The Escape Artist

by Brad Meltzer

  The teacher made a face. There were only three other kids in the room, all of them boys. Nola was the one girl, which is how it usually was in the unfortunately acronymed CSI, the Center for School Improvement, the place for students who got kicked out of class, which is exactly what happened when Damien D’Abruzzo burped in his hand and threw it at Nola, who immediately socked him in the face.

  Years ago, both would’ve been suspended, or forced to do community service, like washing jeeps at Homestead’s local military base. These days, educators were convinced that the only way to help a student was to keep them off the streets. Hence CSI—locking kids up in daylong detention.

  “So I’m supposed to just sit here and do nothing?” Nola challenged.

  “Blame The Breakfast Club,” said the teacher, Ms. Sable, a stubby fiftysomething woman with three hidden tattoos, wary green eyes, and dyed black hair that was supposed to be Bettie Page but looked more like Betty Rubble. She hated using her free period to staff CSI, but it paid time and a half, which was the only way to afford the aide who watched her Alzheimer’s-stricken mother. “Nola, I’m not saying it makes sense to me either, but rules are rules. Now. Pencils. Down.”

  “Or what?”

  Ms. Sable rolled her eyes. She had three older kids. All boys, and boys were animals. She didn’t take their crap; she certainly wasn’t taking this crap. She moved closer. “Nola, see me after class.”

  “I don’t have class. I’m locked in here with you all d—”

  In a blur, Ms. Sable yanked Nola’s notebook from her desk.

  “Hey—! That’s mine!”

  “Was. See me after class,” Sable said, heading back to her desk and flipping through the pages of the book, more out of habit than anything else. Then she saw what was actually inside. Ms. Sable stopped, turning back to Nola. “Nola. Is this your book?”

  Nola went silent. Had she left something in the notebook?

  “Nola, did you draw this?” Sable asked, holding the notebook open, like a Playboy centerfold. Across two pages was an elaborate pencil drawing of a fat drooling goblin with leathery wings and a rusty broadsword. The goblin was feasting on a human arm, and below it were the words:

  Homestead’s Loudest Thrash Metal Band!!

  The One!! The Only!!

  Pretentious Critics!!!!

  “Nola, did you draw this or not?”

  It’d been eight years since Nola was abandoned by her adoptive family and handed over to Royall. Eight years of his screaming. Eight years of his mood swings. Eight years of digging holes hidden by different-sized kiddie pools in different-sized backyards. And eight years of sleeping in the car on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

  But of all the damage Royall had done, the worst was simply this: She got used to it. It was commonplace. Faced with that tone of questioning—Royall’s primary tone in all conversations—Nola’s years of conditioning gave her only one logical response.

  “What’d I do wrong?”

  Ms. Sable was still staring down at the goblin drawing, barely hearing the question. Nola noticed her posture shift.

  “Nola, this is beautiful.”

  Confused, Nola searched the teacher’s face, looking for the lie, the tell, the flaw in her words. Ms. Sable’s nails were a mess (she bit them); her lower teeth were crooked (needed braces, couldn’t afford them); and just above her earrings were two other holes, long since closed (why would someone let an earring-hole close?). Still, try as she might… It made no sense—there had to be a tell in there somewhere. But Nola couldn’t find it.

  “Nola, do you know what I teach here?”

  “Video production.”

  “And art. I teach art. Y’know what that means?”

  Nola shook her head.

  “It means I know what I’m talking about. You have a real knack for this, girl.”

  Nola said nothing. And then, “I take woodshop. I don’t have art.”

  “You do now. Sixth period. Same smelly room as woodshop. Be there tomorrow.” Ms. Sable tossed the notebook back. It slapped against Nola’s desk.

