Deadlock (35 page)

They never said so, but after leaving the bathroom light on—Anton had flipped the switch up and down, saying, “On or off, on or off?”— knowing Logan couldn't even shake his head or nod—and shutting the door, Logan was pretty sure both of them had left. Someone had turned on the television out there, but he hadn't heard voices that were louder than the TV. He hadn't heard laughter or bumps against the wall. No one had come in to check on him or use the bathroom—that alone told him something.

He wondered how long they were going to keep him tied up like this. Were they gone for good? Would they tell someone where to find him? Was his dad or Laura or the police negotiating with them? What if the cops killed all of them? Or it might be Dad who killed them; he'd done it before. If the people who'd taken him died without telling anyone where he was, he could die here. He'd starve to death. He was already hungry.

And that was something he thought was strange, being hungry in a situation like this. Weren't fear and worry supposed to override everything else? Well, it didn't stop his bladder, so maybe bodily needs like eating just marched on regardless. Yeah, fear might make you forget your stomach for a while, but not forever. He wondered if the pain of it went away or if you got used to it. Maybe he would last longer, not
have
to eat, since he wasn't moving around, burning energy. After football practice, he was famished. Watching TV, not so much.

He liked it when his mind wandered. Even to contemplation—vocab word; he thought he was using it right—even to contemplation of his own death. It made him forget the pain in his muscles, how his joints felt twisted. It made him forget that he'd almost died in ways even Stephen King couldn't dream up: Death by Vomit; Death by Suffocation Because Your Nose Is Full of Snot. He didn't think you could die from smelling your own pee, but it got pretty bad.

What about a maid coming in? Didn't even crappy motels like this have maid service? Wouldn't someone come in to change the sheets, vacuum, and untie the kid in the bathtub? But those guys seemed to know what they were doing. They probably paid for the room a week in advance and told the front desk clerk they didn't want to be disturbed.

No maid service. No inquiries. No calls. He hadn't heard the phone ring, come to think of it. But who'd call? Maybe Dad, wondering where to drop the ransom money.

Dad. Logan
hoped
he was trying to get him back. If it were Dillon who'd been taken, Dad would be calling molten lava down from the sky on anyone he even thought wasn't helping find him.

That wasn't fair. He knew his father loved him. When he had the time, Dad liked to roughhouse and talk about things Logan wanted to talk about. Logan could tell when someone was only tolerating him because he had to, even if he did say “I love you” a thousand times and bought him the latest, coolest doodads. He sensed it sometimes, a little, with his mom. And
definitely
with George, the heir apparent to Dad's rightful place in the family.

His dad had never been that way. When they were doing something together, even something blah like cleaning the kitchen, the conversation often came around to how much Dad loved him. Sounded corny thinking about it now, but it never was at the time. Even that time when Dad broke into some mushy song called “You Light Up My Life.” Logan had loved it, even though at the time he'd said it was stupid.

Problem was, his dad never had time for him anymore. Even when he was there, he wasn't
really
there. He was thinking of the next thing he had to do, some person he had to interview, or what the last person said that sounded wrong.

But he did talk about what happened in Canada. How awful it had been. How some of them had beaten the odds and survived. That always got him talking about Dillon.

And Dillon was someone Logan absolutely didn't want on his mind right now. Wouldn't that be just the kicks if the last thing he thought about on this planet was that little punk?

He tried to pull away from the faucet again. Just . . . the . . . smallest . . . amount. He couldn't tell if there was some new looseness to the tape or if it had stretched a bit or if it was the flesh in his neck giving a little.

He wiggled his jaw. It caused spit to squeeze out of the cloth, trickle down through the tape, and run over his chin. Another feeling he didn't like. It also pulled the hair on the back of his head. Not so much now as before. Probably it had pulled out all the hair it could.

Aaahhhhhh!

