Young Writers Society

[NOTE: Again, sorry for the delay. Life likes to play little tricks that distract me from writing.]

A cool breeze floated across Arnold’s face, and he woke up to an officer fanning him with a piece of paper. He tried to stand up, but a hand rested on his shoulder, keeping him down. After a short while, Kevin appeared in front of him.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

Arnold shrugged. “I’ve felt better, I guess.”

“Do you think you’re up to answering a few questions?”

“I—I guess so.”

Kevin took out a notepad and pen. “What did you see when you came into the house?” he asked.

“Everything was overturned and thrown around,” said Arnold.

“Do you think anything was missing?”

“No, they probably did this to—”

“I’m not asking you for an analysis. I’m just asking you if you think they took anything.”

“Sorry. No, I don’t think anything is missing.”

“Was there anyone in the house with you?”

“As far as I know, I was alone. I mean, I heard a voice in my ear, but I didn’t feel anyone there.”

“Chief,” said one of the officers. “I think I found something.”

Kevin left Arnold sitting in his chair. He walked over to the officer, who was pointing to a dark object attached to the wall.

“Oh my God,” he said. “It’s a bug.”

Arnold started to rise, but Kevin motioned to him to sit. After a moment, he walked over to Arnold. “We need to get you out of here,” he said.

Arnold cocked his eyebrow. “Why?” he asked.

“We think your house is bugged. We found either a microphone or a tiny speaker, which could explain the voice in your ear. Either way, you’re not safe in this house, and we need to get you out of here.”

“Where am I going to go?” Arnold asked.

“I don’t know,” Kevin said, but Arnold could see in his eyes that he knew exactly where Arnold was going to be placed.

“What do I do till then?” asked Arnold.

“Just wait in the car,” replied Kevin.

It was a long, lonely ride to the town of Wilson, population of 75 during the day, and twelve at night. The motel was located along the highway, which doubled as the main drag. Arnold was placed in room 153, a non-smoking room that reeked of marijuana and body odor. The walls, once a glimmering white, were now a dingy yellow color because of the many layers of smoke over the years. Arnold looked around the room, and sighed. Being holed up in here for the next ten days was not going to be fun. The clock on the nightstand read 8:49 PM, and he knew that he had survived his first day; some quick figuring told him that there were nine days, twenty-two hours, and eleven minutes left in his life, and he would be damned if he were to spend those precious days in a crappy motel room.

Arnold reached into his pocket and pulled out the information to his new identity: Robert Thompson, from Waco. He sighed—five hours of paperwork later, and all they could think of for a false name was “Robert Thompson”? He picked up the phone to call room service, but there was no dial tone. He hung up the phone and turned on the television, hoping to find some way to be connected to the outside world. He flipped through the channels of static, looking for the one channel that came in clearly. He stopped on a local news channel that was doing a short news update about a detective in Lorendo.

“… Authorities say that Detective Baxter will be placed in the witness protection program until further notice.”

The camera cut to Kevin at a podium in front of the Lorendo Police Station.

“Considering the circumstances, we feel that he was in great danger, and by keeping him around when he didn’t need to be, he was putting the rest of us in danger, as well.”

“The witness protection program was established with the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970,” said the reporter. “Witnesses in the program are given a new identity and location. Because of this, we are not allowed to give any further information about the detective or his whereabouts.”

Arnold turned off the television and tried to relax. He was told that he couldn’t contact any of his family or friends, and he had to stay in his motel room until further notice. He had no clothes to change into, nor was he able to bring something along to keep him occupied. The only thing he had going for him was a television that was able to get one channel and the Gideon Bible.

As Arnold flipped through the Bible, he started to reflect on his faith, or lack thereof. When his father died in a car accident, Arnold was only thirteen. His life was already falling apart around him, as much as the lives of thirteen-year-olds can fall apart: his hormones were raging, he was losing friends and struggling to gain new ones, and everything he believed in seemed like a fantasy. His father’s death was the final event that pushed him over the edge, and he renounced everything he believed in. His belief in family, his belief in his self, and his belief in God all took a nosedive into the hills. For nearly twenty years after that, he went on a campaign to gather knowledge about everything, in order to prove to himself what he could believe in and what he couldn’t. After a long, grueling process of poring over Bible interpretations and science textbooks, he decided that there couldn’t possibly be a God, and closed that chapter of his life for good, or so he thought.

Nearly forty years later, Arnold was now lying on a motel bed, casually flipping through a Gideon Bible, re-evaluating his position in life. With less than ten days on his life, he wondered if there might be a God after all—at this point, he wasn’t going to rule anything out. He flipped through each individual page, traveling at a skimming speed through Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus; racing through the Samuels, Kings, and Chronicles. He paused for a moment at the book of Job; he always felt sorry for Job, the cause of his suffering being a deal made between God and Satan. He knew that this was the main reasoning behind his shunning of God, but as he reflected more on the book, he realized that through all of that pain, Job still managed to praise Him. Arnold kept those musings in the back of his mind as he began to flip through the Psalms.

Arnold looked at the clock on the night stand: nearly 11:00 PM. Almost nine days and twenty hours until his death. He sighed and stretched, and was about to put the Bible back in its drawer when a verse caught his eye—Psalms 121:3: “He who watches over you will not slumber.”

From the desk across the room, Arnold’s phone rang. He froze—it was a brand new cell phone, and as far as he knew, only Kevin had the number. He turned back to the verse in the Bible—“He who watches over you will not slumber”—and suddenly got a bad feeling about the phone call. He inched his way closer to the phone, and checked the number: ID Restricted. Against his better judgment, he picked up the phone and answered it.

“Hello, Robert,” said a voice at the other end. “Enjoying your stay at your fancy motel?”

Arnold did not speak; instead, his mind raced with every thought imaginable: Who is this guy? Why does he have my cell phone number? How did he know my false name?

“I know you’re there, Detective,” said the voice. “It’s no use trying to hide. We’re always watching you.”

Arnold turned back to the Bible lying open on his bed. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. Enjoy your stay in room 153.”

The line went dead. Arnold replaced the phone on the desk, and put the Gideon Bible back in its drawer. He sat numbly on his bed and stared at the window as he listened to the crunch and crack as a car, presumably parked in front of his room, drove away. He peeked out from behind his curtains as he saw a rusty truck pull onto the highway, and drive back toward town. Assuming the room was bugged, he picked up his cell phone, and made the long walk toward the front desk. A large woman behind the desk greeted him as he walked up.

“What can I do for you, hon?” she asked.

“I have a complaint about the room I’m staying in. Is it okay if I switch?”