by Rachel Caine
"I don't!" I tell her, and I know that makes me sound guilty. I'm not a very good liar.
"Did you take something? Because you know I'm going to look!"
I don't think. I just get up, shove her back, and close the door. It locks, which is good, because she immediately starts jiggling the knob.
"I'm not talking to you!" I yell at her, and I lie down on my bed.
I take my dad's phone out of my pocket and turn it over and over again in my fingers. The screen's dark.
I stare for a long time before I reach in my pocket and get the battery out. I open the back and slide it in, then put my finger on the "Power" button. Lanny's gone away, probably to complain to whoever cares that I'm being a brat. Normally that would be Mom. Normally.
I press gently on the button, but not enough to actually make it start up. What happens if I turn it on? Will Dad know? Will he call me? Why did he want me to have this at all?
But I know why. Because he can track the phone if it's on. He could find us, and Mom, and I can't do that.
But it takes time, part of me says, the part that memorizes all the risks and tells me what's safe, and what isn't. He won't be able to track you if you just turn it on, check it, and take the battery out again. It's not magic.
That might be right. It's probably right. I could turn it on and see if he called me, or texted. That would be okay, wouldn't it? I wouldn't have to read anything. Or listen to a voice mail. I'd just check.
I brush my finger over the button, again. Hold it a little longer this time. Not long enough, I think, because when I let go, the screen is still dark.
And then it buzzes in my hand, like something about to sting me, and the screen lights up and spells out HELLO in bouncing letters, then SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL.
I can't breathe. My heart hurts, and I lean forward like someone's already punched me in the stomach, but I can't look away from the screen as it fades, and comes back, and it's a clunky little collection of icons almost too small to see, but I can tell that there aren't any phone calls. No voice mails.
No texts.
I select the CONTACTS icon. There's one number programmed in.
Dad's number.
I should stop right now. I should stop and give this phone to someone else. An adult, not Lanny, because Lanny would just bash it with a rock. If Mr. Esparza and Ms. Claremont have Dad's phone number, maybe they can find him before he hurts someone. Before he finds Mom, or Mom finds him.
You're killing him if you do that. I don't like the voice in my head. It's quiet, but it's firm. And it sounds like me, but grown up. If they don't shoot him the second they see him, they'll take him back to prison. Back to death row. That means killing him. You'd be the one doing it.
I don't like it, but the voice is right, too. I don't want to have to think about how I was the reason my dad got killed, put down like a sick dog. Because this time, I would be the reason if I turned over this phone.
He trusted me not to do that. He trusted me.
I've had the phone on too long. I quickly press and hold the "Power" button until the screen says, in cheesy waving letters, Goodbye, and little pixeled fireworks go up, and the whole screen goes black. I pull out the battery. My hands are shaking.
I didn't send him a message. I didn't call him. I didn't do anything wrong, but I feel sick and light-headed and I'm shaking all over like I've caught the flu.
I almost fall off the bed when Lanny knocks on the door. It sounds super loud, but it isn't, I realize in the next second. She's being nice. She says, "Hey, Connor? I'm going to make Rice Krispies treats. The kind with peanut butter and chocolate, your favorite. You want to come help me?" There's a beat of silence. "I'm sorry, Squirtle."
I desperately want my sister right now. I want to not feel so alone and out of control. So I shove Dad's now-inactive phone back in my pocket, open the door, and give her what I'm sure is a totally dumb smile. It feels fake on my face. "Okay," I say, then shut my door behind me. "As long as I get the first three squares."
"First two."
"I thought you were sorry."
"Two says I'm sorry. Three says I'm stupid."
It feels all right. Everything should feel all right here; Mr. Esparza is outside on the porch, reading a book, and Ms. Claremont is getting ready to go to work for a few hours. The house is warm and friendly and full of smiles.
I feel like I'm the one who's wrong, like the phone in my pocket is a bomb just waiting to go off and destroy everything.
I look at Ms. Claremont as she picks up her bag. She gives me a quick, wide smile that fades when she looks at me closely. Lanny's moving to get stuff out of the kitchen cabinets, so her back is turned, and I'm not trying to look happy anymore.
"Connor?" Ms. Claremont keeps her voice low. "You okay?"
