Strangers

Locked it.
        He felt better but far from safe, and if he had not been so close to home he would have frozen stiff. But he only had a quarter of a mile to go, and when he switched on his headlights, the gloom fell back, which encouraged him. He was shaking so violently that he did not trust himself to pull back into traffic, so he drove along the shoulder of the interstate until he came to the exit ramp. There were sodium lamps along the ramp and at the base of it, and he was tempted to stop there at the bottom, in the yellow glare, but he gritted his teeth and turned onto the county road, out of the light. After driving only two hundred yards, Ernie reached the entrance to the Tranquility Motel. He swung through the parking area, slid the van into a slot in front of the office, switched off the headlights, and cut the engine.
        Beyond the big windows of the office, he could see Faye at the front desk. He hurried inside, closing the door behind himself with too much force. He smiled at Faye when she glanced up, and he hoped the smile looked more convincing than it felt.
        "I was beginning to worry, dear," she said, returning his smile.
        "Had a flat tire," Ernie said, unzipping his jacket.
        He felt somewhat relieved. Nightfall was easier to accept when he was not alone; Faye gave him strength, but he was still uneasy.
        She said, "I missed you."
        "I was only gone the afternoon."
        "I guess I'm hooked, then. Seemed longer. Guess I've got to have my Ernie fix every couple of hours or go through withdrawal symptoms."
        He leaned across the counter, and she leaned from her side, and they kissed. There was nothing half-hearted about their kiss. She put one hand to his head to hold him close. Most long-married couples, even if they remained in love, were perfunctory in their displays of affection, but that was not the case with Ernie and Faye Block. After thirty-one years of marriage, she could still make him feel young.
        She said, "Where are the new lighting fixtures? They did come in, didn't they? The freight office didn't make a mistake?"
        That question jolted him back to an acute awareness of the night outside. He glanced at the windows, then quickly away. "Uh, no. I'm tired. I don't really feel up to hauling them in here tonight."
        "Just four crates-"
        "Really, I'd rather do it in the morning," he said, striving to keep a tremor out of his voice. "The stuff will be all right in the truck. Nobody'll touch it. Hey, you put up the Christmas decorations!"
        "You mean you just noticed?"
        A huge wreath of pine cones and nuts hung on the wall above the sofa. A life-sized cardboard figure of Santa Claus stood in the corner beside the rack of postcards, and a small ceramic sleigh with ceramic reindeer was displayed at one end of the long counter. Red and gold Christmas-tree balls hung from the ceiling light fixture on lengths of transparent fishing line.
        "You had to get up on a ladder for some of this," he said.
        "Just the stepladder."
        "But what if you'd fallen? You should've left this for me to do."
        Faye shook her head. "Honey, I swear to God I'm not the fragile type. Now, hush up. You ex-Marines carry macho too far sometimes."
        "Is that so?"
        The outer door opened, and a trucker came in, asking about a room.
        Ernie held his breath until the door closed.
        The trucker was a lanky man in a cowboy hat, denim jacket, cowboy shirt, and jeans. Faye complimented him on the hat, which had an elaborately sculpted leather band brightened with chips of turquoise. In that easy way of hers, she made the stranger feel like an old friend as she shepherded him through the check-in process.
        Leaving her to it, trying to forget his curious experience on the interstate, trying not to dwell on the night that had come, Ernie moved behind the counter, hung his coat on the brass rack in the corner by the file cabinets, and went to the oak desk, where mail was stacked on the blotter. Bills, of course. Advertisements. A charity solicitation. The first Christmas cards of the year. His military pension check.
        Finally, there was a white envelope without a return address, which contained only a Polaroid color photograph that had been taken in front of the motel, beside the door to Room 9. It was of three people - man, woman, child. The man was in his late