Page 1 of Nomad

CHAPTER One

Cannon Johns was soaking wet when he pulled into the motel. Mid October rain storms are the worst.

The VACANCY light was on, but the once-bright neon was burned out on the first “A” and the second “C”. He was bone weary, out of options, and hungry, which was why his attention was drawn to the vending machine sitting under the overhang, barely out of the driving rain. The whole place was seedy, in disrepair, but he hadn’t been expecting a five star hotel with Relais & Châteaux room service.

It was way too late to find food anywhere else in the tiny panhandle town of Barburnett, Texas. He’d passed a Sonic and a convenience store, but both had been put to bed hours before. There was only one option. Three rundown machines. Two selling drinks. One vending the usual assortment of candy, crackers, pretzels and other unsatisfying stuff guaranteed to hasten demise. Which would be okay with him.

He unlocked the door marked with a number 16 and rolled his Harley inside. He hadn’t gotten permission, but didn’t expect the guy at the front desk would object. The man’s Indian accent was so thick Cann had been forced to ask him to repeat himself several times. The night manager, who was probably also the owner, gave every indication of being a man who wouldn’t be presenting much of an obstacle to anything that came his way. Especially not when cash was involved.

Kickstand set in place, Cannon promised himself that he’d towel off his ride as soon as he’d put on dry clothes and stuffed some empty calories into his stomach. He was never so glad that he’d taken the time to cover his clothes in plastic before stowing them in the side containers affectionately called saddle bags. Even the tightest, newest, best-made bike could leak in a hard enough rain and, at that moment, he would have said he needed dry clothes every bit as much as food or drink.

First order of business, vending machines.

Stepping back out into the hundred percent humidity air, he stayed close to the building on the part of the walkway that was under the overhang and dry. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t be anymorewet. Out of habit, he looked around before starting toward the lighted food and drink dispensers. He was almost there when he saw movement by the Mountain Dew column. Somebody was crouched behind the one furthest from the rain, with the most darkness for cover.

In addition to being tired, hungry, and out of options, he was also out of sorts, with no patience for shenanigans, a combination that could play out very badly for a would-be mugger. Weary as he was, he wouldn’t mind a good excuse for administering some bare knuckle punishment to the wicked.

When he was eight feet away from the Mountain Dew column, he said, “Come on out of there and state your business.” He had to raise his voice to a near-shout to be heard over the pounding rain.

After a slight hesitation, a small figure emerged in a yellow plastic poncho, the kind you can get at the grocery store for a couple of bucks. As soon as she reached up to pull the hood back he knew it was a woman by the delicate size of her hands and the way she moved.

The light was dim, but he saw her as clearly as if it was noon on a bright sunny day. His late wife had once told him that he had to change out the light fixture in the kitchen because “nobody looks good influorescent light”. The girl standing in front of him was proof it just ain’t so.

Her eyes were violet blue. And wide. He wasn’t sure if that was because of fear or misery. Like him, she was soaking wet. Unlike him, she was shivering. Whether that was from fear or cold he couldn’t tell for sure.

“What the hell you doing out here, girl?” He looked around. “Somethin’ got you spooked?”

She licked her bottom lip. “No, I… ah, I’m just a little down on luck. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Don’t want no trouble, huh.” It wasn’t a question. He said it as if it was a provable fact. She shook her head to both punctuate his assessment and agree with it. “Yeah. Me neither. At least not tonight.”

He fed the dollar bills he’d gotten from the night manager into the machine one by one, selecting items that were fried and coated in cheese that was more chemical than dairy, or candy bars that were more sugar than protein. When he held a Snickers out to the girl, she took it.

He breathed the rainy air deep into his lungs and let it out slowly. “Well, come on. You can’t spend the night out here.” When she didn’t move to follow, he said, “If your woman’s intuition is sayin’ I might do you harm, it’s badly in need of a tune up.”

She continued to simply stare. She was either frozen by her resolve to stay put or frozen by indecision. Either way she wasn’t moving.

“Have it your way,” he said and started back toward his room.

After taking three steps he heard the rustle of plastic poncho over the rain and knew she was behind him. He’d left his room unlocked knowing that he’d only be gone a couple of minutes and that the door would be in sight the entire time. Not that anybody besides himself and the lost girl would be out in that little forgotten town at that time of night, in that weather.

He pushed open the door, turned on the overhead light, and looked around, realizing what the place would look like in her eyes.

Two double beds covered in old rose chenille spreads. He refused to think about whether or not they’d been washed since the last occupant or occupants. At least the sheets were clean.

The walls were covered in pecan-stained faux paneling left over from the seventies. The carpet was a ratty rust color, but that was okay. Even he knew it would be rude to park his bike on carpet if it was nice and new.

He turned on the two bedside table lamps, which gave the room a slightly less down-and-out look.

The girl still stood outside on the walkway. Her toes were touching the threshold, but it seemed she still hadn’t made up her mind about what she was going to do.

“In or out, girl. Makes no difference to me. But one way or the other that door is about to close.”

When he started back toward the door, she took a step inside and moved to the right out of the way of the closing door, watching him like he’d been on the news as an escaped psycho killer.

He pulled off his leather jacket that displayed the Sons of Sanctuary logo on the back, closed the door, locked it, and stomped off toward the bath to get a towel for drying off the bike, stopping by the thermostat on the way to turn up the heat.

He returned with two glasses and a towel, which he set on the seat before opening one of the compartments. He withdrew clothes and a fifth of bourbon.

---