Hideout

by Jack Heath

‘But … why?’

  I’ve thought about this a lot. Bad things happen to everyone, but they seem to make some people stronger and break others. Maybe it depends how strong you were to start off with. Thistle was tough, I was weak.

  ‘Maybe it’s genetic,’ I say.

  ‘But—’

  I hold out my hand, stopping her. There’s a camera in one of the dogwood trees up ahead. One I hadn’t seen before. It’s not pointed at us, but it’s facing the direction we need to go.

  ‘We can go around,’ Thistle says.

  ‘No time.’ The sun will rise soon, along with the early-morning-yoga-loving killers. ‘And there are others. Hang on.’

  I creep up behind the camera and slowly twist it to face a different patch of forest. Hopefully the gradual movement doesn’t trigger an alert on anyone’s phone. Or if it does, they won’t notice that the camera is now monitoring a different group of trees.

  We keep moving.

  ‘Do you want to eat me?’ Thistle asks carefully.

  The hungry half of my brain interprets this as an offer rather than a question. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Part of my condition—’

  ‘Condition,’ she echoes dully.

  ‘I don’t see people as people. They’re just walking, talking meat. But not you.’

  ‘Why not? I’m trying to understand.’

  ‘Maybe because I knew you from before, or because we’ve been through so much together.’

  ‘Can’t you just … stop?’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  The crickets scream around us as we walk. She’s slow, because of her bare feet.

  ‘I can’t believe I fucked a cannibal,’ she says finally.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘My old roommate, Julie—she used to say … heh.’ Thistle starts to laugh. ‘She used to say I had terrible “taste” in men.’

  I start laughing, too. I can’t help it. Neither of us has slept properly in at least forty-eight hours. It’s not the joke itself—it’s the whole situation. It’s so far from funny that it’s somehow hilarious. Like those jokes you hear about dead babies, or about 9/11. Laughter is the worst reaction, so it becomes inevitable.

  Thistle speaks in between giggles and gasps: ‘Stop! They’ll hear us!’

  ‘You stop!’

  Eventually the guffaws die away.

  I wipe the tears out of my eyes. ‘Come on, we’re almost at the car. Can you drive?’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you might have given me a concussion.’ It’s hard to be sure in the darkness, but I think my vision is still blurred.

  ‘Sure, I can drive.’

  I toss Thistle Fred’s keys. The throw is way too wide. The keys hit a tree nearby.

  ‘Yeah, you should definitely not be driving.’ She picks up the keys. Her voice goes serious. ‘Blake, when we get to Houston …’

  ‘You’ll have to arrest me. I know.’ Thistle’s moral compass might actually be the real reason I don’t see her as food.

  ‘I’m not like the old director,’ Thistle says. ‘I can’t let you keep doing this.’

  ‘Reese, it’s okay. I’ll come quietly.’ And I will. As long as she’s alive, that’s all that matters.

  She nods slowly. ‘All right. Glad to hear it.’ She looks at the lightening sky. ‘How long do you think it will take those creeps to realise we’ve escaped?’

  ‘There’s a motion sensor at the end of the driveway,’ I say. ‘They’ll be alerted as soon as we cross it. We’ll just have to hope this pick-up can outrun their van.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Thistle lowers her voice—we’re not far from the house. ‘If that’s true, they’ll be long gone before I can get a SWAT team back here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They’ll just set up shop somewhere else.’

  ‘Probably. I think they already have a second location—the website says they’re holding a paedophile there.’ I don’t like the thought of the Guards escaping justice, but I don’t see a way around it.

  ‘And what about the other prisoners?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘The perps will kill them as soon as they realise we’re missing. How are we supposed to get them out of here?’

  I shrug helplessly. ‘I don’t think we can.’

  ‘We can’t just let them die.’

  ‘They’re murderers,’ I say. ‘Terrorists. Klansmen.’

  ‘You eat people,’ she says.

