“Okay. Be right back,” I told Oscar, then slipped past Lidia and headed to the elevators.
I tried to tell myself it was just a glitch, but the reappearance of the thirteen Xs was too weird. I wondered if I would have time to tell Sam about it before they left.
I found Dad in our room zipping up his backpack, and decided a little last-minute begging couldn’t hurt. “Please, please, please let us come. I swear I won’t wander off.”
“Kat, we already discussed this.”
I crossed my arms. “Have you considered the fact that this means I’ll be staying in a hotel all night with a boy, unsupervised?”
Eyebrows raised, Dad shouldered his bag. “Is that something I should be worried about?”
Instantly, I wished I’d never brought it up. “Ew, no.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dad started searching the desk, moving his laptop and shuffling stacks of paper. “Of course, I’ve already set up a curfew for both you and Oscar with Margot—she’s the receptionist tonight. She’s going to make sure you’re both in your rooms by ten. Your own rooms.”
“What?” I cried. “Dad, what am I supposed to do all night?”
“There’s this thing some people do,” Dad replied, grabbing his key card from under his binder. “They lie down and close their eyes and lose consciousness for a while. I hear it’s called sleep.”
“Hilarious,” I muttered. “Come on, can’t I at least—”
“Kat, stop.” Dad turned to face me in the doorway. For the first time, I noticed how exhausted he looked. “I’m not making you stay here because I’m worried you’ll interfere with the show. It’s because I’m worried about you. It’d be one thing if you could stick with the crew, but—”
“Let us!” I interrupted. “We won’t get in the way, I swear—”
“It won’t work.” Dad paused, closing his eyes. “In fact, I’m starting to think maybe this job won’t work at all.”
My stomach plummeted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” Dad shook his head. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”
“Wait.” I stepped forward, heart pounding in my ears. “Did someone threaten you?”
“Did . . . what?”
“Is someone trying to make you leave the show?” I said urgently. “You know all the fans are wondering if this will be your last episode—that stupid host curse. Are you getting death threats?”
Dad set his backpack on the floor, eyebrows knit with worry. “Kat, why would you think that?”
And everything came pouring out. I told him about Roland, the messages on the forums, the deleted death threat. “He’s bringing Emily back,” I finished. “He told Sam so, I heard him. Roland was behind the host curse the whole time, and now he’s trying to make you leave, too.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dad took a deep breath. “Kat . . .”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I . . . I believe you think you’re right,” he said, and I snorted. Perfect. “Listen, tomorrow you and I are going to have a talk. Because while I appreciate you’re trying to help, I do not appreciate you eavesdropping on people.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “But—”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Dad said firmly, picking up his bag. I could see his cheek muscle starting to twitch, but I didn’t care.
“And Roland?” I yelled. “Maybe it was wrong of me to eavesdrop, but isn’t it kind of worse to send death threats to people?”
Dad grimaced, glancing down the hall. “Roland’s not sending anyone death threats,” he said quietly. “He found some recently in Sam’s fan mail, and he’s trying to figure out how to handle it. No, stop.” He held his hand out when I started to protest. “Kat, you’re just going to have to trust me here—I’ve talked to Roland and Jess about this, and I know more about it than you do. Get some sleep tonight, okay? We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
He kissed the top of my head, and then he was gone. Fuming, I marched over to the window and yanked open the curtains. I glared down at the parking lot, waiting. Soon the crew appeared, loaded down with bags and equipment. I watched as they packed up the van and drove off.
Checking to make sure I had my key card, I stormed out of my room and headed for the elevators. So Roland had a story worked out, just like I’d figured he would. I remembered him talking about Sam’s obsessive fans when we first met, too. He probably wasn’t even lying about the creepy mail. But what about Bernice’s death threats? And Carlos’s forged exposé? That was all Roland. And I had no doubt he was going to try to make this Dad’s last episode, too.
I was so caught up in my anger, it was a few seconds before I noticed the 6 button was lit up instead of the 3. Frowning, I jabbed at the 3 button, but it stayed dark. The elevator arrived on the sixth floor, and the doors slid open.
“Come on,” I muttered, pressing CLOSE DOORS repeatedly. Finally, they slid shut. I tried the 3 button, then the 2. Nothing. The elevator didn’t move. Just as I was starting to get freaked out, the 6 button lit up on its own.
Ding.
The doors slid open again.
Okay, then. Looked like I was taking the stairs back down to Oscar’s floor.
I walked fast, feeling unsettled. Up ahead, a maid grumbled as she rummaged through her cart of cleaning supplies. A moment later, the round-faced receptionist walked out of the room next to the stairs entrance—Margot, I remembered. She said something in Dutch to the maid, who immediately launched into a long, angry rant. When Margot saw me approaching, she waved for the maid to stop talking.
“Hello,” Margot said, switching to thickly accented English. “Did your father tell you I’d be checking in on you tonight?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in our rooms by ten.” I glanced at the maid, and my eyes widened. “Oh my God, what happened?” Her hands and wrists were stained a dark reddish-brown, along with about a dozen rags piled on top of her cart.
