The Final Step

by Ridley Pearson

“I’m just saying.”

  “The question is: What are you saying?”

  “A man was killed, James. Shot. He’s dead, by the way. Let’s say you’re right and someone cleaned up the floor on purpose. That person is not going to be real thrilled about us poking around. You know?”

  “I’m poking. You’re the lookout.”

  “I can’t talk to you if you’re not going to take this seriously.” Lexie crossed her arms.

  “You want to talk about serious? They killed my father. Maybe they killed your father, too. Oh, yes, Lexie, and I know that’s why you’re helping me.”

  “Is not!” Her crossed arms suddenly gripped so tightly she sounded choked.

  “Now Lowry.”

  Lexie was breathing deeply, arms crossed defiantly, ready to slap James. Slap him hard, right across the face.

  “It’s okay to want answers,” James said. “And I can see you’re about to cry, and that’s okay, too. Even if you are a sissy.”

  Lexie sprayed a laugh. Her nose ran. She hid her face from him.

  James held the key away from them both—it was still very hot from the cutting—and hugged her with one arm. He thought it was such an awkward thing to do, was surprised it didn’t feel that way. She kept her face buried in her hands and sobbed, her hair tickling his chin. She must have stayed that way for five minutes. Felt more like twenty.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “You got snot on my shirt.”

  She laughed and dragged her sleeve across her face. She looked a mess. “Why would the same people . . . ?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Yeah. I have no idea. That was harsh. I shouldn’t have said it. Sorry.”

  “No . . . you’re probably right. Definitely right about me. It is why I want to help. I need to understand why . . . it happened.”

  “You mean it’s not true love?”

  She laughed again. “’Fraid not.”

  “I’m heartbroken.” Sometimes there was a good deal of truth in a joke, James realized.

  “I’m sure you are.”

  He didn’t know what to say. To tell her that he liked her more than as just a friend, or to listen to what she was telling him and keep his trap shut? He stuttered trying to speak. Something told him he was both way too nervous and about to say the wrong thing.

  “So, are you in or not?” he asked.

  “Tonight?”

  “Back of the gym. Two a.m.?”

  “It’s just such a stupid thing to do,” she moaned. “If they cleaned the floor, they cleaned the closet.”

  “People make mistakes,” James said. “Let’s go find out.”

  Lexie wiped more tears away as she nodded.

  CHAPTER 19

  NEARING THE BOTTOM OF THE VALLEY FLOOR, Lexie and James stopped at the same time.

  James held his finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. Lexie nodded and made her fingers into a person walking. James nodded. Lexie pointed back up the hill toward the school campus. James shook his head.

  James bent down and picked up a pair of fist-sized rocks. It could be Espiranzo, but then why hide? Not to mention that James had worked hard at leaving the Bricks in secret.

  Lexie grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. James shook loose. He wound up and threw a fastball in the direction of the sounds they’d both heard. The rock splashed across leaves a good distance away. James threw the second rock, on a slightly different angle. He hit a tree somewhere in the dark.

  Two more rocks, Lexie trying to hang on his arm to stop him. James waited, arm cocked and ready to throw. One minute. Two.

  A crackle of leaves.

  He threw.

  Thud. Might have been a tree. Might have been a person. Quick steps now. The spy retreating.

  “James!” Lexie spat harshly as the boy took off into the woods at a full sprint. “No!”

  But James was gone, and whoever was in the woods knew it, taking off at the same moment. James galloped through the brush and twigs and deadfall. The spy was heard briefly—a fast runner.

  Then silence.

  Total, bone-shattering silence. Lexie wanted to cry out for James, but she didn’t want to shout a name and didn’t want to broadcast that they’d separated. She shivered out of fear and fear alone. Five minutes. More, maybe.

  James reappeared up the road, coming down toward her. Shaking his head in disappointment.

  “Lost him,” James said. He walked past Lexie and waited for her to catch up.

  James didn’t speak. Lexie didn’t speak.

  Lexie finally braved a few words. “Shouldn’t we go back?”

  “Do what you want.” Angry. Mean-spirited. He’d meant to catch the spy. What then? she wondered. What would he have done?

  She saw the dirt on his hand from where he’d held the rocks.

  What would he have done? she wondered once again.

  CHAPTER 20

  STRAIGHT UP THE OBSERVATORY STAIRS. JAMES keyed open the door. Marched across the echoey cavern, passing the metal grate stairs leading up to the gray telescope. The room was dark and mysterious. Lexie looked on from the doorway.

  James approached the closet door. He didn’t look back at her. He was only interested in the door. He tried his workshop key and quickly grew frustrated when the door failed to open.

  Lexie crossed and met up with him. She bumped him with her hip to move him aside and took hold of the key herself. She withdrew it. Inserted it, a small distance at a time. As she did, she attempted a gentle turn to the right. The key wasn’t quite all the way in when it turned and the door came open a crack. She stepped back.

  James snorted, upset with her for succeeding. He took hold of the doorknob himself. Pulled the door open slowly.

  Neither spoke.

  It wasn’t a closet.

