Constant Fear

by Daniel Palmer

  Andy nodded several times, all in quick succession, and the gag came free. He would have agreed to anything to get that gag out of his mouth. His throat was dry and raw.

  As if he could read his mind, Fausto produced a bottle of water. Andy drank thirstily.

  “Now here is the deal,” Fausto said. “You are going to describe what you see to your five friends onstage. I keep the gags on them, and the blindfolds, too. Now talk.”

  Andy started to hyperventilate. It was difficult to get out any words.

  “Cálmate,” Fausto said. “Tranquilo, hijo. You’re not dead yet.”

  Not . . . dead . . . yet ...

  Slowly Andy began to piece this together. These men spoke Spanish. They had stolen bitcoins from Javier Martinez, and Andy knew from Gus that the Martinez family had come to the United States from Mexico. He didn’t have to solve complex math equations to understand the significance. This was all about the money. Whoever had come for the money had probably orchestrated the evacuation of the school. It was a smoke screen of epic proportions. In the chaos, their targets would be easy prey. Somehow they knew Andy was involved, which is how they knew about the others as well.

  Andy tried to settle. He needed to be brave for his friends.

  “Guys, it’s Andy.” His voice came out in a warble. “You’re onstage in the Feldman Auditorium. You’re all here. You know who you are. It’s all of us.”

  Andy didn’t want to say their names out loud. There was a good chance these men already knew everything about them, but it still felt like a significant reveal. Andy would hold on to every piece of information until he was forced to share it.

  “Tell them more,” the man said.

  “There are many men in here with us. Standing behind you. They’re all heavily armed.”

  “Good!” Fausto shouted. His booming voice reverberated up to the balcony level. “You’ve done well. By now, you must know or suspect why we are here. Can you tell your friends why we are here?”

  Andy didn’t respond.

  “Andy, I speak to you. You tell them.”

  A shiver cut through Andy. Fausto had said his name.

  “You . . . you want the money back?”

  Fausto’s face brightened. His smile was broad and authentic. The gold-metal mouth caught the reflection of some overhead lights and glinted for a moment like paparazzi flashbulbs.

  “You got it! You know! Good! We get someplace quick.”

  Onstage, Hilary started to sob. At first, just her shoulders heaved up and down, but it quickly became a whole-body shake. The noises she made sank into the gag, but were loud enough to be heard by the others who joined her onstage.

  Contagious as a yawn, everyone began to cry. Bodies convulsed. Andy had never felt so desperate, so afraid.

  “Now, Andy, we know you have our money,” Fausto said. “So let’s make this easy. Okay? Easy. Give it back now. Right now. If you don’t, I kill one of your friends. Ready? Seriously, are you ready? Because here we go.”

  “I—don’t have it. I swear.”

  “Armando, coge el cuchillo más grande que tengas y ven al frente del escenario,” Fausto said.

  The man with many facial scars produced a twelve-inch carbon-steel hunting knife from a sheath latched to his ankle and came to the front of the stage.

  “Efren, anda con él.”

  Efren came forward and stood beside Armando. He had short hair and a long knife, just like Armando, but he was built like a pro wrestler.

  “Tornado, por favor, ven después. Todos los demás retrocedan cinco pasos.”

  A man with a head of untamed long, frizzy hair, appropriate for any metal band, and these wild, hate-filled eyes came forward with a knife dangling by his side. A dark presence swirled about him like a funnel cloud. The rest of the men took five steps back.

  “Each of you go and pick a kid to stand behind,” Fausto said. “I don’t care which one. You decide.”

  The English was for Andy’s benefit, but the men understood and they did as ordered. Efren stood behind Pixie, Armando took up position behind Solomon, and “El Tornado,” called so because of his wild hair and temper, went up behind Rafa.

  “Pónganles los cuchillos en la garganta,” Fausto said.

  Up came the hunting knives, each big enough to bushwhack through a field of sugarcane. One at a time, the men leaned forward and set the razor-sharp blades against the throats of the three who were chosen.

