No Exit

by TAYLOR ADAMS

  This text message, tagged UNABLE TO SEND, was still open. She closed it, in case Rodent Face looked over her shoulder.

  She’d also tried opening the van’s rear door (which could’ve been a fatal error if the vehicle had possessed a car alarm), but it was locked. Of course—why would it not be locked? She’d lingered out there, peering into the darkness with cupped hands, tapping the glass with her knuckles, trying to coax the tiny form into moving again. No luck. The van’s interior was pitch black, and the rear doors were heaped with blankets and junk. She’d only glimpsed that little hand for a few seconds. But it’d been enough. She hadn’t imagined it.

  Right?

  Right.

  “Ace of spades.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “Language, Eddie—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Sandi, we’re snowed in inside a taxpayer-funded shithouse in Colorado and it’s almost Christmas Eve. I’ll put a twenty in my swear jar when I get home, okay?”

  The lady with the black bowl cut—Sandi, apparently—glanced across the wide table to Darby and mouthed: Sorry about him. She was missing a front tooth. In her lap, her rhinestone purse was embroidered with Psalm 100:5, for the lord is good and his love endures forever.

  Darby smiled back politely. Her delicate sensibilities could handle a little cussing. Plus, Ashley still thought Bing Crosby was one of the Beatles, and that made Ed a decent guy in her book.

  But . . . she was aware that she was developing another blind spot here, just like when she’d entered the building without checking her corners. Her gut said that Rodent Face was the driver of the gray van. But that was an assumption. She knew the kidnapper/child abuser could be anyone here. Any of the four strangers trapped at this roadside shelter could be—no, was—a suspect.

  Ashley? He was cleaning up at Go Fish right now. He was witty and friendly, the kind of sanguine charmer she’d dated once but never twice, but there was something about him she didn’t trust. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why. Was it a mannerism? A choice of words? He just felt false to her, his social engagements carefully managed, the way a store clerk puts on a cheery face for customers but talks shit about them in the break room.

  As for Ed and Sandi? They were nice, but something was off about them, too. They didn’t seem like they were married. They didn’t even seem like they particularly liked each other.

  And Rodent Face? He was a walking AMBER Alert already.

  Everyone here was guilty until proven innocent. Darby would need to match each individual to a vehicle outside, and then she could be certain. She couldn’t just openly ask, either—or the true kidnapper/abusive parent would know she was onto them. She’d need to ply this information gently. She considered asking Ashley, Ed, and Sandi what time they’d arrived and deducing from the amount of snow piled on the cars outside. But that, too, could attract too much attention.

  Then again, what if she waited too long?

  The kidnapper wouldn’t linger here. The instant the blizzard cleared, or the CDOT snowplows arrived, he (or she, or they) would get the hell out of Colorado. Leaving Darby with only a suspect description and a license plate number.

  Her phone chirped in her pocket, startling her. Twenty percent battery.

  Ashley glanced up at her over a handful of grubby cards. “Signal?”

  “What?”

  “Any luck catching a cell signal? By the statues?”

  She shook her head, understanding this was an opportunity. She knew her phone wouldn’t last the night, so now would be an appropriate time to ask, in character: “Anyone here have an iPhone charger, by chance?”

  Ashley shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t,” said Sandi, nudging Ed’s elbow, and her tone morphed from sweet to venomous. “What about you, Eddie? Do you still have your phone charger, or did you pawn that, too?”

  “You don’t pawn things in the twenty-first century,” Ed said. “It’s called Craigslist. And it’s not my fault Apple makes overpriced—”

  “Language—”

  “Trash. I was going to say overpriced trash, Sandi.” He slapped his cards to the table and looked at Ashley, forcing a grin. “I broke an iPhone in my pocket once, just by sitting down. A seven-hundred-dollar gadget, destroyed by the simple act of sitting down. The flimsy little thing bent like a leaf against my—”

  “Language—”

  “—hip. My hip. See, despite what Sandi here thinks, I’m actually capable of completing an entire sentence without resorting to—”

  Ashley interrupted: “Four of clubs?”

