The Escape Diaries: Life and Love on the Lam

by Juliet Rosetti

  “The boy in this photo was named Miguel Ruiz,” intoned a baritone voiceover—Magenta, in full macho male mode. “He’s fifteen years old in this picture. The man in the ugly shorts is an American businessman named Stanford Brenner. The photo was shot by Miguel’s brother, Luis. Both boys were off-the-books employees at a Brenner container plant in Janos, Mexico.”

  “Turn that thing off,” bellowed Bear, squinting against the light, trying to see who was running the computer.

  “Stan Brenner had another off-the-books activity,” continued the voiceover. Photos appeared on the screen in rapid succession, their details now sharp and clear, thanks to Labeck’s techno-juju.

  Grubby-looking boys working in a laboratory. A big, Anglo-looking man, back turned, appeared to be supervising.

  Boys funneling small white pills into beer containers.

  Boys loading the containers into Brenner beer semitrailers.

  A wild buzz broke out among the gala-goers. Now this was worth three grand a plate! Cellphones switched on, video cameras whirred, flashes strobed like lightning. Reporters sniffed the air, smelling blood. The Channel 13 news crew suddenly sprang to life, their cameras focusing. The news people were going to love this one; they’d dig their teeth into it and not let go until they’d gnashed every drop of scandal and skullduggery out of it. Luis Ruiz would have been delighted.

  Bullshit your way out of this one, Bear, you pusbucket!

  “Mr. Brenner’s lucrative little sideline was producing rohypnol, a potent date-rape drug. Mr. Brenner shipped the drug across the border into the United States hidden in beer containers. There it was sold to dealers—”

  Leaping off the stage, Bear thrust between tables and barreled in our direction, the

  Janitors slithering out of some rodent hole and hurrying in his wake. As Bear lunged for the computer, Labeck stood and blocked his way, a grim goalie who wasn’t going to let anything past.

  When Labeck didn’t move, Bear swung a punch. Labeck sidestepped and the momentum of the missed punch staggered Bear off balance. As he went down he locked his arms around Labeck’s knees. Both men toppled to the floor, grappling and punching, banging into tables, sending plates and glasses crashing to the floor. The men were evenly matched size-wise, both big and muscular, but my money was on Labeck. A hockey brawler from way back, he probably knew even more dirty tricks than Bear. Women screamed, cameras snapped, people climbed on chairs to see better.

  Then the Janitors bowled in. Kim Jong kicked Labeck in the ribs, allowing Bear to roll away. Custer hauled Labeck upright, locking his arms. Jong chopped Labeck in the stomach, making him grunt in pain, then drew back his fist for another punch.

  Not on your Zippo-flickin’ life! Launching myself off my chair, I hurled myself at Jong’s back, clawing, gouging, ripping what was left of his frizzy hair out by the roots. Shrieking in pain, he whirled me around helicopter style and sent me skidding across the top of a table. Labeck jacked his elbows into Custer’s belly, pivoted and hit Custer so hard he went sprawling into Bear, who’d been attempting to get up and went down again. Eddie leaned over and tried to smash a champagne bottle on Custer’s head, but missed. The bottle shattered against a table edge, spraying everyone with jagged shards of glass.

  “Mazie Maguire!” Bear shrilled, crawling to his feet, pointing at me. “It’s her, look— it’s the escaped convict!”

  The news telegraphed across the room. Mazie Maguire Mazie Maguire Mazie Maguire, a sound like buzzing bees. Suddenly I was surrounded by people thrusting out ballpoints and dinner menus, blinding me with their cell camera flashes.

  “My daughter is such a huge fan.”

  “Make it out to Heather—”

  Neat trick, Bear’s siccing the autograph hounds on me to allow himself the chance to escape. I shoved my way through the crowd, yelling to Labeck. “He’s getting away!”

  In the melee, a lit candle overturned onto a stack of benefit programs, which burst into flames. Someone tossed a drink on the fire, but the alcohol acted as an accelerant. The flames flared up like a bonfire, licking along the tablecloth and leaping to the paper streamers festooning the ceiling. Fragments of crepe paper spun across the room like flaming jellyfish, setting fire to everything they touched. For an instant the crowd was still and silent, like a herd of zebras deciding whether to run from a lion, and the next instant they broke and stampeded, screaming, toward the exit.

  “Mazie,” Labeck yelled. “Get out.”

