Chapter 2 - Room 17Stone was back inside the Rustline Roadhouse before the echoes faded.
Clara was no longer beside the door.
She was under the nearest table, curled into herself.
Rook was down beside her.
“Clara. Look at me.”
Her eyes were wide.
“Was that my brother?”
“No.”
“You don't know.”
Rook looked at Stone.
Stone shook his head once.
“Not his voice.”
Emergency lights flashed across the road.
Two sheriff’s deputies pulled into the motel lot.
Sheriff Alan Crowe stepped out.
He was broad, gray-haired, and carried himself with the confidence of a man who had worn the same badge for twenty-two years.
Stone met him outside.
“Room 17.”
Crowe nodded.
“I heard.”
Stone studied him.
“Three men took a boy.”
Crowe’s eyes narrowed.
“And you know that because?”
“Because the boy’s mother told me.”
Crowe looked across the parking lot.
“Where is she?”
“Inside.”
Crowe started toward the motel.
Stone followed.
The moment Crowe saw Mara, something flickered across his face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Stone noticed.
Mara noticed too.
She immediately looked away.
Crowe knelt.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
Mara said nothing.
“You're safe now.”
Mara’s hands began to shake.
Stone watched Crowe carefully.
“Do you know Victor Hale?”
Crowe looked up.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Local resident. Been questioned a few times.”
“For what?”
“Various things.”
“That's not an answer.”
Crowe stood.
“I'll handle the investigation.”
Stone smiled without humor.
“That means you don't want me involved.”
“It means this is police business.”
Behind him, Jax entered carrying a plastic evidence bag.
“We found this under the bed.”
Inside was a small silver key.
Stamped into the metal were two numbers:
Stone looked at Mara.
She whispered:
“That isn't the room key.”
Crowe turned sharply.
“What is it?”
Mara's face went pale.
“I don't know.”
Stone believed neither of them.
Before anyone could speak, Noah’s voice crackled through the police radio.
“Help!”
Everyone froze.
Crowe grabbed his radio.
“Unit Twelve, repeat!”
Nothing.
Then:
“Room... nine...”
Static.
“Basement...”
The signal died.
Stone looked at Jax.
“The motel has a basement?”
The manager shook his head immediately.
“No basement.”
Stone turned.
“Then why did the kid say it?”
The manager swallowed.
“There used to be one.”
“Used to?”
“It was sealed years ago.”
Stone walked outside.
“What happened there?”
Nobody answered.
He looked at the motel.
Seventeen rooms.
Old brick.
Rotting sign.
A row of windows.
Then he saw something.
A narrow metal door behind the laundry building.
Half buried beneath weeds.
A padlock hung from the handle.
Stone walked over.
The lock was brand new.
He broke it with a tire iron.
The door opened into darkness.
A staircase descended.
Jax stared at it.
“So much for no basement.”
They went down.
At the bottom was a concrete corridor.
One bulb flickered overhead.
There were rooms on both sides.
Empty.
Except for one.
Room 9.
Stone opened it.
Noah was inside.
He was sitting against the wall.
Alone.
Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow.
Stone rushed forward.
“Where are the men?”
Noah stared at him.
Then his eyes moved past Stone.
Toward the doorway.
“You came.”
Stone crouched.
“Who are you?”
“Derek Mercer.”
Noah nodded slowly.
“My mom told me about you.”
“What did she say?”
“That if the riders ever came...”
Noah hesitated.
“You'd know what to do.”
Stone noticed Noah’s right hand was closed around something.
“Open your hand.”
Noah looked at it.
Then shook his head.
“They were looking for this.”
“What is it?”
Noah finally opened his fingers.
A small black memory card.
Jax stared.
Stone’s voice dropped.
“What’s on it?”
Noah whispered:
“Everything.”
Footsteps sounded above them.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Someone had entered the motel.
Then the basement lights shut off.
And a voice drifted down the staircase.
May you like
“That's a good boy, Noah.”
Victor Hale.
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