  I throw my hands up. ‘What do you want me to do? It’s nearly dawn. We don’t have time to go back for them. Even if we did, the racist ones won’t trust you and none of them will trust me.’ Especially not after what I did to Ivy, I think. ‘As soon as we let them loose, they’ll scatter every which way, and we’ll all get caught.’

  ‘We can call for backup,’ Thistle says.

  ‘I don’t have a phone, and there’s no cell service out here.’ ‘The perps are running a website. They must have computers and internet. Send an email to the FBI.’

  ‘They have someone in the FBI, remember? That’s how they found you. Plus, I don’t know if you heard, but the old FBI director was supplying corpses to a cannibal. We shouldn’t trust them.’

  ‘What about the county police?’

  ‘I can’t email anybody. I’m sure the Guards track all the data coming in and out. I addressed a package to Dr Norman, but they haven’t even mailed it yet—’

  ‘You sent an SOS by mail?’ Thistle looks incredulous.

  ‘It was all I could think of, okay?’

  ‘All right.’ She chews her lip. ‘If they send it today, it’ll probably arrive on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest—’

  ‘Thistle, they’re going to kill you on Sunday. We need to go, right now.’

  ‘I’m not leaving without the others.’ She clenches her fist, like she’s willing to beat me unconscious and go back for them by herself.

  We stare at each other for a long moment.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You take the truck. I’ll stay in the slaughterhouse and defend the prisoners.’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ she says. ‘You’re just one guy, with no weapons.’

  ‘I’ll try my best.’

  ‘Your best won’t be good enough. The perps will eat you alive.’

  Ha ha. ‘What, then?’

  ‘We go back,’ Thistle says. ‘You chain me up again.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Just listen. We can try this again tomorrow night. That gives—’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘It gives you all day to figure out how to turn off the motion sensor in the driveway, and it gives me all day to prep the other prisoners. They’ll do as we say if they have some warning.’

  ‘The Guards ordered replacement cameras for the slaughterhouse.’ I grab her arm. She shakes it off. ‘They’re supposed to arrive tomorrow. They’re going to torture you.’

  Thistle swallows. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘We can’t stay any longer,’ I insist. ‘Three people have died since I got here.’

  ‘Wait. Three?’

  Hailey must not have told the others about Samson. Maybe she didn’t believe me. I quickly explain about the hiker, Zara finding Samson’s body, me concluding that he was murdered, and Fred asking me to investigate.

  Thistle chews her lip. ‘So we have a potential ally. Whoever killed Samson could be on our side.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘Could it be the hiker?’

  ‘I can’t figure him out at all. If he is the killer, he had to know where all the cameras were—except he didn’t, because we caught him on one the night before. And Samson had to trust him enough to let him in. If that’s the case, who is he? And if it’s not the case …’

  ‘Then who is he?’ Thistle finishes.

  ‘Right. And even if he did know Samson, that wouldn’t explain how he knew me.’

  ‘So we’ve got the perps on one side, us and the prisoners on the other,
and either one or two unknown parties, depending on whether the hiker and the killer are the same person.’ She frowns at the trees.

  I’ve missed this: working with Thistle. I want to say so, but I’m afraid she’ll be repulsed.

  ‘I think identifying the killer has to be our top priority,’ she says. ‘Getting all the prisoners out will be hard. Having an ally could make all the difference.’

  ‘And if they’re not an ally?’

  ‘Then we can still use them. If the perps are turning on each other, they might be too busy to notice a prison break brewing. But you need to work out who the killer is, today.’

  ‘Thistle, you don’t have to die for those people back there.’ I suck in some air, like a deep drag on a cigarette. ‘You can just go. I’m begging you—please, just go.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that,’ she says. And I do. I want her to leave, because I love her. But I love her because she won’t leave.

  I rub my face. ‘All right. Jesus.’

  We make our way cautiously back towards the slaughterhouse. The closer we get, the more anxiety calcifies my lungs.

  ‘You haven’t asked me about the baby,’ Thistle says.

