by TAYLOR ADAMS
Darby folded the napkin twice with her message inside it. She knew she was about to do something that couldn’t be undone. This was tonight’s point of no return. From now on, one wrong glance, or misplaced word, and the Wanashono rest area could explode into violence.
“So, I grew up in the Blue Mountains,” Ashley told the room. “When I was a kid, I used to walk the railroad tracks and explore these old, boarded-up coal mines. The hills are just Swiss cheese out there. And this particular mine wasn’t on any map, but locally, it was called Chink’s Drop.”
Sandi frowned. “Okay.”
“You know,” Ashley said, “as in, the derogatory term for Chinese people—”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“I’m guessing a miner must have fallen and died, and—”
“I get it—”
“And he must have been Chinese—”
“I get it, Ashley.”
“Sorry.” He hesitated. “So, uh, I’m seven and dumb as hell. I crawled under the barricade and went alone, without telling anyone, and brought just a flashlight and some rope. Like a pint-sized Indiana Jones. And, I mean, it wasn’t scary at first. I followed the narrowing tunnel deeper, and deeper, past these ancient ore carts, over these mangled eighteenth-century train rails, through one blocked door after another. Sound carries funny down there, all warbling and ringing. And I’m sliding around this old wooden door, and I rested my hand on the corroded hinge for maybe a second. And . . . something awful happens.”
Darby noticed Lars’s attention had drifted back down into his Colorado Air brochure, so she seized her moment. She slid off the bench, and her wet Converse hit the floor with squishy thuds.
Ashley made an abrupt slice motion. “The door swings shut. The hinge snaps closed, like these two rusty metal jaws, obliterating my thumb, fracturing three metacarpals. Boom. It didn’t hurt at all at first. Just shock. And this door was three hundred pounds of solid oak, completely unmovable. And there I was, alone in the pitch black, a half mile below the surface.”
Darby walked toward him.
“Two days without food or water. I slept a few times. Scary dreams. Fatigue, dehydration. I didn’t have a knife, but I seriously considered losing my thumb. I remember staring at it with my dying flashlight, wondering how hard I’d have to twist my body weight against the hinge to . . . you know.”
Ed leaned forward. “You’ve still got both thumbs.”
Darby passed around Ashley’s chair and discreetly dropped her folded napkin in his lap. Like kids passing a note in high school.
He noticed—but smoothly finished his story, giving Ed an ironic thumbs-up: “Correctamundo. Turns out all I had to do was wait. Some teenagers from a different town happened to break into Chink’s Drop and they walked right into me. Saved by pure, dumb, lottery-ticket luck.”
“And . . .” Sandi looked at him. “Your phobia is . . . what, being trapped?”
“No. Door hinges.”
“Door hinges?”
“I hate door hinges,” Ashley said, making an exaggerated shiver. “They freak me out, you know?”
“Huh.”
Darby stopped by the window, watching snowflakes pelt the glass, and waited for Ashley to read her note. In her periphery, she saw him lift the napkin and unfold it under the table’s edge to furtively read it on his knee, out of Ed and Sandi’s view. In scratchy blue pen, Darby had written: meet me in the restroom i have something you need to see.
He paused.
Then he produced a black pen from his pocket, thought for a moment, and scribbled a response. Then he stood up and casually approached the window, too, fluidly slipping the napkin back into Darby’s hand as he passed. He did this as naturally as a pickpocket.
She unfolded it and read his handwriting.
i have a girlfriend.
She sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
He looked at her.
She mouthed: Not what I meant.
He mouthed: What?
Not. What. I. Meant.
Now they were both standing conspicuously by the window with their backs to the room. Lars was probably watching them, wondering what they were mouthing to each other. Ed and Sandi, too—
Ashley touched her shoulder, mouthing again: What?