  “Now, don’t move, kiddies,” Fausto called out. “You don’t want to cut yourselves.”

  Armando put Solomon’s head into an arm lock just to hold it still.

  Fausto pulled a case from underneath an auditorium seat and withdrew a PC laptop. He flipped open the cover and set the computer on the floor in front of Andy. The computer was already booted up.

  Fausto said, “Now, here’s what happens. I give you five minutes to transfer the money to someplace we can get it. I don’t know how to do this, but you do. You took it—you can give it back. So go. Give us the money. After five minutes, if I don’t have the money, I will point to one of your friends, and one of my friends will slice open his throat and spill blood all over this stage. Is that clear? Do I make sense?” Fausto seemed genuinely concerned that he might not have been well understood.

  “Please, no,” Andy said. His voice shook like Solomon’s body. “You don’t understand.”

  Fausto fiddled with his watch. “Time has started—now!”

  “I can’t!” Andy shouted.

  Fausto touched his ear. “Careful, young one. Remember my ears are sensitive to sound. I might do something to cause blood, out of frustration.”

  Andy sank to his knees with the computer in front of him. “You don’t understand. We don’t have it.”

  “Ticktock . . . ticktock . . . ticktock,” Fausto said, pointing at his watch.

  The computer had automatically connected to the school’s WiFi network. Andy looked to the stage. The men behind his three friends stood like trained Dobermans ignoring a slab of meat while awaiting their master’s order.

  “I can’t give you the money,” Andy pleaded. “We don’t have it! I swear. I’ll show you. The money is on the bitcoin exchange. It’s out there. Somewhere. But we don’t have the key to access it. It was taken from us! Someone stole it from us, same as we took it from you!”

  “That’s one minute down. Four to go.”

  Andy’s fingers shook so violently he could barely type, but somehow he managed to access the website blockchain.info. In another browser window, Andy opened his e-mail and with a few clicks found the bitcoin address. It was a long string of letters, a mix of capital and lower case, and numbers.

  Andy copied the address from his e-mail and pasted it into the search box on the block chain website. Another webpage loaded. This one had summary information, transaction history, and entry upon entry of meaningless-looking numbers. He turned the laptop so Fausto could see the screen.

  “The private key is connected to a bitcoin address,” Andy said in a rushed and panicked voice. “Gus’s dad didn’t safeguard the key, and it was easy for us to steal. But then somebody took the key from us. We can only see the money, but we can’t get it back without the new key that accesses it. Do you understand?”

  Fausto seemed to be contemplating what Andy had told him. The silence was interminable.

  “So you’re telling me we’re going to kill you all?”

  Tears pricked the corners of Andy’s eyes. “No, please . . . please.”

  “Please what?” Fausto said, sounding frustrated more than angry. “‘Please’ means nothing to me. We are here for one thing only. So if what you say is true, then you will all die.”

  Fausto turned to the stage and dramatically extended his arm. “De tin marín de dos pingüé,” he said. With each word Fausto uttered, he pointed to one of the three being held at knifepoint. The cadence of his voice reminded Andy of “eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” and he guessed this was the Mexican version of the c
hildren’s rhyme.

  “No!” Andy screamed. “Don’t!”

  Fausto snapped his arm like a whip and cracked Andy’s face, using the back of his hand. Knuckles hard as lead shot slammed into the orbital bone of Andy’s eye socket. The searing pain dropped Andy to the floor.

  “My ears, idiota!” Fausto scolded. “I told you to be quiet. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I remember now. Cúcara, mácara, títere fue.”

  From his perch on the floor, Andy said, “Wait.” His voice came out soft as the flapping of a butterfly’s wing.

  Fausto opted to ignore him. Instead, he spoke as he pointed: “Yo no fui, fue Teté.”

  “One of them might have the key,” Andy said, whimpering. He’d all but given up hope, but he got the words out anyway. A chance. Just a chance. “Maybe one of them stole it from the rest of us.”

  “Pégale . . . pégale,” Fausto slowed down his rhythm. Each word came out elongated and he appeared to take notice of what Andy said.

