A/N: I'd like to say that the angst is going to taper off, but it's really not. The next chapter is going to be a doozy, just warning you. Thanks again for reading, you guys are the greatest. Thanks to Allison for being a sounding board!
We're on Route 95, just outside of Washington D.C., when Scott tells Morris to take the next exit. About a mile off the highway is a huge Holiday Inn. Morris pulls the van around to the back of the parking lot and finds a deserted spot.
"Take Kurt and the luggage, and check in," Scott instructs Morris once we've parked. "Book adjoining double rooms for a week, with the option to extend the stay if needed. When you're talking with the concierge, make some offhand reference to being father and son. Got it?"
Kurt is tense beside me, still morose over our conversation with his father, and I know that he needs me right now."Why can't we all go in together?" I ask.
"Because from this point on, you and Kurt can't be seen together in public until you're settled into your new location," Scott says. "I want your transport to be as clean as possible. No trail left behind if we can avoid it. Marshal Morris will text me when he and Kurt have settled into the rooms, and then you and I will walk in like we're already guests here. The shifts just changed, so the staff will just assume that we checked in earlier."
He nods to Morris, who gets out of the driver's seat, circles around the van, and slides opens the back door. Kurt takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and climbing out. By the time he's standing beside Morris, he looks unruffled and a little haughty.
It occurs to me that he's had a lot of practice acting like things don't bother him.
They each take a suitcase out of the van, pulling out the handles and rolling the luggage towards the hotel. Scott and I watch them go, then sit and wait.
I desperately want to ask him about my parents. As much as I don't want to hear the awful details about what happened to them, I feel like I owe them that much. I'm still working up the nerve to ask, when Scott speaks up.
"You'll need to pick a new name," he says. He sounds tired.
"Kurt would like for me to be Blaine again."
I'm expecting an argument, but Scott just cocks his head in consideration. "That's not a bad idea. Makes slip-ups less likely – I'm willing to bet he's never really stopped thinking of you by that name."
"Actually, yeah, that's what he told me," I reply. "Do you think he can keep the name Kurt, though? We were only Kurt-and-Blaine for a couple of years back in Ohio; there can't be too much of a trail to be found for that combination."
"As long as you choose new last names, I think we should be able to make that happen." He pulls a spiral notepad out of the glove compartment, and takes a pen out of the center console. "While I've got you here, we need to go over possible photographic exposure."
"That shouldn't be a problem," I assure him, scooting a little closer and kneeling behind his seat so he can hear me better. "Neither of us has had a Facebook for years, and none of our friends have any pictures of us on theirs. In fact, Kurt and I haven't posed for any photos since we got back together. Not even at our wedding." I'm expecting praise, but he's just looking at me like I'm naïve.
"New York City has literally thousands of security cameras," he tells me, "and Greenwich Village is one of the areas with the highest camera density. When they realize they've missed the chance to catch you, Castellano's henchmen are going to find a way to grab the security footage from your apartment building, your workplace, your supermarket, your favorite ATM..."
"Jesus," I breathe.
"The faster we can get to those places before they do, the less likely it is that they'll be able to get a clear image of how you look today. Because an updated photo of you could be deadly right now. What places might have captured a picture of you?"
"Well, I've been working at the ad agency for the past two years. Kurt has an internship at Michael Kors; we meet up for lunch at the deli down the street from his office every day. On weekends I tend bar for extra cash, at Dooley's Pub. We go to the Quik Suds Laundromat every Sunday – the one on 12th Street, not the one on 7th. On Tuesday nights we go out for dinner, usually Italian or Indian. Wednesdays we take a walk around the neighborhood for an hour or so. We sometimes stop for ice cream–"
Scott is gaping at me in disapproval. "Goddamn it, Perfecto, what part of stick close to home and minimize outside contact was confusing to you two?"
"It's been five years. We thought–" I don't finish the thought.
Obviously we were wrong.
"Right," he says.
Silence descends again, and my thoughts drift back to my parents. Whenever we were relocated, Mom and Dad always followed the Marshals' instructions to the letter. We rarely left the house. Food, toiletries and other necessities were acquired by placing regular orders with a grocery delivery service. Dad had a job, but Mom sat at home almost all of the time, and expected me to do the same.
It was only when I started attending Dalton that I found a refuge from the tense silence of our house. Suddenly I was surrounded by boys my age, and life in a dormitory meant constant socialization. I was given a car to ease the commute home, and I used it to go to malls, and coffee shops, and friends' houses. When Kurt and I started dating, we went out to dinner and saw movies in the Westerville theater. A whole new world opened up to me.
Meanwhile, my parents stayed at home. The tension presses heavily against my chest as I think of the last time I saw them. Courage, I remind myself sourly. "Scott?"
"Yes?"
"My parents. Are they..."
"Yes," he nods, and I clench my teeth hard, closing my eyes.
