A fresh wave of dread crashes over me when I reach the tree line and the back of the motel comes into view, but I don’t have time to second-guess my decision. I pry my fingers from the tree I’m clinging to, and I step out into the open.
Thankfully, there are lots of shadows to shield me as I walk. I home in on the car in front of room 5, a dark-blue Honda Accord with band stickers on the bumper and a parking pass for Penn State stuck to the windshield. The car’s innocuous appearance is somehow more terrifying than the black armored car I was prepared for.
My heart is close to detonating by the time I reach the driver’s side, approaching from behind. The headrest is tall and solid, so I can’t tell, I can’t tell….
The car is empty. I lean forward against the side, boneless with relief. Then I look up at the kicked-in door to my motel room. The wood is splintered around the lock, and the chain is glinting on the carpet inside. And my fear slinks back up, coiling around my ankles, knees, stomach, all the way to my throat.
What am I thinking? I’m about to break into the car of the person who broke down my door, who chased me through the woods, and who very possibly tried to run us off the road three nights ago….
I don’t have a lockpicking tool, and I wouldn’t know how to use one if I did. What I do have is a big-ass rock and zero concern for property damage. I’m trying to decide how far back to stand when another thought occurs to me. I reach out to try the door handle.
It opens.
I leap in and pull the door only partially closed. I have to be ready for a quick escape if I need to run again, and I’m not wasting any time opening the door. My other idea involves slipping out and rolling under the car to hide if the driver comes out of the woods. There are so many problems with that, though—like what’s to stop him from running me over when he backs up and sees me? My skull will burst like a watermelon. I force the image away and start searching the car.
I flip down both visors, and a flood of concert tickets flutters into my lap. The console is filled with change and a few petrified french fries. I lean forward to open the glove compartment and find tons of takeout napkins, a pair of gloves, and a registration certificate that says the vehicle belongs to a Malcolm Pike.
There’s nothing about Mom. No incriminating papers. I slam the glove compartment shut.
A thud from behind me strangles my sob. I jump and whip around, but there’s nothing.
Then another thud, and my stomach lurches.
There’s someone in the trunk.
I fly out the door, almost tripping over my own feet. Mom. It has to be Mom. I dive back to the driver’s seat before I’m halfway to the trunk. There has to be a latch somewhere. Half sitting in the car, I find it on the console and I crane my neck to see the trunk release. I dart back and lift it open.
With my arms stretching high above my head to open the trunk, and the fragile fluttery hope that I’m about to find Mom, I’m not prepared for the two-footed kick that hits me square in the chest. The impact throws me off my feet with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I hurl backward to the ground, and there’s a thwack as my head makes contact with the asphalt. I watch through watering eyes as the occupant of the trunk heaves bound legs over the edge, then crashes down next to me.
I can’t seem to breathe or move, and my brain feels like it must be scattered halfway across the parking lot. Gasping as air finally gushes back into my deflated lungs, I roll to my stomach and push up onto my hands and knees. I grab the phone that flew out of my pocket, cursing the shattered screen, and hurriedly repocket it. My pulse is racing and my head is throbbing as I take in the trunk’s occupant clearly for the first time.
It’s a lean black guy in a hoodie and skinny jeans. And he’s gagged, with his hands tied behind his back. His eyebrow is split open, though whether that’s from when he was tossed in the trunk or when he fell out of it, I can’t tell. He’s squinting into the setting sun as he ineffectively thrashes around trying to free himself. He can’t see me from his angle on the ground, and I realize he probably didn’t see me before trying to kick my sternum out through my back. I doubt he saw more than a silhouette.
He probably thought I was the person who put him there in the first place.
“It’s okay,” I wheeze through lungs that are still readjusting. “I’m not…He’s in the woods, but he could come back at any moment, so we have to hurry.” I scramble forward, placing a hand on his back to let him know I’m there, since he hasn’t managed to roll over and see me yet. His hands are bound tight with one of those thick plastic zip ties, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get it off. I’m reluctant to prod it too much, since the surrounding skin is raw and bleeding, evidence of how desperately he’s been trying to free himself. Larger zip ties lock his ankles together.
The skin between my shoulder blades is starting to itch; anyone could be coming up behind me. I should be running away, apologizing that I can’t help. Mom is still out there somewhere, and she’s in at least as much danger as I am, if not more.
But I don’t run; instead I start examining the ground, searching for any reasonably sharp rocks that might work to cut him free.
The itch between my shoulders has become a jagged, clawing scrape.
“Do you have anything I can use? A pocketknife maybe?” I don’t wait for an answer—not that he could have given me one anyway, with the gag knotted around his mouth—before shoving my hands in his back pockets. I find his wallet and a folded-up photo, which falls onto the ground beside me. More nothing.
I can’t leave him here. But I also can’t stay.
My gaze is ricocheting everywhere, searching for a solution as I repocket his wallet, when it stops on the photo. I unfold it, and my whole body goes still.
It’s the picture of me and Mom that I posted to the dating site. But it’s not a printout; it’s the actual photo. The one that hung framed in the stairway at home. I know because the frame I bought was too small and I used the only pair of scissors I could find at the time—Mom’s scalloped craft scissors—to cut it to size. I run my finger along the wavy edge, and it’s like another kick to the chest.
