I don’t know why I did it. To keep him quiet? To stop him from doing something that would get us caught? To stop myself? I do know that it seems to calm both of us.
The boots move past the bed. The man wearing them digs through my backpack, then trails over to the bags Mom left me. He upends them one at time, spilling the protein bars and water bottles all over the floor. He kicks at them, and then he kneels to rummage through the leftover first-aid supplies, sifting through all the unused gauze and tape. He picks up the bottle of painkillers and checks the contents before tossing it back to the floor and standing. The bottle rolls under the bed and comes to a stop at my calf, causing my stomach to leap into the roof of my mouth.
The hand against mine presses silently back. I tear my gaze away from the boots to meet the eyes of the guy next to me. It’s nearly dark outside, so the only illumination is a glow from the lights in the parking lot, but it’s enough to see him, and to feel the reassurance from the presence of another person.
I pull my hand back to my hip and blink, needing to keep my vision sharp as I track the boots moving farther away. They walk into the bathroom, then back out a few seconds later. He’s not searching, not really. He doesn’t suspect I’m here. And why would he? I’m still in the woods or beyond them, faster than he thought, but not back here. Nothing is here except failure.
My pulse skips in my veins, not as hot as rage or as cold as terror. He didn’t find me, and he’s not going to. He’s leaving.
When the car door slams outside, we both jump. Seconds later, the engine roars to life.
He’s gone.
I’m safe.
He’s gone.
I’m safe.
The guy next to me is shimmying again, trying to get out from under the bed, but with incredible difficulty. I slide out from my side and cross over to his. The desperate urgency to get him hidden is gone, so I take more care in helping him out. When he’s sitting upright against the side of the bed frame, I go to prop up what’s left of the motel door. It doesn’t look good, but at least it will draw less attention than an entirely missing door.
I look back over my shoulder at my…what? Captive? Escapee? Guy who may or may not be in as much danger as I am? Adrenaline has been coursing through me since that first car door slam, but now I’m just weary, which, on top of frayed nerves, means I’m nowhere near as ruthless and decisive as I was in the parking lot.
And I need to be.
Because I’m about to cut the gag from his mouth. And he knows something. Maybe about Mom, definitely about the man who left empty-handed. I just have to ask the right questions.
I move toward him cautiously; his eyes follow my every step. When I kneel in front of him and get a good look at his gag, I see just how desperate he’s been to get it off. The corners of his mouth are still bleeding, unlike the scabs on the rest of his face. I hesitate as I lift my hands.
How long has it been? The sun is down, so thirty minutes? An hour? He’s had time to think about what he’s going to say to me. Enough time to tell me exactly what he wants.
I swallow. I don’t know how to interrogate someone. I’ll have no way of knowing if he’s lying, and he’s definitely going to be inclined to lie if it’ll get me to cut him loose.
I reach behind his head, ignoring the tacky dampness that brushes my skin, and start working on the knots. “We both know that the guy in the boots is going to come back when he doesn’t find me, and then he might not be alone. If I think you’re lying to me at any point, I have no problem leaving you here for him.” Can he feel my hands trembling? “I’m not going to cut you free. So don’t ask me to. Answer my questions, and I promise to call the motel after I’m gone and tell them where to find you.” I wait for him to nod, even though it’s a pointless response to a pointless statement. Innocent or not, he’ll answer the same. And I have to remove the gag.
Igag when I get the fabric free. It’s some kind of burlap, and it’s crusted to the corners of his mouth. Fresh blood wells up when I peel it loose. But that’s not the worst part. There’s more fabric in his mouth, and a whole wad shoved partially down his throat. It’s like a sadistic magic trick, pulling it all out.
He heaves, chokes, and heaves again before taking a full deep breath and speaking. Or trying to speak. He coughs and swallows, and I grab one of the water bottles that now litter the carpet. When I tip the bottle to his mouth, pinkish water runs down his chin and neck, soaking into the collar of his gray T-shirt and navy hoodie. He pulls away after a few swallows, to cough and retch some more, spitting blood onto the floor and…I don’t know, part of a tooth? I try not to join him. I’ve never been so close to brutality like this, and it turns my stomach.
But a bigger part of me bats the empathy aside. Mom is gone, and people are chasing me. Quite possibly this guy’s people.
He inclines his head for more water, and I give it to him. He drains half the bottle before he stops to breathe.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice raspy and pained, “Katelyn.”
The water bottle jerks in my hand at the sound of my name. Did I want him to lie about knowing me, about being complicit in this nightmare? Maybe I did.
“Who are you?”
“Can I have another sip of water?”
“No.”
He strains against his bound wrists. They don’t move, and he’s smart enough not to ask me to free him. “My name is Malcolm Pike. I’m a sophomore at Penn State, computer science major. Or I was.”
It was his car, his trunk he was in. “How do you know me, Malcolm Pike?”
He meets my eyes dead-on. “Because I was paid to find you. Actually, your mom.”