I could do it. I could take the phone out of my pocket and hand it to her and confess everything, right now. This is my chance.
But I think about the documentary I saw on YouTube about a man strapped down on a table in prison, and poison put in his arm so he died, and I think about my dad.
And I say, "I'm fine, Ms. Claremont."
"Kez," she tells me, again. She's said that the last four times. Maybe she really means it.
"Kez," I say, then force another smile out. "I'm okay. Thanks."
"Okay, but if you're not, you know I'm a call away, right?"
My fingertips tap the phone in my pocket. "I know."
7
GWEN
Sam's tourist pamphlet is worth its weight in gold. There's a perfect candidate for our stop for the night, and when I check the folded paper map, I find that it's about twenty miles away--far enough to be off the radar, and couples oriented enough to be the last place Melvin--or Absalom, for that matter--would look. Desperately charming, I think.
When we arrive there, we find that's exactly the right description. It's lovely and neat and perfectly trimmed, with a small parking lot. It's too dark to see beyond the lights mounted outside, but I imagine the mist rises heavy in the mornings to give the whole place a magical look. It looks like a typical B and B sort of establishment, an expensive hobby for retired financial analysts who sink a fortune into renovating an old but magnificent house in the middle of nowhere. They've certainly spared no expense, I find as we walk inside: it's clean, gracious, full of well-kept antiques. It smells of fresh oranges.
The lady standing behind the antique counter is not what I expect. Midthirties, I think. She's of Indian extraction, wearing a truly lovely sari of royal blue trimmed in ornate gold, her hair drawn back in a neat bun, and she smiles with real welcome. "Hello," she says. "Welcome to Morningside House. Are you looking for a room?" Her voice carries a slight, crisp midwestern accent, without any trace of a southern drawl. There's a very slight shadow beneath the smile, a little wariness in her eyes. I wonder how hard life has been for her here in deep redneck country. Very, I imagine.
"Yes, thanks," Sam says, stepping up as she opens a register book. He scribbles down names, but in unreadable scrawl. "One room's fine. Two beds."
She gives us a quick once-over, reconsidering whatever her earlier presumption had been. "Ah. Well. Unfortunately, all my one-room arrangements have a single bed. But I do have a two-bedroom suite." She lifts her hand to indicate the nearly empty parking lot and gives a sad little shrug. "I can offer you a substantial discount."
She names the shockingly cheap price, and we pay it in cash, which she doesn't seem to find too strange. She doesn't ask for identification. She's probably sick to death, I think, of people demanding to see her own. On impulse, I hold out my hand to her. She looks at it in surprise, then takes it and shakes. "Thanks for making us welcome," I tell her. "This is a beautiful place."
She brightens and beams as she looks around at the carefully tended room. "Yes, we like it," she says. "My husband and I bought it five years ago. We spent two years renovating. I'm glad you like it."
"Very much," I say. "I'm Cassandra, by the way." I choose a name at random, a
nd it doesn't escape me that it's out of a Greek tragedy.
"Aisha," she tells me. "My husband, Kiaan, is in the back--" She has to break off, because a door behind the counter slams open, and a small figure rushes out and skids to a halt when he spots us. A heartbreakingly cute little boy, with wide dark eyes and a shy smile that he immediately hides in the folds of his mother's sari.
She sighs and picks him up with that automatic grace of mothers everywhere, then balances him against her hip. "And this is Arjun," she says. "Say hello, Arjun."
He utterly refuses this, with the stubbornness of a typical kid his age, but he stares at me and Sam with undisguised fascination. I wave to him, and he gives a little hand wave back before hiding his face again. But he's still smiling. I remember that age so well, and it almost hurts. I feel the weight of Connor in my arms suddenly. The familiar pressure on the point of my hip. The soft caramel smell of his hair and skin.
The same door that Arjun burst through opens again, and it's an older girl of about fourteen, willowy and wearing jeans and a pale-pink shirt. Her hair is worn long and straight in a shimmering curtain, held back with jeweled pins. She gives us a curious glance, then takes possession of Arjun. "Sorry, Mom," she says. "He got away from me." She looks resigned more than irritated.
