Unlocked (31 page)

I imagined my cabin at the top of the hill and ran to it, but as I neared it, strands of black smoke snaked from the windows. Inside, the space seemed empty at first, but mists of blackness danced along the walls and the floors. I yelled, “You have no power here! Get out!”

A broom materialized in my hands, and I swept the dark shapes and mists out the front door. I swept every crack and crevice and corner of the cabin. I swept it clean. I slammed the door closed. They would have no more access to my mind. Ever again.

“It's not enough,” a soft voice whispered in my mind. The voice reassured me and urged me to do more.

I examined the empty cabin. I had swept it clean, but it remained dark. I needed to replace the previous evil with something better. I imagined sunlight beaming in through the dirty windows. I polished the windows until they sparkled. Then I set up a wooden art easel in front of the largest window as I'd seen at Clandestine Coffee. Then I added a stool in front of the easel . . . a white stool with bright paint colors splattered all over it. I'd be able to sit there and paint the flowers blooming in the field. I created a table next to it and furnished it with the art supplies I'd been introduced to this past week. The charcoal, the watercolors, the pencils, the brushes, and so much more.

I covered the barren floor with an Egyptian woven rug. I hung artwork on the walls by Picasso and Monet—bright colors and happy images. I set an overstuffed corduroy armchair in the corner with a fresh Italian soda next to it. My breathing slowed. I felt at peace. This cabin—my mind—had been invaded by the darkness, but I'd now banished the demons. Now the space housed my nascent creativity. When I had only swept the space clean, it was still unfinished. I had to fill the empty space with better things.

I stored every detail in my memory. I intended to revisit here and paint the landscape and drink the Italian soda. I stepped out onto the porch and locked the door to my place of serenity and comfort. Only I had the ability to unlock my mind. No one would ever enter without my invitation. I moved along the meadow. I heard birds in the grove of junipers, oaks, maples, and cottonwoods. The trees stood strong and stable, and I would too. I felt the breeze on my face. I focused on the colors of the flowers. I counted and touched the petals. One, for red geranium. Two, for purple violets. Three, for yellow daffodils. Deep breath. White irises. I returned to the elevator to lift myself back to the real world. Another deep breath. I watched the display in the elevator tick off the floors, and I rose to the main level.

I felt peaceful when I opened my eyes.

On the desktop, my hand rested near a brochure advertising the amenities of the hotel. I flipped it open and took a sharp breath. I knew where Mom was.

I glanced at the time on the wall clock, midnight. I'd meditated for hours.

I ran to the door and flung it open—startling a couple in the hallway. They gawked at me, and I swung the door shut. I leaned against it and listened to them chuckle on the other side.

I needed a plan to beat Harrison at his insane game. If I was too reckless, I risked suffering the same fate as my father. If I was too cautious, Mom could die.

My blackened footprints marked the plush carpet of the suite. I was filthy, and road rash covered my legs and arms. My clothes were ripped. And I stunk. I no longer cared what other people thought about me, but now, more than ever, I needed to blend in and be inconspicuous so I could sneak through the hotel and rescue Mom. A shower would give me time to devise a strategy. In the bathroom, I stripped off my clothes and hopped into the shower. I let the water blast against my neck and chest. When the spray hit my week-old seat belt bruise, it no longer stung, but the fresh road rash pulsated with pain. I wanted to scream, and then I realized I could. I was alone. The suite was huge. Chances of anyone hearing me were miniscule. I turned toward the cascade of water and yelled as it flushed the debris from my wounds. The release invigorated my mind, and ideas for a plan came to me.

An ant scampered along the small shelf next to the complimentary shampoo. I was confident this little guy was real. I once read that if an ant was separated from its original colony, no other colony would accept it. The new ants would attack it and leave it to die alone. I lifted my finger to the outcropping and let the ant crawl onto my skin. I opened the shower door and squatted down to free the ant. It scurried away across the tiles.

I finished showering, dried off, and tossed the towel to the side.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered the far wall. Yesterday, I would have freaked, but now I stepped over to the mirror and leaned toward it.

Green eyes.

I blinked.

Still green.

No panic welled inside me. I was confident the evil spirits were finally gone. But I still feared losing the people I loved. I had no idea if Plug was alive or dead, but I was certain I could still help Mom.

I examined my wounds. They weren't as extensive as they felt. My left knee, thigh, and forearm had taken the brunt of the fall, but they appeared clean. So, I slipped my clothes on and tried to avoid rubbing the road rash. The tear in the side of my shorts was pretty noticeable, but I had no way to fix it. I let my hair hang loose around my shoulders to dry.

I darted through the halls, which were less crowded than at midday, but with more than 500 rooms, two restaurants, and three lounges, a lot of people still lurked about just after midnight. Even though I was freshly showered, I still received strange glances. I evaded as many people as possible, because I needed to get to Mom's office and use her computer.

The manager-on-duty and security personnel could be anywhere in the hotel, but I chanced it and swiped Mom's master key card to gain access to the back offices. The outer room was empty. I weaved through the staff desks, and once in Mom's private office, I closed the door behind me and let out a breath.

My gaze landed on an armoire in the corner. Inside it, I discovered clothes fresh from the dry cleaner and a plastic box labeled
FIRST-AID KIT
. I tore off my grimy outfit and opened the box. To my disappointment, it only contained a small assortment of Band-Aids and a half-used tube of Neosporin. I tossed it aside and changed into clean slacks and a shirt. Mom was taller, and I tripped over the hems of her pant legs. I attempted to fold them, but the fabric slipped out. I snatched the stapler from the desktop and tacked them in place.