Darby felt it, that familiar paralysis locking up her bones. Like climbing onstage and forgetting your lines. If she spoke, they’d overhear. If she didn’t, she risked making a scene. The entire world teetered on a knife edge. She chanced a look over her right shoulder, toward Rodent Face, and as she’d feared, he was watching them. She noticed something else, too, and her blood turned to ice water.
Lars had placed something white on the brochure rack. A Styrofoam cup, flattened from being inside his pocket.
Her cup.
The eight ounces of misspelled coco that she’d stupidly filled up and carried outside earlier. She’d set it in the snow by the Astro’s rear door, right before she broke in and spoke to Jay. Then she’d forgotten about the cup, leaving it out there in the dark for him to find. Near her clustered footprints.
He knows, she realized. And something even worse occurred to her—that now, the quiet danger cut both ways.
He’s planning to attack me.
The same way I’m planning to attack him.
“Trapped in a coal mine,” Sandi echoed to Ed. “Scary stuff.”
“Eh.” Ed shrugged. “I would’ve just cut off my thumb.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy.”
“Just saying. When you’re facing a lunch date with the Reaper, what’s a few little bones and tendons?”
Lars kept quietly watching them, and what frightened Darby most was the deep, dumb calm in his eyes. A criminal with any sense of self-preservation would have his gun out by now. But Lars was chillingly uninterested, untroubled, his vapid little eyes regarding her like she was nothing more urgent, or dangerous, than a spill on the floor that needed to be mopped up in the next hour or so. That was all.
Another black thought slipped into her mind, and somehow, she was certain it was prophecy, turning up like one of her mother’s musty Tarot cards: That man is going to murder me tonight.
This is how I die.
She looked back to Ashley and whispered: “Follow me. Right now.”
11:07 P.M.
In the men’s restroom, she told Ashley everything.
The van. The dog kennel. The little girl named Jay from San Diego. The electrical tape, the padlock, the unknown menace of a yellow card. Even the farts. And no matter how quietly she whispered, her words seemed to echo inside the restroom, ringing off tile and porcelain. She was certain the others could hear.
Ashley exhaled, visibly shaken. His eye sockets shadowed harshly under the fluorescent lights, like dark bruises, and for the first time all night, he looked as tired as Darby felt. And, another first—he was speechless.
She watched him, trying to get a read. “So.”
“So?” he replied.
“So. We have to do something.”
“Obviously, but what?”
“We stop him.”
“Stop him? That’s vague.” Ashley glanced back, watching the restroom door, edging closer to her. “Do you mean kill him?”
She wasn’t sure.
“Jesus, you’re talking about killing him—”
“If it comes to that.”
“Oh my God.” He rubbed his eyes. “Right now? With what?”
Darby opened her two-inch Swiss Army blade.
Ashley choked on a laugh. “He’s going to have a gun, you know.”
“I know.”
“So what’s your plan, then?”
“We stop him.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“That’s why I told you. And guess what, Ashley? You’re involved now. It’s 11:10 p.m. on a Thursday night, and there’s a child abductor in the next room, and a little girl locked in his shitty van outside, and that’s the hand we’ve been dealt. And I’m asking you now
—will you help me?”
That seemed to get to him. “You’re . . . you’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“That Lars kidnapped her?”
“Yeah.” She reconsidered. “If that’s even his real name.”
Ashley ran a hand through his hair and took a step back, leaning against a stall door. paul takes it in the ass had been scratched on it. Ashley gulped hard breaths, staring down at his shoes, like he was trying not to faint.
She touched his arm. “You okay?”
“Just asthma.”
“Don’t you have an inhaler?”
“No.” He smiled sheepishly. “I, uh, don’t have medical.”
Darby realized she might have misjudged this tall, dark stranger. Maybe Ashley—ex-magician, chatterbox, Salt Lake Institute of Tech student—wasn’t quite as capable as she’d thought. But then she remembered his impressive sleight of hand when he’d returned her note. She hadn’t even felt it. The napkin had just materialized between her fingers, like . . . well, magic.
That was something. Right?