  The wealthy, well-bred museum patrons now became animals, elbowing, biting, kicking, and trampling anything in their path as they rampaged toward the door. There was a blinding flash as the electrical system short-circuited, then all the lights went out and the galloping flames provided the only illumination. Smoke roiled through the air in choking clouds. The fire alarm went off, adding its deafening clamor to the uproar and belatedly, the sprinkler system kicked in, the hissing water creating a fog of steam that only created more panic.

  Dropping to my knees, keeping to the cover of the tables, I began crawling. I was halfway across the room when someone with size-fourteen dress shoes plunked his foot down on my skirt hem, pinning it. “Get off, you oaf!” I screamed.

  The klutz didn’t hear me. I yanked at my skirt. Seams ripped, sequins popped, the fabric stretched like Silly Putty, but the skirt remained pinned by Elephant Man. No one was moving; two hundred people were bottlenecked like slow ketchup, all trying to plunge through a single door at once. Above the panicked roar of the crowd and the jangling of the fire alarm, sirens were audible.

  Only one thing to do. I peeled the dress down over my hips and squirmed out of it, a social butterfly emerging from her cocoon. The sticking point was my heels, which became hopelessly tangled in the dress hem. So I abandoned them, too. Now all I had on was the iron maiden bra, bikini underpants, and panty hose.

  Bucking the tide, I crab-walked toward the rear exit, hoping to spot Eddie or Labeck, but the men, in their black-and-white penguin getups, were indistinguishable in the scrum of people. Finally hauling myself to my feet, I groped along a wall, slipped through the stage door, and found myself in a smoky, pitch-black service corridor. Silent in my panty-hosed feet, I padded along, feeling my way by touch.

  Phase two of Operation Payback had turned out to be a smashing success. Except for the part where the museum caught fire.

  Behind me, the door leading to the stage opened. Someone paused there, then began moving toward me, the tread of hard-soled shoes unmistakably male. Not Labeck—he would have called out. I quickened my pace. Behind me, the stalker sped up, too. I broke into a flat-out run. Turning a corner, I spied an exit sign at the end of the corridor and hurtled toward it. I burst through the door, then reeled back in shock as I came face-to-face with a grinning skull.

  Escape tip #32:

  Don’t get mad. Get even.

  A Panama hat perched jauntily atop the skull, whose flesh had been split down the center and fanned out to frame the cranium like clown hair. Its body was posed arms out, flasher style. Flaps of skin had been flayed off the torso and splayed out like orange wings. He looked like a comic book villain. Skele-pimp.

  He was creepy beyond description. Recoiling, I lurched into the extended arm of a basketball player frozen in driving-for-net position, the top of his head hinged to reveal his brain, a basketball suspended in mid-dribble beneath a bony palm. I realized that I’d stumbled into the room housing the BodyWorks exhibition.

  Behind me, the door crashed open and my pursuer burst into the room, silhouetted against the nimbus of light from the exit sign. He spoke in an undertone to someone behind him. “She’s in here.”

  Bear’s voice.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, I crept backward, trying not to look at the grotesque sculptures looming around me in the dark. Footsteps clacked purposefully in my direction, the sound of predators hunting prey. I crouched behind two football players entwined in a flying tackle, aware that my near-naked body must practically glow in th
e dark. I could hear two sets of footsteps, Bear’s heavy, the other’s lighter. One of the Janitors? Bear whispered something and the second person moved off toward the left. I thought of yelling for help, but that would give away my position. Even if I yelled, who would come? The Operation Payback Expeditionary Force might already have been carted off to jail.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I was able to pick my way further back into the exhibit. It was laid out like an elaborate maze, constantly folding back on itself. Wallboard separated one small room from the next, so that every time you turned a corner you were startled by a new display: Acrobat Man, frozen for all eternity on gym rings; Nervous System Man; Mammary Gland Woman—humans caught in a single moment of action and posed as though they were still alive, but for some reason had shed their clothes, skin, and organs.

  I tripped over an extension cord and fell, banging against a plastic cube displaying cross-sliced brains. Bear was there in a flash, hurtling around a corner and skidding to a halt in front of Marlboro Man. Posed in the attitude of a nicotine addict, one arm bringing a cigarette up to his lips, Marlboro Man had his torso peeled open to reveal his tarred, scarred lungs.

  “Mazie?” Bear called softly. “Come out, we need to talk.”

