Hideout Page 15

  Kyle looks at me strangely. ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  Donnie gets into the driver’s seat. ‘You excited, Lux?’

  ‘You bet.’ I grip my knees with my hands, keeping them still.

  ‘Can’t wait to see the look on your face,’ he says ominously, and starts the engine. The floor vibrates under me.

  Little ribbons are tied to the vents. They spring to life like angry snakes as the fan roars. Water drips from the tips of the ribbons.

  ‘DIY evaporative cooling,’ Donnie says proudly. ‘Just like in ancient Egypt. They used to hang wet reeds in the windows to chill the air as it flowed into the house, or mud hut, or whatever. Aircon puts hydrocarbons into the atmosphere—this is way more sustainable.’

  ‘Pretty cool,’ I say, wanting to stay on the muscular psycho’s good side.

  ‘Ha, “cool”! I get it.’

  ‘Quit showing off, Donnie,’ Kyle grumbles. ‘It’s already freezing back here.’

  Donnie huffs and turns down the fan.

  He pushes a button on a remote. The garage door creaks open and the van trundles out into the twilight. The garage closes automatically behind us as we roll through the forest towards the main road. Soon the house is out of view. You’d never know it was there.

  Engine rumbling, we head down the long driveway until we hit the dirt road. At the intersection, I can see the motion sensor the others talked about—a little white box with a hole in it, like a small birdhouse, bolted to a tree.

  But I can also see something else. A smaller box, painted brown, in another tree further away. Well-hidden. A camera, but not the same design as the others. It’s facing the dirt road, so if a vehicle enters the driveway, the driver’s face would be momentarily visible to it.

  On all those screens in the editing room, I didn’t see any feeds which showed the road. This camera is separate. Why?

  Kyle is watching me. ‘What are you looking at?’

  The van turns on to the dirt road, cutting off my view of the hidden camera.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  Half an hour later we reach the highway and take a right turn towards Houston. We drive through mile after mile of arid flat land. If Texas were a country, it would be the thirty-ninth biggest on Earth, at least according to a library book I read as a kid. It’s bigger than France or England.

  Outsiders view Texas as simple and homogenous. The reddest of red states. But Texans see it more like several separate nations. People from Houston will swear their town is completely different to Dallas, which is nothing like San Antonio. The only thing these city folks agree on is that the people from the rural areas in between are racist homophobes clutching guns and Bibles. The rural people themselves see the urbanites as corrupt, materialistic degenerates, oblivious to how the real world works.

  Neither view is accurate. There are plenty of guns and Bibles in cities, while many rural folks have fought for the rights of their Black or queer neighbours. In a way, the outsiders are right—Texas is more unified than Texans think. But the stereotypes persist, because the city people and country people don’t mix.

  Ironically, while there is a literal wall between Texas and Mexico, those two cultures have seeped into one another a lot. You’ll see cowboy hats in Mexico, sombreros in Texas, and Tex-Mex cuisine in both places. But the wall around the cities is an invisible one called ‘cost of living’. It’s much harder to cross. Even in the cities, if you become poor—like I was, before I learned how to sell stolen credit card numbers on the dark web—you don’t usually get booted out into the darkness beyond the city lights. You stay under the table, stealing scraps from the middle class, who are easier targets than the rich.

  As one of those city-dwelling degenerates, I don’t feel especially safe out here, where only the occasional farmhouse breaks up the flat horizon. But if we’re going all the way to Houston, I might have a chance to escape. I run through the steps in my head. One: get out of sight when Donnie and Kyle are distracted, and run like hell. Two: find a phone, call the cops, explain what’s going on at Fred’s house. Three: go somewhere else before the cops come looking for me, since they’ll have questions I can’t answer.

  But when they realise I’m missing, Donnie and Kyle will call the other Guards, who will clean house. Kill the prisoners, move on, start over. I’ll never find out if Kyle was my son.

  We’re getting closer to the city. Streetlights flash past on the otherwise empty highway. Donnie switches on the radio, drums his fingers on the wheel, humming an old Britney Spears song. Kyle picks up the rope and starts fiddling with it. It looks like he’s trying to make it into a noose, but he doesn’t quite remember how.

