Blinded by the corrosive chemicals in his right eye, Paolo drove one-handed, covering his bad eye to block the blurring double vision that turned the interstate into a rainbow of stretched lights.
He headed for the motel but missed a turn somewhere and finally exited off 270 south onto Manchester Road, which teemed with traffic even at this late hour. He drove east, past the onslaught of strip malls and chain stores. Spotting a Shell station on his left, he pulled up to the back of it, hoping for a restroom accessible from the outside, only to realize he would have to go inside if he wanted water on his face, and inside meant witnesses and security cameras.
Then he spotted the automatic car wash-three minutes of peace, a chance to collect himself, maybe even water for his face. But getting his car caught in an automatic car wash made no sense. He crossed back into traffic and found a McDonald’s. He pulled the car around to the drive-up microphone, his eye stinging and throbbing, leaking tears like a faucet. He ordered fries-feeling he had to pay for something-and a large cup of water, no ice.
He awaited change at the first window, keeping his head aimed down, and his hand up to screen any sight of him. Dodging the change from the two dollars might make him memorable. Once in possession of his order, he tossed the fries onto the passenger seat and raced the car ahead to a parking space. Hanging out the car door, he doused his eye. As the water hit, he clenched his teeth, the pain hot.
He sat up, switched on the interior light, and aimed the rearview mirror. He saw a red, swelling mass, oozing yellowish fluid. He pried his unwilling eye open between trembling fingers, gathered his courage, and touched the eyeball itself, in an effort to clear it. But the plastic of his contact lens had melted and adhered to his eyeball. Real terror ripped through him. Blind? The end of his career. He’d be relegated to sweeping sand traps on the Romeros’ eighteen-hole golf course.
The fear encouraged more pain, the pain more fear.
He knew he had to extricate the lens. To leave it invited infection, possible blindness, and unbearable pain. Leaning out of the car, he once again splashed his face and eye, once again cringed. He stabbed at it with his fingers, squeezing and pinching, but it was no use. The excruciating pain left him feeling faint. It was glued onto his eyeball. He was stuck with it.
He had to get to the motel. Had to handle the little girl. Had to handle his eye. Still had to take care of Hope Stevens, Alice Stevenson-the mark.
His fear graduated to panic; pain to agony. His world caved in around him. Philippe would recall him. He’d be sweeping tennis courts. He’d be the guy with that face. The mirror showed blisters already forming on the rim of his eyelids, his nose, and the corner of his mouth-anywhere the chemical came in contact with him. The red swelling now included most of the right side of his face. Any such memorable features were impossible for a man of his trade. Anonymity was crucial. He had to fix this before it changed his life forever, and by the look of him, he had to do it fast.
He needed soap and water. He needed the contact lens removed.
Painkillers.
Through shifting, blurring colors of passing traffic, streetlights, and walls of neon, swirls of light, he spotted a building across the street that represented some help: Mason Ridge Veterinary Clinic and Animal Hospital.
He carefully backed the car out of the spot.
For now, the girl would have to wait.