Voracious - Alice Henderson [79]
“I’m starving,” he said suddenly, cutting into her thoughts. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
“There’s got to be someplace to eat near the campground.”
“No cheese and crackers tonight?”
He shook his head. “There’s a diner out on Route 2. Great omelets.”
Her stomach grumbled at the thought of it.
“But don’t you even want to clean the cuts?”
“That’s what restaurant bathrooms are for.”
“Of course.” She threw the Jeep in gear.
At the diner, a rotund waitress in a burgundy apron and large-collared white dress seated them by a window. The diner was of ’50s cinder-block construction, the exterior painted utilitarian gray like an old bomb shelter. Heck, maybe it was one, Madeline thought. But she didn’t care. She was starving.
Bright neon signs in the window advertised a Breakfast Special and four kinds of beer.
Inside, attempts at cheery decoration included enough plastic flowers and plants to open their own craft store, and vases at every table held genuine carnations in reds, pinks, and whites.
They sat down in a vinyl-seated booth, the material creaking as they squeezed in.
The waitress, after giving Noah a long, disdainful look, as if he’d been out picking fights in the local bars, gave them each a menu and walked away. Noah excused himself for the men’s room and returned ten minutes later, looking infinitely better. He was right; he healed fast. Already the swelling in his eye had receded, and he could now open both eyes. The wounds in his neck and stomach were mere scratches, and the gash in his leg had almost closed completely, just a thin, red line visible through the tear in his jeans.
They made small talk while they glanced at the menu, resuming again after the waitress took their order. Noah looked nervous, glancing out of the large windows now and again at the darkened parking lot. When he wasn’t doing that, he studied her intently as she sipped the steaming cup of coffee that tasted like two-day-old peanut shells soaked in hot water. For once he seemed at a loss for words and kept unusually quiet as they munched on their omelets and steaming French toast drenched in maple syrup.
She glanced around at the other customers, most of them middle-aged men and women wearing ranchers’ clothes: worn overalls, warm corduroy shirts, and almost all the men in wide-brimmed cowboy hats. She loved that none of them stared at her or whispered surreptitiously. She was a total stranger here.
Country music played softly from a tinny speaker above them. A man sang about his “girl” in a mournful voice, crooning that he would have loved her forever, even if it took all night.
An electronic bell chimed as another customer entered the diner. Madeline turned to look at him and froze. It was Steve, the naturalist.
Or something pretending to be Steve.
He walked in, giving the waitress an easy smile and removed his ranger’s hat. With one hand he fluffed his sandy brown hair to get rid of his hat hair and began following her to a table on the other side of the restaurant. He walked with a bad limp.
Madeline dipped her head low so the creature wouldn’t see her and turned to Noah.
“Noah!” she said low, urgently.
He looked up in midsip. “What is it?”
“Stefan!” she whispered.
Noah started, coffee spilling over the table. He winced as it burned his hand, then put the cup down. “Where?”
“Over there.” She gestured with her head. “He’s being seated, impersonating Steve. Just like he did when he wrecked his car.” When Noah remained silent, she went on. “That can’t be Steve. You said the creature could only appear as someone it had killed, so what I saw that night in the ditch, the creature imitating Steve, must mean that he had killed him earlier that night.”
Noah wrinkled his brow. “Only look like someone he’s killed?”
She nodded. “Right?”
Noah swallowed hard. “Right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just,” he cleared his throat, looking over at Steve. “Just so many victims.”
“What should we do?” she asked, leaning closer to him across