  ‘What baby?’

  ‘The baby they said I killed.’

  I glance over. ‘I just assumed that was bullshit. Obviously, you didn’t kill a baby.’

  ‘No,’ Thistle says. ‘But I had an abortion.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m not sure what to say to that. It’s like when someone says they’re pregnant—you’re supposed to congratulate them, unless it was an accident, in which case congratulations are the last thing they want to hear. The context for the appropriate response is missing.

  Someone who has had an abortion may want sympathy, or even forgiveness—or they may be deeply offended by the presumption that they need either of those things.

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ Thistle adds. ‘But I want to know how they found out.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t. It could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe my doctor is one of their customers. Either way, I need to know. Okay?’

  I nod. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. Was this about four years ago?’

  She glances sharply at me. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Just a guess.’ Knowing Thistle, if she was having unprotected sex, it was probably with her husband, and if she got an abortion, it was probably just after they split up. ‘But it might help me to work out how Fred got the information.’

  ‘January ten,’ Thistle says. ‘Four years ago next month.’

  I keep my eyes down. ‘Got it.’

  Soon we’re back at the slaughterhouse. Thistle’s steps slow down as she approaches. Getting chained up in there again probably seemed like a better idea when the building was out of sight. It’s all sheet metal and sharp edges, glinting in the rising sun.

  ‘You sure about this?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’ She heads for the door, teeth clenched and shivering. Like she’s climbing the ladder towards the highest diving board.

  I unlock it and pull it open. Just as we’re about to go in, she grabs my arm. ‘Tell me again that I can trust you.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ I say.

  ‘You’re coming back to let us all out tomorrow night. Right?’

  ‘Tonight, technically.’ It’s almost dawn.

  ‘You’re not going to switch sides on me?’

  ‘I’ve always been on your side.’

  ‘Liar.’ A joyless smile. ‘You’ve always been on your own side.’

  She has a point. But I just risked my life to save her, and I’ll do it again, as many times as it takes. The only good things I’ve ever done, I did for her.

  ‘I’m coming back for you,’ I say.

  She nods, and then slips into the dark. I follow.

  The other prisoners look surprised to see us coming back together. They thought I was going to kill her. Now they probably assume I raped her in the forest. I don’t really care what they believe, as long as Thistle can convince them to keep their mouths shut until our next escape attempt.

  She doesn’t need me to chain her up. ‘I have to get back before they realise I’m gone,’ I say.

  ‘Okay. Good luck.’ Thistle goes to hug me, and then realises she can’t bring herself to hug a cannibal. She pats me on the shoulder instead.

  I want to wrap my arms around her, in case we don’t make it out of this. But there’s a wall between us now. One I’ll never be permitted to cross.

  ‘You too.’ I walk back out into the morning light.

  CHAPTER 30

  How do two homes become three, while acquaintances live inside?

  When I get back into the house, it’s silent. I slowly open Fred’s door. He’s still asleep, rolled over so I can’t see his face.

  A sudden bolt of fear. I forgot that Zara saw me take Fred’s keys. It wasn’t supposed to matter. I expected to be gone by now.

  I peer under the bed. She’s gone. What will she tell the others?

  I tiptoe across the room, lower Fred’s keys into the bowl and sneak back out. I need to shower before anyone sees me. I’m still grimy from rolling around in the dirt with Thistle. I grab a change of clothes and a towel from my room, then creep into the bathroom and shut the door.

  A shower is a good substitute for sleep. When I turn it on, the steam clears out my sinuses and opens my pores. I close my eyes and step under the flow, rubbing the scalding water into my scalp, scrubbing my armpits with my hands. Trying not to think about how unfair it is that I get this moment of relief while Thistle is stuck out there in the cold.

  The bathroom door opens. Someone else is up.

  I clear my throat. ‘Occupied.’ Which is dumb, because they must know that already. The water is making plenty of noise.

  No one replies. The door closes again. Has the person left, or are they inside the room?

