34. Sébastien
E ven though I hadn’t hot-wired a car since I was in my early twenties, it’s kind of like riding a bike—you never really lose the skill.
Well, provided you’re not trying to get yourself into one of those electric cars that’s more computer than vehicle—but you get the idea.
It was a shame to leave so many of my things on the yacht when we made a break for it, but Caz and I were able to get ourselves out of Miami completely unscathed.
The first thing I did as soon as I found us a place to sleep for the night was try to contact Frank and Q through some of our emergency backup channels.
I didn’t get anything from Frank, but almost as soon as I messaged Quentin via the direct mail function on the Vinyl Sleuth web app—I got a coded message back from him confirming his safety; and proposing a rendezvous point between our current locations and the meeting place Frank set out for us.
When Caz finally woke, head throbbing and rage boiling—I recounted the rest of the confrontation to him.
Frank’s palpable fear, impossibility of approach, Quentin in the face of Frank’s gun—and, of course, me; cowering in fear—glad to have Caz as an excuse to run far away from the men with guns encircling the boat as we watched helplessly from shore.
Caz slams his fists on the dashboard and lets out an anguished cry.
We stop at the next rest stop—24-hour-mart—and I buy as much candy and energy drinks for him as my arms can hold.
When I get back to the car, Caz is sitting in the driver’s seat.
“You didn’t have to get me all that stuff. I’m not mad at you. It’s normal to be terrified of a bunch of clandestine thugs armed to the teeth.” He thumbs at his chin, nodding somewhere in the night.
“Well, that’s nice to hear, but what if I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable?” I flash him a grin, even if I’m struggling to feel convincing with the pain in my heart.
Caz gives me a look. I shrug and drop into the passenger seat—arranging the candy on the dash and fitting two of the energy drinks into the center console.
“Why don’t you hop up, eh? Let me drive—you got hit pretty hard,” I soothe, reaching out to run my thumb over the bite mark at his clavicle, the raised flesh still a little hot to the touch even through the thin layer of cotton.
“You haven’t felt anything from her yet, have you?” He doesn’t answer me, just grips the steering wheel, gnawing nervously on his bottom lip.
“No, nothing other than that low buzz like when she’s sleeping,” I say carefully, not wanting to give false hope or more cause for alarm.
Caz nods slowly, then reaches for one of the tall aluminum cans of energy drinks, popping the tab open.
“Let me drive, it’s fine—you can take a rest.” He slugs down some of the fizzy energy drink and offers me his open palm for the keys expectantly.
“Cazzy, I’m not so sure?—”
“Seb,” he interrupts me. “I need to drive right now—otherwise, I’m going to go fucking crazy.
I know that you did what you could, but right now the only way I’m gonna be able to forgive myself for losing Louise to those monsters—is to cut away the miles between us and Q, and meet up with Frank,” Caz explains with urgency, drumming both of his hands on the steering wheel for emphasis.
“Ok, ok—but the moment you start to have any problems.” I gesture to my own eyes and head. “You tag me in.”
He nods solemnly, extending his hands for the keys once more.
We meet Quentin at a cheap motel just outside of Enid, Oklahoma.
The town feels like a postcard out of time—the ‘small town America’ I learned from old television shows.
When the three of us finally get into the same room, we collapse against one another—our foreheads pressed together—our arms linked over one another’s shoulders in a ring of tears.
Once the three of us are all cried out, we sit—puffy eyed and resolute, a plan for recon and rescue at the front of all our minds.
“You haven’t heard from Frank yet, either?” Caz presses Quentin, amassing the small arsenal of tech he’s managed to scrape together since our surprise retreat from the yacht.
“No, I can’t get a hold of him at all. I don’t like it.” Quentin lays out his lock picks and examines them for what must be the fifth time in the last ten minutes.
I oil my knives and hold my tongue.
The two must feel me, smouldering, fuming with rage along the bond—because they both turn to me as I reach for my paper motel cup of mint tea, straining the loose leaves through my teeth as I sip the scalding liquid down.
“What is it, Seb?” Caz prods.
“I’m fucking pissed off that Frank hasn’t checked back in yet. What the fuck is taking him so long?”
Neither has an answer.
“I’m going to get some ice,” I grunt, breaking the silence—not quite storming out of the motel room with the shitty little plastic insulated ice bucket and down the hall to the ancient ice machine—the high whine of its motor the only sound in the dingy, amber lit hallway.
