Stephen shielded his eyes from the bright lights and bent over. An image of his dad swam before his lidded eyes. His dad said once — “It doesn’t matter if I’m right, because I know how to be loud.” He spun this around in his head, trying to figure out how it might apply to his current situation, but he ended up with nothing.
He opened his eyes and saw that he had one good piece of luck — the gun sat just under the chair in the center of the room. Stephen stole a glance back to the tub to be sure the dead guy hadn’t moved, and then shuffled forward to grab the gun. He flicked the safety back and forth until he was sure it was off and then tucked the gun into his front pocket with the handle sticking out. It felt uncomfortable against his hip, but very comforting. He turned to the door and prepared to go back out into the hall. Another sideways glance confirmed that the man in the tub remained dead. He forced himself to take a step backwards and pick up his pack from where Jack had left it.
First, he poked his head out and then he swung through the door frame, still trying to avoid stepping in the aromatic blood. The only things to his left were the room with the pole, and the supply closet. Stephen thought for a second and then went left to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He intended to never return to this hotel.
Back at the doorway to the exam room, he had to take a large, diagonal step across the hall to clear the puddle. He found bloody footprints that coursed back and forth to the next door down the hall.
Stephen found himself completely unprepared for the rude pile of fingers below the door. Heaped against the wall, smeared in blood, he saw two severed fingers and a thumb. He hurried past this wreckage and tried the other doors in the hall. They were all locked.
Stephen came back to the finger-door and considered the mess. They were too big to be Jack’s. It was pretty clear, once he thought about it — this door must require a finger scan and Jack had tried these fingers.
He looked at the finger pile again and then squeezed his eyes shut. He tilted his head back. He didn't have many options. He couldn't trust Jack, and probably couldn't get out of the hotel without Jack’s help. Even the gun wouldn't help him climb a pole or get through a locked door.
When Stephen found the will to go on, it came from an unexpected source. He thought of Ben. He wondered if the crazy guy had killed Ben and Ben’s family. Could the crazy guy engineer the disappearance of an entire family? Stephen couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to his own parents.
Stephen took a deep breath and crouched down. One bloody finger sat slightly apart from the rest. When his fingers hit that sticky, dead, skin he instantly wished he had thought to cover his hand in his shirt or something. He shook his head and lifted the finger to the strip at the left of the door.
He touched the finger to the pad and nothing happened. Reaching down to drop the finger and try the next, it occurred to him that he didn’t know how these things worked. He tried touching his own finger to the sensor and got no response. After a second, he got the idea to swipe his finger and the sensor emitted two sharp beeps. Next, he re-tried the severed finger.
A light on the unit flashed green and the lock buzzed open. Stephen pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the handle. The buzzing stopped — he hadn’t moved quick enough. He swiped the finger again and dropped it. He opened the door with his left hand and pointed the gun with his right. The door swung outward, revealing a dim room packed with surveillance equipment lining each wall.
Stephen, moving stiffly with the gun leading the way, crept in. When he stood halfway through the door the buzzing stopped again and Stephen nearly dropped the gun. He blinked away the distraction and kept moving. This door stayed open on its own, so he left it and proceeded to the center of the room.
Racks of equipment lined the walls. Stephen recognized the tape machines and monitors, but the computers seemed foreign to him. He had seen laptops and desktop machines — these were big servers. Each monitor showed a different video feed; some from cameras mounted in rooms that he recognized. He wondered if the crazy man had watched him on the monitor that showed the top of the soda machine.
One panel contained a series of lighted switches. Each switch had a descriptive vertical label — “Room 217,” “Library,” “Hall 2 Vending.” He suddenly thought he might not need Jack after all — perhaps if he just flipped off these switches, he would have a way to escape. He flipped all the switches that were lit. He paid special attention when he flipped the switches that had “Vending” in the name, but saw no change in the monitor that showed the machines.
“Now what?” he asked aloud. He glanced around nervously at the sound of his own voice and considered his choices one more time — he could try to escape alone, or try to rescue Jack. He wanted to run, but still believed he had little chance without rescuing Jack. With the strength of revelation he realized he could do both. He would try to escape, and then if his plan didn’t work, he would return for Jack.
Bolstered by this decision, he headed back through the door to the bloody hallway. Consulting his mental map, he found his way through the bright hall and the dim shrine to Ben’s family. Back outside the crazy guy’s room, he headed for the door to the man’s lair. Stephen hoped that the door was still unlocked. It was the only obstacle between him and the secret passage that led to the soda room.
He reached out and grabbed the handle. It turned easily in his left hand as he raised the gun and his right hand, just in case.
CHAPTER 25
Jack
“What do you mean — ‘Wait for Stephen’?” Jack asked. He craned his neck to see what the man was doing to his thigh. The pain came to Jack in little bursts and throbs. It didn't hurt as much as he had feared — maybe he still had some of that anesthetic in his system after all.
“I’m almost certain that Stephen’s going to try to fight back,” said the man.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Jack. “He…” Jack started to continue and then gasped for breath because of a new stab of pain. “He was pretty pissed that I tied him up.”
The man looked at Jack and slid the magnifying glasses up so he could look Jack in the eye. “You wouldn’t believe how loyal kids your age are. Everyone else is an outsider, and they bond almost instantly against outsiders,” he said. “That’s another thing I would have taught you. How to spot the bonds between people. Those bonds inform you exactly how to divide your prey from the herd.”
Jack didn’t return the man’s stare. He instead tried to see the damage to his thigh. The man blocked most of Jack’s view with a spotlight.
“How are you signing that? And isn’t it risky to ‘sign’ a victim?” asked Jack. With his questions, Jack hoped to slow the man down. He also wanted to take his mind off the pain.
“I fold back the skin and burn the muscle. It looks really good — much better than a brand or a tattoo,” said the man. “And it will be destroyed when I dispose of you. It’s completely temporary, that’s part of what makes it so beautiful. It’s a wilting flower from the second it’s complete. For most artists, their reward comes when others appreciate their work. I’m more evolved. I know that I’m the only one that can appreciate what I’ve created, and I have no interest in getting caught. But I also know that it’s time to pass on my wisdom to the next generation, just as it was passed to me.”
“So you were taught?” asked Jack.
“Yes, didn’t you guess that from your research? Of course you did, you’re just trying to stall,” said the man.
“No, I’m not,” said Jack. “But why do you want to teach someone?”