even the noise."

As the wind picked up around the house, causing a loose tile to rattle on the roof, they seemed to be sharing the same mournful thought. She felt more homesick than ever for the roaring fires.

"I was a commodity dealer on Wall Street," Melanie continued. "Twenty-six years old and earning big bucks. The same old story, too much too soon. Drugs and sex and rock’n’roll. Especially the drugs. To tell the truth, I was a nasty bitch, greedy and ambitious. And then I had an accident ... but you don’t want to hear this."

"No, please go on. If it helps," she said, smoothly.

Melanie seemed doubtful, but then spoke up. "I haven’t talked about this to anyone in over two years."

Guessing all at once that the young woman had chosen to isolate herself in this dreadful place, in hiding from the world, she made her voice soft. "What happened?"

Melanie looked as if she was about to plunge into ice-cold water. "I killed the two people closest to me, you see. My mother and my fiance, who just happened to be in the car I was driving. I was high as a kite, of course." The pretty face had an agonised _expression.

"I was in intensive care for several weeks. They told me afterwards I technically died on at least two occasions, but somehow they always managed to bring me back. They were brilliant, the medical staff in that place. But when I finally got out of hospital, I couldn’t face anything about New York. I had to get as far away as possible, somewhere as different as possible. So I bought this motel with the money I had left. Call it a penance, if you like."

Melanie forced herself into the present with a visible effort, asking, "So what are you doing in these parts?"

Her search over, relaxed at last, she sat down. "I’m a bounty hunter," she said.

"Oh," Melanie said.

She laughed. "Mentioning my job is always something of a show-stopper. Must come from the same reflex that makes people look away when a policeman passes by in the street. The sense of original sin."

She could tell that her new acquaintance was curious, her mind taken off her own problems. "A bounty hunter," the motel owner exclaimed. "Are you after someone now? Is that where you were headed when your car broke down?"

She remained expressionless, revving up the other woman’s interest. "It’s someone here, isn’t it? It’s got to be Curt. He never talks about himself and all those girls, he has to be some sort of pimp. I’m certain he beats up on them, too. Is he on the run from the law?"

Melanie had another thought. "You’re not telling me it’s Norm? Those are his birds in the glass cases, by the way. He always seems to have a lot of cash. He says he’s a banker, you know, there must be plenty of opportunities for a crook in his line of work. He lived near San Diego a few years back. Don’t tell me you’ve tracked him down from California?"

"Well, we do lose people," she admitted, laughing. "They get away and lie low and it takes a while to catch up with them. It doesn’t help that our records aren’t all they should be. Don’t worry, if Curt or Norm are doing wrong, we’ll certainly get them in the end."

Melanie looked puzzled, but the phone rang before either of them could speak again. "Yes, Norm," the motel owner said into the speaker, "I’ll be down in a minute."

When they crossed the strip of ground to the motel, the Midwest Chapter of the Norman Bates Appreciation Society was waiting for them outside the building. There was no sign of Curt or the blonde girl. Norm had a worried frown.

"He went a little too far this time, Mel," he explained. "Broke her nose, I think, when she asked for money, you know, to do it ..."

He lapsed into an embarrassed silence and was shocked and relieved in equal parts when Melanie said, "It’s OK, Norm, she knows. Where’s Curt now?"

"Driving her to hospital, or so he says. I thought you’d best know about it, just in case the police call by later on."

The bounty hunter fought to keep her temper in check, her mood darkening in the cold night air, but still sent the men shuffling back when she snarled, "If Curt’s threats and your money can’t persuade her to stay silent, you mean?"

While Melanie was ringing the hospital, she followed the ranks of the Society into the inside room, where plates of sandwiches and glasses of milk were set out on a table. "I’m sorry about that," she said to the chastened Norm.

"That’s OK," he muttered. "All our nerves are a little shot just now."

"I suppose it means you won’t be staying on here?" she asked, casually.

"We’ve never gone home without doing the shower scene, it’s our most sacred tradition." The man looked as if he was about to burst into tears, until one of the others leaned forward and whispered something. They argued backwards and forwards in an undertone, before Norm turned to her and said, "I don’t suppose you’d do it?"

Speaking in a stage whisper, he pointed to the dark head bent over the phone in the next room. "We can’t use Mel, you see, the wrong hair colour."

They led her to the cabin next to the office, the one always used for the re-enactment, and turned discreetly away while she changed into the swimming costume that Norm chose from several that he carried around in a suitcase. From the same case he brought out a grey wig, a large fake knife and a smock-like dress. He put on the dress and wig.

She went into the bathroom and switched on the shower, drawing the plastic curtain after her. The room was under-heated and perhaps that triggered her over-reaction when Norm suddenly pulled back the curtain and stood there in his ridiculous costume, brandishing the knife above his head.

Maybe she was just pissed at having to deal with an amateur playing at being a bad guy, pissed enough to teach him a lesson he’d never forget. Above all, she wanted to return home to the roaring fires and had to get rid of Norm and his friends before that could happen. It was one of the rules that no-one must see the quarry being bagged.

And so, turning to face him, she revealed her true nature for a fraction of a second.

That was more than long enough. He dropped the knife, terrified, and then she heard the whole bunch scrambling madly for the cabin door. The frenzied roar of car engines came to her from outside while she dried herself and got dressed. When she walked to the next cabin, Melanie was standing in the doorway with a puzzled look on her face. "What’s with those guys? They looked like they’d seen a ghost."

"Where are your car keys?" she demanded.

The other woman’s bewilderment increased. "What’s going on?"

"You’re coming with me on a journey, that’s all."

Melanie was quick on the uptake, she had to give her that. "I’m the one you’re after, you mean?"

"Yes, you are. Now let’s go."

"But there must be some mistake. What have I done?"

"You survived, sweetie, you simply survived. It should never have happened."

Shivering, the bounty hunter pulled the heavy coat more tightly around her body. "If it hadn’t been for those fucking quacks, I wouldn’t be in this fucking place," she muttered to herself. "I’m going to make sure I don’t get assigned to anywhere but the tropics in future."

"But who sent you after me?" Melanie whimpered, all resistance destroyed by a single glimpse of her face.

"Didn’t I mention it? There’s only the one bail bondsman where we’re going, and he doesn’t like anyone running out on him. You’re guaranteed a warm reception, honey." She smiled with pleasurable anticipation at the thought of seeing the conflagration again, hearing the tortured screams.

"If it wasn’t for all the paperwork waiting on me, I’d be the happiest succubus in Hell tonight ... let’s go!"

The smell of scorched rubber. A scream of pleasure, dying away: "I CLAIM MY REWARD!"

The desolate howl of the wind.

BACKGROUND ............

brian@wright99.plus.com

I'm an old geezer who's still in computers for his sins. I live and work in Wales which is a little to the left of England.