My home = Grandma’s cooking. So clean you can eat off the floor. Cats, lots of cats. A place to eat take-out. Music, music, music. It’s safe like money-in-the-bank safe, but all you need is a blanket. Glassware clinks and people are happy for you. My home isn’t envious. Four hugging arms and two chins of a roof. It’s an island between two sidewalks at rush hour. Board games and charades. Skits and silly plays. Turkey dinner every night. A hub for you to spoke from. It’s a boat, a plane, a campfire, a cardboard box. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you are.
I’ve never heard of this mythical place that’s clean and yet has cats, but I add that we’re able to take ten students. With a minute to spare, I hit send. No one will choose us anyways.
Two hours and forty-five minutes remain on the download. Way too long to be alone with my thoughts.
I haven’t had time to sit and just think in forever and a lot has happened this week. Hannah told me she needed help with creep. Then she told me she didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t believe her, then she exploded. I got suspended and then not. Shock make-out sessions are sustaining my relationship with Jonny. The police fired me, yet I managed to solve their crime and in so doing gave Assured Destruction a couple more months to recover. The week has really been about keeping things on life support.
My mom’s the worst I’ve seen her, but Peter’s helping out in more ways than one. He’s bequeathed me this special armor that helped me gain entry to the coolest hacker community. I may not know anything more about Peter, but I think I have a solution to cracking his hard drive code. Life is crazy and I wonder how I’m still upright. It’s what’s on the other side of it all that’s keeping me persevering: the prospect of normalcy.
Oh my god.
Movement in the rearview mirror snaps my attention back to the cool night.
A man lumbers between the lights of street lamps. The lapels of his gray trench coat are flipped up, and a skullcap is pulled down almost to his eyebrows. I can’t tell for sure if it’s creep, but he glances left and right as if searching for something. My gut twists. Is that something me?
I sink down into the car seat and adjust the mirrors to watch his approach. Two streetlights away, he stops and lifts his head to peer up at the apartment building. Under the glow of the lamp, his blocky features are clear. It’s him. And he’s headed directly toward me.
It’s past five o’clock, so maybe he’s just returning home from work. But why is he practically running? I duck down further so that I’m balled under the steering wheel with my hands clutched over the back of my head. Maybe he’s on to me? He could have some sort of trigger that let him know when I hopped on to his Internet. Maybe he set a trap using his WiFi as a honey pot. My fingers inch to the door-lock button and it clunks closed.
No one knows where I am. Only Jonny might guess where to start looking for my body. I struggle in the tight space for my phone. I ignore all the spelling errors as I text Jonny.
I’m @—where am I? I can’t see the address from down here. Creep’s. I type but it changes to crêpes—darn autocorrect! Hopefully he’ll understand. In the absence of useful information, I add. Tell mi mum I luv hr, I … I, what? I love Jonny? I don’t think so. Ill miss u.
As my index finger hovers over send, fabric brushes the panel of the car. Breath whistles from his nostrils. I squinch my eyes closed and shield the glow of the phone. Then it’s quiet again. I turn my head to the window, terrified that his face will be pressed against it grinning—with an axe … and a hook for one hand. But there’s only black sky. He’s past and his dark coat flaps in his rush to the apartment building entry. His clenched fists punch out of his cuffs, ready to break walls. The foyer door shatters when it slams against the brick side—this guy’s furious. He fumbles with his keys to unlock the interior door.
My heart thuds as I remove my hand from the ignition. Somehow knowing he’s so close raises the stakes. Shards of jagged glass remain in the door. If he comes back out, I promise myself that I’ll leave.
The download is only at twelve percent and the signal strength flutters between one and two bars. I glance up through the windshield but I’m too close to the building to identify whether his apartment lights will turn on or not. Inside the lobby he’s not quite at the elevator.
I need to keep tabs on him. I tap into his live webcam to determine what all the fuss is about. In a few clicks his room fills the screen; its lights are on. Clothes are strewn over the bed. Drawers clutter the floor, yanked from dressers. Then a book flies across the room, spine snapping against the wall.
I check back to the apartment foyer. Creep’s hammering the up button for the elevator. Someone is sacking his place. And he knows it. My head twists back to the webcam as movement streaks across the screen. I missed the figure; it was close to the webcam and filled the frame. I go back to the file and bring up the last minute of the recording. The book flies again, then—there!—I hit pause. It’s a bit blurry but in the frame is a chubby Hello Kitty. Except this isn’t pink, happy Hello Kitty. This kitty has a hole in its head.
Hannah.
Hannah is pillaging the guy’s apartment and soon he’ll be joining her. What is she doing?
My mind spins back to the coffee shop scene. Her being fondled, the dip of her hand into his pocket. Maybe she’d planned this all along. But why? If she wanted evidence, why not work with me?
Then I see it. At the bottom of the frame. Tucked into her waistband. The grip of a handgun. Not just any handgun, a gun I recognize. A Glock. She’s not collecting evidence. Hannah hadn’t wanted my help anymore because she’d made a decision.
She’s ready.
She’s going to kill him.