He’d caught his breath now, and looked up at her pointedly. “I need proof.”
“What?”
“Proof. Can you prove any of this?”
Darby thumbed the photo gallery on her iPhone. Behind her, the restroom door banged open.
It was Lars.
Rodent Face stomped in, wet boots squealing on tile. Just like that, the kidnapper was inside the room with them, breathing the same air. Darby’s mind screamed—we’re cornered in here, we’re both exposed, there’s no time to hide in a stall—and the slouching figure of Lars whirled to face them, that stubbly, chinless face wheezing through a mouthful of baby teeth—
Then Ashley grabbed her face, his palms to her cheeks—
“Wait—”
—And he mashed her mouth to his.
What?
Then Darby understood. And after another heart-fluttering second, she played along, pressing her body against his, clasping her fingers behind his neck. Ashley’s hands groped her back, her hips. His warm breath was inside her mouth.
For a few long seconds, Lars watched them. Then she heard his squeaky footsteps again, moving to the sinks. A faucet twisted. A rush of water. The soap dispenser pumped once, twice. He was washing his hands.
Darby and Ashley kept going, eyes clamped shut. For Darby it hadn’t been this excruciatingly awkward since her ninth-grade Sadie Hawkins dance, just pawing movement and misplaced squeezes and half-held breaths. He was either a godawful kisser or he wasn’t trying; his tongue was like a dead slug in her mouth. After a painful eternity—don’t stop, don’t stop, he’s still watching us—she heard the sink twist off, then a paper towel tore and crumpled. Another long silence, and then finally, Lars left the restroom.
The door clicked shut.
Darby and Ashley separated. “Your breath is rancid,” he said.
“Sorry, I drank six Red Bulls today.”
“No shit—”
“Here.” She thrust her phone out to him—a murky photo of Jay caged behind those black kennel bars. Only the girl’s bloody fingernails were in focus. “You wanted proof? That’s what’s at stake. She’s out there, in his van, fifty feet from this building, right here, right now.”
Ashley barely looked at the photo—he’d already gotten his proof. He nodded nervously, gulping in another breath. “He . . . he didn’t come in here to wash his hands. He was checking on us.”
“And you’re involved now.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He sighed. “Let’s . . . do it, I guess.”
Darby nodded intently. But her mind had darted back to her mom’s pancreatic cancer.
All of that—the miserable twenty-four hours leading up to this—felt like another life entirely; one she’d blissfully stepped away from. Remembering it now hit her like buckshot in the gut. She still hadn’t gotten a cell signal. She still hadn’t deciphered the meaning behind Devon’s stupid, cryptic text, now several hours old: She’s okay right now—
“Darby?”
Ashley was looking at her.
“Okay, yeah.” She composed herself, wiping his saliva from her lip, blinking in the harsh light. “We need to surprise this asshole. And since he suspects we know, he won’t turn his back to us.”
“Even if he does, that butter knife of yours won’t be enough.”
“So we’ll hit him over the head.”
“With what?”
“What do you have?”
Ashley considered. “I . . . I have a jack in my car, I think—”
Too obvious, she knew. Not concealable. But she had a better idea. She reached into her jeans pocket and produced the decorative stone she’d plucked from the coffee counter. “This will work better.”
“A rock?”
“Take off your shoe.”
He hesitated, then leaned against the stall door and slipped off his left shoe.
“Now your sock,” she said. “Please.”
“Why mine?”
“Girl socks are too short.”
He handed her a white ankle-length sock, warm as a handshake and slightly yellowed. He winced. “My washer’s broken.”
Darby pulled the sock taut, slipped the rock inside it, and sealed it up with a tight square knot. She swung it once, smacking it into her palm. The arc gave the small stone fierce leverage; even a quick flick of the wrist could fracture an eye socket. Or at least, that was the idea.
Ashley looked at it, then her. “What’s that?”
“It’s called a rock-in-a-sock.”