  I listen. There’s a soft rustling sound, possibly from outside the door, possibly not. Then just the hissing of the shower.

  I leave the water running, wanting whoever it is to think I assume they’re gone. Someone has left a razor in a shower caddy, but it’s not much of a weapon. I grab the caddy itself—it’s stainless steel and heavy enough to do some damage.

  Who’s out there? Fred, here to punish me for touching Ivy? Donnie, here to kill me after finding out that I tried to get Thistle out of here?

  Zara opens the shower curtain and steps in. She’s naked. I have to step back to avoid touching her, my buttocks touching the cold tile.

  She reaches forwards, testing the water temperature with an open palm, and then steps right into my personal space, the water trickling down her chest.

  ‘About last night,’ she says.

  I just stare at her.

  ‘In Fred’s room,’ she prompts. ‘I caught you stealing his keys. Remember?’

  I clear my throat. ‘I caught you stabbing him in his sleep, that’s what I remember.’

  When someone has information you don’t want them to share, your two options are typically threats or bribery. To threaten someone, you need to know what they’re afraid of. To bribe them, you need to know what they want. In Zara’s case, I know neither.

  She squirts some shampoo into her hand and raises both elbows so she can massage it into her scalp. She waits for me to look down.

  I don’t. But I can sense all the flesh below my eyeline. My stomach growls.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ She smiles, as though daring me to try.

  ‘No. Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No. You can put that down.’

  I lean past her and lower the shower caddy onto the floor. She doesn’t give me much space to do it.

  ‘I didn’t hurt Fred,’ she says. ‘But I could have. I enjoyed the possibility.’ She bows, rinsing the shampoo from her hair. ‘So what were you up to?’

  ‘I wanted some alone time with the lady FBI agent,’ I say. ‘Away from the other prisoners. I don’t li
ke to be watched.’

  ‘Hmm, a private tryst. I like a man with a sense of romance.’ She picks up her razor from the caddy and starts shaving her legs.

  She’s trying to get a rise out of me, literally. But is she doing it for fun, or is she trying to work out what makes me tick?

  ‘I brought her back after,’ I say. ‘She’s locked up again.’

  ‘Is she? You overpowered a strong woman like that, all by yourself?’

  I nod.

  ‘Wow. You must be even stronger.’ Zara stops shaving and rests a hand on my chest. She can feel my heart racing, but she’s probably wrong about the cause.

  I’m starving. She’s in danger.

  The easiest way for Zara to get into Fred’s bedroom would be via his bed. ‘Won’t Fred be angry if he finds us in here together?’ Or if he finds Zara dead and me covered in her blood.

  ‘Fred doesn’t get angry. It’s a point of pride for him.’

  ‘What kind of relationship do you two have?’

  ‘You mean, is it open?’

  ‘I mean, how long have you been together?’

  ‘We’re not together. It’s a transaction. He’s straight, I’m straight.’ Her hand traces down my abdomen. Fondles even lower. ‘Nice to know that you are, too.’

  You’d think that psychopaths would be better at no-strings-attached sex. No emotional connection, no jealousy. But in my experience, they’re actually worse at it. Psychopaths are more inclined to see their partners as their property. Something being stolen.

  ‘But the real transaction isn’t what he thinks it is.’ I try to ignore what her hand is doing. ‘Right?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He gets to fuck you, and you get to lie there fantasising about hurting him.’

  Zara slashes the razor sideways across my belly.

  I cry out and jump backwards, banging my head on the tile. The razor is small, so it’s not a deep cut, but it stings.

  When I look back at Zara, she has one hand between her legs. The other is still holding the razor.

  ‘I’m not into pain,’ I say.

  ‘Perfect.’ She swipes at me again. I dart sideways, dodging the razor, but I slip on the soapy floor and crash down on top of the shower caddy. A throbbing warmth spreads across my shoulder blade. The falling water blasts my face.

  If I screamed, would the others save me? Or would they just enjoy the show?