Swipe Right for Murder

by Derek Milman

  When she passes by my table, on her other side is a man holding a camera. The man is aiming the camera right at me. He’s standing on the upper tier of the lounge, leaning against the wall. He’s pretending to take pics of the view, but his lens is clearly on me. I never noticed Benoît, standing no more than a hundred feet away from me, snapping the photos of me that I’d later find on his phone, and on that flash drive in his laptop.

  There’s one last pic in the bunch, as “Lady with Hermès” walks out of my frame. In the photo the man has lowered the camera from his face. He’s looking away, about to make a break for it. My stomach lurches.

  The man isn’t Benoît.

  It’s Shiloh.

  I stare at the photo for so long that I don’t pay enough attention to the voice in my head saying: Moron, Shiloh is the one who sent you here. No one else spoke to Mr. Preston on the phone. Only he did. In the bathroom of your hotel room. So you couldn’t hear a word.

  But I can’t stop staring at the photo. So at first I ignore the buzzing sounds above me. And the sudden rise of laughter, the clicks of smartphone cameras. I don’t actually look up from my iPad until a mom grabs her kid right in front of me and says, excitedly: “Look, honey, look at the drones!”

  And then that’s all I hear—just that one word.

  Drones.

  I drop my iPad and look up. Through the open glass windows, someone has expertly piloted what people around me are excitedly calling “two top-of-the-line DJI drones” right into the middle of the cafeteria. Everyone is laughing, pointing with forks.

  “Best aerial shots you can get!” a guy says, except I’m not focused on the cameras on the two sleek silver drones. I’m worried about the small canisters they’re carrying.

  “I’m expecting a package!” a woman says, and everyone around her laughs. She should take her routine on the road.

  These clearly aren’t hacked military drones, but they’re still drones. And after the attack in Kansas, it’s the fixation on an idea—a method of attack—that scares me enough to take action.

  I stand up. “Everyone get out,” I say. But I say it hesitantly, under my breath, and no one hears me. So I do the opposite of what I’ve been trying to do for the last fifteen hours: I call attention to myself. I push my tray away (into some poor woman’s lap, actually), stand up on the table, and start waving my arms around like mad.

  “EVERYONE GET OUT!” I scream. “IT’S AN ATTACK! GET OUT NOW!”

  That’s pretty much all it takes. Everyone looks at me, looks at the drones, jumps up, and scatters. Trays drop. Silverware clatters. People begin to scream and rush out. But it’s too late. There’s a hissing noise, and the room fills with smoke.

  It’s a thick white smoke that instantly makes my eyes burn like mad.

  Tear gas.

  The screaming gets louder. There’s a stampede. I drop to the floor, under the table, to avoid being trampled. Backpacks and other gear are abandoned. People’s shit gets strewn everywhere. I see a pair of swimming goggles peeking out of an open, upturned backpack. I rip off my sunglasses and snap on the goggles. I grab a red bandanna out of another backpack and wrap it around my mouth, although that doesn’t help much. I can hardly breathe at all.

  I hear glass breaking. I look up. People are smashing out the windows. The drones calmly buzz around the cavernous, high-ceilinged room, still smoking. The tear gas is unreal. It makes every single thing on my face hurt. I hear shouts, then someone is dragging me out from under the table.

  It’s a state trooper.

  “C’mon, kid,” he says, standing me up, a bandanna wrapped around his nose and mouth, “let’s get you out of here.” He grabs my shoulders, about to spin me around, but then his head suddenly thrusts forward in a very unnatural way, accompanied by a spray of blood that gets me right in the face.

  There’s an arrowhead sticking out of his throat.

  At first I can’t believe my eyes, that what I’m seeing is real, but the state trooper falls into me and I can’t support his weight, so I have to maneuver around him in order not to get crushed. He falls forward, collapsing to the ground, dead.

  Fear and shock fight for control of my body so I just wind up feeling very cold, my brain shielding me from this reality while trying to make sense of it all, taking in every little detail.

