Property of the State (18 page)

3.3: Carte Blanche

After Wayne's footsteps die at the foot of the stairs, I go to my closet. He's looted my hide. The door is gone, ripped out of the frame by the hinges. The counterbalanced latches hang in ruins. I look away. The only difference between Wayne and the Vandals is I'm pretty sure the Vandals could read.

There's a pry bar in my pack—wherever that ended up—along with my phone and my school crap. Downstairs, maybe, unless Mrs. Petty kept it. The pry bar was a cheapie, but the rest of the tools are a real loss.

Note to self: next placement, rent a safe deposit box.

I turn off the light and sit on the bed. I'm not tired, but I can't stand the sight of my brown cell. Outside, the last sunlight ignites clouds heaped on the horizon. As the first satellite winks into view overhead, I hear a tap on glass. A silhouetted head appears at the window and a hand reaches between the security bars to tap again.

I lift the sash and the silhouette resolves into Kristina Huntzel, perched on the peak of the porch roof. I might wonder how she knew where to find me, but nothing about Kristina surprises me anymore. She's exchanged her red Chucks for black sneaks. Black pants and a turtleneck complete the ensemble. Ninja girl.

“I should've thrown you out on your ass that first night.”

I can't really argue the point. “I didn't know anything about it until I saw it at school with everyone else.”

“Bullshit.”

“Listen, I get it. I'm responsible. I brought someone over and I shouldn't have—”

“A girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it fucking matters. I did you a favor and you shit all over it.”

I let out a sigh. “I'm sorry. It never should have happened. I know that, okay?” I can't look her in the eye. “I tried to apologize to Philip, but he didn't want to hear it.”

“Do you blame him?”

Her breath whistles in her nose, a siren of anger. I know it's a waste of time, but I try to point out the one true fact of high school. “This'll blow over. A new Katz drama always comes along.”

“I don't care about school drama. I care about protecting Philip.”

The only one who was ever a threat to Philip was Duncan, and only on the chessboard. So much for that. Once the laughter dies down, everyone else will go back to worrying about their own narrow interests and how they rate on the Katz Meow.

“Kristina, seriously. Just give it a couple of days.”

“You're not listening to me.” She pushes the words through her teeth. Her hands grip the security bars like she's about to pull them apart and drag me out. The only question is whether she'll beat me to death on the roof or heave me off to die on the lawn.

“I'm sorry. What else do you want me to say?” There's nothing else I
can
say, but it's clear from the look on her face an apology isn't good enough.

“That video has been seen twenty thousand times already, maybe more.”

“Kristina—”

“They're going to
find
us. They're going to find
him
.”

She doesn't say anything more for a long time. I try waiting her out, but it's not like dealing with cops. The silence forms a void in my brain, an emptiness that fills with shame and worry. And unwelcome thoughts of Huntzel weirdness—guns and secret money, violin music and reality stars.

“This isn't about Bianca Santavenere, is it?”

Her face goes blank. “What do you know about Bianca?”

The sudden chill throws me. “Besides Philip's creeptastic obsession with her?” I guess I'm trying to be funny. But her eyes flare with a bitter fire in the cold light of dusk. “Sorry. It's just—”

“Just
what
?”

Clamped on the bars, her hands tremble.

“Nothing.”

“Who have you been talking to?” Her intensity pushes me back from the window. “Where did you hear about Bianca?”

Us Weekly
?

I hesitate, as always. But the heat in her stare erodes my resolve. The truth is…what? That I lurked in stately Huntzel Manor, snorking up pudding cups and snooping? She knows all that.

When it comes to Kristina Huntzel, I'm running out of secrets.

“I saw the DVD of Philip performing on the Italian TV show with your mom and Bianca. And I know he—”
has a porny folder of gossip mag pictures
. I shake my head and shut the hell up. Her gaze remains hard but after a bit her tension bleeds away.

She turns her head and seems to study the sky. “He was so happy that night. You could hear it in the way he played.” There's pride in her voice. Whatever Philip thinks of her, she obviously cares about him. I wonder if he has the first clue.

“Were you there?”

“No. I had to stay with—” She turns back to me. “It doesn't matter.”

“What was the deal anyway? Bianca got him on the show? Like some kind of celebrity talent scout—Simon Cowell in drag?”

She shakes her head, but then says, “Something like that.” Despite the darkness, I can see her expression cycle from anger to uncertainty and back again. “She wasn't doing it for him. Everything is always about her.”

