The Survival Code, page 12
“Yes, on the cut. I don’t know about everything else.”
I open my mouth...and nothing comes out. This is what we always do in our house. Avoid talking about all the things that worry us. But I have to ask.
I force the words out. “What about your dad?”
Toby’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, and the skin around his lips crinkles into an expression of concern. “I have to believe that justice will prevail. Right? That they’ll figure out who really did this and things will go back to normal.”
It seems to me that, by the time you’re on the run from the National Police, the prospect of things returning to normal is seriously diminished. Still, Toby’s optimism, his feeling that anyone can be good or that things can work out okay, might be the only thing that, in the end, will keep us going.
I lean toward the rearview mirror. Charles and MacKenna are sitting at the camper’s tiny table, setting up our old backgammon board.
“But I have to admit,” Toby continues in a lower voice, “there’s something going on here that scares the hell out of me.”
My heartbeat slows to a dull thud.
“On the news, they said all of First Federal’s paper records for the last five years have been destroyed. And now they can’t get their computers to work either?”
I take the last bite of my protein bar and chew with a forced deliberation. “Terminus said the bank mainframe is infected with a piece of malware that’s been running for a while and corrupting their backups.”
“Terminus?”
“My hacker friend,” I say. “But honestly, so what? Some people will have copies of their own records. It could take a while to repopulate the system, but eventually they’ll get it straightened out.”
Toby’s shoulders slump. “Eventually isn’t much help when your rent is due on the first of the month. Things are already really bad because of the New Depression. But, beyond that, do you understand how banks work? I mean, how money works?”
“No.” I understand how bank computers probably work, but that’s it.
“Banks take in money and then they loan it out, so at any given time, they can’t repay everyone who has made deposits. If people become afraid that they can’t get access to money when they need it, they start taking their money out of banks. It’s Wednesday afternoon, and there were already five major runs on banks. The news said that all the banks in the country are closing early. The ATM systems are down. They’re saying that maybe the banks won’t reopen tomorrow unless they can get emergency funds from Congress.”
It’s suddenly very warm in the truck. I slide out of my jacket and put it on the seat next to me. “I... I don’t understand.”
Toby glances at me. “First Federal is not just the oldest bank, it’s the biggest. They underwrite a lot of big loans. They touch a lot of sectors of business. They underwrite almost a third of all mortgages. My economics professor says money is almost an illusion. It’s the idea that the country’s economy is strong. That people are productive and can pay for goods and services. Since the New Depression, that illusion is very fragile. What happens to the country if that illusion goes away? What happens if they try to blame my father for all of that?”
I don’t know what to say. So we’re quiet again.
The state route goes through the small town, carrying us directly to my dad’s destination of choice. The Lone Wolf Motel. It’s not the Hilton, but it’s better than some of the dumps we’ve stayed in. They vacuum the carpet. And there are no bugs. That you can see.
Toby parks the truck on the far, hidden side of the Lone Wolf Grill, which is usually open and serving lunch to truckers and hungry interstate travelers. Now it’s closed and deserted.
I reach into the glove compartment and am relieved to find a thick envelope of emergency cash. “So...uh...let’s go get a room, then I’ll come back out and see what my dad packed in the way of supplies.”
Toby gets out of the truck. I grab the yellow bag and follow.
Before he opens the door to the camper, Toby touches my arm lightly. “Hey. Listen. What we talked about. Can we keep it between us? For now. Mac’s not so great at processing too many things that are...”
Terrifying?
“Yeah. Sure. Got it.”
Toby’s hand freezes on the door handle. He stands there facing the rusting metal. “You think you could really find something on that laptop? Something to help my father?”
I don’t know.
That’s what I should say. That’s the truth. If the machine’s been compromised, whoever hacked it could have messed with it and deleted the rogue files. And just as easily removed the evidence that they were ever there. Or added incriminating files in ways that would be hard to identify or track.
That’s my dad’s area of expertise. Maybe that’s why Mom wants us to find him.
Instead. “Yeah. I think it will take some time. But yeah.”
Toby’s lips relax as he opens the door.
Charles stretches and jumps down onto the asphalt. MacKenna comes out after him.
Toby locks the camper and we go, passing by the diner first. Through the window, I spot stacks of unwashed dishes on the counters. Like the customers got sucked up by the rapture or something. A handwritten note that reads Cash Only has been taped to the door at a hurried angle above a yellowing flip sign turned to the Sorry, We’re Closed side.
“This seems really weird,” I say.
“The National Police are chasing us, my dad’s in some unknown jail somewhere but what bothers you is some gross Podunk diner closing early?” MacKenna asks.
I’m sick of her attitude. “Okay. First of all, the diner’s not gross. They’re famous for this homemade pie—”
“It’s rhubarb!” Charles chimes in. “And they have real meat.”
“Not synthetic?” Toby asks.
I ignore this and continue walking toward the motel office. “—and, anyway, I’m only making the point that closing in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday—”
MacKenna talks over to me. “I’m making the point that—”
“Enough. Both of you. Enough.” Toby stops and puts up his hands as we arrive at the small barbershop, which is also closed.
