Snapped sharply into consciousness, Jacob McKail felt the gentle warmth of the sun caress his face soothingly, momentarily distracting him from the intense cold which stabbed at the rest of his body. He grunted and opened his eyes, the pain arching through his brain and, rather strangely, through his jaw, demanding more attention with every passing second.

What the hell happened last night? He silently questioned, hauling himself to his feet. The pain arching across his forehead he could accept without reservation – it was standard fare for a particularly nasty hangover – but his jaw? That wasn’t the result of a hangover, that was something else entirely.

McKail staggered over to the bathroom and propped himself up against the sink, squinted tiredly at the mirror facing him. He ran his hand over the afflicted area just under his right ear and studied the area with some interest, making out the vague outline of a reddy purple bruise.

“Well, fuck...” he muttered, desperately trying to sift through his alcohol addled memories to uncover the cause of the wound.

Did I get into a fight last night? It is something of a Christmas Eve tradition an all, he considered, trying to ignore his headache the best he could, but why don’t I remember it? The answer was obvious. Because I didn’t have a fight last night. Then what...? A memory fought it’s way through the sludge and the mire of what remained of his mind, back into the forefront of his thoughts.

The bar had closed early for Christmas; McKail remembered getting into an argument with the bartender of it. Was the argument so heated that blows were struck? He concentrated for while, mentally peeling back the layers of darkness and fog that clung to the memory so tightly. No, he left the bar without exchanging blows and made it all the way back to his motel room without getting to any further conflict.

So, then what? Did I fall over and smash it against something? No. He did fall over drunk many times, but he didn’t bang his jaw once. Then what the fu...oh. Fragments of a new memory were returning to him and something in his subconscious told him that it was important.
He remembered a knock on the door and he answered it. Something told him that he knew the person on the other side of the door. It was a man. Who the hell was it? He flickered through all the likely candidates and found himself wanting. The motel manager, the bartender from last night; his late wife’s sister, Caroline; his bookie, Marvin...no. The face of the man at the door was darkened in his memory, but the shape and size of his head, the man’s height and build didn’t match up with anyone his mind could conjure.

He was forced to venture into some more foreign, albeit logical, territories. SCCW? Who the hell from SCCW would come to my motel room to just punch me a leave again...? He shook his head and cursed under his breath. Stupid question, McKail. All of them would jump at the opportunity if only they knew the motel you were staying at. Since the match-fixing scandal he’d been somehow caught up in, some nine months back, virtually every active (and most likely inactive) professional wrestler had been baying for his blood. The accusations were groundless and weren’t backed up with any credible evidence - mostly because McKail didn’t do it - but they’d stuck with him thus far and he doubted he shake them anytime in the near future. By that logic, if it were a disgruntled SCCW superstar with a vendetta, McKail found it somewhat difficult to believe he’d just stop at a punch. He’d probably be in hospital right about now, or worse. By the look of things, it wasn’t as if he could do much to stop them.

He ran the cold water tap, cupped the ice cold water with his hands and then splashed it liberally across his face. He repeated the process a few more times until he was reasonably sure he was mildly alert.

But I guess, he realised, it didn’t necessarily have to be anybody I know. He dabbed his face dry with the already filthy hand towel and wandered out of the bathroom, in search of what meagre possessions he still had. Could’ve just been a dope fiend looking for some quick cash?

After a couple of minutes searching, he found his wallet still tucked into the pocket of the jeans he wore the previous night. It was unlikely, but he opened it to check whether his money and what few cards were still there; they were. His travel bag was still on the chair at the side of the bed where he’d threw it a couple of days back. This wasn’t a robbery, he decided.

Then, something flashed in his head in a moment of blurred quickness. It was Elle he realised, but not her face. It was her voice; quiet and distant. But there was a darkened face. It was a man stood in the door way of his motel room. McKail sensed anger and then felt the blow land on the side of his face. He fell to the floor in slow motion. Then he heard Elle’s voice again; still quiet and distant.

Is all this down to Elle? He wondered, trying to come to terms with the somewhat disturbing notion. Elle loves me, she wouldn’t do that...would she? They’d been in love for a few months before it all abruptly ended. McKail managed to do what he did best; fuck things up and just like that he went back to being alone. She found him one day at work with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and his receptionist on the other and thinking about it, he couldn’t really blame her for wanting to hurt him. But would she do this? He very much doubted it.