  The arrow is made of carbon, with neon-green fletching. It went clean through. It’s a hunting arrow. Most likely shot from a crossbow. Most likely meant for me. This was a trap.

  Of course it was. I’m so fucking stupid.

  They’re out there, in the woods, trying to kill me.

  Of course they are, they’re terrorists: they have no problem killing innocent bystanders. So there goes that theory.

  The fresh air from all the broken windows is weakening the effects of the tear gas from the drones. There are loud gunshots. More state troopers have rushed in. They’re shooting at the drones. A couple of their shots miss, shattering more windows. The broken glass all over the floor is probably just as dangerous as the tear gas. I crouch down beside the dead state trooper, and roll him onto his side. I unholster his gun (I think it’s a Glock) and shove it in the waistband of my jeans.

  Another neon-green arrow whizzes by, embedding itself in a nearby wall.

  Holy shit.

  The other state troopers aren’t seeing the arrows. I shout at them, but they can’t hear me; they’re busy taking down the drones, rushing people out of the visitor center.

  I dig around in people’s abandoned backpacks, pulling out T-shirts and hoodies and shorts, stuff shoved way down into bags that isn’t contaminated by the tear gas. Then I stand up, keeping my head down, and run out as fast as I can, along with everyone else the state troopers are quickly ushering out of the building.

  Outside, it’s chaos: people are vomiting, coughing, crying, and grasping each other. More police cars, sirens wailing, skid to a stop in front of the visitor center. Two ambulances pull up as well, joining a third that’s already here.

  I’m not safe here. I’m not safe surrounded by people, by the police, by an entire army even. Those arrows will find me.

  Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide…

  I move away from the crowd, wiping the blood off my face. I rip off my shirt and pull on a fresh T-shirt. I put a gray hoodie on over it. I take off my jeans and put on a pair of cargo shorts that just manage to fit, a minor miracle, since usually everything is too big on me. I transfer the gun. I still have no phone, and I just lost my iPad and my backpack (with my laptop inside). I pull off the swimming goggles. My eyes weren’t affected. My throat is burning, though. I need water.

  I need to get out of the open. I think about running over to the police, but it’s insanity—they’re still getting people out, tending to the wounded; they might not be able to protect me in time, and any pause could be too late. So I run toward the woods surrounding the visitor center, heading right for the sun-splotched trails. As soon as I do, another arrow flies into a 1950s-style wooden sign with yellow lettering, welcoming me to the Mohawk State Park trails. It misses me by a hair.

  Those bastards—those sneaky, lying bastards.

  I can’t see where they are. I can’t see who’s shooting arrows at me.

  I race through the trails in a zigzag pattern, taking cover behind the bigger trees whenever I can. I’m on a stony path that cuts through the woods. I try to get higher up to see more of my surroundings. As I do, the glistening lake emerges from beyond the trees. I’m already sweaty, dehydrated, totally out of breath.

  On the path directly below mine, I hear a rustling, and in the corner of my eye I see a flash of green that’s brighter than anything else in the forest. I hide behind an oak tree, and peer down. There’s a man wearing a black windbreaker, loading a crossbow with one of those evil green arrows. He’s creeping through the forest.

  I take the Glock out of my shorts.

  He crouches, moving stealthily, until he’s behind a tree, right under me.
>
  I breathe through my nose. I can do this. This is my only chance.

  It’s me or him.

  I move out from behind the tree and aim the gun. “Pssst! Katniss!”

  He emerges, lightning fast, and whirls around, his crossbow already aimed. But I’m quicker. I fire the gun, and through the explosion of smoke I see him go flying back into the woods. He hits the ground hard and doesn’t move again.

  My ears are ringing and I wobble for a second. I wish I could say I’ve never fired a gun before. I hate them. But when I was a kid, I went hunting with my survivalist uncle (in the North Maine woods) and he taught me how to fire a gun, along with a lot of other crap. I know a little about crossbows, too. I didn’t enjoy hunting, and I’ll never do it again, but at least I had that experience. Only something as ugly and horrible as this would make that knowledge useful again. Bile fills the back of my throat.

