Placebo

by Steven James

  There was no way out of the building’s lower level.

  Nothing.

  The fire alarm goes off, the sprinklers on the ceiling do not.

  I search for something to smash against the door.

  The desk is too large to move, or at least too large for me to push with enough momentum to take out the door.

  “Communication. Physiology—” Dr. Tanbyrn’s explanation is chopped up by hoarse coughing. “Identical twins are much more effective than individuals. I was providing feedback to help them direct and focus their alpha waves, studying the negative . . . the effects . . . if they were . . .”

  Charlene has snatched up Tanbyrn’s desk phone, but the line must be dead because she drops the receiver again. Pulls out her cell.

  Smoke is quickly filling the room. “Get the papers,” I tell them. “On the desk. Project Alpha. And the iPad.”

  “Eleven o’clock.” His voice is harsh. “When the eagle falls at the park . . . The twins said—I don’t know what it . . .”

  I back up and try a front kick against the door, directly beside the doorknob.

  A tremor runs up the door, but that’s all.

  No reception. Charlene pockets her phone.

  Tanbyrn is coughing. He’s stopped trying to explain the research and is just trying to breathe.

  Go. You have to get out now!

  With the thick smoke filling the cramped quarters, it isn’t going to take long at all for the air to become too toxic to sustain life. I pull my shirt up over my mouth, shout for Charlene and Tanbyrn to do the same.

  The vent above us is far too small to climb through.

  Back to the door. I try a side kick, but whatever’s holding the door shut doesn’t budge.

  Flames snake down through the vent on the ceiling.

  Charlene is supporting the doctor. “Hurry, Jev!”

  No windows. No other doors. This is it.

  You need to get this door open.

  Now.

  I try to think of what might be holding it shut.

  If this fire was started by a professional, it might be an angled door jammer, a rod with suction cups on its two ends, one that attaches to the door, the other to the floor, so the harder you press on the door, the more firmly the other end suctions to the floor. I did an escape from a room sealed shut with one in a show in Denver a decade ago—

  A chair? The end table, a doorstop of some kind?

  Impossible to know.

  Whatever was there, I can think of only two ways to get out: pop the hinges off the door or slide something through the space beneath the door and push it hard enough to break the seal and knock the jammer—or chair legs, or whatever—out of the way.

  The door’s hinges are on the other side, so that’s not an option. Instead I’d need something thin enough, long enough, strong enough to push under the door and shove whatever was there out of the way.

  And I know exactly what that is.

  I turn away from the door.

  Toward the thick sheet of glass covering Dr. Tanbyrn’s desk.

  The Glass

  I sweep my arm across the desk, knocking everything to the floor.

  Glass is fragile when dropped on end or when pressure is applied to the middle of it, but lengthwise, a sheet as thick as this might just do the trick.

  As long as it’s not too wide to fit under the door.

  Dr. Tanbyrn is coughing harshly and leaning awkwardly against the bookshelf.

  “Help me get this glass,” I shout to Charlene. “We need it over by the door!”

  As Glenn limped away from the building, he could see a dozen or so people stream down the front steps. None of the three people he’d sealed in the office were among them.

  He ducked out of sight behind a tree to watch the place go up in flames.

  And fingered the folded-up copy of the front page of the current issue of USA Today he had stuffed in his jacket pocket.

  Charlene and I have to slide the desk aside to make enough room to get the glass onto the floor.

  We position it in front of the doorway, I push it forward, and—thank God—it fits beneath the door. It’s at least five feet long, surely long enough to reach the bottom of whatever is lodged against the doorknob. I guide the glass forward a few feet until it meets with resistance.

  Dr. Tanbyrn slumps to the floor. Charlene hurries to his side.

  Okay, this is where things either went right or very, very wrong. There’s nothing else in this room we could use to get out of here.

  If the glass cracks or shatters, you’re going to die in here.

  You’re going—

  Stop it.

  I pull the glass toward me, then press it forward again, nudging the far edge firmly against whatever’s holding the door in place. I don’t have a great grip, but it seems like it should be sufficient enough to give me the force I need. I push harder, but the glass goes nowhere, the object it’s touching doesn’t move.

  I try again. Nothing.

  “Slam it,” Charlene calls urgently. “Jar it loose!”

  No choice. I have to try.

  Praying the glass won’t crack, I grip the end firmly, draw it toward me, and then as swiftly and solidly as I can, I shove it forward.

  This time I feel a brief bump of resistance, then the glass keeps moving. Whatever was propped up on the other side of the door clatters to the floor.

  Yes!

  By now the doorknob will undoubtedly be too hot to touch. I leap to my feet and bunch up the front of my shirt around my hand, but as I’m about to open the door, Charlene yells to me, her voice coming from the floor beside the desk. “Jevin, get over here! It’s Tanbyrn! He passed out!”

  Oxygen

  I kneel beside the doctor.

  He’s lying still. Breathing but unconscious. Charlene tries to shake him awake, but he doesn’t respond.

  I shake him myself, call his name. Nothing.

  The room is nearly filled with smoke.