  “Fuck.”

  Sandi sighed and popped another bubble on her tablet. “Careful, young man. Eddie-boy flips tables when he loses.”

  “It was a chessboard,” Ed said. “And it was once.”

  Ashley grinned, taking his new four of clubs.

  “You know, Eddie, you’re never going to get another job if you don’t get that cussing under control.” Sandi pecked at her screen with a thumbnail, and a cartoon failure sound chimed—whomp-whomp.

  Ed forced a smile. He started to say something, but reconsidered.

  The room cooled.

  Darby crossed her arms and let the words sink in—bottom line, no white Apple charging cord for miles. She guessed her phone had a few hours of battery life left on power-save mode, if she kept it idle. Rodent Face hadn’t answered her question, of course, or even spoken at all. He was still standing by the front door, blocking the exit with his hands in his pockets, his fuzzy chin down, his red-and-black Deadpool beanie cloaking the upper half of his face.

  He’s watching me. Just like I’m watching him.

  She had to act natural. Her best friend had once told her that she suffered from RBF (“resting bitch face”), and yes, it was true that Darby rarely smiled. Not because she was bitchy, or even unhappy. Smiling made her self-conscious. When the muscles in her face tensed, the long, curved scar over her eyebrow became visible, as clear as a white sickle. She’d had it since she was ten. She hated it.

  Crackle-snap.

  A ragged sound, like tearing fabric, and Darby jolted in her seat. It was the radio behind the security shutter hissing to life. Everyone looked up.

  “Is that—”

  “Yep.” Ed stood. “The emergency freq. It’s back.”

  Another slurp of grungy static, reaching a garbled peak. Like a phone dropped underwater.

  She didn’t realize Rodent Face had crept closer until he was standing directly over her left shoulder, still mouth-breathing, joining the group in frozen attention as the ancient Sony AM/FM leaked electronic slush from the counter. Under the feedback noise, she recognized . . . yes, there it was . . . the faintest murmur—

  “A voice,” she said. “Someone’s talking.”

  “I can’t hear anything—”

  “Hang on.” Ed reached through the security grate and twirled the volume dial, lifting tinny fragments out of the muck. It sounded like an automated voice, stilted with inhuman pauses: “—has issued a w-nter st-rm w-rn-ng -ffecting Backb-ne Pass with bl-zzard conditions and extr-me prec-pitation. State Route Six is closed to all tr-ffic between exits f-rty-nine and sixty-eight unt-l f-rther notice—”

  Ashley blinked. “Which exit number are we at?”

  Ed raised a finger, clattering the shutters. “Shh.”

  “—Em-rgency and road maint-n-nce crews exp-ct significant delays of eight to t-n hours due to m-ltiple collisions and heavy sn-wfall. All mot-rists are adv-sed to st-y off the roads and r-main indoors until c-nditions impr-ve.”

  A long, crackly pause. Then a faint beep.

  Everyone waited.

  “The n-tional weath-r service has issued a w-nter storm w-rning affecting Backb-ne Pass . . .” The broadcast repeated, and everyone in the room deflated at once. Ed lowered the volume and huffed.

  Silence.

  Sandi spoke first. “Eight to ten hours?”

  Darby’s legs nearly folded under her. She’d been half sta
nding, arched forward to listen, and now she slumped back into her chair like a rag doll. The rest of the room processed this information in hushed voices, swirling around her:

  “Is that right?”

  “Eight to ten freakin’ hours.”

  “All night, basically.”

  “Better get comfy.”

  Sandi pouted and closed her tablet’s leather case. “Figures. I’m already on the last level of Super Bubble Pop.”

  All night. Darby rocked in the cheap chair, her knuckles clasped around her knees. A strange sensation of alarm washed over her, a sluggish sort of horror, like what her mother might’ve felt when she found that first lump under her armpit. No panic, no fight, no flight, just that shivery little moment when daily life goes rancid.

  It’ll be all night until the snowplows get here—

  Rodent Face cleared his throat, a juicy gurgle, and everyone glanced at him. He was still standing behind Darby’s chair, still breathing down her neck. He addressed the entire room, his words slow and clotted: “I’m Lars.”

