The Pale Man Rises

CHAPTER THIRTY

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When Luther Newton awoke he was greeted by the incessant and irritating hum of the alarm clock on the night stand beside the bed. Still groggy he looked at the clock through his blurred vision. It read 8 o'clock. He had set it for five p.m. and remembering he had lain down at three he could see that he had overslept by that many hours.

Something was wrong however, for if it was eight o'clock p. m. it should be dark. But it wasn't dark, the light from outside angled through the sheer curtained window behind the bed and fell over his languishing body. He looked at the clock and noticed the red dot, which designated p.m. on its face wasn't alight and suddenly he realized it was eight a. m. it was eight in the morning and he had overslept by fifteen hours. Christ what a fuckin' idiot he truly was having gotten drunk only made him pass out and sleep the rest of the night while the alarm hummed the whole time.

Growling like a bear rising from hibernation he rolled to his left to shut off the clock and felt the uncomfortable bulk of the bourbon bottle in his ribs. He pulled it up and looked at it. It was empty, he had drained the whole fuckin' thing like some kind of alcoholic parched by his thirst and the need to fill his addiction for the stuff.

Slowly, delicately he rose up off of the bed. He had a terrible hangover going and it sent him to reeling. His stomach was churning and he fell back onto the bed feeling the need to vomit coming on. His head was throbbing now and when he sat up again the room began to spin about like a carnival ride. He rushed from the room across the hall into the bathroom and soon he was puking the remnants of anything that was in his gut.

There was nothing there except some ugly rancid looking yellow matter. His body began to convulse with nausea as he struggled over the porcelain bowl with the dry heaves. He stood there for at least five minutes cursing himself, between streams of putrid spittle, for his stupidity and the obsession that had driven him to this state.

Finally his stomach stopped its painful rumbling purged of the vile substance. He struggled over to the sink then, but suddenly he was aware that he was not through and heaved some more.

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He raised his head and looked forlornly at his overtaxed image in the mirror. His beard was streaked with the mucous he'd been expelling from way down in his gut. He wiped the back of his forearm across his face in a pitiful effort to remove the grotesquerie. He snatched a dirty towel off of the rack.

Gathering himself he left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom and snatched up the bottle to clean off any prints. Then he did the same to the night stand and the clock. He may have been an idiot, but he was not so stupid as to leave his prints there to be found. He knew once the murders were discovered the place would surely be dusted for any fingerprints. He searched through the drawers in the room and found himself a clean T-shirt to wear. He then went throughout the house wiping away anywhere he thought he might have left any other of his prints. 

 Done he recovered his helmet and jacket and went outside. The fresh morning air was exhilarating and made him feel somewhat better. He quickly went to his motorcycle by the well and mounted it. He started it up and rolled slowly around to the front yard where it met the pavement of the rural highway.

He thanked his lucky stars no one had come by during the night and somehow discovered him passed out on the bed. The greatest humiliation would have been just how stupid he would have appeared once the case was exposed to the glare of the media. He looked both directions down the road and seeing no traffic he turned right and headed south in the direction he'd seen the van going. He doubted he would find them now since so much time had elapsed between when he first spotted the van leaving this place and now.