We all face the mural in the window.
The wolf is shaved so nice and trim. Red Riding Hood is chasing him.
That message is etched in gold, swooshing script that is cracked and faded. Underneath, there’s a Burma Shave logo and a picture of a blonde woman in a red cape grinning at a wolf in an elegant suit. The sign has been there so long that most of the woman’s face has worn away.
Charles approaches a series of deep green succulents that sit in large terra-cotta planters. He touches one of the rounded, tipped leaves. “See. I told you. Oh. Oh dear. They really need to trim those pups. And drain the planters better, because—”
I pull my brother to the end of the sidewalk. “Okay. We have to divide up the money.”
Toby squints at me. “Why?”
“In case we’re jumped.” Or get separated. “That way no one person has all the money.” I pass out a few twenties to Toby and MacKenna.
“You people are really paranoid,” she says, stretching her arms over her head.
“My paranoia is the reason we’re not sitting in a cell right now.”
“Really, you guys?” Toby mutters.
“No one gave me any money,” Charles says.
“You don’t need any money. You’re a child.”
My brother grunts. “Jinx. The rules say we all get money in case we’re—”
“Here.” I press two crumpled bills in his hand. I really don’t want to start another argument with MacKenna about what might happen if we have to split up.
We make our way across the parking lot. There are a few sedans scattered around, a couple of 18-wheelers, and an old pickup truck parked right in front of the motel office. A blue neon Vacancy sign glows in the office window.
A bell rings as I push the door open.
“No. We ain’t got no pie,” a man’s voice calls out.
It’s been a year since I’ve been here with my dad.
The office is exactly the same.
Creepy.
Scratch that.
Creepier than before. Like last time, the walls are covered with deer heads, but now at least a dozen taxidermied birds hang from the ceiling. Small lamps scattered on a few tables throughout the room cast a shallow light. Only the birds’ feet are visible. In the corner, I spot the form of Ol’ Renegade—a massive stuffed buffalo.
My gaze darts around, but I can’t find the speaker and this wasn’t the greeting I was expecting. “Uh. I’m sorry. What?” I call back.
A tall, grimly thin, gray-haired man emerges from a small room at the back. His hair shoots out in every direction, and he’s dressed in overalls so dirty that I was probably a small child the last time anyone washed them. Even in the low light, I can see that he’s covered with spots and spills.
“I said, we’re outta pie,” he repeats. He hunches over a maple countertop and removes a pair of glasses from his head, then polishes them with the tail of a dingy shirt hanging out from the side of his overalls. “We ain’t got no lunch neither.”
“Oh now, Mernice.” A woman joins us in the office. Her neat, trim, perfectly pressed slacks and blouse sharply contrast with Mernice’s wild appearance. I bet she sleeps with her gray-blond hair in rollers.
She smiles. “Welcome to the Lone Wolf Motel. How can we help you?”
Mernice scowls. “They’re kids. Of course they want pie. Which we ain’t got.”
“No rhubarb?” my brother asks.
If possible, this question puts the old man in an even worse mood. “That’s what I said.”
My brother shouldn’t have any pie, at least not until we can check his blood sugar.
And we’re not supposed to leave an impression.
The woman ushers my brother farther into the office, motioning for him to sit on a brown plaid sofa. She opens her mouth into a very wide smile and pulls the top off a candy dish with an odd amount of gusto. “Everyone loves a nice butterscotch, dear.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Maybelline,” the old man mutters.
We really need to get out of here. “You got rooms?”
“Yeah. We got rooms. What we ain’t got is food, flat-screen TVs, fancy little scented soaps in the bathrooms or working credit card machines. So cash only.” Mernice retreats to the smaller room, muttering, “Cash only.” He shuffles back and drops a heavy leather-bound book on the counter, causing a jar of pens to rattle.
Mernice peers around me through the glass door and into the parking lot. “You alone? You kids walk here?”
“No.” My face heats up. “We parked over by the diner.”
“Whaddidya do that for?”
All these questions are making me very nervous. “We’re hungry. We wanted to eat. But I know. There’s no food.”
He nods. “There’s also no checking in without an adult.”
Toby steps in front of me. “Sir,” he says in a voice much friendlier than mine. “I’m an adult and we’re on our way to meet our parents shortly.” He pats the pockets of his sweats and I can see it dawn on him that he doesn’t have his wallet.
Which is our first break, really, because the last thing on earth we ought to do is show a piece of ID with a real name on it. My heartbeat picks up. This is taking too long. Arousing too much suspicion. And Toby’s still wearing his ASU shirt. It’s bright and loud and places us.
Breathe.
“We have cash,” I say quickly.
I can tell he isn’t going for it, but the woman, who must be Maybelline, has been won over by my brother.
“Oh now, Mernice.”
I bet Maybelline spends a good portion of her life following her coot of a husband around and saying Oh now, Mernice over and over.
“We got plenty of rooms. Let the kids have one.” She gives Charles another piece of candy. “Just send your parents down when they get here.”
