Catch Your Death

by Kierney Scott

  He opened his mouth to speak but before he could ask a follow-up question, she said, “I need two minutes to get cleaned up. I’m just going to head to the ladies’ for a second.”

  “Sure. It’s that way.” He pointed down the hall to his right. “Do you want me to call anyone to let them know you’re here?”

  “No, that’s okay. I know where I’m going. Thank you. Have a great night. I hope you don’t get caught up in the traffic. It’s brutal out there.” She walked away as fast as she could, but instead of going straight to the bathroom she kept walking, down the hall, searching for the stairs. She needed to know exactly where she was going and how to get there, and more importantly how to get out. Confident that she knew the layout, she walked to the bathroom.

  She checked the stalls to make sure they were empty and then she grabbed the trash can and put it in the first stall, the one farthest from the sprinklers. It was already full of damp paper towels. She dumped them on the floor. She needed dry towels. She crumbled them up loosely, leaving plenty of room for airflow. She opened her bag and pulled out the bottle of rubbing alcohol she’d taken from her medicine cabinet. Jamison had no idea this was her real plan. If she’d told him, he would’ve stopped her, and this was their best chance of gaining access to Hagan’s office.

  She opened the bottle and poured out the entire contents on the paper towels.

  She took a deep breath. This was not how she saw her career going, or her life for that matter. If someone would have told her six months ago that she was going to commit arson, she would have laughed in their face.

  She struck a match and threw it in. Orange flames exploded, licking the sides of the trash can, changing color and direction as more paper towels ignited.

  A loud shriek broke the silence as the fire alarm went off and then the sprinklers came on, spraying water everywhere. She checked again to make sure the can was still burning before she glanced down at the time on her phone. The average response time for the fire department was down from last year to six minutes and thirty-five seconds. She had less than seven minutes to get into Hagan’s office and find the files.

  The stairs above her rattled as people started running down. Hagan’s office was on the second floor. It would look suspicious if she ran upstairs. She needed to be patient even though every muscle in her body coiled, ready to go, because she knew she was running out of time with every second. She went into the farthest stall. She bolted the door and sat on the toilet. She pulled her legs up to her chest so no one could see her feet under the stall. If they adhered to protocol, someone would be sent to check every bathroom to make sure no one was stuck in the fire.

  She held her breath and waited. Water sprayed everywhere, soaking her. Drops rolled down her face like tears. Commotion of frantic voices screaming over the alarm and the thunder of feet rushed past the door. Jess closed her eyes and listened, waiting for the cacophony to dwindle until it was just the piercing chirp of the fire alarm.

  She checked her phone. It had been almost three minutes and no one had done a room check. It was too long, she couldn’t waste any more time. She had to go now.

  Her fingers trembled as she unbolted the lock. Blood smeared across the metal door. The surge of adrenaline made her heart beat faster and her blood pump harder, which meant her arm was now dripping. She swore out loud as she stopped to grab a piece of toilet paper to wipe it off. She was leaving biological evidence everywhere.

  She opened the bathroom door and looked up and down the hall. The lights flashed on and off to the same pulsing beating of the alarm. It was a visual signal for deaf people that the alarm had been triggered, in case the monsoon flooding the office wasn’t a big enough clue.

  She looked again to make sure no one was coming before she ran for the stairs. She slipped on the wet tiles. She held onto the wooden banister to steady herself. According to the map she’d found online, Hagan’s office was the last office at the end of the hall. She prayed to a god she didn’t believe in that he had left his office unlocked in all the commotion; her plan depended on it.

  She hesitated when she reached the door because she knew it wouldn’t open. This was where everything was going to turn to shit. The plan was pathetic and desperate. They were better than this shit. A pimply teenager in his mother’s basement could’ve come up with something better. They simply hadn’t had the time or resources to do this properly.

  She heard Jamison’s voice inside her head telling her to cut her shit and not to be such a pessimist. Even as a delusion produced from her own mind, Jamison calmed her down. She held her breath as she turned the handle.

  A metal click sounded as the bolt retracted and the door opened. Her heart slammed against her ribs as what she assumed was joy surged through her. She wasn’t used to the emotion but that’s what it felt like: unbridled happiness.

  She went in and closed the door. Now-soggy paperwork fanned out over his desk. His computer was still on. There was also a half-eaten chocolate muffin and a cup of coffee, all signs that he had left in a hurry but planned on coming back. She didn’t bother looking at the time on her phone because she didn’t need the added pressure.

  She assumed she was looking for a USB. Where would it be? She glanced at his desktop and considered the possibility that he might have transferred it to his computer. No, that didn’t make sense. The IT department would have access to his computer, and any internal investigation could mandate a search of his files. Plus, computers were easily hacked. If she was right, she was looking for child pornography. There was no way in hell he would keep that on his work computer.

  She opened up the top drawer in the metal filing cabinet. Manila folders bulged with paperwork. She pulled out the first one and fanned through it, waiting for something to pop out at her, a picture or something, but all she saw was page after page of paperwork.

