“No, it’s okay,” the girl says when I slow down. “You’ll be fine.”
A door opens, and I’m guided down so I don’t bang my head on the car. I can’t tell what the car’s make is, but I know it’s small because my knees hit the passenger seat in front of me. When my two captors get in, only a few feet separate us.
“Drive around a bit,” the guy says. “I don’t want him knowing where we are.” Then to me, “If you peek, Stranko gets the picture.”
The radio comes on, and we start driving. At first, I do a good job keeping track of our location. I’ve lived in Asheville my whole life, so I know these roads. But the turns become so constant that eventually I lose any sense of direction. When we finally come to a stop after twenty minutes of driving, we might as well be in China.
“This way,” the girl says once we’re outside the car. “It’s not very far, but we need you to be quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because we told you to be,” the guy says.
I’m guessing we’re walking across another empty parking lot. Of course, for all I know, it’s a dead-end road, someone’s driveway—or a walkway to an open vat of hydrofluoric acid.
“Just a little farther,” she says. “We’re heading inside.”
“To a murder shed?” I say, only half joking.
Neither reply. If I live through this, I need to stop being such a smart-ass.
We walk on what’s probably a sidewalk for a few seconds, then without any sort of transition, the night sounds fall away and the air warms up as we step inside some structure. My guards are on either side of me, and I’m led a dozen or so steps before the door we just entered closes with a click. Whatever sort of building we’re in, there can’t be many people around. The only sound is the constant drone of a heating system. After another minute of walking, I’m led inside what has to be a small room. There’s no noise in here, and I sense that the walls aren’t too far out of reach. But it’s the unmistakable smell of wet paint that has me most confused. Even with the mask on, it’s overwhelming, like somehow I’m in the backroom of a paint store.
“Sit here,” the girl says.
“Can I take off my mask? I’m dying.”
“Actually, we need to tie your hands behind your back now. We don’t want you taking off your mask before it’s time.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means put your hands behind your back. We don’t have all night,” Mr. Attitude says.
Having come this far, I do as I’m told. Thankfully, the rope isn’t so tight it cuts off circulation.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the guy asks.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Probably because I realize that underneath the tough-guy act, he’s really just another dumb high school kid like me.
“You’re the one who brought me here. Why don’t you tell me why?” I say.
“Don’t be stupid. We want to know why you’re trying to get us in trouble.”
“What do you mean trouble?”
“Stop the shit, man. You know what we’re talking about. The fake website—”
“The aerial photo—”
“The pep rally—”
“The goldfish—”
“Zippy—”
“And siccing the Secret Service on Stranko,” the guy says. “That trouble.”
Well, it’s nice to know our work hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“You’re the ones who started it by getting us busted at the water tower,” I say. “Then you went and stuffed our lockers with dough.”
There’s a long enough pause that I’m guessing the guy and girl are communicating without speaking. Maybe with semaphore.
The girl says, “We didn’t pull those pranks.”
“Yeah right.”
“We didn’t.”
If my fingers weren’t laced, I’d be making fists.
“Why lie to me? Do you still think I’m secretly recording this or something? Like I’m going to run to Stranko if you tell the truth? You have my phone, remember? Besides, it’s not me you need to worry about. It’s him.”
Another pause, and then the girl has the distorter.
“You’re swinging at ghosts,” she says.
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have we set you up at all lately? No. We’ve given up.”
“I wish we could believe that.”
I’m trying to get a clue as to who these people are—some hint in what they say or even how they say it that’ll lead me to their identities. But there’s nothing.
“If you don’t believe me that I’ve quit, then why am I here? If you want to threaten me, fine, but I’ll just tell you the same thing again—I’m not hunting you anymore, so you don’t have to worry.”
“We’re not threatening you,” the girl says.
“No, you’ve already done that.”
“That was just to get you to show up.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“We’re here to make you an offer.”
Even through the voice distorter, I can pick up the girl’s tone. She sounds almost worried, like she’s the one tied to the chair.