  CHAPTER 21

  A SMALL LANDING LED INTO A DARK HALLWAY. No windows. Stone walls. It felt like it was underground.

  “It’s clean,” Lexie said.

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s not all dirty and dusty and filled with spiderwebs.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Not necessarily,” Lexie whispered. “It means it’s being used.”

  “The club probably stores stuff down here. Come on.”

  But Lexie caught hold of James as he stepped down. She shook her head violently. The only light came from blinking computer and equipment lights. The air was gray and gauzy. Lexie’s head was going like a bobblehead doll’s, but left to right.

  James held up his hand, signaling for her to stay.

  “As if!” she whispered.

  James pointed her to the observatory door. “Go. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “No chance! Wait one second!” She crossed the observatory and shut and locked the entry door.

  Together, they headed down the steps.

  James took out his phone, about to use its light.

  Lexie slapped his hand and slipped out a penlight with red theatrical gel over the beam—the same trick she’d used earlier. It provided a dim light, but enough to see a few feet ahead.

  The tunnel was a little longer than a three-car garage. Five feet wide, just enough for two people to walk side by side. Seven feet tall and therefore claustrophobic. Smelled sour, like a mildewed basement. No stairs at the other end, just another door.

  Lexie shined the dull red light onto her face. She shook her head.

  James frowned. Since chasing the spy, he’d lost all humor. Abruptly, and without explanation, Lexie found herself afraid of him. He gave off a feeling of recklessness, like a boy jumping up onto the railing of a bridge over the river and you really couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but you knew somehow he would jump no matter how dangerous it might be.

  James wasn’t listening. That was it! He didn’t care what she thought. He didn’t care if she turned around and left him. He didn’t care—period. He was Diego on a scent. She lacked a leash. She lacked any commands to control him.


  He was going to jump no matter how hard she argued for him to climb down.

  James took her by the hand, and for a moment she thought he’d softened. But then he trained the red beam behind them, down the long corridor they’d just traveled. It took her a moment to see it.

  A smear. A trail left by a wet mop and blood. She felt slightly sick. A wounded Mr. Lowry had come through this tunnel, through the observatory and outside. He’d been bleeding. He’d been shot.

  On the other side of the door they now faced.

  “Please . . . let’s go back.” Lexie was terrified.

  James turned the handle.

  The door at the far end of the hallway opened. It was a cluttered, filthy basement. When Lexie failed to move, James took the penlight from her and let go of her hand. She snatched back the light.

  The school owned the observatory, so technically this was part of the school. Therefore, technically, it wasn’t trespassing. More like exploring.

  The point was: James was determined to know more, and Lexie wasn’t going to let him go alone.

  She leaned forward, pushed the door open further, and whispered into his ear. “You first.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE POINT OF THE THEATRICAL GEL ON THE penlight was to soften and limit its light. The result was its casting a red glow only a matter of feet in front of Lexie and James. The items in the cluttered basement moved and shifted with the dull shadows, causing both kids to twitch and react. A tall lamp seemed to have arms that moved. A chair appeared to walk itself across the floor. Tucked into the beams overhead, nests of cobwebs fluttered with the movement of the children below. James freaked out as an unseen, dangling spider found his shirt and walked up the back of his neck.

  Lexie trained the light onto the dusty floor. Whether it was the red of the light, or the dust, or all the junk lying around, there was no sign of a blood trail.

  “There’s nothing,” she whispered. “Turn around?”

  “Stairs,” James said.

  The light caught the wooden staircase that cut the basement in two.

  “I’ve seen too many horror movies,” Lexie said.

  “You and me, both.”

  “You can’t possibly be thinking . . .”

  “We’ve come this far,” James said. “It’s not like we have a choice.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  James took the light from her, and the lead. To their great relief, the stairs did not creak or groan. No hand slapped over their mouths and dragged them off. No cold wind fluffed their hair. They reached the top. James put his ear to the door.

  “This is such a bad idea,” Lexie said.

  James opened the door a crack and peered out. Together, they tiptoed into a hallway just off a small kitchen. They’d entered a fancy home. The space was so unexpected given the look of the outside. Lexie stood still, taking it all in. James motioned above them and play-acted someone sleeping. Lexie got the point. She turned back toward the basement stairs. James turned her around, shaking his head.

  James had other ideas. He slipped off his sneakers and had Lexie do the same. They left both pairs on the top stair of the basement staircase.

  Quietly, they continued into the living space. A front vestibule, a sitting room to one side, a dining area on the other. The small spaces suggested a husband and wife or even someone living alone. A caretaker? There was no sense of family. No evidence of children.

  James tugged on her shirt. They moved through the sitting room and into a small, wood-paneled study. James breathed heavily, racked by memories of the Beacon Hill home. A large desk and a credenza behind it took up a third of the room. James and Lexie moved to the clusters of framed photographs atop the credenza. James aimed the penlight’s red beam.

  Lexie gasped.

  CHAPTER 23

  A ROUND, SHORT MAN WITH A STUBBLE OF white hair and eyes with bags, Mathias Hildebrandt was in all the photographs. He obviously liked looking at himself.