He couldn't take this anymore. Couldn't take the wondering if they were coming back, wondering if they were going to kill him. Couldn't take trying to think of things—anything, everything—to stop thinking about
how
they would kill him. To stop thinking about whether he was dead already, because they'd left him and nobody would find him until he was so dead and decayed they'd have to identify him with dental records. Couldn't take not being able to
move
,
move
, just
move
. He strained against his bonds. Jerked his muscles without moving. Wiggled what he could—his knees, his shoulders, his head.
Not
his fingers! Anton had taped his
fingers
!

Aaahhhhhh!

A door slammed. Louder than the others he'd occasionally heard. This time he'd felt it: a vibration coming up through the tub, air coming through the crack under the door.

The television turned off. The bed creaked. Something fell to the floor. Something else.

Logan's heart took off. It pounded like a fist against his ribs.

Be a maid
, he thought, but he knew better.

The door opened, and he hissed air into his nostrils. He got a throat full of snot and swallowed it. His eyes stung. He hadn't blinked since he'd heard the door.
Blink!
He couldn't. He stared at the man in the doorway. It was Emile. He was dressed as he was before, all in black. He had blood and something black smeared on one cheek and his forehead.

Emile glared down at him. His lips were so tightly clamped, they were white. The muscles in his jaws flexed. A vein in his temple throbbed.

“I hope you're worth it,” he said. “Whatever it is they're trying to do, I hope you're worth it.”

The guy's hand went behind his back, returned with a big knife.

Logan couldn't get enough air.
In, out, in, out—fast.
That beating fist in his chest squeezed. His heart hurt like a pulled muscle. It
hurt
.

Calm down, Logan
, he thought.
It's like the movies . . . like the movies . . .

The man stepped in. He leaned over the tub, putting his free hand on the tile wall.

Like the movies . . . like the movies . . .

Emile brought the knife down and sliced the ziplock between Logan's knees. He lowered his other hand and pushed a finger under the tape at the corner of his mouth.

“Hold still,” he said. He brought the knife in, and the tape fell away.

See? Just like in the movies.

But Logan didn't think he'd be as nasty minded as before to the characters who freaked out, thinking they were about to be killed when everyone in the audience knew they were just going to get cut loose.

Emile pulled the washcloth out of his mouth.

Logan let spit pour off his tongue onto his chest. He spat. He gulped in big, deep breaths. He started to cry.

Emile backed away. He leaned against the sink, crossed his arms, and watched.

Logan closed his eyes, pinching off the tears. He looked at the man, who said, “You done?”

“Yeah.” It came out a whisper.

Emile knelt at the edge of the tub. He cut the tape between Logan's arms and body, but his wrists were still bound to his ankles at his butt.

Emile slipped the knife behind Logan, and his neck sprang free from the faucet.

The man said, “What's your name, kid?”

“Don't you know?”

Emile said nothing. He pushed Logan, rocking him forward. His head fell toward the bottom of the tub. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, then eased him down. Logan's hands sprang free, but he couldn't bring them around; his shoulders flared in pain when he tried. Next, Emile released his feet.

Logan rolled onto his side, sliding down to the bottom of the tub. He groaned. He couldn't move his arms or legs. His neck and shoulders were so stiff, it occurred to him that Emile might have stabbed him; he'd let Logan bleed out in the tub and be done with it. But there was no blood pooling under him, so he guessed he was all right.

“Work it out,” Emile said, standing.

Logan said, “My name is Logan. You're Emile, right?”

The guy walked out.

Logan slowly did work out the kinks, at least enough to move. The soreness remained.

Emile came back in. He lifted a short stack of clothes for Logan to see. He set them on the counter. “They'll be too big for you, but I think you'll feel better getting out of what you're wearing.”

He didn't wait for a thank-you—good thing, because Logan wouldn't have given one. He left, pulling the door shut behind him. He said, “Don't lock it.”

