Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

set in the concrete below has weeds sprouting from it like hair from an old man’s ears. There’s only one tap, which means no hot water.

When this was a working farm, there must have been a water source closer to the pig pen, and therefore the slaughterhouse. I wonder why Fred never got it running again. Maybe he likes getting the prisoners out of earshot from one another.

‘You seem like a decent man,’ Hailey says. A weak lie, without any evidence. But she speaks with such genuineness that I might have fallen for it, if I actually was a decent man. ‘How did you get mixed up in this?’

I can’t give her any indication that I’m not Lux. ‘How did you?’

‘I had a radio show,’ Hailey says. ‘Well, it started out as a podcast. Just me in my bedroom with a cheap microphone. But I got a lot of subscribers, and when I upgraded my equipment I got even more. After a couple of years a real network took notice.’

I’ll bet. I read a description of her show on the dark web site—it was non-stop hate speech. She fawned over her guests, who included Nazis, alt-right trolls and anti-gay preachers. She told her listeners to buy all the guns they could, and to shoot anyone who tried to take them away. She also suggested using sniper rifles on doctors who practised abortions, people who illegally crossed the border and various others.

‘Were you already in the KKK?’ I ask.

She chews her lip. ‘Yes,’ she says finally. She offers no further details.

We’re standing in front of the shower now. The air is bitterly cold. Hailey starts to get undressed. I turn away, then realise she might run. I turn back, but avert my eyes. Not that there’s much meat to be tempted by. She’s been starved down to little more than sinew.

‘After my show got picked up for broader distribution,’ Hailey continues, ‘I discovered that not everyone agreed with my politics. I had to stop taking calls on my show because of all the rage. There were death threats in my inbox. Then they started to show up in my physical mailbox as well. These psychos knew where I lived.’

‘Did you start to change your views?’

‘I doubled down, if anything.’ She shoots a quick glance at me. ‘I mean, I get it now, though. I did the wrong thing. I’m so ashamed.’

She utters this lie like a deathbed confession. A last-ditch effort to get into heaven.

‘One night I woke up to find a man in my bed. He was grinning, like a … I don’t know, a hyena. I screamed and screamed. He grabbed me. I was sure my husband would come, but he didn’t. I don’t know if the neighbours could hear—maybe they could and didn’t care. Those fuckers.’

I shouldn’t feel sorry for Hailey. Her words hurt people. Maybe they even killed people. But there’s a line between words and actions, and someone else crossed it. I’m starting to feel like that line is a chasm.

Naked now, Hailey turns the tap. The showerhead gurgles and sputters, then starts dribbling what must be freezing water onto her head. Her eyes scrunched, her shoulders up, she scrubs her body with her hands.

‘It was the guy with the freckles.’ I guess she means Samson. ‘He pushed something into my mouth. Some kind of pill. He pinched my nose and made me swallow it.’

I remember Zara’s theory that one of the prisoners may have gotten loose and sabotaged the cameras. If it was Samson who carried out the original abductions, it makes sense that the prisoners would want to kill him. But what would be the reason to lock themselves up again afterwards?

‘He dragged me through my living room.’ Hailey’s teeth sound like they’re chattering. ‘The last thing I remember seeing before I blacked out was my husband, lying on the floor. I still don’t know if he was dead or alive.’

Hailey wants my pity. I can’t let her know that she has it already.

‘The guy who abducted you is dead now,’ I say.

She looks surprised—even disbelieving. ‘How?’

‘Murdered.’ It’s dangerous to tell her this, but it might be the only way to shake loose a clue. I watch her for signs of dawning realisation. Like something makes sense to her now.

But she just looks confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, implausibly. ‘I know he was your friend.’

‘What time did you hear the gunshot?’

‘I didn’t hear any gunshot,’ she says.

‘The house is right there. You didn’t hear anything?’

She shakes her head, shivering in the spray.

‘That’s enough,’ I say. ‘Turn the water off.’

She turns the faucet off but makes no move to cover her naked body. ‘We could just leave,’ she says. ‘You and me. They’d never find us.’

‘Get dressed.’

She forces herself to look at the eyeholes in my mask. ‘I could make you happy.’

I shake my head. ‘Get dressed.’

Hailey slackens, as though whatever was holding her upright—desperation, hope—has vanished. She starts to cry.

I go to put my arms around her. It’s instinctive, not calculated. Hug the cold, wet, crying woman. But she shoves me away. ‘Don’t you fucking touch me!’ She chokes on the words.

I stand back and let her gather her clothes. There’s no towel, so she pulls them on over her damp skin. Then she totters, like a drunk in heels, back towards her prison.

CHAPTER 22

Blood colours the water in this sheltered bay. There’s something underneath. What is it?

It’s hard not to appreciate the attention to detail. The van is loaded up with everything a kidnapper might need. Rope. Water bottles. Ambien. A black cloth bag. A combat knife. A meal tray, covered with a silver lid. And my hammer, strapped to the wall with duct tape. There are even snacks—what look like homemade granola