Chapter 9 - Through The Bathroom Window
Crouched in the narrow concrete gap between the motel rooms, the night air felt thin and sharp against my skin. The asphalt of the parking lot glistened under the harsh, buzzing amber glare of a single security light overhead. Two men in dark jackets stood smoking near a rusted sedan three doors down, their low voices carrying over the gravel. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythmic thud echoing in my ears.
Caleb glanced back at me, his salt-and-pepper beard catching the amber light, his dark brown leather jacket blending into the deep shadows of the stucco wall. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. With a slow, deliberate nod, he crept out from the gap and moved toward the far edge of the asphalt block, where a heavy green metal dumpster sat against a chain-link fence.
I held my breath, pressing my shoulder blades flat against the gritty wall of room 14. Caleb grabbed the rim of the metal dumpster lid and heaved upward, letting it slam down against the side with a deafening, metallic crash that echoed off the hollow motel units.
"Hey! What was that?" one of the guards shouted, his boots crunching heavily across the loose gravel as both men sprinted toward the far corner of the lot to investigate the noise.
I didn't wait. I scrambled out of the recess, darted along the wall, and reached the small frosted-glass window of room 14's bathroom. My fingers clawed at the aluminum frame. It gave way with a faint, rusted pop. The latch was unlatched—just as Caleb had guessed it might be, or perhaps left hurried by the men who took her.
Pushing the window open wide enough to squeeze through, I hoisted myself up, scraped my hip against the sharp sill, and dropped quietly onto the linoleum floor of the cramped bathroom. The air inside smelled faintly of bleach and cheap floral soap.
I pushed the bathroom door open an inch. A sliver of amber light cut across the threadbare carpet of the main motel room.
There, sitting upright in a heavy wooden straight-back chair in the center of the room, was Aunt Clara. Her wrists and ankles were bound with heavy plastic zip ties, her gray hair slightly disheveled, but her eyes—wide and alert—flashed with immediate recognition when she saw me in the crack of the doorway.
"Aunt Clara," I breathed, darting across the small room on silent feet.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice tight with strain as I dropped to my knees behind her. "You shouldn't have come here. They're looking for—"
"I know," I interrupted, my fingers frantically working at the jagged plastic bite of the zip tie binding her right wrist. The heavy plastic bit into her skin, leaving red ridges. "I'm getting you out. We have help. Caleb is out there."
"Caleb?" Confusion flickered across her features, but there was no time for explanations. I wrenched the first tie free, tossing it onto the floor, and immediately went to work on her ankles.
"Keep your voice down," she urged, rubbing her circulation back into her stiff wrists the moment they were free. "They left someone at the front desk. He's supposed to check in every fifteen minutes."
"We'll beat them to the truck," I whispered, helping her stand as her knees wobbled slightly from hours of immobility.
Before we could take a single step toward the bathroom window, a heavy, deafening thud shook the front door of room 14. The entire frame rattled in its dry-walled slot.
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"Open up! Inspection!" a gruff voice barked from the porch, followed immediately by the harsh, metallic rattle of a skeleton key turning in the deadbolt.
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