  You need to carry him, get him out of here.

  Yes, but how would we—

  The glass will be too hot to hold.

  Maybe not, maybe you can get past the fire.

  Quickly, I tug off my leather jacket.

  “What are you doing?” Charlene is gasping for air herself.

  I hand her the jacket, then hurriedly guide the glass back into the room and prop it upright against the desk.

  “Jevin, what’s the jacket for?”

  “Hold the glass in front of you.” I can barely see her through the smoke. Both of us have to yell now to be heard. “I’ll carry Tanbyrn, follow you out the door. Tilt it, slide it across the floor, use it like a shield to protect you from the flames.” I help her pull the jacket sleeves over her hands to protect them from getting burned. “Keep your head low and move fast!”

  I lift Dr. Tanbyrn, drape him over the back of my shoulders, fireman’s carry. Charlene holds the edges of the glass, her hands protected by the leather sleeves of my jacket. The glass plate is heavy, but she should be able to lean into it, move it in front of her along the floorboards, even with her injured arm. At least I hope she can.

  With my shirt bunched up around my right hand, I reach for the doorknob.

  “Will the flames rush in?” Sharp concern in her voice.

  All fires are hungry for oxygen and it’s possible the flames would pour in, but we don’t have a choice. I needed to open this door.

  They might, yes—

  “I don’t know.”

  I grasp the knob.

  Turn it.

  And open the door.

  Flames

  A rush of smoke swirls around us, but thankfully, only a few flames lick into the room. The door gets hung up for a moment on what’d been holding it shut—which I now see is the end table from the lobby—but with enough pressure I’m able to slide it aside and open the door all the way.

  Heat rages everywhere.

  Flames are already consuming the walls. Much
of the floor is also on fire, but there are enough spots that look free of the blaze that we should be able to get to the nearest exit door.

  “Go on!” I holler to Charlene, and she leads the way, holding the glass in front of her. I follow closely behind. I’m not sure how effective the glass shield is, but it does seem to be keeping some of the flames away from her face.

  Even though in my shows I’ve been set on fire, escaped from burning buildings, and been blown up innumerable times by Xavier, those were all controlled situations. None of that compared to the heat singeing my face and arms, burning my throat with every breath right now.

  After only a few steps, I notice a body lying nearby. It’s scalded, and I can’t identify who it is until I see the metal bracelets encircling one of the charred wrists.

  Abina.

  A thick knot of anger forms inside me.

  Whoever did this can’t be far. Find him. Stop him.

  Charlene doesn’t pause, and I take that to mean she hasn’t seen the research assistant’s body. It’s a small thing, but at least it’s one thing to be thankful for.

  We shuffle forward.

  The air is rigid and fiery in my lungs.

  We’re about ten feet from the exit door, but by now I can tell that the glass idea doesn’t seem to be working as well as I’d hoped. It’s awkward for Charlene to maneuver and seems to be slowing us down. In front of us, blocking the way to the exit door, is a pool of flames.

  “Tip it forward!” I yell. She does so immediately, and the glass hits the floor and shatters across the floorboards, sending a whoosh of smoke and displaced flames to every side. But the place where the glass fell is momentarily clear of the blaze, so we rush across the glass shards, make it to the exit door.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes!” Her reply is muffled by the popping, crackling fire.

  I lean my hip against the push bar and the door pops open, but only about six inches, then catches on a stout chain.

  No!

  A rush of desperation.

  I shift Dr. Tanbyrn’s weight to keep him balanced on my shoulders, then smash my side against the door, but it’s useless. I study the chain and see that it has a keyed lock, not a combination lock, holding the two ends together.

  Oh yes.

  “Charlene, my belt!”

  She’s worked with me on hundreds of escapes and knows about the belt buckle, the narrower-than-normal prong. I have no idea how many locks I’ve picked with it while sealed in trunks, coffins, airtight tubes—

  She tugs the jacket off her arms, unbuckles the belt, snakes it out of my belt loops, and hands it to me, buckle first.

  Holding it carefully, I slide my hand outside.

  A one-handed pick, not easy, and it’s been months since I’ve picked this brand of lock . . .

  But I haven’t lost my touch. It takes less than ten seconds, the lock clicks open, the ends of the chain dangle free. I grab one of them and yank the chain loose even as I throw my hip against the door.

  It bangs open.

  Charlene and I emerge from the building and run toward the clearing to escape the smoke and the raging flames.

  You’re okay. You made it!

  Hopefully, Dr. Tanbyrn did as well.

  Assault

  As gently as I can, I lower him to the ground.

  Charlene leans close. “Let me.” She’s more experienced at first aid than I am. I clear out of the way.

  She tilts Dr. Tanbyrn’s head to open his airway. Checks to see if he’s still breathing.

  I stand, look around.

  The day is still damp, still gray, smudged darker now by the heavy black smoke from the blaze.

  The guy who set that fire is probably still on the campus, probably—

  I see someone standing just off the trail that leads along the edge of the forest behind the building and recognize him as the man who was waiting in the reception area when Charlene and I arrived.

  “He’s still alive.” Relief in her voice.

