Chapter 6 - Asphalt And Echoes
The Greyhound bus smelled of stale diesel fuel, wet wool, and cheap floor wax. Outside the grease-streaked window, the gray morning sky hung low over the asphalt, blurring the distant treeline into a monotonous wash of green and brown. I kept my head down, pulling the hood of my oversized sweatshirt further over my forehead. Beside me, Costlow sat rigidly against the vinyl seat, his right hand resting inside his coat pocket where he kept a heavy folding knife he'd lifted from the diner's kitchen. His face was pale, the bruising around his jaw turning a deep, ugly shade of purple and yellow under the flickering fluorescent lights of the aisle.
Every time the bus slowed down for a crossroad or a toll booth, my stomach tightened into a hard knot. I kept waiting for blue lights to flash behind us, for Marcus's men to board the vehicle and pull us off into the rain. But the miles kept ticking away, farm fields giving way to rolling hills, and then to the dense, sprawling outskirts of a gritty manufacturing town three counties north. We rode in silence for nearly two hours, the rhythmic thrum of the tires against the highway joints doing little to soothe the jagged nerves humming beneath my skin.
When the bus finally wheezed to a halt at a dilapidated terminal with broken benches and peeling teal paint, Costlow nudged my shoulder. "We get off here," he whispered, his voice raspy from lack of water. We blended into the sparse crowd of tired commuters and backpackers, slipping out into the chilly drizzle. The air smelled of wet pavement and sulfur from a nearby paper mill.
We walked four blocks through quiet, working-class neighborhoods until we found a faded neon sign blinking through the mist: *Pine Crest Motel*. The paint on the office door was chipped, and a small plastic bell jingled thinly as we pushed it open. A bored clerk with heavily tattooed forearms barely looked up from his handheld screen as we paid cash for a corner room at the back of the property.
The room was damp and smelled faintly of old bleach and cigarette smoke. The double bed sagged in the middle, covered by a scratchy brown chenille spread. Once the heavy wooden door was bolted and chained, Costlow let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like glass scraping across stone. He dropped his jacket onto the threadbare armchair and sank onto the edge of the mattress, his shoulders slumping under the weight of a exhaustion that sleep wouldn't fix.
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"Let me look at your side," I said, dropping my canvas bag by the door.
He didn't argue. I peeled back the stained white shirt he'd managed to salvage. The makeshift bandage I'd applied the night before was soaked through with dark blood. The wound from the graze had torn open again during the bus ride, angry and red against his pale skin. As I worked with a damp motel washcloth and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol I'd bought at the bus station kiosk, he didn't flinch, though his jaw muscles clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack.