“I . . . see why, I guess.”
She’d seen it on a TV survival show. “Rock-in-a-sock,” she repeated.
“The Cat in the Hat’s weapon of choice.”
She smiled, letting the scar over her eyebrow become briefly visible. “Okay.” She hefted the weapon. “Here’s my idea. Lars likes to stand by that front door and monitor the exit, right?”
“Right.”
“One of us—Person B—will walk past him. Through the front door. Outside, toward his van. He’s onto us now, so he’ll follow Person B outside. He’ll have to. And to do this, he’ll go through the door, turning his back to Person A.”
She smacked the rock-in-a-sock against her palm. It hurt.
“Person A—who is stronger than Person B—will come up behind Lars and whack him in the back of the skull. One good swing is all it should take to knock him out cold. But if it doesn’t, Person B, who has the knife, will turn around and we’ll both tag-team him—”
“You mean double-team?”
“Yeah. Tag-team.”
“Those don’t mean the same thing.”
“You know what I mean, then.” She was being intentionally vague about this part. In theory, one swing of the rock-in-a-sock would do the job. If it came to a scuffle, it would still be two versus one, and both two were now armed. Lars might be a violent sociopath, but how prepared could he be for a surprise attack from two directions?
More important: how fast could he draw his .45 and fire it?
Ashley was starting to get it now. “So Person A is me, huh?”
“It’ll be two versus one, using the doorway as a bottleneck—”
“Am I Person A?”
Darby placed the rock-in-a-sock in Ashley’s hand and closed his fingers around it, one by one. “You’re stronger than me, aren’t you?”
“I was . . . I was kind of hoping you were Ronda Rousey or something.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I guess I’m stronger.”
“Two versus one,” she repeated, like a mantra.
“What if we kill him?”
“We’ll bash him to the floor and empty his pockets. Grab his gun. Grab the keys on that lanyard. If he keeps fighting, so do we. I was inside the van with him. I know what we’re up against and I’ll cut his throat myself if I have to—”
She paused, surprised by what sh
e’d said.
Surprised she’d meant it, too.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ashley said, drawing closer. “And just so you understand, Darbs, this is an assault charge if you’re wrong.”
She did—and she knew she wasn’t. She’d spent thirty minutes lying prone in Lars’s sweaty van under an Indian blanket, listening to that flat-eyed creature eat and fart and giggle with a nine-year-old girl held captive inside a dog kennel. She knew that whatever happened, she’d be seeing that leering grin in her nightmares: Warmed it up for you, Jaybird. But as for Ashley—well, she understood why he had doubts. This had all crashed down on him like a rockslide. All in about ten minutes.
In her other pocket, she still had the .45 round. Pressed tight against her thigh. That was her real fear—Lars’s gun. He’d certainly use it if they didn’t bring him down swiftly. Even if he only managed to squeeze off a blind shot or two, there were bystanders—Ed and Sandi—to consider. Darby had never actually been in a fight before, so she wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, but she knew the movies were wrong.
“If you can,” she added, “try to keep one eye closed.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to fight him outside, maybe in the dark. So try to keep one of your eyes closed now, while you’re indoors, in the light, and then you’ll have an eye with a little night vision. Make sense?”
He nodded, half-hearted.
“And . . . you said you have asthma?”
“Mild shortness of breath. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“Well, when I was little,” Darby said, “I used to have panic attacks. Really bad ones that made me hyperventilate and faint. I’d be in the fetal position on the floor, choking on my own lungs, and my mom would always hold me and say: Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. And it always worked.”
“Inhale. Count to five. Exhale?”
“Yep.”
“So, in other words, breathe? That’s brilliant.”
“Ashley, I’m trying to help.”
“Sorry.” He eyed the door. “I’m just . . . I’m just having trouble with this.”
“You saw him, too.”
“I saw a run-of-the-mill weirdo.” He sighed. “And now we’re about to beat the shit out of him.”