  At the front of the class, the three boys were turned in their seats, staring. Nola lowered her chin quickly, closing her notebook and hating them for witnessing this feeling she was feeling, this feeling that was twisting her stomach in a grip of confusion, nausea, and…something else, something lighter, something she didn’t have a word for. For the rest of Nola’s life, she’d carry this moment with her, for when she needed it. And she’d never forget the five words she suddenly noticed, carved into the desk: Ms. Sable sux donkey dicks. She would’ve laughed, but no way was she letting the boys see that.

  This was Nola at fifteen—the very first time someone told her she was good at something.

  35

  Washington, DC

  Today

  Markus was naked. He was inside, on a boat. He was tied to an armchair and blindfolded.

  “W-Who’s there? Can— Is someone there?” Markus sat up in his seat. There was a muffled creak. He listened intently. On his right, by the door.

  Another creak. Outside.

  “Hey! Hey, I’m in here! I need help! Can you hear me!?”

  Markus thrashed, his naked legs sticking to the chair from his own dried urine. He was groggy, still in pain from what that girl—Nola—from what Nola had done to him. Shoved something in his throat. Knocked him out.

  “I’m in here! Please! Help! I need—!”

  The was a pop in the air. On his right. The door opened.

  “Thank God!” Markus shouted. He’d never been more wrong.

  “I-I thought I’d be stuck here until the morning,” Markus said as someone arrived. “I was worried th— Thank God you’re here.”

  Sitting up like a star pupil, Markus stuck out his chin, waiting for his rescuer to pull off his blindfold.

  On his face, the black bandanna stayed where it was.

  Confused, Markus bent his head back, trying to peek underneath. It was still too dark, but Markus could feel a shift in the air. Someone slowly moving toward him.

  “Whoever you are, I hear y—!”

  Something swiped at Markus’s face, slicing his blindfold as it fell away.

  Markus blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light. But his expression fell when he saw…

  “You gave us a scare there, Markus,” said a broad-shouldered Native American woman with jet black hair pulled tight in a ponytail. Her crimson brown skin came from her father’s Shoshone side; ice blue eyes came from her mother.

  Markus hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, not since that fiasco in Montana.

  “Teresa, please…” Markus begged, smart enough to call her by her real name rather than the one they used behind her back. The Curtain. As in, when The Curtain comes…it’s all over.

  “I-I swear on my life, Teresa…I didn’t say anything!” he insisted, again using her real name and again thinking he was smart. If he were really smart, he’d know that when it came to being called The Curtain, she relished it.

  “Your friends are worried about you,” The Curtain said, standing perfectly still, shoulders back, even with the sway of the boat. Her father taught her the benefits of good posture, just like he taught her how to pitch a good curve, tie a proper fishing knot, even how to skin a rabbit without a knife. Growing up, The Curtain knew her dad wanted a boy and got a girl. But when her mom’s drug use got worse and turned her into something they no longer recognized, Dad kept his daughter right by his side, storming off the reservation so she’d never be “one of them Indians that sits around with gambling money and sucks off the tit of the tribe.”

  It was The Curtain’s earliest memory—at seven years old, ducking down in the back of Dad’s truck, escaping in the middle of the night. It wasn’t until years later that she finally learned what Dad did before they ran off that night. But to this day, it was her father’s most potent lesson: The world eats the weak; hit the hyenas before they feast.

  “Markus, remember that restaurant
we ate at in Montana? The place with those wonderful buffalo burgers?”

  “Teresa, please… You know I didn’t say anything.”

  “What was the name of that place?” The Curtain tapped her palm against her thigh, her hand turned so he couldn’t see the ancient weapon she was holding. It was called a bagh nakh, also known as a tiger’s claw, made of four curved metal blades that are fixed to a crossbar that you grip in your palm. The Curtain used it to slice Markus’s blindfold, though it also ripped open a cut on his cheek.

  “It had one of those kooky names, like Tequila Mockingbird, but not that.”

  “I-I swear on my nieces…not a word…I didn’t say a word!” Markus insisted, finally seeing two drops of his own blood as they hit his lap, dripping from his cheek. He tried to wipe them away, but his hands were still tied to the chair.