"It's all right," Aisha says. "Please tell your father we have guests. And put on the scones."
Sam looks at me and mouths scones, with raised eyebrows, and it's all I can do not to laugh. We've been bedding down in crap motels and in the SUV, and this lush, fragrant place seems like heaven right now.
As the daughter disappears through the door again, Aisha leads us up two flights of polished steps to the second door, which she opens before handing me and Sam identical keys, dangling from silver tags that read MORNINGSIDE HOUSE. "I'll send the scones up soon," she tells us. "Have a good night."
With that, she's gone, closing the door with a soft click. I automatically shut the bolt--it's a sturdy one, vintage--and then turn to look at what we've bought for ourselves.
It's great. The sitting room has two comfortable sofas, old enough to fit the theme but with none of the stiffness I usually associate with antiques. There are lovely little tables and a modern flat-screen TV, two desks (a rolltop and a smaller flat one) with antique roller chairs at each. There's a padded bench beside a large picture window that I'm sure will provide a spectacular view of the mountains come morning, but for now, I'm all too aware of the darkness outside, and the fact that we're nearly visible from space in the illumination of the room. I pull the curtains, then turn to Sam with a smile. "So?" I spread my hands to indicate the room.
He's studying the workmanship on a Tiffany-style lamp, all drooping, graceful purples and greens that mimic wisteria. "We lucked out," he says, then straightens. Winces. Dumps his backpack in a wing chair near the fireplace. "This is amazing. And there are scones."
"Bet breakfast is fabulous, too."
"Probably."
We look at each other for a few seconds, and then I put my backpack on the desk. I dig out the papers, find the USB, and take out my laptop. There's an Internet sign on the wall that gives me a password, but I don't bother. I don't want to be connected yet. I plug in the power cord, then turn the USB drive over and over in my fingers. My laptop's on, ready to go, and somehow, I still hesitate.
I feel Sam's warmth behind me, and he says, "We have to know." He doesn't sound any more eager about it than I feel.
I slide the USB stick into my computer, and a window pops up. Files, available for review. Some of them are documents. Some, ominously, are video files. A few are just audio.
Best to get the worst over with first, I think, and I click on the first video file.
At first, it's hard to make out what it is I'm watching, but when I realize, I involuntarily flinch backward, and then I spin the chair sideways and stare at the crisp, soothing fabric of the window curtains instead of the screen. I hear Sam murmur, "Ah, goddamn," and hear him turn away, too. I have the volume low on the laptop. It doesn't completely mute the harrowing, awful screams. I am shaking, I realize; my pulse is suddenly a jackhammer in my head, and my hands are quivering until I clench them hard enough to hurt. The room feels colder, and suddenly I smell cold dirt and mold and that awful stench of blood and metal that rolled out of my shattered garage that day, years ago, when Melvin Royal's hidden life finally saw the sun.
Sam reaches past me and presses keys to stop the screaming, and I'm so glad I could sob, but I don't. I just breathe. I keep doing that until I feel safe enough to turn and look at the computer again.
Sam's walked away a few steps now, head down, hands fisted at his sides. Like me, he's living in the past, but our pasts are different. I don't know where his has taken him, but I know from the tense set of his shoulders, the harsh, rapid breathing, that it's somewhere I wouldn't want to be.
"They're going to find bodies," he says, and I agree with him. I'm horribly glad that we didn't open that door and see what lay beyond. I'm grateful that horror wasn't the last sight I had on earth. Sam's voice is rough and low, and I close the laptop and get up. I go to him, but I don't touch him. I just stand there, facing him, until he looks up. There's a distance in his eyes that's both painful and self-protective. "I can't--" He stops. Just . . . stops. I know he's thinking about his sister, Callie's, torturous, horrific death. About the photos my ex-husband took, all those pictures that were blown up and shown to the court. He liked photographing what he called the process. In the first photo, she's scared, alive, untouched. What's left by the last is . . . unimaginable. And though Sam wasn't in the courtroom for it, he's seen the records. The video taken at the crime scene.
Even for a combat veteran, which he is, it's too much.
"Hey," I say softly, and this time, I do touch him. Just a light brush of fingers on his sleeve, not bare skin. There need to be barriers between us right now. "Sam. Stay with me."