  She went through the next file and then the next until she reached the bottom. She glanced at the clock on the wall. She was running out of time. Where could it be?

  She pulled open the top drawer of his desk. There was nothing but paperclips and candy bar wrappers. Sirens blared outside. The fire trucks were pulling up. “Fuck.” She slammed the drawer. Metal clanged as it thumped shut. A small box dropped to the floor, dislodged from the bottom of the desk by the force.

  She picked it up. One side had a magnet, the other a slide top. She held it in her good hand and used her thumb to open it. She stared down at the contents: a single tarnished key. Her eyes narrowed on the inscription: Alere flammam veritatis. That was Gracemount Academy’s motto.

  Realization struck her. A traditional safety deposit box at a bank would require people to sign in. That would leave a paper trail. Given his status in the community, maybe the safest place to hide the pictures would actually be in plain sight. The information was hidden at the school.

  She turned the key over to examine it further. Inscribed on the back was the date 1793. She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. The school had been founded before the American Revolution but the date on the key was from nearly twenty years later.

  She would have to figure it out later. She slid the key into her pocket and ran for the stairs.

  Thirty-Five

  A frozen, sloshy rain had begun to fall, big chunks that stayed on your clothes to melt later so even after you were warm inside, they could continue their stealth attack by soaking you slowly. A crowd of people stood huddled together on the sidewalk in front of police headquarters, trying to stay warm while they waited for the fire department to clear the scene. Only a few of them had managed to grab their coats when they vacated the building, and fewer still had umbrellas.

  From the corner of her eye she spotted Hagan’s corpulent figure.

  Her pulse pounded forcefully in her neck as she pushed through everyone to get to the street. She pulled out her phone and dialed Jamison’s number but it went to voicemail. She hung up and called again. “Come on, answer,” she whispered but he didn’t so she left
a message. “There’s a change of plans. I found a key.”

  A taxi pulled up to the curb. Before she could finish the message, she had to shove her phone back in her pocket so she could hold out her hand to wave it down. A woman stepped forward to get in the car.

  “I’m sorry. I need this.” Jess pushed past her and got in. The woman shouted something but Jess slammed the door.

  “Gracemount Academy please.”

  She pulled out her phone again to look up Gracemount. The official website was just a montage of shameless self-promotion. Picture after picture of smiling boys with captions about how well the school was supporting their development. From the pictures, it looked like they were doing an excellent job, right up until the point they murdered them.

  She went to the Wikipedia page instead. She scrolled past the section with the official history to the list of important dates in the school’s history. The third date listed was 1793: the death of the founder, James Montrose.

  “That’s it. Of course,” she whispered to herself. She knew what the key was for. She clicked on another page to read further. She looked up at the driver. “Okay, slight change of plan.”

  The seatbelt bit into her when she leaned forward to give the driver instructions.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat, taking a deep breath to try to calm the frantic pace of her heart, but it didn’t work.

  “Which way do you want me to take?”

  She shrugged. There was too much adrenaline surging through her to think clearly enough to make a simple decision. “I don’t care. Just get me there fast. Please.”

  She stared out the window, watching drops of rain trace a path down the glass, observing as they stagnated and engorged until their weight pushed them further. It kept her from looking over her shoulder to see if they were being followed. There was nothing she could do now if they were, so she had to believe they weren’t.

  Eventually the driver glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “I had no idea any of this was here.”

  Jess jumped when he spoke. “Yeah,” she croaked. “I don’t think very many people do.”

  Fir trees and a soft incline of grass-covered slopes. There were patches of white, snow that the rain had not melted, but otherwise it was green as far as the eye could see. A slice of nature, cut out from the surrounding urban sprawl. It felt like a different world, a different time. She imagined this was how it looked when James Montrose had founded the school. In her mind, she could see him sitting next to the stream, planning the future of the school, the legacy he was going to leave.

  “Is this like a park?” he asked.

  “No, it’s part of the Gracemount Academy grounds.”

  He stopped the car. “I can’t get any closer—there is a fence. Do you want to see if there is a gate? I can take you around to the front.”

  “No, thank you.” She pulled out a wad of cash from her pocket. “Here, I have a hundred and ninety dollars. I’ll give you thirty now and the other one hundred and sixty when I get back. Wait for me. It should only take me five minutes. If you wait and take me home, I’ll give you the rest of the money. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He put the car into park and turned off the engine.

  Jess got out and walked over to the fence. She glanced back at the taxi. If she was prosecuted for this, the district attorney’s office would have a circle jerk to the slam dunk of a case she’d handed them. They had her on video and she’d left biological evidence at the scene of the crime, and now she had given them a witness wrapped up in a bow.

  This had to be worth it. She needed to find something to bring them down.

  She reached her hand up and grabbed the fence, fanning out her fingers to get a good grip. The wire mesh was slick with rain. She wedged the toe of her boot into the link of the fence and pulled herself up.

  As fences went, it was surprisingly easy to scale, even with her injured arm. Most likely it was just for keeping animals out. She put her leg over the other side and then dropped the ten feet to the ground.