  The man is half-hidden by a tree, and he must have seen me watching him because he turns and heads into the woods, limping.

  From last night’s knife wound.

  That’s it.

  You’re mine.

  “Take care of Tanbyrn,” I shout to Charlene. I’m already sprinting toward the woods, wrapping my belt around my left hand. “I’ll be right back.”

  Glenn glanced behind him.

  The guy was pursuing him.

  Alright. Let him follow.

  The fog would help.

  Find a spot out of sight from the rest of the campus.

  Take care of this guy for good.

  Then get to the parking lot and clear out before the fire trucks and the cops show up.

  I throw a branch aside, jump over a root, and race toward Abina’s killer, eighty yards ahead of me, barely visible on the edge of the fog.

  You’re a runner. He’s injured.

  You can catch him.

  Catch him, yes. But then what?

  Stop him. Do whatever it takes to stop him.

  Whatever it takes.

  Seventy yards, maybe sixty-five.

  He killed Abina. Tanbyrn might die. He tried to kill Charlene.

  Yeah, I would stop him.

  With my lungs still feeling like they’re filled with smoke, I’m short of breath and I can sense that it’s slowing me down, and despite the wound in this man’s leg, he’s amazingly fast. Last night he had a knife sticking out of his thigh, now he’s racing through the forest like he was never hurt at all. It was quite possible the knife hadn’t gone in as deeply as I thought it had.

  But still, I’m gaining.

  Sixty yards.

  He reaches a ravine and disappears into a patch of thick fog that has settled into the valley. Logs covered with moss. Dense ferns on the ground. The trees here are ancient. Primeval. Fog lurks between them like threads of living smoke.

  The mist brushes against my face and arms and it feels good, cooling the reddened skin. I can only hear the sound of my choked breathing, my muted footsteps on the forest floor. Other than that, all is still and quiet in the fog.

  I’m jacked on adrenaline from the fire, the chase, the thought of fighting this guy, and my heart is slamming against the inside of my chest. I arrive at the edge of the ravine and then descend into it, trying to find the path through the underbrush where he might’ve gone. At last I come to a small clearing in the trees.

  Fog all around.

  No sign of him.

  I slow to a jog.

  Stop.

  No sound of him running. The ground has leveled off and the fog is thicker here. I can only see fifteen or twenty feet in any direction. Towering trees surround me. He could be anywhere.

  Puffs of breath circle from my mouth in the cool air as if they were bursts of steam evaporating before me. I listen but hear nothing apart from my ragged breathing.

  I was in a fire only minutes ago, now I’m in the chilled forest and a shiver runs through me.

  Backtrack? Did he backtrack?

  No, he’s here.

  Fists raised, I crouch. Ready stance.

  If he were still running, I would hear him, at least be able to tell what direction he was heading in.

  But I hear nothing.

  He’s close.

  He’s here. Behind one of the trees.

  I inch toward a large tree to my left, one wide enough to conceal a person.

  “They’re following me,” I shout, I lie. “You won’t get away. I’ve seen your face. I can identify you.”

  That much was true.

  I move closer to the looming tree and hear a crunch of leaves ten feet to my right. Instinctively I whip around toward the sound, but no one is there.

  A trick.

  Misdirection.

  Tossing something away from yourself—it’s what you would have done!

  I snap my head in the other direction and see a branch as thick as a baseball bat swi
nging toward me. I try to duck, drop to the side, but I’m too slow.

  The branch collides with the left side of my head and sends me reeling to the side. I fall hard, face-first onto the forest floor. A rock that’s jutting up between the roots smacks into my right side, and I hear a muffled crack.

  A burst of pain shoots through me.

  My rib.

  My head throbs, feels like it’s filled with its own heavy, thunderous heartbeat. The world becomes a splinter of dots, stars splintering apart in my vision. I try to push myself to my feet, but the world is turning in a wide, dizzy circle and I can’t seem to make my limbs obey me. My side screams at me, and I don’t make it past my hands and knees.

  Focus. Focus!

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man approaching me.

  I don’t make it to my feet. He kicks me hard in my injured side and the ground rushes up at me again. I barely hold back a gasp of pain when I land. If the rib wasn’t fractured before, it’s almost certainly broken now.

  Everything around me seems to be edging outside of time, but in my blurred vision I see him raise the branch, step closer. I roll away from him and feel the whoosh of air beside me as he brings the branch thwacking down right where my head had been only a moment earlier. A spray of mud splatters across my face.

  My injured side squeezes out a jet of pain that courses through my chest every time I take a breath.

  Get up, you have to get up to fight this guy.

  Forcing myself to stand, I feel another swoop of dizziness, but I hide it from him. Face him.

  He discards the branch, flips out a knife.

  So he has a weapon.

  But so do I.

  Carefully, I wrap one end of the belt around each hand. It’s one of the simplest ways to defend yourself when someone comes at you with a knife. If you know what you’re doing, you can trap the wrist of your opponent’s knife hand, control the arm, and take him down.

  And I know what I’m doing.

  As long as you can stay on your feet.