  “Remember that corn with the goat cheese in it? That was divine,” The Curtain added, picking up Markus’s clothes from the floor. The pockets of his jeans were empty. He knew not to carry a wallet. His burner phone was on a nearby counter. But as she checked the other pockets…

  “Markus, where’s your other phone?”

  “I’d never— She asked me all these questions… I didn’t tell her anything!”

  “Your real phone, Markus. Where’s your real phone?”

  “I-I left it in my car. I swear. It’s not here.” He was sweating now, the backs of his thighs again sticking to the chair.

  “This girl. Nola. I know she found your car. Now she has your phone, doesn’t she?” The Curtain said as she scanned the rest of the cabin. On the bar was an empty glass and a small plastic lid, like you’d see on a prescription bottle. “She drugged you.”

  “She asked questions. But I didn’t answer her! She knew about Houdini. Asked for him by name! But I didn’t say nothin’! Not a word! You know I wouldn’t do that, right?”

  The Curtain stared at Markus, her body still, like she wasn’t even breathing.

  “Teresa, please!”

  She took a slow step toward him.

  Tears flooded his eyes; snot ran from his nose. “Please tell me you believe me!”

  “I believe you, Markus.”

  Exhaling, Markus tipped his head back in relief—at which point, Teresa’s hand swiped at the air, her tiger’s claw slicing a deep gash into Markus’s throat, severing his carotid artery.

  In the movies, blood sprays everywhere when you slit someone’s throat. In reality, it follows the beat of your heart, pumping out and raining down in a slow waterfall. Markus tried to get out a few final words. But he couldn’t.

  Pulling out her own burner phone, The Curtain dialed a number, never taking her eyes off Markus’s now-lifeless body. It was another of her dad’s best lessons—and an army lesson too. Make sure the job is done.

  There was a click as someone picked up. They didn’t say a word.

  Neither did The Curtain. Message sent.

  Then, to The Curtain’s surprise…

  “It was the girl, yes? Nola Brown?” asked the man with a voice like a woodchipper.

  “Don’t worry,” The Curtain said. “I’m on her.”

  More silence. Another message sent. You better be. Without another word, both hung up.

  Riverhouse Grill, The Curtain thought to herself as she headed for the door of the boat. That was the restaurant in Montana. Fantastic barbeque.

  36

  Mr. Kanalz, I understand you stock our candy machines?”

  “And manage the Kingpin Café, where the soup of the day is always cheese fries,” Dino said.

  Colonel Hsu didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink as she sat there, both hands clamped together on her desk, which held a stack of pamphlets about depression in the military and a gold watch engraved “Hsu 2028,” a gag gift from her staff for her eventual run for President. “I’ve been to the Kingpin.”

  “I’ve never seen you there, Colonel. What’s your order?”

  “I send my assistant.”

  “Wait. Are you the person who, every few weeks, orders the flatbread with just loads of olives, extra ketchup on top? That person worries me.”

  “That person should worry you. I’m grilled cheese with tomato and avocado on whole wheat bread.”

  “That’s a reasonable order.”

  “I’m a reasonable person, Mr. Kanalz. More reasonable than you might realize.”

  Dino shifted in his seat. If she was playing nice—

  “My assistant told me they call you the Candyman around here. That’s a great name. Candyman.”

  “Colonel, if there’s something you want to ask me—”

  “Mr. Kanalz, I’m sure you’re aware that there’s only one set of candy machines here in our particular building. In the breakroom. Just that room,” Hsu said. “And yet, over the past day and a half, security shows that you’ve been here nearly half a dozen times.”

  Before Dino could say a word, she added, “In fact, when I looked closer at it, yesterday, Mr. Kanalz—when the Secret Service was scanning this place before the President’s arrival—you were one of the few people swiped in. That was pretty early in the morning.”

  “That’s my job description: Stock the machines pretty early in the morning.”

  “What also caught my eye is that, according to those security records, you were in this building around the same time your friend Zig got knocked in the head.”

