Chapter 17: The Motel Tape
The rain was still coming down by the time Noah pulled off the highway and into the cracked parking lot of the Sunset Pines Motel. The neon sign sputtered, flickering between Sunset and Set Pi, as if even the electricity here had given up.
Noah parked under a sagging awning, the hood of his car ticking with cooling rainwater. He stayed in the driver’s seat for a moment, looking at the note scrawled on the napkin from Reverend Cole’s church:
Sunset Pines — Room 3 — Ask for Eddie.
He didn’t know if it was from Cole, or someone watching him at the funeral, or both. But it had been stuffed under his windshield wiper when he left.
He stepped out into the wet night and headed toward the office, boots slapping against the puddles.
A bell jingled as he pushed the glass door open. The motel lobby was a small, yellow-lit room that smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and lemon cleaner. Behind the counter, a wiry man in his late fifties sat watching a muted TV.
“You Eddie?” Noah asked.
The man squinted at him, then leaned forward. “Who’s asking?”
“Noah Keene.”
Eddie’s eyes flicked toward the parking lot, scanning like he expected someone to follow. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t know I had an appointment.”
“You do now.” Eddie slid open a desk drawer, rummaged around, then pulled out a small black flash drive. He placed it on the counter between them.
Noah stared at it. “What’s on that?”
Eddie leaned in, his voice dropping. “You didn’t get this from me. You understand? I never saw you, you never saw me.”
“What’s on it?” Noah asked again.
Eddie’s jaw twitched. “Proof. Or bait. Depends on who’s watching.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Noah picked up the drive, feeling the slick plastic between his fingers. “Where’d you get it?”
“Security cam,” Eddie said. “Three weeks ago. Room six.”
“That’s Isaiah’s?”
Eddie gave a slow nod. “He wasn’t alone.”
Noah’s pulse quickened. “Who was with him?”
“That’s the part you’re gonna like,” Eddie said grimly. “Or maybe you won’t. Masked figure. Hood up. No face. Just—” Eddie made a vague gesture with his hands. “Something about the way they moved. Not… casual.”
“You’re saying—”
“I’m saying they looked like they had training. Military, maybe. Or just someone who knows how to make a problem disappear.”
Noah slipped the flash drive into his pocket. “Why give this to me?”
“Because someone told me you’re not afraid to piss off the wrong people. And because—” Eddie hesitated. “—I liked your father. He helped me once, a long time ago. I figure I owe him one.”
“What did he help you with?”
Eddie’s gaze hardened. “Something I’m still alive to regret.”
Before Noah could press him, the bell above the lobby door jingled. A tall man in a wet parka stepped inside, shaking off the rain. He glanced at Noah, then at Eddie, and smiled without warmth.
Eddie straightened behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
The man’s eyes never left Noah. “I think you already have.”
Noah recognized the tone—the kind that said I know who you are, and I don’t like it.
“Got a problem?” Noah asked.
The man stepped closer. “Only if you do.”
Eddie broke the tension by slamming the cash drawer closed. “Gentlemen, maybe take this outside before the cops get called?”
Noah turned to leave, but the man blocked his path just long enough to mutter, “Whatever you think you’re digging up… bury it again.”
Noah brushed past him and stepped into the rain.
He didn’t watch the tape until he got home.
The motel’s feed was grainy, black and white. He sat at his kitchen table, laptop open, the only light coming from the screen.
First: Isaiah. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face pale. He kept glancing toward the door like he was waiting for someone.
Then—movement.
A figure stepped inside. Tall, slim, hood pulled low, a cheap black mask covering the bottom half of their face. They didn’t walk like a friend dropping by—they moved with purpose, like they were on a clock.
Isaiah stood immediately, hands up. The figure stepped close, said something Noah couldn’t hear, then gestured toward the window.
Isaiah shook his head.
The figure moved closer, and for a moment, their eyes caught the camera—sharp, intense, calculating. Then they reached into their coat and pulled out… a lighter.
Isaiah’s reaction was immediate—he grabbed their wrist, pushed it away.
The figure didn’t fight back. Instead, they stepped away, pointed toward the door again.
Isaiah hesitated, then grabbed his jacket and followed them out.
The feed ended.
Noah sat back in his chair, the rain tapping at the kitchen window. Whoever that masked figure was, they weren’t just random. They had a reason for being there, a reason for taking Isaiah somewhere.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He answered. “Keene.”
A distorted voice came through. “You have something that isn’t yours.”
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then: “Your father didn’t listen either.”
The line went dead.
Noah stared at the phone for a long time before setting it down beside the flash drive. The room felt colder now.