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Kit removes her manuscript pages from the knapsack, drops them on the counter then notices he’s still standing there quietly. “Carlin? You OK?”
    With his back to her, he nods.
    “What is it?” she asks.
    “I don’t know,” he answers a moment later, his voice unusually serious. “Just got a weird feeling there for a second.”
    “Great, I have to work here the rest of the night by myself, thanks for freaking me out. A weird feeling about what?”
    He turns, looks back at her. There is something in Carlin Pelham’s face Kit has never seen before. Not quite fear, but something similar.
    “Carlin?” Kit presses.
    “It’s nothing, I’m just tired. Whole lot of nothing out there, like always. That’s why I like days. Kind of creepy here at night sometimes.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Catch you tomorrow.” He grabs the door and pushes it open, letting in the cold air and a spray of rain. “Have a good night, Nipples.”
    “You too, Asshole.”
    Kit watches him go, the door slowly closing behind him on its delayed spring. When he reaches his van at the edge of the paved portion of the lot, Kit returns her attention to her novel.
    * * * *
    As Carlin rounds the rear of his van he notices someone standing in the shadows to his left. He stops, one hand on the van door. “Who’s that over there?” he calls above the pouring rain.
    A man. A large man in a cowboy hat and a duster.
    Without taking his eyes from him, Carlin pulls open the van door, places his computer on the seat then casually searches next to it for the ax handle he keeps there. “Can I help you, buddy?”
    The man steps closer but he still can’t make out his eyes, shielded beneath the flat brim of his hat.
    “What the hell you doing out here?” Carlin asks. “You need some help?”
    Rain runs off the roof of the motel, through the gutters and along the lot, gushing and trickling as the man shrugs off his duster. It falls to the ground with a thud, and for the first time Carlin realizes the size of this man, because he is shirtless. His body is chiseled and slick in the rain. It is also crisscrossed and littered with scars indicating this man has been stabbed, slashed and even shot numerous times. On the inside of each forearm are tattoos representing playing cards. On the left, the Ace of Spades. On the right, the Ace of Hearts. The man holds his arms out on either side of him and slowly curls his hands into fists, accentuating the network of thick veins that run along his flesh.
    Carlin finds the ax handle, grips it tight and holds it down by his side; hopeful the man hasn’t seen it. He can’t decide if he should hop in the van and lock the door or run for the office. Probably won’t make either one, he thinks. “What are you doing?” Carlin asks, doing his best to disguise the fear in his voice. “This is private property, OK? Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
    The man turns, shows him his back. In three fanned out rows, the remainder of the deck of cards are tattooed across the man’s broad back, bright and colorful amidst another battlefield of scars. He raises his head, looks to the sky, the rain, arms held out wider still as if summoning some greater force from the heavens above.
    Carlin decides that since the man has turned his back he has a chance. He could get in the van and get away, but what about Kit? He can’t just leave her here. Even if he called for help he—help, you stupid bastard, call for help!
    Hand shaking, he reaches into his coat pocket for his cellphone.
    Before he can press a key the man spins back around, and this time Carlin can see his eyes. He wishes now he couldn’t. He wishes he never sees anything like them again, unaware that he will see nothing but those demonic eyes peering down at him for all eternity.
    “Please,” Carlin whispers. It’s all he can muster. Even as his bladder lets go and he pees himself, he cannot move or summon another word. He simply stands there trembling.