  Silence.

  “My . . .” He inhaled through his mouth. “My name is . . . Lars.”

  No one responded.

  Darby tensed, realizing this was likely the first time Ashley, Ed, and Sandi had heard him speak as well. The awkwardness was tangible.

  “Uh . . .” Ashley flashed his easy smile. “Thanks, Lars.”

  “You know . . .” Lars swallowed, both hands in his jacket pockets. “Since we’ll be . . . ah . . . here a while. Better make introductions. So, ah, hello, my name is Lars.”

  . . . And I’m probably the one with a kid locked in my van.

  Darby’s mind raced, her thoughts fluttering out of control, her nerves writhing and sparking like live wires.

  And we’re trapped here with you.

  In this tiny rest stop.

  All night.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Ed. “What’re your thoughts on Apple products?”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes of strategic small talk later, Darby had all the parked vehicles matched to their drivers.

  The buried one belonged to Ashley. He’d been the first one here, having arrived sometime after 3:00 p.m. this afternoon to find a deserted rest area with a murmuring radio and stale coffee. He’d been in no hurry to cross the pass, and figured he’d play it safe. He was a college student, like herself—Salt Lake City Institute of Tech or something. Now that the ice was broken, he was an absolute chatterbox with a Cheshire grin full of white teeth. Darby now knew he was planning a Vegas trip with his uncle to see some illusionist show. She knew he hated mushrooms but loved cilantro. Good lord, could he talk: “And Ashley is a perfectly good male name.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ed.

  The two older folks were more guarded, but Darby learned the red F-150 was actually Sandi’s—not Ed’s, as she’d originally guessed. She was also surprised to learn they weren’t married, although they sure bickered enough to be. They were cousins, actually, and Sandi was driving them both to Denver to visit family for Christmas. A bit of an eleventh-hour trip, by the sound of it. Ed had been in some sort of recent trouble, since he didn’t have a car or (apparently) a steady job. Prison time? Maybe. He seemed to be something of a beached male; a fiftysomething man-child with an earring and a biker goatee, and Sandi seemed to love babying him, if only so she had an excuse to hate him.

  So Darby had eliminated three people, and two vehicles.

  This left Lars.

  He hadn’t spoken at all since he’d told them his name, so Darby couldn’t get a firm idea of exactly when he’d arrived here, but judging by the snowpack she estimated maybe thirty minutes before Ed and Sandi. She watched Lars fill a Styrofoam cup with coco and return to his sentry spot at the door, taking a childish slurp. She hadn’t seen him sit down once.

  As she sipped her own drug of choice, cofee, Darby tried to plan her next moves. But there were too many unknowns. She couldn’t involve Ed, Ashley, or Sandi—not yet—because then she’d lose control of the situation. Involving other people had to be a last resort. You can’t put the pin back in the grenade. Right here, right now, she had the element of surprise, and the worst thing she could possibly do was waste it.

  Still, her mind conjured worst-case scenarios. She imagined telling Ashley (the youngest and most physically able) that she suspected they were sharing oxygen with a child molester, and Ashley understandably blanching. Lars would notice this, yank a gun from his baby-blue jacket, and kill them both. Ed and Sandi would be witnesses, so they’d die, too. Four bullet-riddled bodies in a glossy pool of blood. All because Darby opened her mouth.

  And the flipside—what if there wasn’t a child in Lars’s van?

  What if I imagined it?

  What if she’d seen a plastic doll hand? A dog paw? A kid’s empty glove? It wouldn’t explain the bars or the combination lock, but still, it could’ve all been her tortured imagination, a trick of light and shadow, and it had lasted only a few seconds anyway. Her mind swirled a little.

  She’d been certain thirty minutes ago, but suddenly her conviction disappeared. She could imagine a dozen scenarios more probable than this one. What were the odds of stumbling across a kidnapping in progress? While trapped overnight in a snowy rest stop? It was all too fantastical to be a part of Darby’s life.

