The gabardine man turned on his stool to study Ethan. The man had a square, handsome face, but it was a shifty kind of handsome. He was in his mid-forties, if Ethan had to guess, gray hair sprouting along the temples, but when Ethan looked at the man’s eyes, he wondered if he might not be drastically underestimating his age. They were the eyes of someone well past his forties. They were the eyes of a man who’d seen more of life than he’d ever cared to see.
The man gave Ethan a wide, wide smile. The smile was so tight, Ethan would swear he heard the teeth grind together with a faint crunch, like stones under the heel of a boot.
“Let me show you something, son.”
Turning again on his stool, the man pointed out the diner’s front window, and Ethan noticed the way the man’s index finger ended early, just past the second knuckle. A mass of scar tissue was all that remained of the rest of the finger. Whatever had removed the joint from the gabardine man’s hand, it hadn’t been pleasant.
“Notice, if you will,” continued the man, “that three roads lead from this humble parking lot. One goes back the way you came. One goes north. The other goes south. Do you see?”
Ethan struggled to pin down what this man was thinking, where this was going, why it all felt like some sort of trap. Ethan felt his frustration rise, and along with it, anger. This was a new emotion, or maybe just newly indulged. “So what?”
“So this humble parking lot is, in fact, the border of many places. A liminal space, if you will. An outpost of solid ground in a very dangerous corner of Texas.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
The man ignored the question. “The road to the left, to the north, will take you to Fort Stockton. It’s the largest settlement around here, and also the base of operations for a very dangerous man named Franklin O’Shea. Everyone calls him Frank. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
“Count yourself lucky.” The gabardine man grinned at Ethan. There was no joy in those old eyes. “Frank O’Shea runs all the country around Fort Stockton. He controls the mayors, he controls the law, he controls all commerce coming and going. He’s a bad man with his fingers in a lot of pies. Eyes in every corner. The little rat-faced fuck who works the kitchen here—he’s one of Frank’s. That cook makes a tidy side income telling Frank about any interesting customers coming or going. Isn’t that something?”
Ethan looked at the bathroom door again. His temper rose. What was taking Hunter so long in there? But the temper was a cover, of course. If Ethan weren’t angry, he knew he’d be scared. That grinding smile, those blank old eyes: Ethan wondered if this man in the gabardine suit might be a little insane.
Ethan kept his voice level. “I really don’t want to hear about none of this, sir. We’re just passing through.”
The gabardine man ignored him again. He pointed out the windowonce more. “What’s funny is that Frank O’Shea never sends his men down that road to the right. That roadthere.The road to the south. No one goes downthatroad if they can help it. That road leads to Mexico eventually, in a roundabout way, but there’s quicker ways to the Rio. No. Folks call that southern route the Dust Road, on account of how little it’s disturbed. Do you know why no one goes that way?”
“I’m just going to grab a booth. You have a good day, sir.”
“Wait.”
That tremor in the man’s voice grew stronger, became almost a steady hum. Ethan paused. The man stared at Ethan, dead in the eye. Never blinking. Never looking away.
“That road to the south, the Dust Road, they say there’s a curse on it. They say that road getshungry.That it captures people sometimes. They say that sometimes the road just goes on forever, miles and miles of driving that leads to nothing but more desert, more blacktop, more nothing. The road goes on until your car runs out of gas and the cold creeps in. The night falls fast out there. You wouldn’t believe how dark it gets.” The man smiled wider. “I wouldn’t want to be alone out there when the dark rolls in. I wouldn’t want to see what was waiting for me in all that nothing.”
Ethan wanted to leave, wanted to say something, wanted just to turn his head. All of it felt impossible. It was as if the hook of the man’s smile had run straight through Ethan’s mind. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only stare back into the man’s old, old eyes. Could only listen.
“You know what you might find down that southern road, young man? You know what might be your only salvation? A little motel in the shadow of a big, lonely mountain. The motel is abandoned, of course, but it would be shelter, of a sort.”
Ethan found himself able to speak, though he didn’t say what he wanted to say. “Abandoned?”
“Long empty, yes. Twelve people vanished from that motel in 1955, the owners included. No one ever wanted to take it on again. ‘The Brake Inn Motel,’ the place was called. I’m sure someone thought that was clever.”
Ethan suddenly felt very cold.
“See, one frigid night in February—almost fifty years ago to theday, come to think of it—a group of strangers checked into the Brake Inn Motel for a little night’s solace. The next morning, a delivery truck found the place empty. Utterly deserted. There was blood in one of the bathtubs—a lot of it—but no other sign of violence. None of the windows were broken. None of the doors showed any signs of burglary. Several were even locked from the inside. Think about it. Just think about it. Nine empty rooms. Twelve cold beds. Not a scrap of evidence to say what happened. The legend says that if you drive past the motel at twilight—just as the sun starts to sink behind the mountain—you can sometimes see the twins who run the place still going about their duties. Washing the windows. Changing the linens. It’s almost like they’re expecting guests for the evening.”
The gabardine man finally looked away, turning his eye to the clock. His smile flattened. The hook the man had run through Ethan’s brain slipped free. Ethan’s body was his own again.
Ethan took a step back. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish.
His anger was long gone: nothing but cold fear now, from scalp to toes. “Whoareyou?”
“Me? Maybe I’m a nice guy trying to give you a sporting chance.” The gabardine man climbed from his stool. “Or maybe I’m just an insurance salesman killing time before my next appointment. Telling tall tales. My daughter used to love them.”
The man lifted his gray hat and settled it, just so, on his head. He rose all the way up to Ethan’s six foot three. He stuck out a hand, the one with the scarred finger, and Ethan found himself shaking it.
“Name’s Jack Allen,” the man said. “Be careful with your friend in the bathroom there. Your boy has a railroad spike where his heart ought to be. But maybe a monster is exactly the sort of person you need by your side, considering your circumstances.”