  Andy locked eyes with Fausto. He had found a way in. It might only prolong their misery, or worse, but it was a glimmer of hope. “One of them might have the key,” Andy repeated, breathing hard. “If you kill whoever has it, you’ll never get the money.”

  Fausto fell silent as he took it in. Andy filled the void by repeating what he had said. “If you kill whoever has the key, you’ll never get the money.”

  Fausto faced the stage as though directing a performance from the audience. “Al . . .”

  He pointed at Solomon.

  “Quien . . .”

  He pointed at Rafa.

  “Fue.”

  He pointed to the floor.

  Curled into a fetal position, Andy gasped for air. The five on the stage looked to be doing the same.

  “This, I’m afraid, complicates things,” Fausto said. “Now we must find out which of you has this magical key. Is that right?”

  From the floor, Andy nodded.

  “Pity,” Fausto said. “I think you’ll find death would have been preferable.”

  From just beyond the auditorium door, Andy heard a loud clatter. It rolled and echoed as if a metal trash can had fallen over. Fausto looked as surprised as everyone. He pointed to four men standing onstage closest to the door and shouted, “Vayan a averi-guar quién mierda hizo ruido. Si es alguien, ¡mátenlo! Pero no dejen que los capturen.”

  If Andy spoke Spanish, he would have understood the men had been ordered to track down whoever had made that noise and kill him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Laura didn’t have plans to do a lot of exploring. The campus was completely deserted, and she suspected Andy wasn’t even there. Jake was probably right. Andy had gone off with his buddies and had forgotten all about her.

  Laura chided herself for thinking Andy would embrace her with open arms. She had been foolish to expect it could have been so easy. She contemplated turning around, but felt even more foolish to abandon her quest after coming so far to find him. She was wet, muddy, and discouraged. But the air around campus didn’t smell like poison. It was worth taking a minute to look around.

  If anything, Laura was curious about the school. This is where Andy spent most of his time. She felt connected to him just by being here. The possibility of having a relationship with her son was foremost on Laura’s mind when she ambled across The Quad and entered the Academy Building through the massive front doors. She thought the building would have been secured, but people had left in a rush, or maybe these doors were never locked.

  Either way, the door was open. Laura entered an elegant marble foyer, which featured impressive columns and a magnificent high ceiling. She had dreamed of having the kind of home that people would gawk at, and her fantasy always included a marble foyer. She knew it was grandiose, but what the hell.

  Inside the massive foyer, Laura heard noises, odd muted sounds that seemed to be coming from a doorway to her right. The closer she got to that door, the louder the sounds became. The wooden doors were closed; Laura pressed her ear against them and listened. She could hear one man doing most of the talking, and it sounded to her as if he spoke with an accent. Perhaps he was part of a work crew assigned to check the air quality or test for chemical contaminants.

  Curiosity got the better of her. Laura pried the door open a crack. All she wanted was to take a quick little peek inside. She peered into a darkened auditorium.

  Her thoughts froze as an icy fear settled into her chest. From her vantage point, Laura could see five kids seated on classroom chairs onstage. Their wrists were bound with rope and all were gagged. Onstage loomed three savage-looking men, each holding a massive knife to the throats of three of the kids. Behind them was a second row of men, each more brutal-looking than the next, armed with an array of assault weapons she’d seen only in the movies.

  Recoiling from fright, Laura inhaled with a gasp and fell sideways. She stumbled into a trash can pushed up against the wall next to the door. The auditorium door slammed shut with a hard bang as the trash can toppled, making its own thunderous crash. One thought immediately dominated all others: Run!

  Laura dashed across the foyer and slammed into the front door, using her hip to push against the crash bar. The door swung open and she toppled outside. Momentum carried her across the top landing and in a flash the stairs loomed before her like rocks materializing out of a fog.

  The misty rain turned those same stairs dangerously slick, and Laura was going too fast to navigate them safely. She misjudged the first step and her arms flailed wildly as she fought for balance. She tripped down a few more stairs, but somehow managed to stay on her feet.