  I hold out a hand. ‘Here. Let me show you.’

  Kyle keeps hold of the rope, frowning. ‘I can do it.’

  I let my hand fall back into my lap and watch him struggle with it a while longer. His frustration is frustrating.

  Trying to distract myself, I take a bite from one of the granola bars. It’s dry and crumbly. Apple and pumpkin seed really isn’t my thing. I keep stealing glances at Donnie’s thick, meaty arms.

  We’ve reached the outskirts of Houston now. Wider roads, a bit of traffic. Familiar buildings on the horizon, the lights blocking out the stars above.

  Soon the motel I used to work at appears in the distance. A few of the letters in the VACANCY sign are dead, but SPA ROOM AVAILABLE! is all lit up. There’s a truck parking bay out front, empty. It’s the kind of place travellers stay if they’re using their own money instead of staying on the company’s dime.

  The van slows down.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘This is it,’ Donnie says.

  ‘This motel right here?’

  ‘Yup.’

  The unease is like eels in my belly. I thought we were picking up someone connected to Lux. But he didn’t live on this side of Houston. Whoever it is, could they be staying at the motel I used to work at? That would be a hell of a coincidence if so. The odds are incalculable.

  The alternative is that Fred, or maybe Donnie, has worked out who I really am. But if so, why am I not dead already?

  Maybe they’re not sure, one way or the other. They’re trying to rattle me. See if I recognise this place. My heart is pounding, but I take care to keep my expression even.

  ‘Are we clear on the plan?’ Donnie asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kyle says.

  ‘No,’ I say at the same moment.

  ‘According to the reservation database, our target is in room nine.’ Donnie shifts into a lower gear. ‘Probably alone—it’s a single room. She may be armed but won’t be expecting us, so we’ll be fine if we’re quick.’

  Room nine is where I found the suicide in the bathtub. The room the police later inspected, finding only a note. This can’t be a coincidence.

  Maybe they know everything. Not just who I am, but what I’ve done. This could be a ritual. Perhaps the Guards make the condemned face their crimes before they take them prisoner. See the Cannibal captured in the very hotel room from which he once stole a corpse. Download the video now.

  ‘You got the card?’ Kyle asks.

  ‘Yup.’ Donnie keeps his eyes on the road as he produces a key card from his pocket. ‘But remember, we shouldn’t need it. Plan A is we knock on the door and pretend to be room service. If she opens the door, we grab her. If she refuses, we pretend to go away. I guarantee you she’ll get curious and open the door within a minute, then we grab her.’

  ‘Maybe we should wait until we’re better prepared,’ I say. ‘Talk it over tonight. I mean, this motel can’t be completely empty. What if someone hears her yelling?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Donnie says. ‘One hand over the mouth, knife against the throat—I’ve done it plenty of times. I’ll put her in the van, then we’re gone. The motel has no recorded CCTV and only two other guests on the register.’

  ‘What did she do?’ Kyle asks. ‘I mean, why are we taking her?’r />
  ‘A few reasons,’ Donnie says, glancing at me. ‘But mostly because she killed a baby.’

  ‘Shit,’ Kyle says. ‘That’ll be popular on the site.’

  I keep my eyes on the building as we approach. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ Donnie drives into the motel parking lot. It’s a two-level place, safety rails around the concrete walkway on the second floor. The van has no windows, but I get a glimpse of room nine through the windshield. It’s on level one. The grey curtains are drawn. No cars parked directly out front.

  ‘Okay.’ Donnie opens his door. ‘Let’s do this.’

  We all get out of the van. The tarmac is littered with cigarette butts. We’re close enough to the highway to smell the diesel from the passing trucks. No other cars in the lot.

  Kyle gasps. ‘I thought you said no CCTV.’

  I don’t turn my head. There were no cameras when I worked here. If they’ve been added since, I don’t want my face on the feed.

  ‘I said no recorded CCTV,’ Donnie says. ‘There are no videos in the motel’s network, no screenshots, nothing. So either it’s a live feed only, or the cameras are fake.’

