Free Killer in the Hills by Stephen Carpenter

angry and her voice is bitter and tight.
    “Either that or you talk to me,” I say. “Answer my questions and be honest and tell me everything I want to know. It’s the only way I can do anything for you.”
    She makes a dismissive sound and turns away, staring out her window, shaking her head.
    I wait.
    “It’s not fair ,” she says.
    “No, it’s not.”
    “I didn’t do anything,” she says.
    I wait some more. She grabs the end of her long T-shirt and bunches it up in her fists. But she doesn’t reach for the door handle.
    “I can take care of myself,” she says. She is trying to sound tough, but her voice is shaking. “I always have.”
    “Your mother’s dead,” I say. “You don’t know for sure who your father is—or if you do and it’s not me, he’s not going to help you or you would have asked to go to him by now. In fact, you haven’t asked to be taken anywhere, so that tells me you have nowhere to go and no one to trust and you’re all alone.”
    A small tremor starts in her skinny shoulders and she grips the bottom of her T-shirt.
    “And, judging from the kind of people you’ve been hanging with, they’re not the kind of people you should turn to, anyway.”
    She starts to cry without making a sound. Her small body shakes and tears run down her cheeks.
    “There’s no reason you should trust me either, but I give you my word I’ll help you and I mean it,” I say. I’m the best you’ve got right now.”
    “How do I know that?” she says, between spasms of tears.
    “You don’t,” I say. “But I’m willing to let you go, and the police won’t do that. And neither will the men from the airport, will they?”
    I wait for an answer. She cries and I let her cry for a while.
    “You’re only fifteen and that’s too young to be making a decision like this, but it’s what you’re stuck with. It’s not fair, but you’re going to have to do it anyway. My guess is you’ve never had any luck trusting anybody. I’m guessing you’ve been treated pretty badly, so it’s hard.”
    “I can take care of myself,” she says again in her tough voice. She swallows a couple of times, forcing back tears. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her fluffy white jacket. Dawn is breaking and the first rays of dim sunlight shine on her wet face.
    A small Toyota turns down the alley and pulls into the lot and parks in a space by the service entrance which is marked by a sign which reads Manager . A young Latino couple get out of the car and head toward the service entrance of the motel and unlock the door.
    “I’m going to see if I can check in early,” I say. “Stay in the car. I’ll come get you once I’m done.”
    She looks at me directly.
    “Do you want me to go?” she says.
    “No,” I say. “I’ll be back for you in a minute and I want you to be here.”
    I get out, taking my bags, and leave her in the car.
    When I open the door to the service entrance I look back. She is still in the car. I go inside, wondering if I made the right bet. I figure the odds are about 6/5 in my favor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
     
    I startle the Latino couple when I walk into the small front office from the back corridor. The man is turning off the neon sign and the woman is turning on the coffee machine. The night manager, a skinny, twenty-something kid, is heading out the front door. A small TV on the counter is tuned to a Spanish-language station.
    “Not open yet,” the man says to me. “Check-in at twelve.”
    I smile and explain that I have arrived in town early and need a place to stay. The combination of my Spanish and my offer of a twenty-dollar “early check-in fee” gets me a key attached to a plastic rectangle with the number 4 on it. I give it back and request a second-floor room—partly out of instinct to seek high ground, and partly to avoid any temptation for my young charge to crawl out of a bathroom window. The man hands me a key with the number 15 on it and opens the front door of the