  I don’t know if there are more of them. So I keep running.

  I fly through the trails, eventually making my way out of the woods and onto the lakeshore. There are people here, and my presence probably endangers them. It’s warm for this time of year, so people are on kayaks, Jet Skis, pontoons; parents and kids are walking along the edge of the water. I think about that poor state trooper.

  Was all of this my fault? Because I showed up here?

  I stuff the gun into my shorts. I look around, panting, trying to get my bearings. There’s a beach nearby. I see lifeguards and people swimming.

  I make my way to the beach, trying to get as far away from the visitor center (and where I was) as possible, in case terrorists armed with crossbows are still coming after me. I try to steer clear of people, but it’s still early—not as crowded as it probably will be later on. I go up a sandy hill, past the parking lot, onto a road, and that’s where I spot a motel.

  Three police cars, lights and sirens going, zoom past me as I cross the road.

  The Mohawk Candlelight Lodge is doing that “quaint” thing—it looks like a converted house with canary-yellow siding and green shutters. Mountains loom over it, ribboned by swirls of fog the sun hasn’t burned off yet. Two stories of rooms face a half-empty parking lot: white lattice balcony, white picket fence surrounding a pool off to the side of the motel next to a white lattice gazebo covered with ivy. There are cottages on the other side of the parking lot that look like mini versions of the motel.

  I walk into the office. The lace curtains over the windows behind the desk soften the light, making everything look rural and dreamy. A heavyset red-headed woman wearing a green MOHAWK CANDLELIGHT LODGE T-shirt and khaki shorts emerges from an office behind the desk. When she sees me, she gives me a funny look. She takes her seat in front of a computer screen littered with pink Post-it notes.

  “How can I help you?” she says, her round, pale face tired, with a patina of oil around her chin. “Are you with your parents?”

  “I need you to call the police,” I tell her. “I was in—”

  She claps her hands to the sides of her face. “Oh, my God, were you in that attack over at the visitor center? We just heard about that! Oh, sweetheart, look at you!” She rushes over to a mini fridge and hands me a bottle of water, which I greedily snatch and drink down so fast she just stares and hands me another one.

  “Thank you so much,” I tell her.

  “Do you need an ambulance? I think I can radio… did you get help over there?”

  “I’m okay,” I tell her. “The water helped, thanks.”

  “Did you know our phones are down?” she says.

  I press my palm against my cheek. “How would I know that?”

  “Landlines aren’t working, and everyone’s just getting a busy signal on their cells. Must have something to do with the attack; we’re a small town, the system must be overloaded, the towers or something, I don’t—”

  “Are there… um, many other motels around here?”

  “We’re the closest one to the visitor center. There’s also Mohican Village Resort about five miles west—nice place, different price point. Depends what you’re looking for.”

  I’m trying to assess how safe I am here; apparently I didn’t manage to get all that far from the visitor center, or even the state park. I was probably running in circles. That was real cunning of me. I nod at her. “Um. Can I get a room, please?”

  “Room or cottage?”

  “Room.”

  She taps at her keyboard. “Actually, we don’t have any cottages available at the moment, so it would have to be a room. How many are you?”

  “It’s, uh, just me.”

  “You have a credit card, sweetie?”

  I slide my sister’s Amex over to her.

  “I can put you in room 104, on the downstairs level. One king-size bed. Continental breakfast included. How many nights? You said it’s just you, right?” She glances at the credit card, then at me, frowning. “Are you Nicole Jamison-Towne?”

  “My sister.”

  “Do you have ID on you, sweetie?”

  I don’t want her to know my name. Just in case. “Uh. No. It got lost.”

  “Well,” she says, giving me a sorry look and handing back the card.

  I wave it back. “No, look, please just run the card. I’m with my family.”

  “I thought you said you were alone?”

  “I mean I’m alone right now. My family was taken to the local hospital.”