  I sneak a glance. The camera is fake—the cables go directly into the concrete wall, whereas a security company installer would have put them through via the brickwork to one side, and wrapped a steel tube around them to protect them from the elements.

  The fact that Kyle spotted the camera at all is impressive, though. It’s right up the other end of the motel. He’s good at noticing things. Like me.

  Donnie gets the meal tray off the passenger seat of the van. Even though I know there’s nothing under the lid, the sight of the tray still makes me hungry.

  ‘Come on.’ Donnie walks up to the door to room nine, holds the tray up so it’s visible through the peephole, and knocks. Shave and-a-hair cut. ‘Room service.’

  Kyle and I press our backs against the walls on either side of the door, so we’re not visible from the peephole or through the window.

  I was supposed to have a chance to escape, but it’s already too late. Now I need to go along with this, whatever it turns out to be.

  No one answers the door.

  Donnie knocks again. ‘Room service. Compliments of the Comfort Inn.’

  Silence. If this is a ruse to get me into the room, it’s very elaborate.

  Donnie places the tray on the ground with a loud thunk, and then crouches down, waiting for someone to open the door.

  No one does.

  After a minute, Donnie stands up. ‘Guess she’s not in.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Kyle says. ‘No vehicles in the lot except ours.’

  ‘Guess we’ll have to come back tomorrow.’ I try to sound disappointed. ‘Or the day after.’

  But Donnie is already tapping the key card against the electronic lock. It beeps, a green light flashes, and he pushes the door open.

  The motel room has a rattling fridge, a narrow closet and muffin crumbs trapped between the desk and the wall. A ceiling-mounted TV looms over the single bed and its faded sheets. A familiar perfume hangs in the air. I pick up one of the muffin crumbs and put it in my mouth. Blueberry. No more than a day old.

  Donnie checks the bathroom. ‘Clear.’

  Kyle opens the closet, even though no adult could possibly fit in there. ‘Clear.’

  I check the trash can under the desk. A go-cup, with what looks and smells like milkshake residue stuck to the plastic.

  There’s a handbag on the nightstand. I search it. No wallet or ID, but there’s a can of pepper spray and a box of Tampax Radiant.

  I tell myself I’m being paranoid—but I need to get these guys out of here just in case I’m not.

  ‘Damn,’ I say. ‘She must have checked out already. Let’s scram before someone sees us.’

  ‘No,’ Donnie says. ‘She’s paid for another two nights. We can hide in the room, grab her when she comes in.’

  ‘She’ll see the van outside,’ I say. ‘She’s not stupid.’

  ‘We can park the van in front of a different room. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘If we do that, we’ll be too exposed while we carry her to it. No—we should abort.’

  Kyle is giving me a suspicious look. ‘How do you know she’s not stupid? I thought you didn’t know who we were picking up.’

  I don’t. Not for sure. Lots of women wear that perfume, eat blueberry muffins and drink milkshakes.

  ‘We have to go,’ I say.

  Then Agent Reese Thistle appears in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 23

  The lean monarch’s mind races. What is he doing?

  It’s only been a few days since I saw her last, but Thistle looks years older. There are bags under her eyes and her shoulders are hunched, as though she’s been on high-alert for so long that her muscles have started to calcify in that position. She’s not wearing make-up, and her hair is frizzy. This is the first time I’ve seen her in street clothes, her FBI pants suit replaced by a stained Hello Kitty T-shirt and a pair of mom jeans.

  Despite all this, she’s beautiful, right up until she sees three intruders in her room and her face contorts with alarm and anger.

  ‘What the hell?’ She drops the bag of takeout she’s holding and reaches behind her back.

  Donnie and Kyle lunge at her. Because they both leap forwards at the same moment, they bump shoulders and Kyle trips over Donnie’s leg. Thistle pulls out a Glock 17 and points it at them both. Donnie ignores it, still charging forwards.

  Thistle looks like she’s about to squeeze the trigger, but first she glances over at me, probably checking if I’m armed. I’m not, but she gets a look at my face for the first time.