Chapter 25
Hours of community service remaining: 1985 minus 1.
All bets are off when a fifteen-year-old is packing a gun.
In the apartment lobby the creep abandons the elevator and takes the stairs. Hannah has to flee in the time it takes for him to climb six flights or she’ll be trapped. Or he’ll be dead.
I dial 9–1–1.
“What’s the emergency?” a voice asks.
“Police!” I cry.
“What is the nature of the emergency?”
“Uh—” I think. “Someone is about to be shot.”
“What’s the address?” I tell her. “And your name?” I don’t understand how her voice can be so calm and soothing when I just said someone was going to die.
“Janus Rose.” It’s out. Here I am. Sorry, Hannah, everything will be disclosed to the police now.
“Can you describe the shooter?”
“Fat little girl, with a Hello Kitty sweatshirt and packing a forty-calibre Glock 22.”
“The address is for an apartment building; what is the apartment number?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere on the sixth floor.”
“Do you know the name of the owner?”
I shake my head.
“Janus?”
“No, sorry, I don’t know who it is, but he’s the guy climbing to his doom.”
“Why do you think she’ll shoot him?”
And then I see it all.
I know about everything. If she kills him, guess where the blood spatter will land? And given creep is already on the way upstairs, the only way they’ll discover which apartment is his is by the sound of the gunshots.
“Wait! I can find his IP address,” I say, desperate for a solution.
“And how does that help?” She doesn’t say it snarky, soothing still, but with a hint of confusion.
“What do you mean, just …” I begin.
They won’t arrive in time.
“Janus, please stay with me. The police are on their way. Where are you right now?”
A woman is waddling up to the apartment door, pull
ing a small grocery cart. If I hurry I can intercept her and enter.
“I can figure out what apartment he’s in,” I tell the operator, “but I have to go.”
“Stay with me.”
“Oh, you’re coming along,” I say.
“If you are safe, I want you to remain where you are and wait for the police.”
“No.” I slip my phone into my coat pocket.
I kick open the car door and shudder with the rush of cold air. Here we go. I push myself to a stand, ankle throbbing in its cast. I ignore my crutches. My plan requires my laptop and even I know that I can’t warwalk with an open laptop while on crutches. I bum the car door shut and then hobble after the woman. My broken leg lags my good one and I can’t put much weight on it, so even my good leg soon blazes from the effort. I reach the curb and balk at its twelve-inch height. Leaning to the side I swing my cast up and then hop up with my good foot. My laptop nearly goes flying as I totter for a second.
The old woman pauses briefly to inspect the shattered glass. I need to reach the inner door before it closes behind her. At this rate, I won’t make it. Gritting my teeth, I try to block the agony of my ankle and thighs and gallop toward her. Her key’s out like she’s won quick draw contests. Then the lock’s turning. I don’t want to spook her by yelling and waving a laptop. I bite my cheeks at the wincing pain and thump-drag, thump-drag along, sounding a lot like the injured villain in a bad horror movie.
At the last minute, the woman catches my reflection in the glass and tries to jerk the door closed. I’m a baseballer sliding into first when the door slams into my fiberglass cast. She yelps louder than I do.
“Thanks,” I say through the pain, even as she opens and shuts the door as if trying to hack through my leg.
“You live here?” she demands. Whack. “I don’t know you.” Whack.
I take hold of the door and wrench it all the way open.
She gasps, pulls her coat tighter about her, and yanks her cart toward the elevator. When I climb to my feet she manoeuvres to keep the cart between her and me. Unfortunately she’s got her back to the up and down elevator call buttons. Each time I try to shuffle to one side or the other, she shifts her cart and rams it into my foot.
“Back,” she says.
“Lady, I’m not trying to hurt you.” I feel like the lion to her lion tamer.
As I lunge around her, the cart catches the shin of my good leg. I hop on my cast until I fall over.
“Someone’s about to die!” I cry, lying on my side.
Her mouth gapes, and she swivels to hit the up button.
After a statement like that, it’s really uncomfortable waiting for an elevator but finally the doors part and, despite her efforts to keep me from entering, she fails to guard the whole four-foot opening. I slide in. Her nose is smidged up between her eyes and her mouth puckered.
I tap the button for the sixth floor and, as she jabs across to hit the fourth, I knock her arm away.
“Sorry.” I cringe. “I just need to reach the sixth floor as soon as possible. Life or death and all?”
I can’t see much understanding in her scarlet complexion. The elevator cranks slowly up and for once I miss elevator music. Her breath wheezes from her lungs. We’re past her floor before she recovers and tries for the alarm. I use the laptop like a shield, deflecting a second prod, with my foot braced against the wheel of her cart so she can’t use it like a battering ram again.
“Listen,” I say. “Please just give me the benefit of the doubt. On the sixth floor someone’s about to be shot because he’s a disgusting excuse for a human being. You don’t want to be mixed up in this. Call the police if you want, we’re acquainted.”
She begins to say something and then backs into the corner. I must look crazed but what matters is the ding of the elevator.