“It’s only hair dye,” Margot explained quickly. “The woman staying in this room decided to leave us with quite a mess to clean up.” She said something in Dutch to the maid, who nodded curtly, grabbed a few bottles, and headed back in the room. Then Margot smiled at me. “Lidia requested that I order you and Oscar a pizza for dinner. Just call the front desk when you’re ready, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.”
Margot headed to the elevators. The maid had propped the door open, and I glanced inside the room on my way to the stairs entrance. Then I did a double take and, checking to make sure Margot wasn’t looking, stepped inside.
The room was a wreck. Inside the bathroom, the maid knelt with her back to me, scrubbing the tub and muttering what I assumed was every possible curse word in Dutch. The white tiled floor, the sink, the mirror—everything was spattered in what looked horribly like blood (although I spotted the box of hair dye on the counter).
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The bedding was slashed. Pillows ripped open, tufts of cottony stuff torn out and flung all over the room. The comforter and the sheets were shredded to pieces, as were the curtains. Even the wallpaper had a few gouges. I shuddered. It looked as if someone had gone berserk, grabbed a knife, and tried to tear the room apart.
I’d taken only a few steps back when I spotted the binoculars on the desk.
A feeling of dread crept up my spine and for a few seconds, I wasn’t sure why. Then I noticed the pair of oversize sunglasses, and I remembered.
The woman at the waterfront in Rotterdam. The woman at the Internet café here in Brussels. I’d bumped into her both times. She’d followed us here—she was even staying in the same hotel. And judging by the state of her room, she was pretty ticked off.
But something else was nagging me. I squeezed my eyes closed, picturing her pale, sharp face. Young but kind of gaunt, shadowed eye
s, dark hair . . . that nasal voice . . .
I thought of the box of hair dye and suddenly, everything slammed into place.
Sprinting down three flights of stairs, I raced down the hall and burst into Oscar’s room, breathing heavily. He looked up from his laptop, startled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Pull up photos from the first season.”
“Huh?”
Without bothering to explain, I grabbed the laptop and typed in the URL for the official P2P site. I clicked PHOTOS, then SEASON ONE, and scrolled down till I saw her—young, blond, lots of makeup. She’d lost a little weight since then and her face had hollowed out, but there was no question.
“It’s her,” I said softly.
Oscar looked thoroughly confused. “Emily? What about her?”
I took a deep breath.
“She’s here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE ROAD TO THIRTEEN KISSES
P2P Fan Forums
A Message for “Anonymous”
Doctor Pain [new member]
Anonymous
[comment deleted by administrator]
Maytrix [admin]
Enough is enough. If anyone knows how I can get in touch with the Brussels police, let me know. This creep has gone too far.
I physically couldn’t stay still. Jiggling my leg, I leaned against the receptionist’s desk, clenched and unclenched my hand, drummed my fingers on the counter. Margot frowned deeply, cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear. I watched her hang up, then immediately dial again. With every second that passed, the knot in my stomach doubled. Finally, she sighed and set down the receiver.
“No response from Jack or Lidia,” she told us. “But I will keep trying.”
I turned to Oscar. “We have to go to the prison.”
“How?” he said immediately. “Lidia said it’s a half-hour drive—that’d be a pretty expensive taxi ride. How much money do you have?”
“Not enough, probably.” I thought fast. We’d already asked Margot about the woman who’d wrecked her room. Margot refused to give us her name, but as Oscar pointed out, Emily was probably smart enough to use a fake name, anyway. And while her hotel-room rampage was probably enough to convince police she was unbalanced, we had no way to prove she was going to Daems. Or that Roland was involved in any way.
But he was. Emily was dangerous. And if Roland was in love with her, well, maybe that made him dangerous, too. All I could think about was getting to my dad before one of them could hurt him.
“Can you add it to our room charge?” Oscar asked, and I glanced up. Margot gave him a quizzical look.
“Sorry?”
“Can you call a taxi and pay for it, and add it to our bill?”
“Please?” I added, jumping in before Margot could protest. “They won’t mind—this is an emergency.”
Margot’s eyes narrowed. “Your father was very clear that you were to stay here.”
“But it’s an emergency,” I repeated. “A real one. If we can’t get them on the phone, we have to go to Daems.”
“Then I will call again.”
I suppressed a groan of frustration as Margot calmly picked up the phone. Oscar and I exchanged irritated looks as she dialed, listened, hung up, dialed another number, and on and on. Finally, she set down the receiver with a loud sigh.
“It’s an emergency,” I said again, firmly. “Look, if they want us to come back to the hotel, we’ll just ask the taxi driver to bring us back. No harm done.”
“We’d be back way before ten, too,” Oscar added, pointing to the clock behind her. “It’s not even eight yet.”
Margot eyed him, then me. Then, to my relief, she relented and picked up the phone.
“Very well. I will call for a taxi.”
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
We stepped away from the desk, and Oscar lowered his voice. “Do you have your camera?”
I blinked visions of Emily sneaking up behind Dad with a knife from my mind. “What? Oh . . . no. Should I bring it?”