  The anger on her face transforms into fear. ‘Holy—’

  Donnie crashes into her while she’s distracted. She pulls the trigger. Blam! A bullet punches through the plaster behind Kyle’s head. Everyone in the room ducks. My ears are ringing and the muzzle flash leaves a discoloured spot in my field of vision.

  Donnie wrestles the pistol out of Thistle’s grip and presses her against the wall. She screams. ‘Help! Somebody!’

  I’m running forwards, desperate to get him off her before—

  Too late. The knife is already at her throat. If I touch Donnie, I might accidentally nudge the blade into her windpipe.

  ‘Make another sound and you’re dead,’ Donnie snarls. ‘Clear?’

  Thistle can’t move her head enough to nod. She just glares at him.

  Kyle is ashen. ‘She nearly shot me.’

  ‘Leave her,’ I say. ‘We gotta go.’

  ‘Relax, Lux,’ Donnie says.

  Thistle looks at me. I can see her thinking, Lux?

  ‘Someone will have heard the gunshot,’ I say. ‘We don’t have time to take her.’

  ‘Can’t leave her behind,’ Donnie says. ‘She knows what we look like. She can describe us to the cops.’

  ‘If she’s alive,’ Kyle adds.

  My heart rate accelerates. ‘Just grab her driver’s licence, so you know where she lives. She won’t tell anyone. Will you, lady?’

  I silently beg her to play along.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Thistle rasps.

  ‘I said no talking,’ Donnie says. ‘We don’t have time to mess around with licences, and we need her alive. Grab her feet, Kyle. Lux, you take her handbag.’

  Kyle looks like he’s on the verge of fainting, but he helps Donnie carry Thistle out the door. I trail behind, helpless.

  Still no one in the parking lot. No one who can save Thistle.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ I tell Donnie. ‘Otherwise she might grab it.’

  I’m willing to shoot him right here. I’d kill Kyle, too, if that’s what it takes to save Thistle’s life.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Donnie says.

  ‘I can keep it pointed at her while you’re carrying her.’

  A light comes on in the back office. The residence of the manager I never met or saw. Another light comes on in o
ne of the other rooms.

  Donnie and Kyle stuff Thistle into the back of the van. I climb in after them, feeling sick. Donnie gets into the driver’s seat.

  Thistle takes in the duct tape, the black bags, the rope. She opens her mouth to scream again.

  Kyle brandishes the knife. I hadn’t seen him take it from Donnie. I’m getting sloppy. Seeing him threaten her makes me want to rip his throat out.

  ‘We want you alive.’ Kyle’s teen bravado is back. ‘But we don’t need you to have a tongue. Got that?’

  Thistle shuts her mouth. She’s scared, but she’s hiding it well.

  ‘I’ll tie her up,’ I say.

  Kyle is already getting out the duct tape. ‘I can do it.’

  I don’t want him to touch her again. ‘Don’t use that. We’ll need to move her soon.’

  Thistle looks infuriated as I bind her wrists with a highwayman’s hitch. It takes a while because my hands are shaking, and because the last time I tied this knot I had ten fingers. It’s the same way I used to strap down my shopping cart, back when I was homeless. It held all my stuff in, nice and firm, but when I pulled on one end the whole thing would come undone, like a magic trick.

  Sirens wail on the wind. The sound is common in Houston—it might not be for us.

  ‘We have to go,’ Kyle says.

  Donnie starts the engine and zooms out of the lot, back onto the highway. I could have threatened them with the pepper spray in Thistle’s bag. Too late now. My hammer is still taped to the wall, but against Kyle’s knife and Donnie’s gun, I don’t think it will do much good.

  I finish the trick knot. The rope looks tight around Thistle’s wrists. It probably feels tight, too. But Thistle is only one careful tug away from escape, if the opportunity arises.

  I have no way of communicating that to her, though. I give her a meaningful look. She doesn’t get the message. The stare that comes back is hateful.

  ‘You recognise her, Lux?’ Donnie asks.

  I look at Thistle and pretend to think about it. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That’s Reese Thistle. The lady FBI agent who was after you.’

  The pieces fall into place. Thistle isn’t just connected to me—she’s connected to Lux, as well. But why was she in the motel I used to work at?