  She tried to mentally reconstruct the scene. Step by step. The van’s rear window had been frosted with ice. The interior had been dark. And Darby herself? She was a wreck—anxious, sleep-deprived, her blood surging with Red Bull, glimpsing starbursts behind her own dry eyelids. What if this was just her vivid imagination at work, and Lars was just an innocent traveler like the others? Attacking him could be a felony.

  If I’m wrong about this . . .

  She finished her last gulp of coffee and for some reason, her mind darted to her older sister. Twenty-three-year-old Devon, who had her first tattoo etched on her right shoulder blade. A few Chinese characters, bold and elegantly drawn. They translated to: “Strength in Chinese.”

  The lesson there? Double-check everything.

  She needed to go back outside to the van. She needed to see this child. Really see this child.

  And she couldn’t rush to action. She had plenty of time; she had eight to ten hours of it, in fact. If this really was a kidnapping, Lars would run the van’s heat periodically tonight to keep the child from freezing. Darby had enough time to think. And she needed to be certain before making her move.

  Right?

  Right.

  She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and scanned the room. At the table, they’d finished Go Fish—Ashley was now trying to convince Ed to play a new card game called War. Sandi had plucked a yellowed paperback from her purse and raised it like a defensive wall. And Lars, the star of tonight’s nightmare, was still guarding the front door, sipping his Styrofoam cup of coco. She’d been counting; this was his third refill. He’d be hitting the restroom soon.

  That’s when, she decided. That was when she’d slip outside. Last time she’d stumbled into the scene, off guard and frightened. This time, she’d be ready.

  Ashley riffled the cards, having given up on Ed, and nodded at Sandi’s paperback. “What’re you reading?”

  She grunted. “A murder mystery.”

  “I like murder mysteries.” He hesitated. “Well, actually, to be honest, I don’t read much. I guess I just like the idea of murder mysteries.”

  Sandi forced a polite smile, turning a page. Why’d you ask, then?

  It was barely two hours into Darby’s stay at the Wanasho rest area, and she was already getting annoyed at Ashley. He was a talker, all right. And he was still going like a windup toy, his hooks latched into Sandi: “How far . . . uh, how many chapters in are you?”

  “Not many.”

  “Has the victim been murdered yet?”

  “Yep.”

  “I like gore. Was it gory?”

  Ed stirred uncomfortably and his chair croaked. H
e watched Sandi, who was turning another page and hadn’t even answered Ashley’s last question when he pelted her with another: “Can you guess who the murderer is?”

  “Not yet,” she said dryly. “That’s the point.”

  “It’s always the nice guy,” Ashley said. “Again, I don’t really read, but I’ve seen a lot of movies, and that’s even better. Whoever seems like the nicest character, at first, will always turn out to be the asshole in the end.”

  Sandi ignored him.

  Please stop talking, Darby thought. Just stop.

  “That truck,” he continued, glancing out the window. “That’s yours, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Reminds me of a joke. What does Ford stand for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Found on road, dead.”

  Sandi grunted and kept reading.

  Finally, Ashley took the hint. “Sorry. I’ll let you read.”

  Lars watched this interaction from the door. He licked his lips, and Darby was struck by how small his teeth were. Just two little rows of stunted kernels, like baby teeth, half-formed, still encased in pink gums. He gulped the last of his coco and threw his empty Styrofoam cup at the garbage can, missing by three full feet.

  No one commented on this.

  Not even Ashley.

  Darby watched the white cup twirl on the tile and considered—assuming her suspicions were confirmed—maybe she’d be able to break into Lars’s van and quietly move the child into her Honda. Hide him or her in the back seat, perhaps, under the heap of rice paper she used for her gravestone rubbings. Or better yet, the trunk—if there was enough oxygen and heat. When the snowplows arrived early tomorrow morning, everyone could go their separate ways, and Lars might drive away without even realizing his prey had escaped—

  No. That was wishful thinking. Lars would be back to run the engine. He would notice his captive had disappeared.

  She took in a rattling breath. She counted to five before letting it out, just as her mother once taught her.