Hairs stood up along the back of his neck as he walked East on Sherman Avenue with the intent to turn right on Fifth Street. He kept his pace slow and noticed he could hear the sound of his own boot-falls upon the worn, grassy pavement. It was a sound he’d grown to dislike. There was a time he thought he’d relish such silence living near Seattle, a near decade ago, among the busy streets and insane traffic as he rushed from a park-and-ride to a bus, to the nearest drop-off and practically ran to his class each day where he taught.
Life was hurried then. Adrenaline ran through his veins as if his life were in danger. Now, adrenaline ran…when it meant it.
That meant the tickle on his neck from earlier was for a reason, and that thought made him stop mid-stride right in the middle of the barren intersection.
Sheriff stopped too.
With a hand out, Graham looked around the deserted town. For a split second, he started at a flash of movement but since Sheriff didn’t react, he calmed himself. In a corner store that was once an art gallery, someone had left a well-dressed mannequin staged as if a woman were considering a painting. He knew she was there, the mannequin, but the mere sight of a humanoid made his pulse speed up a little. He glanced at Sheriff, who was not looking at the mannequin, as he’d long ago realized it wasn’t a living thing, but was instead looking up at his face as if he wanted to know what the problem was.
“Okay, come on. We’re just jumpy. Or at least I am jumpy. You…always cool…except around cats. But we won’t talk about that right now.”
They left the mannequin in the window in her extensive consideration of the painting, and Graham didn’t blame the prankster. He’d had a hard enough time understanding abstract art as well.
When they neared Lakeside, where the big brick building stood, Graham stopped and turned and looked far across the small valley to the rise of Tubbs Hill by the lake. He’d taken the time to learn the layout of the town over time. It was part of who they were now; wherever you went you found more than one way to escape a room if needed—or any other confines, solid walls or not. In this case, he’d remember his discussion with Dalton out of earshot of the others…before they had to escape. Dalton knew he would. There was a fatal funnel in town; those were a soldier’s words, not his own. He was a math professor…or was one in a previous life. Now he was a survivor and apparently a kidnapper. Or he would be soon. As Graham passed the nondescript alley, right between the mannequin-loving art store and the coffee shop with a bookshelf leading to a secret room, he had to marvel at the planning. The fatal funnel, they called it…only, when they were setting up the trap, he never imagined being the rabbit. In hopes it didn’t come to that, Graham nodded slightly…it was either a funnel or a great escape. Time would tell which.