  A dull ache pounded up her shins at the impact. She gave it a few seconds for the sensation to wear off and then she stood up and walked down toward the stream, following the winding path. Pebbles crunched under her boots, the only sound other than the gentle babble of the current. At the end of the path stood a small octagonal building. Its domed roof was propped up with marble columns.

  Above the door, the school motto was inscribed along with the year 1793. This was where James Montrose was buried, here in this mausoleum. She squeezed the key until her hand ached.

  Please let it be here. Silently, she begged the universe to give her another break. Just one more.

  Jess slid the key into the lock. It clicked when she turned it and the door creaked as it opened. A musky smell wafted out. She walked in and looked around. Her heart sank when she saw nothing but the marble tomb of James Montrose. She looked around again but there was nothing, not a single box or scrap of paper. Nothing.

  A scream formed in the pit of her belly. She really thought it would be here. Where else would it be? Why would Hagan go to the bother of hiding a key to a dead man’s grave?

  “Fuck.” The frustration and disappointment ripped her from the inside. It felt like someone had reached into her chest and torn out her heart. Angry tears threatened in her eyes but she wouldn’t let herself cry, not for these bastards. She wanted to scream until she ripped her larynx. This wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out.

  She collapsed down on the stone casket. The marble was cold on her thighs; even through her pants it felt like ice. She shivered when she realized she was sitting on a dead man.

  She bolted up.

  A slow realization crept over her. What else could she be sitting on? She looked through the glass panels of the domed roof. “Please.” She didn’t know if she was talking to God or Lindsay but she was asking for help, begging for it.

  She lowered herself to the ground beside the coffin. She placed her hands on the cold lid. “Please,” she whispered again, and then she took a deep breath and pushed with all her might. The marble croaked as the stone cover ground against the base. Slowly, the lid slid open.

  She wiped her brow and then stood up to look into the casket. There was no smell, just bones, stripped bare hundreds of years before, and seven USB sticks, each on a chain with the name of the committee member it belonged to.

  Exhilaration shot through her. This was it. She’d found it. She reached into the casket, scooped up all the sticks, and shoved them into her pocket. She looked down at the lid. For a second she considered trying to move it back into place, but it was too heavy and it would waste time she didn’t have.

  “Sorry,” she murmured to the skeleton. The remains had been a person once, with hopes and dreams and people that loved him, and she wanted to honor that.

  She closed and locked the door behind her before she ran up the path and climbed the fence. It was more difficult going over this time because of the slight pitch of the ground but she made it.

  She dropped to the ground on the other side and ran back to the taxi. Thankfully, he had waited for her because it would be a long hike back into the city. She got in the car and slammed the door. She pulled out her phone and called Jamison but after four rings it went to voicemail. “Come on, Jamison. Where are you? Call me. I found the USBs. I have them. We have the proof. Call me.”

  She looked at the time on her phone. Hagan would know by now that she had found his key. They would be looking for her. It wasn’t safe to go home or to Jamison’s. She needed to find a computer, upload the contents of the USB, and send it to the Department of Justice, but she couldn’t even go to her office to use her computer. Nowhere was safe.

  She swore under her breath, trying to figure out where to go from there. A few seconds later it dawned on her. “Can you please take me to the nearest Apple Store? I think the one in Georgetown is closer than Pentagon City. Last stop. I promise and then I’ll p
ay you.” She opened the browser on her phone to look for an address.

  “Yeah, that one is closer.” He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. His expression told her he wanted to ask her something but he didn’t.

  She dialed Jamison’s number again but still no answer. She pushed down her unease. He was fine. He had to be fine. His phone was on silent or his battery had run down. Whatever the reason, he was fine. She had the USBs. Things weren’t going to turn to shit, not this time.

  She sat back in the seat, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath to try to slow her frantic pulse. The nightmare was almost over but her body was still on high alert. Her endocrine glands kept pumping adrenaline through her to prepare her for battle because it refused to believe she was safe.

  She focused on the pattern of her breath, slowly filling her lungs and holding it, doing her best to override the natural fight or flight instinct. Eventually the vibrating sensation of her heart rate was replaced by a steady beat.

  She opened her eyes and watched the sea of taillights blinking off and on in rush-hour traffic. She rubbed the memory sticks in her pocket and willed the driver to drive faster. She was almost done. The nightmare was almost over.

  Finally, they arrived in Georgetown. “The light is red. Just let me out here.” She pulled out the wad of money and slipped it through the partition. “Thank you. And thank for waiting. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He reached for the money and put it in his shirt pocket without counting it. “I hope you found whatever you’re looking for.”

  “I hope so too. Thanks again for the ride.” She slammed the door just as the lights turned green.

  She ran into the Apple Store and glanced around at the minimalist décor. The walls and the floor were white. The only color came from the yellow-stained oak tables. She looked at the computer models on display—any of them would do. She just needed a free computer. All but one had a millennial perusing or typing away. She walked up to the iMac. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the USB sticks, and laid them all on the table. In theory, they would all have the same information on them, but it made sense to start with Hagan’s first.