“Luke Johnson?”
“Yes.”
“Get in the car.”
I was instructed to lie down in the back seat. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t drug me and blindfold me, but I guess they know how important Katelyn is to me.
Obviously they do, or they wouldn’t have taken her.
We drive for a while, over an hour. I have no idea where we’re going. I don’t dare try to look. Any disobedience and they may harm Katelyn.
I want to ask questions as well, but I don’t.
Whoever this guy is, he has his instructions, and one of them is undoubtedly not to answer any questions from me.
I know how these things go.
Hell, I used to be in the driver’s seat. This was my job when I was new in the organization. I was the person who showed up as a driver, who took people where they were supposed to end up.
And a lot of them never saw the light of day again.
No, I never pulled the triggers—not once—but I contributed to many deaths.
Most of them were more people like me—people who fled the organization or at least tried to.
How did I ever think I could deserve Katelyn? How did I ever think I might possibly be worthy?
I’ll take death by a thousand paper cuts—I’ll take death in the most heinous, horrid, torturous way possible—to save her life.
To make sure she has the life she deserves.
Finally, the car pulls into a driveway and stops.
“Get up,” the driver says.
I rise into a sitting position.
I don’t recognize the place, which of course I don’t expect to.
“What now?” I ask.
“That’s not for me to say.”
When he opens the door, I get out. I stand on my own two feet. Determination courses through me. My old friend rage appears, and I attempt to keep him in check.
Whatever King makes me do, I’ll do it.
Anything for Katelyn.
A house. An old country farmhouse. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, yet I can see the LA skyline through the smog on the horizon.
We’re not overly far from the city.
This is a safehouse. Already I know this. Already I know King is here.
I feel him. Insects crawling up the back of my neck. That’s King.
And Katelyn.
Meandering alongside the insects is warmth, love.
Katelyn is in this house.
And so far she hasn’t been harmed.
It’s my job to make sure it stays that way.
“Follow me.”
I obey the driver. It’s not like I have any other choice. We go inside the house, and of course it’s empty. Or so it appears to be.
“Where’s King?”
I don’t expect an answer, and I don’t particularly want one.
The driver takes me into the kitchen and nods toward a seat at the table. “Sit down.”
I drop my ass to the chair.
The driver opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate and a glass. He sets both in front of me. “Eat.”
It’s a roast beef sandwich with some kind of cheese and a glass of water.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you are hungry. Eat.”
Maybe the sandwich is laced with something. But if he wanted to drug me, he would’ve done it before now. I pick up the sandwich and take a bite. Tastes kind of like dirt.
I try to swallow my bite, but it forms a firm lump in my throat. I take a drink of the water to dislodge it.
Then I take another bite. A drink of water. I continue this until the sandwich is gone.
So far I don’t feel anything, though any drugs ingested orally will take a while to get into my bloodstream.
“You need to use the bathroom?” the driver asks.
“Yeah.” I don’t, but I want to look at the lay of the land as well as I can.
“Follow me.”
I rise and follow him down the hallway to a door. “Don’t take too long. I’ll be waiting.”
Great. Not that I expected anything less. He’s no doubt been instructed by King to keep both eyes on me at all times. Part of me is surprised he doesn’t watch me take a piss.
But he doesn’t, and for that I’m grateful. There’s little to be grateful for, but at least I have this, a modicum of privacy and modesty.
What I’m most grateful for right now is my knowledge—my knowledge of King and his MO, which tells me Katelyn hasn’t been harmed.
No, King will save that. If I don’t cooperate to his satisfaction, he will begin harming Katelyn. He’ll probably make me watch.
That way, he’ll get me to do whatever he wants.
He knows this, and so do I.
Yes, I’m well versed in his MO.
I manage to squeeze out a few drops of piss and flush the toilet to make it look good. While the toilet is flushing, I open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Nothing in there except a pack of antibacterial wipes.
Then I open the cupboards below the sink. Nothing again.
Then, just for kicks, I turn on the water to wash my hands, and while it’s running, I lift the lid to the toilet tank.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Toilet hooch? A nail file? Something as small as a paperclip?
I don’t find any of those things, but I do find something.
Something that could very well help me.
42
KATELYN
The violent heaves finally stop, but my stomach is cramped so badly I can’t seem to move. Buck helps me up, but still I’m hunched over. He walks me out of the small bathroom and back into the room and to the bed where I first woke up.
“Lie down,” he says.
I obey, and lying flat helps the cramping a bit.
“Easy,” he says. “Everything will be okay.”
I don’t reply.
I don’t reply because it’s a lie. Everything will not be okay. Everything is so far from okay. Here I am, having been taken against my will once more.
It wasn’t enough that someone tried to kill me earlier. With the bomb.
When that didn’t work, I guess they decided to take me instead. But something doesn’t jibe. If they wanted me dead, why would they bother taking me and bringing me here?
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“Understand what?” Buck asks.
“Someone sent a bomb to my house yesterday. Or the day before. I have no idea.”
“What?”
“I know. Crazy. It was a package left on the doorstep of the guesthouse behind my parents’ house where I’m staying. I opened it, and as soon as I figured out what it was, I left the house. The bomb squad came, but it blew up anyway. I don’t even know the extent of the damage. But my mom and my dog and I got out. We were staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and then—” I shake my head. “Somehow I ended up here.”
“I admit that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Are you sure it was a bomb?”
“Well, something blew up.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Whoever sent the bomb clearly wanted me dead, right? But if that’s the case, why am I not dead? Not that I want to be dead. But…”
“The bomb was a decoy, I bet. How did you know to get out of the house?”