Page 50 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“What about Cole?” I say.
The question surprises us both. His head turns in the dark.
“He’s not exactly my priority right now, Everly.”
“I know. But those men are going to hurt him.”
He goes quiet—but I can hear his thoughts battling inside him.
“He’s a terrible person,” Beckett says.
“He might be.”
“I owe him nothing.”
“Also true.”
Our time is dwindling. Several rooms down, I can hear the intruders tossing furniture and slamming doors.
I squeeze his hand. Once. Brief. Deliberate. “If you want to go after him, I’m with you, Beckett.”
“Wait. You were the one who wanted to go after him.”
“Okay, fine, then are you with me?”
He exhales. Long. The exhale of a man making a decision he knows will cost him. He drops my hand—steps back slightly.
And yes, I hate that. I hate that I hate that too, so it’s getting loud in my head. I know, I’m confusing!
Finally, he says, “We find Cole before they do. Get to the entrance. All three of us.”
“That’s a terrible plan. It’s the only way out—they’ll have someone waiting for him.”
“You’re the thriller expert. Make it better.”
I reach up, click on the flashlight in Beckett’s hand. He cups the light so it doesn’t bleed under the door. I pull out my Moleskine notebook.
“You carry a notebook?”
“Of course I do. I’m a writer.”
“I don’t carry a hockey stick. Or a puck.”
“Maybe you should. A puck would come in really handy right now.”
He’s just staring at me. I shrug. “Okay, here’s the point.” I flip to the hand-drawn floor plan of the mall. “Okay, so…we entered the tunnels here.” I point to the food court on the map. “The service corridors run parallel to most of the main concourse. The old rink”—I tap the big open space at the center of the map—“has offices that connect through a separate corridor behind the Staff Only door. That’s where our tough guys said they were headed. My guess is they don’t know their way around the tunnels. They’ll have to head back through the mall.” I tilt the page, bringing it closer to the sliver of light. “There’s a service tunnel under the food court connecting the loading docks to the rink-side infrastructure…looks like it comes out near the old Zamboni bay. If we head that way, I think we can get to Cole before they do—if he’s even there.”
Beckett looks at the floor plan. Looks at me. “You drew a floor plan,” he says.
“I drew seven. This is the relevant one.”
“Of the tunnels?”
“For a novel.”
“Are we living said novel?”
“Now that you mention it, the line between fiction and reality has been aggressively blurred this evening.” I stuff the notebook back into my bag, and Beckett clicks the flashlight off again. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before they circle back.”
