Chapter 4 - The Neon Sanctuary
The neon sign buzzed with a dull, flickering pink against the rain: LUCY’S 24-HOUR DINER & FUEL.
It was 3:40 in the morning. The parking lot was empty except for two long-haul eighteen-wheelers idling with low, rhythmic rumbles near the diesel pumps.
I dragged myself across the cracked asphalt like an apparition from a ditch. My skin was caked in black river mud and dried blood, my hair a sodden knot of briars and leaves, my bare feet leaving bloody, wet smears on the yellow painted lines. I was hypothermic; my lips were blue, and my body had stopped shivering—a deadly sign that my core temperature was collapsing.
I hit the glass door with both palms and tumbled forward onto the greasy linoleum floor.
The bell above the door chimed cheerily.
Behind the counter, an older woman with dyed auburn hair, heavy turquoise rings, and an apron stained with coffee grounds looked up from wiping the grill. She took one look at me—at the protruding, seven-month belly, the purple bruises around my neck from the feeding straps, the raw cuts crisscrossing my arms—and dropped her spray bottle.
"Sweet Jesus in heaven," she gasped, leaping over the counter flap with surprising agility.
"Help..." My voice was nothing more than a wet croak. I clutched the wet cloth packet in my bra and shoved it toward her. "Evidence... don't let them... take the baby..."
"Hold on, honey, I got you! Frank! Frank, get out here now! Call 911!" she yelled toward the back kitchen.
A burly line cook in a stained white t-shirt burst through the swinging doors, took one look at me, and scrambled for the landline on the wall.
The woman pulled a heavy wool server’s cardigan from a hook and wrapped it around my trembling shoulders, pulling me against her chest on the dirty floor. She didn't care about the mud, the blood, or the sour smell of sickness clinging to my skin.
"You're safe, darling. You hear me? You're out of the woods," she whispered, her voice rough with genuine warmth. "My name's Martha. You're at mile marker 44. Nobody's touching you in my diner."
"He has... the police," I wheezed, my vision fading into gray fog. "Bradley... his mother... they know the sheriff..."
Martha’s eyes narrowed into hard flint. She looked up at the cook. "Frank, hang up the county sheriff. Call the State Police barracks in Mercer. Tell them we have a critical domestic kidnapping and torture victim. Ask for Lieutenant Miller. He's my nephew. Tell him Martha said to bring state troopers and a medical transport, and don't tell the county dispatch a damn word."
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"Got it, Martha," Frank barked, slamming the receiver down and dialing a different number.
The warmth of Martha’s arms was the last thing I felt before the blackness finally rose up and swallowed me whole.