Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

‘You know: busy, busy.’ Sue sweeps an ironic glance across the empty store. ‘Those chocolates probably need dusting.’

When salespeople joke with customers, it always seems desperate, pleading, no matter how clever the joke or careful the delivery. The customer has money and the salesperson wants it. Knowing that agenda turns the humour sour.

Then again, I’m rarely the customer. When I am, I’m not considered important enough to joke with. Maybe the jokes seem sad to me because I’m not the audience.

Kyle opens the first box and starts passing padded envelopes over the counter. The woman scans them and dumps them straight in a mailbag. The process is quick. Hopefully too quick for Kyle to notice that one package has a handwritten label.

‘How’s the mouse-trap business?’ Sue asks.

‘We’ve expanded,’ Kyle says. ‘We’re getting rid of pantry moths now.’

‘Ugh, I have those.’

‘Well, now you know who to call.’ Kyle holds up one of the packages. ‘Stick one of these in your pantry, and they’ll be gone within a week.’

‘I might just do that. Who’s your friend?’

‘Timothy Blake, ma’am,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Kyle looks impressed that I came up with the name so quickly.

Sue keeps scanning packages. ‘Are you James’s new hire?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Just helping out for the day. I’m his uncle.’

‘Oh!’ Sue looks us both up and down. ‘Yes, I see the resemblance.’

Kyle coughs into his fist. ‘Excuse me.’ He sounds offended, and now so am I.

‘And what do you do, Mr Blake?’

‘I’m a civilian consultant for the FBI.’

Kyle kicks me under the counter.

‘Really?’ Sue asks, eyes wide.

‘Off-duty today, though,’ I say. ‘So if you see any crime, call someone else!’ I laugh too loudly.

‘Uncle Tim, you’re a riot,’ Kyle says, through clenched teeth. ‘But we gotta get this done.’

‘I know, I know.’

The next package Kyle picks up has a handwritten label.

I grab an object at random from the stand next to the counter: a bar of handmade lavender soap. ‘Hey, check these out. Should we take one home?’

The distraction doesn’t work. Kyle is about to hand the package to Sue, but he hesitates when he notices the label. ‘Huh.’

Sue looks curious. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Oh, that’s my fault,’ I say. ‘I tore the printed label. Had to write a new one. Sorry.’

‘Justice Park Drive,’ Kyle reads. ‘Houston.’

If he flips it over, he’ll see the coordinates I wrote under my name.

‘Isn’t that an FBI office?’ Sue asks me. Damn her and her good memory.

‘You bet.’ I take the package before Kyle can turn it over. My heart is hammering. ‘No pantry moths there, not since they started buying these. Right, James?’

‘Right.’ Kyle looks uneasy. Maybe realising that the Guards do have customers at the FBI, and that it’s not smart to chat with Sue about that at length.

I hand over the package, keeping the side with the return coordinates hidden from Kyle. Sue scans it. When it disappears into the bag, I can breathe again.

We unpack the rest of the boxes and Sue scans the last of the packages. She asks if Kyle wants them mailed by air, or wants signature on delivery, and he says no. I know why—he would need to show ID if the parcels were travelling by air, and the Guards’ customers would need to show theirs if they were signing for these packages.

Kyle pays in cash. Sue glances at me before accepting, like this might be a sting.

So she hasn’t fallen for Kyle’s pantry moth ruse. She knows he’s breaking the law somehow. But she’s pretending she doesn’t. I imagine her lying to the police—I’m shocked. I had no idea he was doing anything illegal.

‘Mind if I have a look at the magazines, son?’ I ask. The last word just slips out.

‘Sure.’ If Kyle’s noticed that I called him son rather than nephew, he doesn’t say.

I go and pretend to examine the magazines while he pays. Sue seems happy to take his money while I’m not looking.

One of the tattoo magazines catches my eye. There’s a shirtless man on the cover with ink all the way from his jawline to his wrists. Like a beautifully decorated cake.

The novelty is appealing. When I was eating death-row inmates, I rarely got the tattooed ones, because they tended to have blood diseases. I wonder if I could taste the ink in this man’s skin.

‘Good to go?’ Kyle asks.

My gaze snaps up. ‘What? Yeah. Let’s go.’

I go to put the magazine back. ‘Take it,’ Sue says. ‘It’s yours.’

I hesitate. ‘You sure?’

‘Of course! Take some soap, too. An uncle of James is an uncle of mine.’ She laughs, but I can see through it: that desperation no one else ever seems to see or care about.

This is a bribe. The only one she can afford.

‘Well, okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you very much. See you next time.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ she says, as we walk out. I know it’s Friday, but I have no idea what the date is. Is it Christmas? The days have all smeared across each other in a paste of exhaustion and panic.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Kyle says as we walk back to the van. He’s carrying another box, about the size of a milk crate, sealed with packing tape. Supplies for the house, I guess.

‘What?’

‘Wasn’t Timothy Blake the name of the real FBI consultant? I didn’t recognise it right away, but—’

‘That’s the point,’ I say. ‘When the police go looking for him, his last known whereabouts will be at this post office—not buried out in the woods. It’ll throw them off the scent.’

‘It’ll lead them away from the woods but towards us.’

I hope so. ‘We’re a hundred miles from the house,’ I say. ‘You gave a false name at the post office. Trust me,