Mernice grunts and nudges the registration book in my direction. “I hate those damn computers, so we do it the old-fashioned way. Write your name on line five. It’s still sixty dollars a night. You kids will be pleased to know that the Wi-Fi works.”
I write my name as illegibly as possible and drop three twenties on the book.
It helps that Charles opens his mouth and a supercute yawn escapes from it.
Maybelline motions for us to follow her. “These kids are dead on their feet. I’ll walk ’em over to their room.”
“Interesting decor in the office,” Toby says as he opens the office door.
Maybelline smiles. “Mernice’s daddy was a taxidermist. West of here. In Wickenburg. That stuff came to us when he passed. There’s even a stuffed penguin in there somewhere.”
We follow Maybelline outside. It’s colder than it was when we came in.
She leads us down the shaded sidewalk that surrounds the motel. “I hope you kids don’t mind Mernice. There was quite the to-do this morning when people heard about the banks. We had some fellas walk out on their bill. And there was some fightin’. More of this business about the election. People can’t put their differences aside long enough to have a patty melt. Some trucker pushed the pie case over. I ain’t never seen anything like this, not anything at all. We had to close early and...” Maybelline trails off.
“I’m sorry,” Toby says. He always knows what to say.
“Yes. Well.” She recovers her cheerful demeanor. “Contrary to what my husband thinks, I do plan to get the kitchen open this evening.” She stops in front of the last room on the end, near a row of flowering bushes.
“Here we go,” she says, opening the door to room twenty-five. She gives Toby the keys. Maybelline’s gaze travels over two neatly made queen beds and a clean dresser.
Charles trots by me. He grabs a couple of leaves off the bush as he passes. “Miss Maybelline. I think you’re overwatering your bougainvillea. They’ve got chlorosis. Maybe from root rot.”
“Oh, bless your heart.” Maybelline’s about to go when she adds, “Do come by after about five for a spot of dinner. From the looks of you, it’s been a while since you had a decent meal.”
“Thanks, Maybelline,” I say as I close the door.
The cheap plastic clock on the nightstand between the beds reads 2:30 p.m.
“So how are we doing this?” MacKenna asks, glancing from one bed to the other. “Girls versus boys? Or Novaks versus Marshalls?”
“Charles is a total bed hog.” I know what I should be doing. I should go back to the camper and do a basic inventory and then make a lap around the motel.
Charles runs into the bathroom.
I’m exhausted. And also amped up on adrenaline.
I stay near the door, heavy with fatigue. Working up the energy to continue the drill.
I need to check the room, check the property and check on my brother.
Outside, heavy footsteps scuff the cement walk.
I freeze.
Someone’s coming.
I look out the door’s peephole. I can’t see anything, but I sense someone on the other side. The tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck.
I left the Taser in the truck.
“Get Charles and hide. In the closet.”
Toby is a few feet behind me. “Oh hell no,” he whispers back.
“It’s probably the old lady coming back,” MacKenna says.
“Mac. Please. Do it. Now.”
I’ve got my fingers wrapped around the door handle. I tell myself they aren’t shaking.
Okay. Okay. Just like we practiced. Just like we practiced.
Like we practiced.
DR. DOOMSDAY’S GUIDE TO ULTIMATE SURVIVAL
RULE SIX: TRUST NO ONE.
Your adversary is likely to be male.
And to have height and weight advantages.
Do whatever you have to do to disable your attacker.
I throw open the motel room door and jump out onto the sidewalk before my brain has time to feed my body information on how totally insane of an idea this is. There, in the shadow cast by a concrete brick pillar, a dark form waits like a storm cloud.
Knee strike. This is most likely to work against someone who’s surprised or who has little self-defense training. I reach out and grab what I hope is my enemy’s neck. I pull down with my arms as I lift my knee to his groin.
He’s mostly able to block me by pushing back on my knee with his hands. But I get enough traction to do a little damage. “Oof.”
A male voice.
“Wait. Wait,” he whispers.
The guy is off guard enough that I try again. Palm strike. Thrusting up with my hand, aiming for his chin. Again, he’s pretty good at blocking me, but I’m able to knock him back into one of the pillars.
He hunches over, and that’s when I see it. The black hat with the gold medallion. It’s Navarro, who’s obviously been following us. I grab at the smooth, satin fabric of his windbreaker, drag him into the room. This might not be the best idea, but I’m pretty sure the three of us can take him, and it’s better than letting him run around without supervision.
Toby tackles Navarro and pushes him onto the bed nearest the door. The baseball cap gets knocked onto the room’s cheap carpet. “You know, you could have let me do that.”
I’m out of breath. “Don’t...be...such...a sexist...”
Navarro is facedown on the bed, Toby sitting on top of him, but even still, he isn’t making much of an effort to get away. This seems off. Like someone who’s successfully tracked us almost a hundred miles should be making more of a fuss.
“What should we do with him?” Toby asks.
I resist the urge to shudder at the outline of a weapon on the inside of his jacket.
“Get the gun.”
