by Bill Cameron
She drives in circles. Belmont to Thirty-ninth to Burnside to Sixtieth and back down to Belmont again. I can tell she’s thinking because of the way her jaw moves as she takes the turns. Eventually she finds an on-ramp to I-84 and my lips compress under the rising G-force. I figure we’re heading to the middle of nowhere to abandon me. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as Mad Maddie used to say.
Turns out she wants to talk instead.
“Stealing, Joey? That’s where we’re at now?”
“What am I supposed to have stolen?”
“You deny it?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?” My mind flashes to Sergeant Zach. It sure as shit didn’t make a difference with him.
For a minute she actually concentrates on driving, which lowers the overall terror quotient by an order of magnitude.
“He said he caught you walking out with Philip’s Xbox—”
“Philip doesn’t even have an Xbox.”
“That’s not what Mr. Huntzel told the police.”
“Philip wouldn’t even know what to do with one.”
“Are you suggesting Mr. Huntzel is lying?”
“Like I said, would it make a difference if I did?” It is true I ate a lot of pudding cups.
She takes the exit onto I-205 and we head south, approaching Mach One. I wonder why Mr. Huntzel didn’t tell the cops I was sleeping in the house. Maybe that didn’t sound criminal enough. I am the hired hand, after all. I could claim I thought it would be okay, just a misunderstanding. But thievery of imaginary game consoles would be harder to explain away—ample revenge for YouTube.
“Here’s where things stand. You are grounded to the house and school for the foreseeable future. Mr. Huntzel hasn’t decided whether or not to file charges.”
“You’re taking me back to the Boobies?”
“We have an appointment with Reid tomorrow afternoon.”
Tuesday: living room and library, dust and vacuum. Except now it’s a Reid day.
“I take it I’m fired.”
“Joey, are you even listening?”
Everything I own of significance, little as it is, is still at Huntzel Manor. Trisha’s laptop is the most important item. I don’t give a damn about whether charges will be filed. I only care about where I’m going next. The Boobie Hatch, for all its failings, is better than juvenile detention. I might be able to escape from the Boobie Hatch. Or sit tight and maybe even keep The Plan alive, even if it feels like a long shot at the moment.
Despite nearly killing us both on the way, Mrs. Petty manages to navigate to the Hatch. She marches me through the door and turns me over to Boobie custody. Two weeks ago, if I’d only known, I could have gone to Mrs. Petty, and Wayne would be history. Now the balance of power has reversed. After a brief confab about my failings as a human being, Wayne pushes me up the stairs. That’s when I learn he intends to lock me in.
“I’ll let you out in the morning. And I’ll be driving you to and from school, so don’t get any ideas about striking out on your own. We’ll all be watching you with eagle eyes.”
I look around the small room. “What if I have to pee? Should I wet my pants?”
He ignores the jab, or is too caught up in the moment to notice. With his fat hand, he indicates a Folgers can on the desk. “That should do you till morning.”
“When I tell Mrs. Petty—”
“Tell her what? You stole from people who trusted you. I fought in the first Gulf War and have an honorable discharge.”
Anita once let slip that Wayne spent the war at the naval base in San Diego. His honorable discharge was really medical. Abdominal hernia, congenital. I don’t mention this. He’s right about Mrs. Petty anyway.
Advantage: Boobie.
3.3: Carte Blanche
After Wayne’s footsteps die at the foot of the stairs, I go to my closet. He’s looted my hide. The door is gone, ripped out of the frame by the hinges. The counterbalanced latches hang in ruins. I look away. The only difference between Wayne and the Vandals is I’m pretty sure the Vandals could read.
There’s a pry bar in my pack—wherever that ended up—along with my phone and my school crap. Downstairs, maybe, unless Mrs. Petty kept it. The pry bar was a cheapie, but the rest of the tools are a real loss.
Note to self: next placement, rent a safe deposit box.
I turn off the light and sit on the bed. I’m not tired, but I can’t stand the sight of my brown cell. Outside, the last sunlight ignites clouds heaped on the horizon. As the first satellite winks into view overhead, I hear a tap on glass. A silhouetted head appears at the window and a hand reaches between the security bars to tap again.
I lift the sash and the silhouette resolves into Kristina Huntzel, perched on the peak of the porch roof. I might wonder how she knew where to find me, but nothing about Kristina surprises me anymore. She’s exchanged her red Chucks for black sneaks. Black pants and a turtleneck complete the ensemble. Ninja girl.
“I should’ve thrown you out on your ass that first night.”
I can’t really argue the point. “I didn’t know anything about it until I saw it at school with everyone else.”
“Bullshit.”
“Listen, I get it. I’m responsible. I brought someone over and I shouldn’t have—”
“A girl?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it fucking matters. I did you a favor and you shit all over it.”
I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. It never should have happened. I know that, okay?” I can’t look her in the eye. “I tried to apologize to Philip, but he didn’t want to hear it.”
“Do you blame him?”
Her breath whistles in her nose, a siren of anger. I know it’s a waste of time, but I try to point out the one true fact of high school. “This’ll blow over. A new Katz drama always comes along.”