  Yeah, I’m that dumb. Bear’s first and second attempts to kill me had failed; he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. I wanted to explain to Bear that killing me would serve no purpose. With the photos out in public now, there was no point in attempting to silence me. But I sensed that Bear had gone beyond all reason; he only wanted revenge on the person who’d brought him down. So I kept quiet.

  Bear took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. For an absurd moment I thought he was going to light Marlboro Man’s cigarette, but he thrust the lighter forward and began sweeping it back and forth, trying to pinpoint my location. As he moved closer, I scuttled backward. Something cobwebbed against my face and I let out a terrified squeak. It was the stallion’s tail from the Horse and Rider sculpture, a magnificent meter-long brush of real horsehair.

  Bear immediately pounced, knocking aside Chess Player to get at me. The plastinated player crashed to the floor, breaking into fragments. Half a million bucks down the drain! I scuttled past Diabetes Man, Heart Attack Man, and Varicose Vein Woman. Caroming around a corner, I slammed up against the most ghoulish exhibit yet—a woman with flared nostrils, slitted eyes, and lips drawn back in a snarl. In her sequined dress, backlit by the fire exit sign, she glowed like a human torch. Call this one Nutzoid Mother-in-Law with Gun. Now I knew what Vanessa had been packing in her purse.

  I backpedaled. Vanessa let out a croak of triumphant laughter, raised the gun, and fired. But her hands were shaking and the shot went wild, hitting the sculpture behind me, Archer. The archer’s arrow spun off, impaling itself in Soccer Man’s kneecap. I dived behind Skateboarder, who was doing a one-armed handstand, legs and skateboard in the air, plastinated for eternity in a monkey flip.

  “Goddammit, Van, put that gun away.” Bear growled. “How am I going to explain her bullet-riddled body? If we do this right, I can still turn this whole situation around.”

  “I want to shoot her,” Vanessa said sullenly.

  “No! Jesus—are you nuts?”

  That was a no-brainer, but nobody asked me.

  “We’re going to knock her out, then let her burn to death,” Bear said. “You still have keys to this room, don’t you? We’ll start a fire, lock her in here.”

  “Burn her?” Vanessa sounded happy, as though someone had promised her all the s’mores she could eat. “Roast her? Toast her to a crisp?”

  “Yeah. But it’s got to look accidental, so no shooting.”

  Bear hurried over to Horse and Rider. He thumbed his cigarette lighter and a skinny flame shot up. He held it beneath the horse’s tail, which caught immediately, the fire burning up to the horse’s rump in a flash, the tail hairs glowing like microfilaments.

  “The sculptures!” Vanessa cried. “They’re irreplaceable—”

  Bear snorted. “They’re just Chink coolies. Criminals. Billions more where they came from. Besides, all these fucking ghouls are insured.”

  The stink of burning horsehair and bubbling laminate percolated through the room. The horse’s haunches began melting like candle wax. Nervous System Man began to liquify, the purple dye inside his linguine-like tangle of nerves dribbling down his body. Vanessa and Bear prowled, hunting me. I dived behind Longitudinally Expanded Man, a ten-foot-tall display of body parts, a human totem pole topped by a skull.

  Clanking and hissing, the sprinkler system turned on. Water sprayed from rows of ceiling nozzles, creating a cloud of steam and smoke that made us all cough.

  “Now she won’t burn up,” Vanessa said, sounding pissy.

  Attempting to slink away, I circled back toward Horse and Rider, but stubbed my toe against the jagged end of Archer’s bow and let out a yelp.

  Vanessa wheeled and fired. Bear tried to wrestle the gun away from her, but Vanessa, who possessed the adrenaline power of the demented, jerked it away and continued firing, drilling everything in sight. Horse parts exploded, zinging all over the room. I cowered, hands over head. She must have run out of bullets at last because she stopped shooting.

  Bear sprang and caught me, knocking me against Marlboro Man, who toppled and broke. Lifting me completely off my feet, trapping my legs so I couldn’t kick, Bear clamped me against his body, holding me like a human sacrifice. “You want her to suffer?” he said, panting. “Pick up that leg bone there.”

  Eyes glittering with malice, Vanessa snatched up the horse’s cannon bone, shattered at the knee by one of her stray shots. It must have weighed thirty pounds, but Vanessa hefted it as easily as though it were a cookie spatula. I saw my own death coming at me in slow motion; Vanessa would whale away at me until I was a bloody pulp, and when they found my body, it would look as though I’d been pulverized by plastinated sculptures.

