Page 11 of Drawn to Death
Quell is out on his daily trip, and I know exactly how long I have until he is back. It’s like the kid watches the clock in the cafe, counting down the minutes until he can escape.
My phone buzzes. It's Vincenzo. I ignore it. This isn’t about him anymore. This is just me and the boy who sees through my eyes.
I’m in position, ready when Quell comes around the corner. From far away, he looks almost normal. Gray hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, walking a little too fast, like he is trying to outrun something.
I wait for him to disappear into the building, then move from his window to the door. I listen, waiting for his footsteps in the corridor outside. They start faintly, getting louder until they stop right outside the door. His key rattles as it enters the lock, and then he pauses, as if he can sense me waiting inside. For a moment, I fear he’s going to turn around and leave, but this kid hates being outside; he won't let me put him off getting behind a locked door.
The door swings open without a sound. I oiled the hinges yesterday, back when he was out. If he noticed, he never showed it.
He closes the door, dumps his bag and heads in, oblivious to my presence; or so aware of it, it's become second nature to him.
He heads to the kitchen and starts filling the kettle. Why he needs tea to help him recover from his coffee, I don’t know, but it’s all part of his habit. A clockwork routine to let him decompress from his outing. It feels cruel to abduct him beforehe’s finished. Plus, he’d spot my reflection in the kitchen window from there before I had time to act. I don’t want to hurt him.
I wait until he turns away, then move fast: one hand clamps over his mouth, the other slides the needle into his neck. He jerks, tries to yell, but my palm muffles the sound. Even through my glove, his skin is hot. The needle goes in smoothly, and I inject the contents.
“Easy,” I say, keeping my voice low, calm. “Don’t fight it.”
For four seconds, he thrashes, then goes limp. I support him before he can crumple to the ground, easing him down. His pulse thuds against my fingers, quick but solid. That is good. I don’t want him hurt.
When I lift him, his head lolls against my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. For now, I lie him on the couch, in a position that looks comfortable, then I switch off the kettle, and tidy up his things. Anyone looking for Quell will notice a half-finished task as being out of place.
I take him down the back stairs. No one sees. The car is waiting where I left it, trunk lined with a blanket ready for him. I set him down, tuck the blanket over him. Check his breathing. Still steady.
The drive to the safe house takes eighteen minutes. No one follows. No one cares. The streets are empty, afternoon sunlight stretching shadows across the road. Quell doesn’t wake up once.
The garage door shuts behind us, sealing out the light. As soon as the trunk opens, my fingers are on his throat, checking his pulse. I find it with a sigh of relief and then scoop him up. Carry him inside, and set him down in the chair I picked out for him. His head lolls forward, chin to chest, while I slip zip ties around his wrists, fastening them to the armrests. Not too tight, just enough. His ankles, too, bound to the chair legs. Then, a strip of duct tape over his mouth. I step back, taking him in.
He looks different in real life. The videos don’t catch it all. The little scar at his hairline. The patchy stubble on his jaw. Blue veins showing through his pale skin. I press two fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse. Still strong. He’ll be awake soon.
While I wait, I get everything ready. A table between us. The water bottle in the center, straw already poked through the cap. His drawings, the ones I grabbed from his place, lined up in order. And in the middle, the special one. The one that hasn’t happened yet. The banker, the pliers. My next job.
He starts to wake up while I am sitting there, hands folded on the table. His eyelids flutter, slow at first, then wide and scared. He tries to talk, but the tape muffles him. His chest moves fast, up and down, up and down.
"I'm going to take the tape off," I say. "If you scream, it goes right back on. Got it?"
He gives a single nod, so I reach over and peel the tape off in one quick go. He winces, but doesn’t make a sound.
"Where am I?" His voice is scratchy, almost raw.
"Somewhere safe." I nudge the water bottle closer. "Drink."
He eyes it, suspicious.
"If I wanted to drug you again, I wouldn't have to hide it in water."
He leans forward as much as the zip ties let him. I hold the straw up to his mouth, and he drinks, slow and careful, watching me the whole time.
“It’s you,” he mutters after he's done drinking. “You’re the one who’s been watching me.”
"Yeah."
“Not an alien.” It’s not a question, just a statement, but I can’t tell if he’s relieved or surprised; the sedative is still dulling his expressions.
“Not an alien,” I confirm, feeling the need to get that out there. “Just a man trying to understand your drawings.”
"Why?"
I tap one drawing. "You know why."
