Don't Get Caught(50)

“Someplace private.”

“More private than this?”

The guy reaches into his jacket and pulls out a mask identical to the one they’re wearing, except this one has duct tape over the eyes.

“Put this on,” the girl says.

I may be dumb enough to come here, but I’m not dumb enough to put myself completely at their mercy.

“I’m out of here,” I say.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she says.

“There’s no way I’m putting that mask on.”

The guy grabs for the distorter and holds it up.

“If you leave, Stranko gets the picture tonight. How long do you think it’ll be before he figures out who’s in the mascot costume? Now put the mask on.”

Again, do I have a choice?

I can’t see anything with the mask on, and the small slits at the nostrils and mouth have me suffocating. I’m led by the arm across the hard infield and off the diamond completely. We’re on grass for a bit, and the girl says, “Be careful. Don’t slip. There’s a step down here.”

Ah, kindhearted kidnappers, the best kind.

Then we’re walking on concrete, and I hear the chirp of a car door unlocking.

“No, it’s okay,” the girl says when I slow down. “You’ll be fine.”

A door opens, and I’m guided down so I don’t bang my head on the car. I can’t tell what the car’s make is, but I know it’s small because my knees hit the passenger seat in front of me. When my two captors get in, only a few feet separate us.

“Drive around a bit,” the guy says. “I don’t want him knowing where we are.” Then to me, “If you peek, Stranko gets the picture.”

The radio comes on, and we start driving. At first, I do a good job keeping track of our location. I’ve lived in Asheville my whole life, so I know these roads. But the turns become so constant that eventually I lose any sense of direction. When we finally come to a stop after twenty minutes of driving, we might as well be in China.

“This way,” the girl says once we’re outside the car. “It’s not very far, but we need you to be quiet.”

“Why?”

“Because we told you to be,” the guy says.

I’m guessing we’re walking across another empty parking lot. Of course, for all I know, it’s a dead-end road, someone’s driveway—or a walkway to an open vat of hydrofluoric acid.

“Just a little farther,” she says. “We’re heading inside.”

“To a murder shed?” I say, only half joking.

Neither reply. If I live through this, I need to stop being such a smart-ass.

We walk on what’s probably a sidewalk for a few seconds, then without any sort of transition, the night sounds fall away and the air warms up as we step inside some structure. My guards are on either side of me, and I’m led a dozen or so steps before the door we just entered closes with a click. Whatever sort of building we’re in, there can’t be many people around. The only sound is the constant drone of a heating system. After another minute of walking, I’m led inside what has to be a small room. There’s no noise in here, and I sense that the walls aren’t too far out of reach. But it’s the unmistakable smell of wet paint that has me most confused. Even with the mask on, it’s overwhelming, like somehow I’m in the backroom of a paint store.

“Sit here,” the girl says.

“Can I take off my mask? I’m dying.”

“Actually, we need to tie your hands behind your back now. We don’t want you taking off your mask before it’s time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means put your hands behind your back. We don’t have all night,” Mr. Attitude says.

Having come this far, I do as I’m told. Thankfully, the rope isn’t so tight it cuts off circulation.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the guy asks.

I should be scared, but I’m not. Probably because I realize that underneath the tough-guy act, he’s really just another dumb high school kid like me.

“You’re the one who brought me here. Why don’t you tell me why?” I say.

“Don’t be stupid. We want to know why you’re trying to get us in trouble.”

“What do you mean trouble?”

“Stop the shit, man. You know what we’re talking about. The fake website—”

“The aerial photo—”

“The pep rally—”

“The goldfish—”

“Zippy—”

“And siccing the Secret Service on Stranko,” the guy says. “That trouble.”

Well, it’s nice to know our work hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“You’re the ones who started it by getting us busted at the water tower,” I say. “Then you went and stuffed our lockers with dough.”

There’s a long enough pause that I’m guessing the guy and girl are communicating without speaking. Maybe with semaphore.

The girl says, “We didn’t pull those pranks.”

“Yeah right.”

“We didn’t.”

If my fingers weren’t laced, I’d be making fists.