  With the skill engendered by years of swinging golf clubs, Vanessa leaped forward and brought the cannon bone crashing down toward my head. Lotsa muscle, lousy aim—she smashed Bear’s crazy bone. He shrieked in agony and dropped me. As I stumbled away, Vanessa attacked again, bringing the bone down against my shoulder with an impact that staggered me to hands and knees. She straddled me, arching the cannon bone back for a killer blow. Torquing my body, I grabbed a fistful of Vanessa’s skirt, yanked it with all my strength, and hauled her off balance. She crashed to the floor, toppling poor old Archer, whose body parts scattered like flung dice.

  But Vanessa was the Energizer Bunny of crazed in-laws, single-mindedly bent on destroying me. Twisting around with remarkable agility, she flailed at me with the cannon bone, landing a blow on my ear. My skull exploded, the pain making me wild.

  Growling like an animal, I clamped my jaws around Vanessa’s hand and bit so hard my teeth jarred. She squealed in pain and dropped the bone. I jerked her up by her hair and got so far in her face we were bared teeth to bared teeth. “Listen, you insane hag! I didn’t kill your idiot son. But guess what—I’m keeping your dog!”

  Foolishly, I’d forgotten about Bear, who now lurched up behind me swinging a plastinated lung, intent on turning my brains to sushi. Releasing Vanessa, I scrabbled frantically for a weapon, snatching the first thing that came to hand—the broken-off end of the archer’s bow. I swiveled and jabbed blindly, driving the jagged wood into Bear’s flesh with all my strength, puncturing his thigh. Shrieking, he floundered backward into the remnants of the horse and rider sculpture. It wobbled, tottered, and swayed. Bones cracked, muscles split, and laminate coating crackled like snapping wood. Then, twelve hundred pounds of dead horse collapsed onto Senator Stanford Brenner.

  Suddenly the room was filled with people. Where had they been when I was being mauled by psycho-senator? Labeck hauled me to my feet and clutched me to him, hugging me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, babbling incoherent stuff into my hair. Eddie hovered around anxiously, patt
ing my back. Cops, museum security, emergency techs, firemen, camera crews, reporters—all came crowding into the exhibit, coughing and getting soaked and scoping out what I was wearing. Which was basically nothing.

  Labeck took off his torn, bloody tuxedo jacket and draped it over me. The surge of gratitude I experienced felt almost like love.

  Amid the smoke, the confusion, the milling bodies, and the wreckage, it might

  even have been possible to slip away again. Rico had somehow managed to insinuate himself into the mob—his chauffeur’s uniform made him look sort of official, like the dictator of a minor banana republic. He came up to me and whispered, “The limo’s just out back. C’mon, Maze—echa la cookie.”

  I admit I was tempted. But that wasn’t the plan.

  It was time for Phase Three of Operation Payback.

  I untangled myself from Labeck and spoke to Rico. “Get Eddie over here. The two of you are going to walk me over to the man in the dark suit.”

  “No way, Maze—that guy’s a porker.”

  “He’s Irving Katz. He’s a federal porker. You and Eddie are going to turn me in to him.”

  “Screw that.”

  I’d insisted on just one thing in our whole scheme: surrendering myself to Irving Katz, the only person I trusted to be immune from Brenner contamination.

  I stood on tiptoes and kissed Rico’s baby-faced cheek. “You and Eddie are going to split the fifty thousand reward. It’s for college. Use it for anything else and I’ll break out of prison again and beat your pimply little butts.”

  Escape tip #33:

  It’s not what you know;

  it’s who’s on your side.

  That’s life. You’ve got the smoking gun, the wreckage of a dozen once-human bodies, and the Real Murderer—and you’re still the one who goes to jail.

  The prison staff punished me for daring to escape. I’d made them look foolish, eluded capture for a week, and drained the money the warden had earmarked for redecorating her office. I was hauled back to Taycheedah the night of the museum massacre, given an ice pack for my bruised shoulder, a bandage for my ear, and an aspirin for my throbbing head. Then they shoved me into Rehabilitative Seclusion. In the old, unenlightened days, Rehabilitative Seclusion was called Solitary Confinement, but we live in more humane times and the euphemisms are more sophisticated nowadays.