“I don’t care about school drama. I care about protecting Philip.”
The only one who was ever a threat to Philip was Duncan, and only on the chessboard. So much for that. Once the laughter dies down, everyone else will go back to worrying about their own narrow interests and how they rate on the Katz Meow.
“Kristina, seriously. Just give it a couple of days.”
“You’re not listening to me.” She pushes the words through her teeth. Her hands grip the security bars like she’s about to pull them apart and drag me out. The only question is whether she’ll beat me to death on the roof or heave me off to die on the lawn.
“I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?” There’s nothing else I can say, but it’s clear from the look on her face an apology isn’t good enough.
“That video has been seen twenty thousand times already, maybe more.”
“Kristina—”
“They’re going to find us. They’re going to find him.”
She doesn’t say anything more for a long time. I try waiting her out, but it’s not like dealing with cops. The silence forms a void in my brain, an emptiness that fills with shame and worry. And unwelcome thoughts of Huntzel weirdness—guns and secret money, violin music and reality stars.
“This isn’t about Bianca Santavenere, is it?”
Her face goes blank. “What do you know about Bianca?”
The sudden chill throws me. “Besides Philip’s creeptastic obsession with her?” I guess I’m trying to be funny. But her eyes flare with a bitter fire in the cold light of dusk. “Sorry. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
Clamped on the bars, her hands tremble.
“Nothing.”
“Who have you been talking to?” Her intensity pushes me back from the window. “Where did you hear about Bianca?”
Us Weekly?
I hesitate, as always. But the heat in her stare erodes my resolve. The truth is…what? That I lurked in stat
ely Huntzel Manor, snorking up pudding cups and snooping? She knows all that.
When it comes to Kristina Huntzel, I’m running out of secrets.
“I saw the DVD of Philip performing on the Italian TV show with your mom and Bianca. And I know he—” has a porny folder of gossip mag pictures. I shake my head and shut the hell up. Her gaze remains hard but after a bit her tension bleeds away.
She turns her head and seems to study the sky. “He was so happy that night. You could hear it in the way he played.” There’s pride in her voice. Whatever Philip thinks of her, she obviously cares about him. I wonder if he has the first clue.
“Were you there?”
“No. I had to stay with—” She turns back to me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What was the deal anyway? Bianca got him on the show? Like some kind of celebrity talent scout—Simon Cowell in drag?”
She shakes her head, but then says, “Something like that.” Despite the darkness, I can see her expression cycle from anger to uncertainty and back again. “She wasn’t doing it for him. Everything is always about her.”
“So you know her…knew her.” They must have been fairly close at some point, even if the thing with Philip had more to do with her than him. Whatever her scheme, things obviously didn’t work out. But then what? On their way out the door the Huntzels found themselves in a position to make off with the sack of Mr. Bianca’s dirty money?
“The situation is a lot more complicated than you realize.”
No fucking kidding. I wait for her to tell me about Nick Malvado and the joint task force. But she doesn’t. It’s possible she doesn’t know about the cash. If I was going to pin that on any of them, it would be Mr. Huntzel—the dude is a total creeper. But she must know something.
It can’t be Simon-Cowell-In-Drag who’s got her scared.
As she sits there on the porch roof, the cold invades my little brown cell. I don’t move. Overhead, the clouds push in, low and heavy, blotting out the faint stars.
When Kristina speaks again, the words sound like they’re being torn off her tongue in strips. “You’ve have to understand, Bianca is dangerous. When she sees that YouTube…” Her fingers tie themselves in knots against her belly. “Ludolph and Victoria think they can hide in the house, ride this out. They won’t…” The air seems to drain out of her. “I can’t explain it.”
She doesn’t have to. My whole life is a big fat they won’t.
“I tried to go talk to Philip myself, to convince him to come away with me. But Ludolph jammed something in the rec room lock.” She locks eyes with me. “I was hoping you would help me find another way in.”
Now I have to fight back a crazed laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around that place a lot longer than I ever did.”
“I always had a key.”
“So did I.” She doesn’t need to remind me why Mr. Huntzel fucked up the lock. “Why don’t you call?”
“He won’t answer. He’s my brother, but he won’t answer the phone when I call him.”
The hurt in her voice is sharp enough to strip paint. I’m afraid to ask what happened to the badass girl who threatened me with a knife. As if to reinforce the unsettling transformation, she reaches between the bars and strokes my cheek. At her touch, guilt stirs below my belt buckle. For a flash, I’m back in her bed that night after the party and Trisha. “I’m not saying you wanted it to happen. But that video is out there, and now I’ve got to do something about it.”
The Plan hangs by a thread. I still don’t know if Courtney can get my laptop. Even if she can, leaving this room—now—would be the last straw. Assuming that straw hasn’t already broken.
This isn’t my problem. My problem is downstairs on the couch in front of cable snooze. My problem is on a shelf in Cooper’s corral. It drives a muscle car like zombies are hanging off the bumper. It hides…
“I’m not looking for a white knight—”
…hides gold coins in her headboard.
“—just a little help. An idea, a suggestion. Anything. You don’t even have to come with me.”