  James removed his phone, turned off the flash, and passed the penlight to Lexie. Photo by red-tinted photo, James took photos of the photos. Thankfully, many were labeled.

  Presidents. Senators. A supreme court justice. Football players. A football coach. A crowded press conference at the White House, Hildebrandt behind the lectern. Hildebrandt at the FBI holding up an award. On both walls to either side of the desk hung wanted posters, awards, documents, and graduation certificates. The life and accomplishments of a career FBI agent.

  “Over here,” Lexie whispered.

  James joined her, aiming the light onto what, even given the red glow, was a yellowed newspaper article. The article was framed. It was captioned in cursive handwriting:

  Cape Cod, 1962.

  My First Interest in Law Enforcement

  James’s throat tightened. “Wait a second . . .” he croaked.

  “I know this article,” she said.

  “No way.”

  “I do, too! My grandfather . . .” Lexie’s voice trailed off. “Not that I ever met him. But he was some kind of witness. He disappeared.”

  “This robbery? You’re sure?”

  “Positive. My father had a different article, but the same crime.”

  “What?” James whispered.

  She said, “My father kept a photo album of all the newspaper articles that had to do with this. It was a money truck robbery. Millions stolen. They never found the money,” she said.

  “Yeah . . . I know. I can read.” James also had an image of an old pistol stuck in his head. A pistol hidden in a secret drawer in his father’s desk.

  “Hildebrandt would have been a kid in the 1960s, if he was even alive.”

  “Maybe not. Depends how old he is. Doesn’t help us with Lowry,” James said.

  “You think he was shot here?” Lexie gasped.

  “Or he came here for help. Hildebrandt is clearly connected.”

  Floorboards creaked overhead.

  James glanced around the office. They needed more time.

  “Ja—”

  James slapped a hand over Lexie’s mouth. He signaled her to the door. Out! his wagging hand told her.

  Lexie took off running. She was into the vestibule before she realized James had not followed. She slid to a stop in her socks.

  She heard someone moving upstairs.

  She slipped through the cellar door, grabbed her shoes. Moved James’s sneakers to the side.

  Down into the dark, the red light leading the way. Across the cluttered floor and into the tunnel. She stopped to shove her feet into her shoes.

  She ran, and ran. Into the observatory. Out the door and onto the path.

  Running hard. Ears alert to sift through all the night sounds. Glancing back, hoping to see James. Her feet continued moving. Her heart racing. Her breath shortening.

  And there, among the trees, someone tall. Someone looking out at her.

  Lexie screamed. And ran.

  CHAPTER 24

  WITH BREAKFAST OVER, CLASSES WOULD BE starting in the next hour. Typically this was a time students spent cramming on the homework they’d neglected; others hung out in the common room or dorm lounges.

  Lexie and James took a walk. He told Lexie about hiding in the chair space under Hildebrandt’s desk, how the man had never come into the office, how it had worked out okay, but that he hadn’t gotten back to the dorm until 4 a.m.

  Lexie spoke of the figure in the woods—the “spy,” as they’d called him. Whose spy? they both wondered. There had been no attempt to hurt them. Only to watch them. Why? Espiranzo had no reason to keep it secret, and James had asked him directly.

  Later, James headed toward the chapel. Lexie watched him go, wondering what he was up to. James had perfected the art of lying, a skill that made him an unreliable friend. She wondered if his lying was getting worse, or if she was just getting better at recognizing it. Both possibilities filled her with a certain amount of unease. If he was lying more, that was bad; if s
he was understanding him better, then was she becoming too close?

  James had spotted one of the chapel’s two door lights out, recognizing the signal left by Espiranzo. James waited on the far side of the chapel. Once Espiranzo judged the rendezvous safe, he would approach. If he didn’t show in the first ten minutes, James was to leave.

  Posing as a maintenance worker, Espiranzo rounded the far corner at the five-minute mark.

  “Was that you in the woods? I know I’ve asked, but I need the truth.”

  “I am sworn to the truth.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It wasn’t me. It should have been me. I am supposed to protect you. Please, no more of the hiding.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . .”

  “I have the information you requested.”

  “About Hildebrandt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Espiranzo studied the area thoughtfully. “If I break off this meeting, don’t follow. We’ll find another time.” James nodded, a rush of heat running up his spine. “Early on, as an FBI agent, Hildebrandt was assigned to organized crime. He ended up busting a bunch of Scowerers, our people. With each success, he rose higher in the Bureau. We used methods to discredit him. We made it appear he was a member of the occult. That he worshipped the devil. He was disgraced. Pushed into an early retirement.”

  “But he’s part of the Directory now!” James complained. “How’s that possible?”

  “Leverage. He left the Bureau with a good deal of evidence against us, evidence he’d not yet turned over to the Justice Department.”

  “Why? Why wouldn’t he do that?”

  “I don’t have an answer, except to say that it seems pretty clear he blackmailed his way onto the board. Threatened to bring us down.”

  “But why? I’m not getting it,” James said.

  Espiranzo’s nervous habit of checking all around interrupted the flow of discussion. “I’m not on the Directory. I couldn’t say.”

  “You could say. You just won’t.”