  Dino sat up straight, annoyed. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “I’m just pointing out facts.”

  “Zig got me this job. He’s a brother to me.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear that, Mr. Kanalz—especially because we’ve all been worried about our friend Zig lately.”

  “You should tell him that.”

  “I’d love to. But that’s the problem. I tried calling him yesterday afternoon, and he wouldn’t pick up. We even sent someone to his house. No one could find him. It was like he just disappeared.”

  “So talk to him now.”

  “I’d love that as well, but as you saw, he’s been in the embalming room for nearly four hours. And here I am with so many questions about where Zig was once Sergeant Brown’s body shipped out of here yesterday.”

  For the first time, Dino just sat there, saying nothing. Hsu’s hands were still clamped together. Like someone praying.

  “You’ve heard her name before, haven’t you, Mr. Kanalz? Nola Brown?”

  Again, Dino just sat there.

  “What about the name Markus Romita? Ever hear of him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Markus Romita. From Tucson, Arizona. Trained as Special Forces, then got discharged. For a preexisting personality disorder.”

  “That usually means someone was an asshole.”

  “Maybe. But imagine our surprise when Markus was found dead two hours ago on a boat…one that was docked in the Pentagon marina. Throat slit. Perfect carotid neck cut. Like a pro—or someone who knows their anatomy. Any morticians come to mind?”

  “Ma’am, you really think Zig would—?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just want to know where Zig was last night.”

  “He wasn’t slaughtering people on a boat, I can tell you that.”

  “And I want to believe you, Mr. Kanalz. But according to some grainy security footage that we’re just starting to sift through, a driver who looks a lot like Zig was spotted in that same marina last night.”

  Dino again went silent.

  “Mr. Kanalz, I pulled your employment records. Every month, half your check gets garnished to the IRS. Unpaid taxes for nearly three years, with foreclosures on…looks like, one, two, three, four different homes.”

  “That has nothing to do with— Those were legitimate investments!”

  “I understand how the housing bubble worked. When it burst, my sister-in-law made the same exact mess, meaning my brother is still pulling extra night shifts as a dispatcher in the fire
station. What I’m driving at, Mr. Kanalz, is I know how important this job is to you. So if you know anything about Zig…or Nola Brown…or about anything that’s going on…we’re just trying to help.”

  “By what? By calling me in here and gripping your hands together like some finicky villain in a straight-to-video Nickelodeon movie? You realize I’m gonna tell him everything you’ve said, right? Zig’s my family.”

  “I’m not questioning his commitment to you. I’m questioning his commitment to us.”

  “Then you know nothing about him. So if you want to fire me for paying back taxes, fire me. Otherwise, if you’ve got any problems with my work, report me to the contracting officer’s rep. Otherwise, I’ve got a lunch rush to prepare for,” Dino said. “Oh, and putting avocado on grilled cheese? You’re turning a good sandwich into a shitty one. Show the grilled cheese some respect.”

  Without another word, Dino headed for the door, slamming it as he left.

  At her desk, Colonel Hsu stared down at her watch, at the words Hsu 2028. For a moment, she sat there, hands still clasped. Then she pulled out her phone and texted two words to a number that was unlisted.

  Your turn.

  37

  You alone or not?” Waggs asked.

  Approaching the door scanner, Zig swiped his ID, the lock clicked, and he pushed his way into Room 028. Uniform Prep.

  “All alone,” Zig said, eyeing four faceless, stark white mannequins at the center of the room. Each wore a different uniform: Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, like you’d see in a department store. On Zig’s right were dark wood display cases filled with every military badge, ribbon, and medal you can imagine—Purple Hearts, Silver Stars, Distinguished Service Crosses—each encased in plastic, each hanging on its own wire hook, reminding Zig of when he was little, on a trip to Hershey Park, flipping through a display rack of kid-sized personalized license plates, searching the alphabet for his own name. Back then, his mom was still strong and healthy.