"Oh."
"Not that they weren't affected by what happened, but their exposure was nothing like yours. They should be able to stay at their current location, although we are keeping closer tabs on them for the foreseeable future."
My heart stops. "Wait, what?"
"Well, moving witnesses is actually a big security risk. You're far more exposed when you're in transit, and–"
"Are you saying my parents are okay?"
He turns and blinks at me. "Of course they're okay, I would have told you if they weren't."
My knees buckle, and I drop down unsteadily onto the floor of the van. "They're okay?"
"Yes."
"They're safe?"
"Yes. They're fine. Really."
My parents are alive. They're safe, and alive. I might even be able to see them again one day. Alive. I rub my cold palms against my cheeks, struggling to breathe. I can't even feel my fingertips. "Thank god. Oh, thank god." There's a long silence as I process the news. Then I lift my head. "Wait. If Castellano's men didn't find my parents, then how were we compromised?"
Scott lets out a faint, annoyed sound. "You have your loverboy to thank for that one."
"Kurt?" I'm stunned. "What do you mean?"
"That idiot was going on Wikipedia and checking out the entry on Cameron and Perfecto Sanders."
"So what? I'm sure a ton of people check that page–"
"It's not a matter of checking it," he says, shaking his head. "Who did he think was entering in the information on the page? And for what purpose?"
"I don't understand."
"The West Coast Mafia isn't just a bunch of goons with guns, Perfecto. They're smart. They've been using that page to figure out where you are."
"But... how could they do that?"
"There was a section of the entry that listed the last known whereabouts of you and your dad. They cast a wide net – sometimes they said you were in Russia, other times you were in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Every once in a while, they'd change the location, and then they'd wait."
I'm still not following. "Wait for what?"
"For someone to delete it." He rolls his eyes, irritated that I'm still lost. "Kurt was editing the page whenever they posted a location that was too close to being right. When they had a foreign country, or a state in the U.S. that was far from you or your parents, he'd leave it alone. But when they guessed New York City or Florida, he'd delete it. So then the Mafia henchmen knew they were right."
My heart sinks. "And Wikipedia logs the IP address of the person making changes to the entry."
"By the time we realized what Kurt was doing, Castellano's men were already in Greenwich Village, zeroing in on your apartment. Honestly, it's a miracle we got to you in time." He looks away, and I feel guilty for bringing up Billy Rice earlier.
"Scott, you know... even if they'd found us, it wouldn't have been your fault."
He swallows hard, and we're interrupted by the ping of his cell phone. He checks the display and says, "They're in. Let's go."
He gets out and opens the back door for me, then locks up the van. We walk toward the hotel together, and I'm struck by a sense of déjà vu. How many times have I followed Scott into a hotel just like this? How many times will it happen again in the future?
Our rooms are on the sixth floor, at the end of a long hallway. Scott raps on the door in a quick, odd pattern, and Morris opens it, ushering us inside. The first room has two queen-sized beds and a little kitchenette area. Kurt is nowhere to be seen, so I head through the doorway into the adjoining room. It looks the same, except for the lack of a kitchenette. Kurt is lying on one of the beds, staring up at the ceiling.
I stop a few feet from the bed, watching him. "Hey."
He turns his head and holds out his arm toward me. Grateful, I toe off my shoes and crawl onto the bed, curling up against him. The hotel room may be strange, but the familiarity of Kurt's scent, the rise and fall of his chest, the slow sweep of his palm across my back... it all says home to me.
"My parents are okay," I tell him.
"What?" His eyes widen. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. They don't even have to be relocated."
"Oh my god." He lets out a relieved sigh.
"I know."
"I was so worried."
"Me too."
We watch Scott and Morris move around the rooms, setting up a security perimeter. It's a complicated process, I've learned after years of observation. They make sure that all of the windows are closed and locked, then add reinforcements to keep them shut. The blinds and curtains are drawn, then tacked down on all sides. All of the locks and bolts on the door are secured, of course, and they nestle a strip of blackout cord along all of the seams. Finally, they wedge a steel rod in between the door and the floor to make sure neither of the doors can be opened – not even if the person on the other side has a key card and bolt cutter.
"Hey Blaine?" Kurt asks.
"Yeah?"
"If your parents weren't compromised, then how did Castellano's men find us?"
I wince internally. "Well... it was an accident," I tell him, trying to figure out how to break it to him as gently as possible.
"Oh, honey, don't feel guilty," he says at once, drawing me closer against him. "I know that whatever it was, you didn't mean to do it."
"Uh..." I don't know how to respond.
"We both loved our life in New York. And I know that you love my family just as much as I do." He pulls back, looking at me earnestly. "I would never, ever blame you for this. You know that I mean that, right?"
It's not worth telling him the truth. It would only hurt him. So instead, I lean forward to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for understanding, Kurt."