I see him snap back, as if his soul has catapulted into his body, and he blinks and focuses back on me. For an instant I see a wash of emotion so powerful I can't guess what it is. Love? Hate? Revulsion? And then it's gone.
Sam Cade nods, reaches out, and takes my hand in his. It's unexpected, and I tense just a bit, but he's careful, and the warmth of his skin eases some silent, animal howl inside. "We don't need to watch the rest right now," he tells me. "Not now. Okay?"
"Okay," I say. I'm grateful he isn't going to make me do that, or do it to himself. There's bravery, and then there's punishment. Not masochism, because neither one of us gets any kind of release from facing this demon. It's just more scars. More damage. "How about the paper files?"
"Yeah, that's an idea," he says. We let go of each other and divide up the crumpled papers that we rescued from the inferno. They still smell of smoke, and--I just now realize--so do we. My hair feels crisp at the ends. We were so, so lucky.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I frown and check it. It's not a number I recognize. I ignore it.
Another second later, Sam's cell buzzes. He locks gazes with me, then puts the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
I freeze as I watch him, looking for clues in his expression, his body language. I see a slight frown, and--paradoxically--a relaxing in his shoulders. Then he says, "Hey, Mike? How'd you get Gwen's number? I didn't call you from it." He puts the call on speakerphone and lays the device on the polished wooden table between us.
"How you think?" Mike Lustig asks, and his deep voice makes the small speaker rattle. "You were both unconscious at the scene. I copied her number down while you both were out. Not surprised Ms. Proctor skipped my call, by the way. I hear she's a tough nut."
"And she's on speaker," Sam says.
"Figured that. How do, Ms. Proctor?"
"Cut the country charm, Agent Lustig," I say. "I'm not in the mood. So what did you find at the cabin?" I brace myself. Hard. The memory of that awful video grazes me, and I flinch away from it. As I'm asking the question, Sam gets up and goes into the right-ha
nd bedroom, which seems odd until I realize he's looking for a window with an angle on the road we came up. He returns, shaking his head. No sign of police coming our way.
I'm waiting for the obvious, for Lustig to tell us that they've found a torture room, bodies, horrors . . . but he says, "Nothing much. Some file cabinets, tough to salvage anything out of them but ashes. Some camera equipment and such. Some old-school videotape, but it's melted to shit; the lab's working on it, remains to be seen if they get anything. We won't know for months, most likely, if they come up with a result. I'm trying to light a fire under them--so to speak--but every case they work on is a priority, so it's not likely we're getting the express lane."
I'm so surprised I don't know what to think. But we saw . . . I reach forward and stab the "Mute" button on Sam's phone. Then I say, "They didn't find shackles, chains, winches? Then that video wasn't filmed there. Not in that basement!"
Sam's standing near me now, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if he can't quite bear to be still. "Son of a bitch," he says. "Then why burn the place?"
"File cabinets," I remind him. "Maybe there were documents in there that linked him to the videos. Or had info about Absalom. We still don't know how big this group is, do we?" I wonder if Arden knows. It might be important to talk to her again--but I think and hope that she's already gone. I imagine her landing in Stockholm and walking away free. I hope that's where she is.
I hope Absalom hasn't found her.
Before Sam can comment, Mike Lustig says, "Y'all still there? Take me off 'Mute,' because if you're having a chat without me, that's just rude."
I'm starting to like Mike Lustig. Cautiously, which is the only way I like anyone now. I hit the button to add him back to the conversation. "Sorry," I say. I almost mean it. "So we're back to square one, then? No more leads from the cabin?"
"Look . . ." He stops, then sighs, and I can almost see him shaking his head. "I took a chance you two would keep your heads and not go charging in to make a mess of things, which you did. Why in the hell would I give you any more leads even if I have one? I like my job. Damn hard to keep it if there's an obvious line to draw from you reckless fools to me."
He is not, I notice, saying that he intends to cut us out. He's saying, Don't drag me down with you. That's a different thing entirely. Mike Lustig is a hell of a good friend, I think, and I wonder if Sam will mind when I ask him how the two of them got to be so close. Mostly, he doesn't care if I dig into his past . . . but then, mostly, I don't ask.