When the doors open, I’m all business. Somewhere along the taupe hallways with carpet scuffed to a shiny skin, Hannah and creep are about to clash. My phone connection to the police was lost in the elevator car, but that doesn’t matter. They’ll already be on their way. I check the wireless connection on the laptop only to discover it’s gone too. Valuable seconds tick past as I search for creep’s network and quickly log back in.
“Come on, come on …” I mutter.
Finally, I’m set. By using the relative signal strength of his wireless router, I can determine which apartment is his. The closer I am, the stronger the signal, the further away the weaker. Simple. That’s the plan.
I’ve got three bars out of five right now. As I stagger to the left, it drops to two bars and so I turn and head back past the elevator where the signal ticks back to three. Twenty yards further I have four bars. That might be as high as I can hope. I listen. No gunshots. I picture Hannah quaking in a closet. Somewhere someone bangs a pot and the smell of curry is ripe through the hall. If I knew creep liked Indian food, I could likely find him quicker. I limp down a side hall; the signal’s still at four bars, then three. I head back. Four bars. At the very end of the passage the signal spikes to five.
I have him. Apartment 614. Distant sirens whirr.
I am about to dial 9–1–1 when a gunshot thunders from the apartment in front of me. I snap the laptop closed and turn the handle on the door. It opens on a room, but I only see the gun.
I’ve faced a gun before, but never one that was shaking so badly. Lucky for me the barrel jigs back toward creep, who has his arms out in front of him. His palms are up as if they could stop bullets.
I step into a living room redolent with gun smoke. It’s a creep’s living room. Modern leather couch and arm chair. Sleek, stainless steel lava lamp, glass and steel table, some weird egg that glows and flickers like candlelight, faux-fur leopard skins, and a massive flat screen TV above a gas fireplace. Nothing personal, no photos, no art beyond a framed inspirational poster.
“Hannah!” I’ve got the laptop gripped in one hand like it’s a Frisbee. “Don’t do it.”
“Listen to your friend,” creep sputters, hands waving.
“I have to,” Hannah screeches.
“No, Hannah, you don’t. Really.” I need to do better than this.
“Please,” the man whines. “Please, I’m sorry. So, so, sorry …”
“You said he’d never stop, Jan. You said.” Hannah takes the gun into a two-handed grip. Her stance widens, her knees bend. It sure doesn’t look like it’s her first time handling a firearm.
“I didn’t say shoot the guy.”
“There’s no other way.” The gun seems to stiffen. “Scum. Trash. Pathetic waste of water. I just hope you’ve signed your donor card.”
“No, Hannah, pity me,” he says. “I need help. I’m pathetic.”
“Wait, don’t do this,” I plead, sensing that I’ve lost control and willing this idiot to shut up. “I’ve got the proof we need.”
“You’ll go to jail,” creep says to her. “I’m not worth it. They’ll put you in jail.”
“No, they won’t,” she whispers, taking aim. “No, they won’t.”
The way Hannah says this makes me think she knows something we don’t. I’ve edged a few feet toward her but might as well be miles away.
“We’ve got him. I recorded his webcam. We’ve got everything we need to stop this.”
“You said he’d just keep luring other girls. And I thought about it and how evil he was and how selfish I was not to want to help those girls.” She turns to me for a second, but the gun never moves, just her dark, clear, determined eyes. “But I can’t go to the police. I can’t.”
“I’ll stop, I swear,” creep says.
He’s not doing himself any favors—no one believes him.
“But that’s what I don’t understand, Hannah.” I want to scream but don’t think it’ll help. “Why? Why not go to the
cops? They would have protected your identity; no one needs to know the details. You’re sure going to be meeting the cops if you shoot him, right?”
“Because my brother’s a police officer.”
I stare at the gun. The police gun. She stole her brother’s sidearm. But I’m still confused. The boy in the hall photos. Ethan’s problems with police property. The shiny boots in his childhood room.
“Chow?” I ask.
“My half-brother. You see? I fell for this guy and my brother’s a cop? I’m so stupid. My brother would have seen everything and he talks about cases all the time. Everyone would know. I can’t put my parents through it.”
And I do see; I see how this all ends. She won’t go to the police and yet she can’t possibly avoid them now. They’re already downstairs. Shots fired. They’re on the move. Creep at least seems to understand he has a better chance of staying alive with his mouth shut.
“You don’t want to commit … murder,” I say. “This is murder. No one wants to live with that.”
“You’re right, Jan, no one does.”
And I realize what I’ve said. Only one way remains to avoid the cops. She’s intending to kill herself. But not before she shoots creep.
Creep must recognize it too, because he rushes her.
I hurl my laptop.
It slices through the air. The crack of the gun rings louder than I would have thought possible. I snatch up the lava lamp as I thump into the fray. Creep grunts as his shoulder strikes Hannah’s chest, sending her flying.
His arm draws back, fist cocked.
I’m screaming the whole time and swing the lamp with all my might. The lava lamp explodes; splinters of glass, oil and wax spray down his face and neck. Creep rises up, a right hook cracking against my ribs and driving the air from my lungs. Pain blooms in my chest.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 30