When I get back into the room, Caz and Q are making instant noodles and amassing a list of people who owe the Saints a favor.
“That’s good, that’s very good.” Caz nods, jotting down a few more names on the list.
I pull up a chair and give the list a once over. A few local politicians, a handful of drug dealers, a couple of D-List celebs, and at least two arms dealers…
Quentin and Caz are obviously distracting themselves by becoming immersed in the plan to rescue Louise.
Me? I am looking for a different kind of escape.
“What time are we hitting the road tomorrow?” I ask, shrugging out of my overcoat and tossing it over the back of my empty chair.
“Checkout is at 10. We should probably be on the road as soon as possible, though. Let’s say, 8:30?” Quentin doesn’t look up from his phone, where he busily types away—whether reaching out to contacts or simply doing research—I don’t know. I don’t have enough bandwidth right now to care.
“Fine with me. I’m going to try to unwind and get some rest.” I kick off my shoes, flopping down on one of the queen beds in the modest motor lodge.
Caz eyes me as I pull a small plastic case sealed with a rubber gasket from my pocket.
“Hey…” he calls noncommittally from his seat at the table as I flick the plastic container open—carefully lifting a slimline pair of tweezers from the lid of the container—using their tiny pincer grip to extract a single centimeter by centimeter square of a perforated sheet of rice paper tabs embed with a super-concentrate of Caz’s own psychotropic secretions.
Delicately, I lift the tab to my outstretched tongue.
“Hey!” Caz interjects more forcefully this time—so I give him the courtesy of waiting to dose myself so that I might hear him out.
“Do you really think that’s the best idea right now? Getting fucking high as shit while we’re trying to figure out our next moves,” Caz bristles.
“Mon coeur, you and Quentin are already doing as much as can be done right now. Frank is out there somewhere—and inevitably, our plans will change once we’ve got him back in the mix.”
Neither Tin-tin nor Caz object to this—but they don’t look pleased about it either.
“I need something to take the edge off,” I admit, shrugging their concern off. “I’d get it from the source—but you’re too uptight to do anything other than smell off and sour right now—and none of us are in the mood right now after today…” I trail off.
“Fine—but only one tab, ok?” Caz warns. “I don’t want to have to chase you down because you’re running around convinced you’re the king of the fairies again,” he scolds.
“Only the one—I promise!” I assure him before dropping the tiny square of paper onto my tongue.
I lay back into the lumpy pillows and the drop is nearly immediate.
Lush colors explode around me as the kaleidoscopic effect of Caz’s perfume magnified nearly ten times, saturates my vision with rainbows of color and shimmering lights.
There’s a warm, comforting resonance, like a Mandela of sun and star-shine that pulse above me. I reach for it—feeling the connection to Caz, to Quentin as I run my hands along the golden skeins.
Without thinking—I reach for Louise along our bond; expecting to find the static silence we’ve all been getting for the last few hours.
I feel something—like cold wet rope; the fingers of my questing consciousness closing around it.
“Stop!” I find myself screaming before I even understand what is happening.
It is as if I have momentarily conducted myself down the bond like a jolt of electricity; for a moment of horrifying clarity, I experience the waking horror of Louise in an unknown room; no windows—only a single sickly overhead light; the entire room lined wall to wall in white tile—every inch of surface nearly identical—save for a single plate metal door in the far wall, and a metal drain at the center of the tiled floor.
“Sébastien! Sebby! You’re right here—you’re just freaking out!” Caz calls to me from where my body lies in the motel bed.
“No! It’s Louise—I can see through the bond; she’s being held somewhere—tortured!” I wail—not sure if Caz can hear.
Louise’s panic is my panic as she hears a set of keys jangling in the metal door.
“Is it Lowry?” Quentin’s voice is accompanied by the vague sensation of hands on shoulders. Are they my shoulders? It’s hard to tell when my body seems so far away; Louise’s sights and sensations—so much more immediate in this moment.
“She needs help!” I repeat pathetically—unable to will myself to move, to look away.
I can tell from the rush of adrenaline—the pounding of her heart so intense it’s painful; that whatever is about to pass through that doorway—Louise is terrified. She knows it will bring her great physical pain—and will drive her to mental ruin.
“Seb, what is it!?” Caz’s face fills my vision for a moment—and I wish I could hold on to those blue eyes, that gaunt face—but I am yanked back to the torture room as the horrifying figure walks through the door.
When I see the figure through Louise’s eyes—I am undone. I scream my horror and pass out.