We all have secrets, and our own reasons for keeping them. All Trisha wanted was a little understanding, a friend to share her burden. Not so much to ask.
Stupidly, I rub fluid out of my eyes, then look through the bars at the Ninja Girl. I don’t know what’s going on with Kristina, what’s really going on. Why Philip hates her, why her father is more gone than home, why she has to sneak in and out of her own house. I can’t imagine what mistakes brought her to this moment, perched atop the Boobie Hatch porch, asking a fuck-up like me for help.
I run my hand through my hair. “There might be a way—”
A car turns into the driveway. Kristina drops onto her hands. I pull back from the window, but keep the car in view. As Kristina lifts her head to peer over the edge of the porch, two people get out of the car.
“Who is it?”
Stein and Davisson. “Cops.”
“What do they want?”
Me, obviously. “They’re investigating Duncan’s death.”
I can hear Davisson’s voice rumbling on the porch. “—aware Joey has been using Mrs. Huntzel’s car to run errands? She thought he had his license—”
She’s pinning Duncan on me. Of course. If I had any lingering doubt about who was driving the car that day, it’s gone. I not only don’t have my driver’s license—no way would Mrs. Petty stand for that—I’ve never been behind the wheel of any car—not the Toyota and certainly not the almighty 740i. Anything Mrs. Huntzel says to the contrary is a lie.
I press my forehead against the cold, steel bars. A single padlock between me and freedom. If Ferrell had ever taught me to pick locks, or hell, if Wayne had left even one tool in my hide—
Then it hits me. Maybe he did.
I hiss through the window. “Get out of here.”
“What about—?”
“I’ll meet you at the house.” My voice carries a confidence I don’t feel.
“But—”
“Go.”
She slides out of sight. Now it’s my turn—I hope.
Without turning the light on, I use the edge of a dime to unscrew the fake power outlet.
The key for the security bars is right where I left it.
3.4: What Haven’t You Told Me?
I don’t know if Wayne couldn’t find the key, or never looked for it. Probably too busy pissing himself.
I climb out onto the porch roof and shut the window gate behind me. As I snap the padlock, the doorknob rattles and Wayne calls from the other side of my bedroom door.
“Joey, the police want—”
I don’t stick around to find out what. I scoot down the shingles, catch myself on the gutter before I slide off. An old rhododendron knots its way up beside the porch. The branches are gnarled and dense enough to hold my weight. From above, Wayne shouts as I crash through the leaves.
I’m running before my feet hit the ground, skid past the end of the detectives’ car. Halfway up the block, I cut through an apartment complex, then weave my way through neighborhood streets. I listen for sirens, but all I hear is the smack of my shoes on pavement and the blare of horns as I dart across Eighty-second on my way to Mount Tabor.
About the time I reach the park’s edge, the sky unloads. I climb past the basketball court through pouring rain. On the slick hillside behind Huntzel Manor, I half-expect to run into Caliban, but he has too much sense to be out in the rain.
The gate in the laurel hedge squeaks when I push it open. Kristina materializes at my side. The whites of her eyes glow in the shadows under the hedge.
“How did you get out?”
“The same way we’re getting in.”
I point to her dark bedroom window, then head across the yard before my nerve breaks. Rain glues my jacket to my back. I pause at the ed
ge of the veranda to listen, but all I hear is the patter of raindrops. No lights shine within the house. Even the exterior lights are off. I can’t decide if that’s good news or bad.
“Have you done this before?” Maybe she’s thinking about how there’s no old rhododendron here.
“Not really.” I try to laugh. Fail. “Catch me if I fall?”
She doesn’t follow me across the veranda.
Now that it’s come to it, I’m ready to rethink this idea. The pattern of protruding bricks is more widely spaced than they’d seemed in dry daylight from the window above. Each toe- and finger-hold is barely half an inch deep. The dripping water doesn’t help.
Might explain why they didn’t bother with security sensors on the second floor windows.
Cold rain trickles down my neck as I grab the first brick and heave myself up. My fingers are already losing sensation before I’m more than a few feet off the ground. My toes cramp. The smell of wet brick makes me want to sneeze. I can’t help imagining an explosive ahh-choo blowing me back onto the stone veranda below.
When I finally reach Kristina’s window, I rest my chin on the sill until I catch my breath. Then, hanging on for dear life with one hand, I give the window a shove with the other.
It doesn’t move.
“Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
Mr. Huntzel must have locked it.
I adjust my feet and stretch up as high as I can, hoping I’m wrong. With my next try, I reef with all I got. The window flies up as my toes lose their hold. I drop, chin cracking against stone. I’m not sure who squawks louder, me or Kristina. Somehow I catch the sill with my numb fingers, hang on for a second as my feet kick. I’m starting to slip when my toe finds the lintel on the living room window below.
“Are you all right?”
For a moment, I hang there and breathe. “I think I broke a tooth.”
“Seriously?”
What with all the noise I’m making, SWAT should be rappelling off the roof. I pull myself up over the windowsill and fall into Kristina’s room. My arms are scraped and my jaw is half-unhinged, but I’m inside.