When he pulled himself out of the tub, Logan realized how much he hurt—everywhere. Getting undressed was worse. Even as the blood returned to his limbs, and the muscles loosened, he found new areas of pain. Either the tape around his neck had been tighter than he'd thought, or he'd pulled at it too much. His throat—from skin to . . . whatever was in there . . . felt like it was on fire. With his clothes off, he examined the stack Emile had given him: white boxers; black pants with lots of pockets; a black T-shirt. All of it was big enough to be his dad's.

Emile opened the door. He held open a plastic bag. “Your stuff.”

When Logan had scooped up his soiled clothes and dumped them in the bag, the man said, “Take a shower.”

Logan looked at the tub, back to the man. The last thing he wanted to do was get in
there
again.

“I'm not your old man,” Emile said. “I'm not trying to teach you good hygiene, but I have to be with you for a while, so . . .” He gestured toward the shower.

“What's ‘a while'?” Logan said.

Emile stared at him a moment, then pulled the door closed.

FIFTY-SEVEN

“Michael O'Dey?” Hutch said.

Sitting on the bed, the young man nodded. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his back pressed against the wall. He rocked slowly forward and back.

The motel room was dingy and small, but it seemed quiet. Hutch liked that it was close to the highway, in case they had to travel quickly.

Earlier, Laura and Macie had gone into the bathroom with the XTerra's small first-aid kit to tend to Laura's shoulder wound. After they'd returned, the kit nearly empty, Laura and Hutch had gone into the adjoining room to talk to Michael. Laura had closed the drapes against the eye-aching sunlight.

Now the only illumination came from a dim bulb behind a grime-covered shade beside the bed. Laura and Hutch were leaning against a low dresser across from the foot of the bed.

“Son,” Hutch said, “I met your father last night.”

Michael's eyes snapped up.

“Jim, right?” Hutch said.

Michael nodded. His eyes were hungry, waiting for information.

“He'd . . . um, come to help you,” Hutch said. “You called him the other day, and he'd driven up from . . .” He tried to remember.

“Portland,” Michael said.

Hutch's eyes caught Laura's. He turned back to the boy. “He wanted to get you out of Outis. He approached me because he thought I could help.”

“Is he still there?” Michael said slowly. “We have to let him know I left.”

Hutch considered sitting near Michael on the bed. If it had been anyone else, he would have. The boy appeared subdued, but so did alligators before they lurched for their next meal. Given the erratic behavior he had exhibited, he needed to show a lot more restraint before Hutch could trust him.

“Michael,” Hutch said, “your father got hurt. One of Page's men shot him.”

Michael's eyes flashed open. His lips formed words, but no sound emerged.

“He was alive when I dropped him off at the hospital,” Hutch said. “As soon as I can, I'll try to find out his condition.”

Michael focused on something far away and frowned. He rocked over his crossed legs, then bumped his head into the wall, producing a hollow thump.

After a few minutes Laura said, “Michael, we need to know about Outis. What can you tell us?”

Nothing about him changed. He continued to rock, gazing into a dark corner of the room.

“Outis soldiers kidnapped my son last night,” Hutch said. “He's only twelve.”

Michael stopped rocking. His eyes shifted to meet Hutch's.

Hutch said, “I think you can help me. Will you do that, will you help?”

Michael nodded, and when Hutch thought that was all he
could
do, Michael said, “How?”

He sounded lucid, together. It was as though a breakdown were hitting him in waves. Hutch didn't know if the waters of mental collapse were at low tide or had merely ebbed out until the next breaker. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, he lobbed questions at the boy. Laura stepped in when she felt an answer needed more elaboration or Hutch's question seemed unclear.

They learned about Michael's recruitment, how an invitation to “try out” at Outis had come through a massively multiplayer online game. He told them about his being selected for an elite division called Quarterback. Most interesting to Hutch was Outis's use of video games and virtual reality to train their soldiers. He realized that Outis was using the technology for more than honing skills.

“They desensitized you to violence,” Hutch said. He turned to Laura. “You know how everyone complains that violent video games and television shows and movies eventually numb people to the horrors of death? Page is using that, accelerating the process to make his soldiers killers without emotions.”