Still on my hands and knees, I move sideways until I’m in the bound guy’s line of sight. One of his eyes is in the process of swelling shut, but the other goes wide when he sees my face. He recognizes me, which sends me scurrying backward.
He’s trying to say something, but his gag is tight. And it doesn’t matter, because all I hear in my head is He knows me.
He was in my house.
He’s trying to inch toward me but making little progress, and he’s repeating the same muffled sounds over and over.
My teeth clench of their own accord. I have never felt such an overwhelming urge to hurt someone. I never understood the “blood boiling” metaphor before, but it is perfection. I am burning inside and out, and I could claw his twitching eye out.
“Where is my mom, and why are you after us?” My lips hardly move as I spit my questions at him. “How do you know me?” My fists grow tighter and tighter at my sides. But of course, he can’t answer me, gagged like that. He can barely move with those ties cinched around his ankles and wrists.
I shoot a glance to the trees. I have no idea how much time has passed; it could have been seconds or minutes. What I do know is that this guy is the only lead I’ve found, and he can’t hurt me as long as he’s tied up.
“Come on,” I say, scrambling toward him and slipping an arm around his back. I get him sitting, then to his knees. He keeps up his muffled yells the entire time. “I’m not wasting time on your gag right now.” It’s not just tape that I can rip off; it’s tightly knotted cloth that’ll have to be cut. “Now move!” I use the same inflection Mom did to get me out of the house. It works. He rocks back on his heels and stands. He’s taller than me and heavier, but he’s coming with me, even if I have to drag him.
And there’s no time to think anything through. We need to get out of sight, hide somewhere until whoever is searching for me gives up and leaves. Then I can get my answers.
Close. I need somewhere close. I look around, my gaze landing on the wrecked motel room almost immediately, taking in the long salmon-colored bedspread that drapes nearly to the ground. I tell myself that whoever broke the door down isn’t going to search the room again after chasing me through the woods. It’s vaguely comforting, and the only thought I have time for. I hiss another command at the guy I’m supporting and close the trunk and car door before guiding his hopping and wincing body inside.
Once we’re there, I force him to his knees and topple him onto his shoulder. I’m pretty sure he’s swearing at me, but I don’t care. Soon it won’t matter.
He’s too heavy for me to lift on my own, but he finally seems to understand what I want from him, and he rolls onto his stomach before shimmying under the bed. A few days ago, I’d have been overcome with concern for his shoulders, with his hands tied behind his back like that. Now, I brace a foot on the wall behind me and shove.
He’s under the bed as much as our combined efforts can get him, so I dart around to the other side and slide next to him. Only a sliver of light reaches us with the bedspread pulled straight.
So then we wait. And I pray.
I’m sweaty from the terror-filled sprint through the woods, scratched from the many branches I didn’t dodge, and bleeding, from both the trees and my window dive. My eyes feel like they’re trying to leap out of my skull, and I have no confidence that I’ll be able to calm down. Ever. My chest aches and my head is throbbing, and now I’m inches away from the person responsible for that pain—and potentially so much more.
With the small bit of light creeping under the bedspread, I can see a rough outline of his face. He’s still trying to communicate around his gag in something like a whisper.
I want him to shut up. We need to be quiet, silent. We are children hiding beneath a bed, and the monster is coming. Every sound from outside is an approach, in my mind, and the incessant murmurings next to me are going to lead my pursuer straight to us. I can’t risk even a whispered command to tell him to be quiet. But I do slide my hand across my stomach, up his shoulder, and over his mouth. Then I push down, bringing my face as close as possible in the small space afforded us. I shake my head and push harder. I can tell my eyes are wild in their sockets, and I let him see them.
When he finally falls silent, I wait another thirty seconds, to make sure he understands that he needs to stay that way, and then I return my hand to my side.
The new silence kicks at me, twitching my muscles and roiling my stomach. I have nothing, no weapon to defend myself, nothing to lash out with. I don’t even have an escape route if I need one. I’m on the far side of the bed, opposite the door. If I’m found, I have nowhere to run. I won’t have time to squeeze through the bathroom window again. I don’t even have the confidence that I’d be able to fit a second time.
The sting along my hip reasserts itself, and I let my fingers graze over the raw skin. The entire right hip of my jeans is hanging across my thigh. Next to me, the guy jerks, and then the dim light under the bed parts. And a new shadow moves.
I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. I didn’t feel anything except my own misery. Did my pursuer hear me? Panic coils through my ribs and cinches tight until I taste vomit, sour and strong in the back of my throat. How can terror spike again and again and reach new peaks every time?
The booted feet draw nearer to the bed. The same ones that kicked down the door and chased me through the woods less than an hour ago. The guy hiding with me can’t see what I can. His head is turned toward me, and his eyes are darting around like a feral animal. I move my hand across the space separating us and press it against his. His eyes stop darting immediately and meet mine.
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.
I gag when I get the fabric free. It’s some kind of burlap, and it’s crusted to the corners of his mouth. Fresh bloo
d 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?”
Girl on the Run Page 4