“Don’t you think your post about the psycho former host crashing the prison episode would look good with a few photos?”
I made a face. “You know, sometimes you can just say yes without getting all sarcastic.”
When I returned to the lobby, the Elapse safely in my pocket, I saw a taxi parked along the curb. I hurried outside and waited next to Oscar while Margot spoke to the driver in rapid French. Judging by his expression, he wasn’t too thrilled about whatever she was saying.
Finally, Margot handed him a note. He took it, giving Oscar and me a contemptuous look. “Treize baisers,” he mumbled, settling into the driver’s seat with a scowl. “Mon dieu.”
He slammed the door. Margot smiled at us wearily.
“Cyril is your driver. He has promised not to let you out of his sight until you are with the adults. But he is not happy about going to la Prison Éternelle,” she added. “Everyone knows about the haunting. He is . . .” She glanced at the driver’s window and lowered her voice. “Chicken.”
I snickered, but Oscar was still staring at the driver. “Did he say treize baisers?”
Margot nodded, pulling the passenger door open. “Yes. It’s what some locals call the road to Daems. You know what it means?” she added with a wink. But Oscar didn’t smile back.
“Yeah, I think so.”
I waited until we were pulling out of the parking lot, then sighed loudly. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What does it mean?” I said impatiently. “Tres . . . whatever you said.”
“Oh.” Glancing at the driver, Oscar lowered his voice. “Treize baisers. I’m pretty sure it means thirteen kisses.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said loudly, and Cyril shot me a dirty look in the rearview mirror.
We didn’t talk much on the drive after that. Before long, the city was just a cluster of tiny bright lights behind us. The sky was that purplish-blue shade it gets right before turning completely black; a few stars twinkled around the sparse clouds that still hung low from yesterday’s thunderstorm.
“Do you think Emily’s there already?” Oscar asked at last.
I pictured her room, all slashed and ripped apart, and tried to sound calm. “Maybe. But even if she is, she and Roland are outnumbered. And—”
Suddenly, Cyril slammed on the brakes. Oscar and I lurched forward against our seat belts. “What’s wrong?” I gasped, massaging my rib cage. Cyril muttered nervously and smacked the side of his GPS console, which had gone dark. The screen flickered back to life, a blue dot marking us on the map with instructions in French down the side.
Continuez tout droit sur la 13e Av
Tournez à droite sur la Rue de la Paix
Still eyeing the console, Cyril stepped on the gas again. When we started to turn right, Oscar grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he hissed, pointing out his window. I leaned over and caught a glimpse of the two battered street signs at the intersection, which were sprayed over with graffiti:
A chill raced up my spine, but I tried to keep my voice light. “Thirteen X. Well, I guess that explains the nickname.”
Cyril tensed up as we edged down the road, shoulders hunching, fingers clutching the wheel. Privately, I thought he was overreacting a little. Then Daems Penitentiary came into view, and my palms went clammy.
The massive compound loomed in front of us, made up of at least five buildings that I could see. The brick was so grimy and stained, it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally. Instead of windows, slits barely wide enough to stick your arm through marked the floors. A tower rose twice as high as the prison, overlooking the courtyard. And the entire thing was surrounded by an imposing wire fence—probably three times my height, with gi
ant barbed coils along the top.
“Pretty,” said Oscar.
“Looks like my old Barbie Dreamhouse,” I agreed. We smiled briefly at each other, and I was relieved to see he looked as nervous as I felt.
Because the truth was, Daems was the most horrific-looking place I’d ever seen.
When Cyril let out a piercing shriek and slammed on the brakes again, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The cab jerked to a halt, and Oscar and I stared at the GPS console. The map was gone, and two symbols flashed repeatedly on the otherwise black screen:
X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3
Letting out a stream of curses in who knew how many languages, Cyril threw the car into reverse.
“Wait, stop!” I yelled.
He shouted a reply in stilted English, his voice shaking. “I will not drive closer!”
“You don’t have to,” Oscar said urgently, leaning past the front seat and pointing. “Look.”
I squinted and realized with a wave of relief that the crew’s van was parked not far ahead. Even better, the doors were open—maybe they were still unloading equipment.
Cyril hesitated, hands gripping the wheel. The hearts and Xs were still flashing on the screen. Finally, with a strangled grunt, he threw open his door. “We walk. Hurry.”
I scrambled out of the taxi, and Oscar and I hurried after the driver as he set off down the path toward the van. I couldn’t keep myself from staring up at the prison, taking in every detail—the faded graffiti and large patches of dark mold spreading over the walls, the slits revealing the inky blackness of each cell, the tiny points protruding from the coils at the top of the electric fence, waiting to gouge and slash anyone who somehow managed to get that close to freedom . . .
It was horrifying, the kind of place that should have made me want to jump back in the taxi and get as far away as possible. But my fingers still itched to pull out my camera and take a few shots.
“Hello?” Cyril approached the van, casting anxious glances at the prison entrance every other second. There was a muffled response from inside, and my heart lifted. The feeling didn’t last long.
Dead Air Page 16