  She gasps. “Oh, sweetie! Are they—”

  “Everyone’s okay. They just have chemical burns. Um. Their skin. And their eyes, too.” I sigh. “I really don’t know about their eyes, actually. I think they’ll be okay. I hope. They told me to just go and find the nearest motel, take whatever room available, and they would meet me here later. I ran through the woods, along a beach, to get here and I really need to take a shower. My skin is burning. You have no idea.”

  “My God, of course. I’ll go ahead and set you up in room 104 because this is an emergency, and we should all do what we can to help! But when they get here, please tell them to check in with me right away. I’m Lorna. I need ID for the credit card.”

  “Of course I will. Thank you, Lorna.”

  “How are you going to find them?” she asks.

  “Uh, I’ll just call my mom’s cell from the room—”

  “The phones are down!”

  “I’ll walk over to the hospital, then. Or hitchhike?”

  “Do you need a lift? We can give you a lift over there. I’ll ask Jack, our maintenance man; he has a pickup. Which hospital are they at? Seven Winds? Fountain Falls? Eagle Springs?”

  God, these fucking names. “Uh, I’m not sure. I think I should clean myself up and wait for cell service to be restored. I’ll just keep calling my mom’s phone until she answers, and I’ll tell her where I am. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay. Do you want a bigger room?”

  “Not right now. I just really need to—”

  “Of course, of course. Just let me know how else I can help.”

  She slides me the room key. I let her keep Nicole’s credit card.

  CHAPTER 11

  Digital Dust

  The room is no-frills basic, with a view of the parking lot. It’s a measure of just how far I’ve fallen during my spring break that I started off at the Mandarin Oriental and wound up at the Mohawk Candlelight Lodge. I feel naked without my wallet, my phone, my iPad, my freakin’ laptop, and everything else in my backpack. This really sucks. I don’t have my book. Even my Burt’s Bees Lip Balm is gone.

  I close the curtains and lock the door. I rip off my clothes and take a very long shower. I flush out my eyes. I drink a lot of water from the bathroom sink. Thanks also to my survivalist uncle (probably stocking up on freeze-dried food as we speak), I know to iron all the clothes to get any residual traces of tear gas out of them.

  I didn’t even realize I was wearing a woman’s pink T-shirt (proclaiming she donated at a blood bank in Jupiter, Florida) and an extra-large hoodie that says Syr
acuse University. The cargo shorts are so baggy and pockety that I can’t even deal. They probably belong to the son of a duck hunter who wears them at monster truck shows. But I get dressed. I keep seeing the Glock lying on the bed, next to the pillow, and wonder whose life I’m living right now. I pick up the phone—still dead, no signal.

  Parts of my body keep feeling numb and tingly, and then it goes away. I feel nauseated and then that goes away, too. I have flashy spots in my eyes. I don’t think any of this is from the tear gas. I think it’s the shock. I shot a man—the second person I’ve killed in two days. And then someone else, a state trooper, died because of me. I’m trying to shove these facts into the back of my mind but they keep rising to the surface. I’m just trying not to totally lose it here.

  I need a plan. But instead, I take a nap, the Glock not far from my grasp.

  I wake a few hours later, after hearing the roar of a motorcycle that I’m not sure is real or was steeped into my tangled, dreamless sleep. I slept longer than I meant to. I open the curtains and look outside. It’s afternoon now, and my stomach is grumbling. The sun has shifted in the sky; the clouds drift over the mountains, speckling them with shadows. It looks like a movie backdrop. I wonder how long I have left in this room before Lorna comes calling.

  I see someone walking past my room, across the parking lot toward the row of cottages. He has a very familiar gait.

  Shiloh.

  Stylish as hell, he’s wearing a light-pink shirt under a perfectly pressed blue-and-white seersucker jacket with cream-colored slacks. He enters one of the cottages, number 7, closing the door behind him.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I wish I could check the Find My iPhone App again, but I no longer have my iPad. Then I remember something I should have remembered a lot earlier, if I hadn’t been busy running.