I sat at her desk, tugged the computer keyboard closer, and typed the password: Hannah. I'd told Mom to use a better password, but she ignored me.

I typed into Google: How do you not get hypnotized?

Fifteen million websites came up in less than one second.

Meditation and self-hypnosis were keys. I skimmed through the tips and tricks for self-hypnosis—almost identical to the guided imagery Rose had taught in art. The main difference was to plant a posthypnotic suggestion. I closed the Internet browser and racked my brain. I needed an idea that would be impervious to Harrison.

A small icon on Mom's computer monitor labeled
SECURITY SURVEILLANCE
caught my eye. I clicked it, and the screen populated with six videos across and five down. I scanned the images, but then they refreshed with different views of the hotel.

This time I caught a glimpse of the renovated lounge. Propped center stage was a large wingback chair with its rear to the camera. I squinted, but the images changed. My instincts told me Mom was in that chair. I clicked around the screen, trying to figure out how to return to the previous images. Nothing worked. I pounded my fist against the desktop and shoved the keyboard away.

Harrison said she'd be waiting center stage for the final act. He probably assumed he was being cryptic, but he didn't realize I'd been in the lounge when Mom humiliated him in front of Kevin and Mr. Holloday. I was certain Harrison planned to disgrace her in the same place.

I picked up the phone to call the police. My hand shook. Harrison had told me to avoid contact with the police at all costs. I'd turn myself in if it would save Mom, but what if I was wrong and she wasn't even in the hotel? What if Harrison followed through on his threat and killed her because I called the authorities? I slammed the phone down and tugged at my hair.

Nick had said that Harrison used a rhyming phrase as my hypnotic trigger. My own posthypnotic suggestion should rhyme. I scooted back in Mom's chair and prepared to meditate. But then my eyes went wide. I needed some sort of alarm to wake me up in case the meditation took too long. I needed to hurry. I had to get to Mom.

I scrounged through the top drawer of Mom's desk and found a stop-watch. That would work. I set the alarm for twenty minutes, but hopefully, I'd finish sooner. I leaned back in the chair and began.

I ran to the safe place in my mind. The door of the cabin flew open before me. Inside, I snatched a sketchpad and propped it on the art easel. I perched on the stool in front of it and with a black marker I brainstormed ideas on the pad:

I read the words over and then tore off the page and set it on the table next to the easel. I'd spent the past week hoping people like Dr. James, Mrs. Santos, Mom, Manny, and even Plug would figure out how to help me, when the solution had been within me all along.

Fiddling with the chalks, I reflected on the meanings Rose had taught us. Red represented anger, but it also represented passion and courage. I selected the crimson chalk, and on the clean sketchpad I drew the outline of a large red heart. Inside it I wrote:

I memorized it, believed it, and accepted it. I folded the pages and tucked them into my shirt. These messages would stay with me when I left this place. I moved across the wooden porch and onto the grass. I repeated my mantra—my own posthypnotic suggestion—as I glided through the field of flowers. The doors to the elevator opened with a soft ding. I stepped inside, and with a new calm assurance, I rode the elevator in my mind and watched the numbers count me out of my meditative state. A beep sounded each time the digits changed.

I breathed in slowly, opened my eyes, and rubbed my hands on Mom's slacks. The alarm on the stopwatch beeped. I reached out and silenced it.

Impulsively, I dumped out the contents of Mom's purse. Among other things, a pocketknife and a can of pepper spray clattered to the desktop. I tossed the knife back into the empty purse along with Mom's key card.

I stood and held the pepper spray at arm's length. I needed to know how it worked. I held my breath and shot a quick spray. The liquid came out in a stream and hit the wall. There was no chemical cloud. My eyes didn't burn. My skin felt fine. I took a breath, and the odor made me gag. I clutched Mom's purse and darted out of her office.

In the outer room, I fumbled through the desk drawers and searched for useful items. I found a gray crocheted scarf, duct tape, a heavy-duty staple gun, wet wipes, and a long, sharp letter opener. I added them all to the purse.

Any means necessary.

I was ready.

I lifted the phone and pressed zero.

“Please connect me to John Harrison's room,” I said to the hotel operator.

“Hello?” Harrison's voice sent chills through my body, and I repeated my mantra in my head.

“Where is my mom?” I asked.

“Hannah, I wondered how long it would take you to find me,” Harrison said.

I took a deep breath.

“Ants on the ground,” Harrison said, “ants on your feet, ants on your arm put you right to sleep.”

His rhyme was worse than mine. I had never remembered the trigger phrase from the many times he'd manipulated me. I felt liberated hearing it now.

“Are you alone?” Harrison asked.

“Yes.” I tried to use a blank monotone as I'd seen myself do in the videos.

“Where are you?”

“The hotel's back offices.”

“Hannah, are you holding the phone with your right hand or your left?” he asked.

I puzzled at the question.

“My right,” I said.

“Why did you hesitate?” he asked.

This was going to be tricky. “I'm tired. It's been a long day.”

“Hannah, I want nothing but serenity and comfort for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Hannah, the tips of your fingers are beginning to warm. Can you sense it?”

“Yes.” But I told myself the opposite. My fingers were cold.

“Your left hand is heating up more than your right. Touch it to your cheek. Can you feel the warmth?”

“Yes.” I pressed it against my cheek, still cold. What was he trying to accomplish? Why didn't he just tell me where to meet him? Why was he wasting time?

“Hannah, your left hand is so hot the skin is beginning to perspire. The flesh is turning from pink to red. Is it painful?”