Unable to grasp what the brief flash of memory was trying to show him, he hauled on his jeans and found a t-shirt that looked the less creased and headed out of the door. Fresh air will clear my head, he told himself. Then perhaps I can get a handle on things.

Seven Oaks Motel
The Bronx, New York
25th December 2009
08:00am

“We’re never gonna find him,” Elle said, slumping down on her bed, “are we?”

They’d already been searching for Jacob for weeks and they were no closer to finding him when they started. It was quite obvious that Elle was losing all hope and it took all she had not to burst into tears. I should never have let him leave. I overreacted and now I’ll never see him again.

“Hate to tell you this, darlin‘,” Lance White began, emerging bare-chested from the bathroom dabbing his face dry with a towel, “but probably not. This is a big city and he could be anywhere.”

Elle smiled, not for the first time grateful that Lance had come with her on the search. He said it was because he’d become close friends with Jacob, but she doubted it. Jacob wasn’t exactly the type to make friends and Lance wasn’t exactly the type to welcome outsiders into their small, backward, town. He probably liked her more than he was letting on and although she felt bad just thinking it, as long as he try anything it was fine with her. She was probably leading him on, giving false hope that could be something between them, but they were searching for her ex-boyfriend, so what false hope exactly was she emitting? Perhaps he just hoped that that something might manifest between them, spending so much time together and living in such closed quarters but there was nothing she could do about his expectations, hopes or dreams.

Elle just hoped that he was taking this search for Jacob as seriously as she was, but if her intuition into Lance’s true motives were accurate how could he be? She shook the thoughts from her head and cast her eyes back over the map she’d been studying for the better part of the morning. I’ve come this far, she told herself, I’ll be damned if I’m giving up now!

“I think if we head further south today, says here there’s a road with a couple of more motels on it,” she advised. Lance sighed and shook his head, but Elle ignored him. “ Figure we can hit ’em all by the end of the day and head west to check out another few places.”

Lance sat on the bed beside her. “Don’t you think we should have a day off?” Elle’s eyes didn’t leave her map. “You’re exhausted and besides, it’s Christmas Day.”

Elle scrunched her face up confused. “It is? Where do the days go to?”

“We should head over to that restaurant we saw last night,” he suggested. “They’re doing Christmas Dinner at a reasonable price.”

“No,” Elle said, shaking her head. “We should get looking whilst we still can. God knows where McKail’ll head off to once the holidays are over with.”

Lance sighed and reached for his shirt. “Ready when you are.”

Lucky 6 Motel
The Bronx, New York
25th December 2009
12:11pm

“Merry Christmas, Mr. McKail,” the familiar voice of Howard the motel attendant greeted, blowing warm air into his dithering cupped hands for warmth. “How are you today?”

McKail closed his motel room door behind him and carefully stepped out onto the icy walkway, nodding a obligatory return greeting. “Mornin’.”

“Did your friend find you last night?” Howard asked.

Already starting to walk away, McKail stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turn right back around. “Friend?”

“Said his name was Lance White,” Howard replied. “Told him your room number. It was late an all, but figured you wouldn’t mind considerin’ he was your friend an all.”

Lance-fuckin-White! He silently exclaimed. It was all coming back to him now. The darkened face stood at the doorway in his disfigured and disjointed memory had revealed itself instantaneously, as soon as Howard had mentioned the name.

Lance worked under him, when McKail somehow found himself the Sheriff of a small town in Colorado. They didn’t really get along and McKail was fairly sure the slimy little prick had something to do with Elle finding him on that fateful day, in his office with the Jack Daniels and his secretary and he was convinced the deceiving little fuckwit had a thing for Elle. Elle...In the memory he heard Elle’s voice, quiet and distant. If White was here, McKail was reasonably sure that Elle had been too. The question was, why?

McKail dismissed her motivations for the moment and focused on what he’d heard her say. But he couldn’t latch onto much. She mentioned his name and that’s all he could be certain of.

There was too much swimming around in his head to think straight and frankly, the news had struck him like a sledgehammer to the chest. He felt breathless, almost in a state of shock.

“Are you okay?” Howard asked, somewhat concerned.

“No,” McKail replied, shaking his head. “No I’m not.”