Page 16 of X Marks the Stalker
“What room, Martin?”
“118. Driftwood Motel. But twenty minutes, that’s it.”
“Wait for me.”
I hang up and grab my camera bag again, dumping half its contents to make room for my laptop. I need to document whatever Martin tells me.
I blow through every red light between my apartment and the Driftwood Motel, one hand on the wheel, the other alternating between my phone’s GPS and stuffing chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth. My Honda screams in mechanical protest as I push it past sixty.
“Come on, come on.” My fingers drum the steering wheel in time with my racing pulse.
The Driftwood Motel materializes ahead, a single-story horseshoe of desperation surrounding a pot-holed parking lot. The vacancy sign flickers, half-dead, mirroring the dreams of anyone staying there. I slow down, scanning for threats.
I pull into a spot three doors down from Martin’s room, behind a rusted pickup truck that offers cover. My hands shake as I kill the engine and reach for my bag.
Two men in dark suits stand outside Martin’s door. My stomach drops through the floor.
Not police. Police wear their badges as armor, bring backup, follow procedure. The taller one knocks while the shorter one keeps his hand inside his jacket, where guns go to hide.
Don’t open. Don’t open.
The door opens. Martin’s face flashes pale as milk before they push inside.
I grab my camera and train the lens on the thin curtains of room 118. The motel’s cheap lighting turns the fabric into a shadow puppet theater.
Three silhouettes. Martin backing up. The taller man gesturing with sharp, angry movements.
No sound reaches me, but I don’t need audio. Martin’s body language broadcasts terror on all frequencies. Shoulders hunched, hands raised.
The shorter figure steps forward, arm extended.
“No, no, no,” I whisper.
A flash. Then another. The curtain brightens with each muzzle flare. No sound. Silencer.
Martin’s silhouette crumples to the floor, a marionette with cut strings.
My hand clamps over my mouth, trapping the scream building in my throat. Bile rises, hot and bitter. I force myself to keep watching.
Martin wasn’t just a source. He was a good man, a rare specimen in a world of self-interest. He didn’t have to help me. He could have ignored my calls, deleted my emails. But he believed in me. And now he’s gone.
The men search the room, rifling through Martin’sbelongings. The taller one emerges with a laptop tucked under his arm. The shorter one follows with a folder.
Evidence. Information. Everything Martin had on Blackwell. Everything I need.
I slide down in my seat as they walk to their car, memorizing their faces while staying hidden. The taller one bears a scar running from his left eye to his jaw, jagged as a lightning bolt. The shorter one moves with a slight limp, right leg dragging.
My fingers find the silver locket at my throat, closing around it. A lifeline. I grip it tighter as I watch the killers walk to their car. No blood on their pristine suits. They don’t hurry. They don’t check their surroundings. They move with the confidence of men who know they’ll never face a jury.
My thumb traces the tiny dent on the locket’s edge where Mom dropped it once while gardening.
The car pulls away, and I press the locket to my lips, the metal warming against them. Mom would tell me to call the police. Dad would say the same. But the police didn’t help them. The police believed Blackwell’s story. The police found no evidence of foul play when my parents were found dead.
Should I follow them?
I should follow them.
Fuck.