  At the bottom step, Laura lost her footing completely. She teetered and then toppled over. It happened so fast that she couldn’t get her hands out in time to brace her fall; she slammed face-first onto a cement patio. The intense impact felt as if it had compressed her brain against the back of her skull. Blood poured from a gash on her forehead and oozed thick goo into her eyes.

  Wiping the blood away with the back of her hand, Laura labored to get to her knees, still dazed. She heard a sound. A door opening. They were coming. Men with guns, with knives.

  Get up! Run! Run!

  Fear choked her breathing.

  Laura staggered to her feet and broke into a frantic sprint. She was impervious to the pain in her knees and head. Blood gushed from the wound in her scalp, blinding one eye, but she could still see The Quad in front of her, maybe ten, twenty feet away. It was a massive expanse of brown and green grass. No place could have left her more vulnerable, but her mind wasn’t clear. Her only thought was to run ahead, and as fast as possible.

  Weaving awkwardly, Laura lurched onto The Quad. Her feet slipped on the dewy grass. Her arms spun for balance, but this time she kept upright. Blood seeped into her mouth. The taste of it on her tongue and down her throat nauseated her, but still she ran.

  With wind battering her face, Laura risked a glance over her shoulder. Four men were coming down the stairs. They had no trouble navigating the slick surface. Two of them were leveling rifles. Laura diverted from a straight course into a zigzag pattern, thinking it would make her a harder target to hit. She had seen the tactic used on television, and somehow the reference came to her at the moment she needed it most.

  Beyond The Quad, beyond another brick building, stood a thick patch of woods. Somewhere within that thicket was the path she had used to reach the school, but the woods would be fine if she couldn’t find the path. Probably better. Laura could lose them in the woods.

  From behind, Laura heard a loud crack and boom that rolled off into the distance. The hum of a bullet sliced through the heavy air. There was another crack. Another bullet zipped past. This time Laura saw where the ground erupted from the impact. The tree line was just ahead. Laura tried to lengthen her strides.

  Keep running . . . keep running . . .

  She heard another boom and felt the air part. The forest was in front of her. Not too far. She could make it. The burn in her legs b
ecame intense, and an agonizing stitch developed in her side. From somewhere within, she dug deep and found another gear that actually quickened her pace.

  Almost there . . . almost . . .

  Another rolling boom came, followed by a pfft sound. That was when Laura felt the sting. It didn’t hurt at first. It was more like an odd and strange sensation—a breeze traveling through her that shouldn’t have been there. But then came the fire. A wickedly sharp pain radiated up from her right side. Laura tumbled to the ground and rolled several times. Blood continued to pour from the gash in her scalp; but now, it was pouring from this new wound as well.

  From the ground, she touched her side. Her hands came away slick and red. She staggered to her feet. Adrenaline was all that kept her moving as it also held the shock at bay.

  Glancing behind her, Laura saw the men readying to fire again. She darted into the woods just as a bullet splintered a tree by her head.

  Laura sank into the dark. She could hear men’s voices behind her, coming at her. The trees offered some cover, but the forest still had the bare and brown look of winter. Still running, Laura peeled back the jacket she wore and lifted her sweater to inspect her side. A massive red stain spread across much of her midsection and traveled partway up her armpit. Her light cotton shirt was drenched with blood. Pain more intense with each breath came at her with the force of a hurricane.

  Laura plunged on ahead. Was her vision dimming, or had a cloud covering darkened the sky? Voices cried out. They were searching for her, but she had vanished inside the gloom and was still on the move. With each stride, Laura felt weaker.

  Five minutes on the move became ten. Ignoring the painful burn, Laura kept one hand on the cut to her head, and the other pressed against her side, but her life force seeped between her fingers.

  She was wobbly on her feet, moving in whatever direction she managed to stagger. The men’s voices receded into the distance like the fading forest light. Soon Laura’s frantic, haphazard run downshifted into a trot, and then it became something of a drunken stumble, until she slowed almost completely and ping-ponged from one tree to the next without direction or purpose.