“So you know her…knew her.” They must have been fairly close at some point, even if the thing with Philip had more to do with her than him. Whatever her scheme, things obviously didn't work out. But then what? On their way out the door the Huntzels found themselves in a position to make off with the sack of Mr. Bianca's dirty money?

“The situation is a lot more complicated than you realize.”

No fucking kidding. I wait for her to tell me about Nick Malvado and the joint task force. But she doesn't. It's possible she doesn't know about the cash. If I was going to pin that on any of them, it would be Mr. Huntzel—the dude is a total creeper. But she must know
something
.

It can't be Simon-Cowell-In-Drag who's got her scared.

As she sits there on the porch roof, the cold invades my little brown cell. I don't move. Overhead, the clouds push in, low and heavy, blotting out the faint stars.

When Kristina speaks again, the words sound like they're being torn off her tongue in strips. “You've have to understand, Bianca is
dangerous
. When she sees that YouTube…” Her fingers tie themselves in knots against her belly. “Ludolph and Victoria think they can hide in the house, ride this out. They won't…” The air seems to drain out of her. “I can't explain it.”

She doesn't have to. My whole life is a big fat
they won't
.

“I tried to go talk to Philip myself, to convince him to come away with me. But Ludolph jammed something in the rec room lock.” She locks eyes with me. “I was hoping you would help me find another way in.”

Now I have to fight back a crazed laugh. “You've been sneaking around that place a lot longer than I ever did.”

“I always had a key.”

“So did
I
.” She doesn't need to remind me why Mr. Huntzel fucked up the lock. “Why don't you call?”

“He won't answer. He's my
brother
, but he won't answer the phone when I call him.”

The hurt in her voice is sharp enough to strip paint. I'm afraid to ask what happened to the badass girl who threatened me with a knife. As if to reinforce the unsettling transformation, she reaches between the bars and strokes my cheek. At her touch, guilt stirs below my belt buckle. For a flash, I'm back in her bed that night after the party and Trisha. “I'm not saying you wanted it to happen. But that video is out there, and now I've got to do something about it.”

The Plan hangs by a thread. I still don't know if Courtney can get my laptop. Even if she can, leaving this room—now—would be the last straw. Assuming that straw hasn't already broken.

This isn't my problem. My problem is downstairs on the couch in front of cable snooze. My problem is on a shelf in Cooper's corral. It drives a muscle car like zombies are hanging off the bumper. It hides…

“I'm not looking for a white knight—”

…hides gold coins in her headboard.

“—just a little help. An idea, a suggestion. Anything. You don't even have to come with me.”

We all have secrets, and our own reasons for keeping them. All Trisha wanted was a little understanding, a friend to share her burden. Not so much to ask.

Stupidly, I rub fluid out of my eyes, then look through the bars at the Ninja Girl. I don't know what's going on with Kristina, what's
really
going on. Why Philip hates her, why her father is more gone than home, why she has to sneak in and out of her own house. I can't imagine what mistakes brought her to this moment, perched atop the Boobie Hatch porch, asking a fuck-up like me for help.

I run my hand through my hair. “There might be a way—”

A car turns into the driveway. Kristina drops onto her hands. I pull back from the window, but keep the car in view. As Kristina lifts her head to peer over the edge of the porch, two people get out of the car.

“Who is it?”

Stein and Davisson. “Cops.”

“What do they want?”

Me, obviously. “They're investigating Duncan's death.”

I can hear Davisson's voice rumbling on the porch. “—aware Joey has been using Mrs. Huntzel's car to run errands? She thought he had his license—”

She's pinning Duncan on me. Of course. If I had any lingering doubt about who was driving the car that day, it's gone. I not only don't have my driver's license—no way would Mrs. Petty stand for that—I've never been behind the wheel of any car—not the Toyota and certainly not the almighty 740i. Anything Mrs. Huntzel says to the contrary is a lie.

I press my forehead against the cold, steel bars. A single padlock between me and freedom. If Ferrell had ever taught me to pick locks, or hell, if Wayne had left even one tool in my hide—

Then it hits me.
Maybe he did
.

I hiss through the window. “Get out of here.”

“What about—?”

“I'll meet you at the house.” My voice carries a confidence I don't feel.

“But—”

“
Go
.”

She slides out of sight. Now it's my turn—I hope.

Without turning the light on, I use the edge of a dime to unscrew the fake power outlet.

The key for the security bars is right where I left it.

3.4: What Haven't You Told Me?

I don't know if Wayne couldn't find the key, or never looked for it. Probably too busy pissing himself.

I climb out onto the porch roof and shut the window gate behind me. As I snap the padlock, the doorknob rattles and Wayne calls from the other side of my bedroom door.

“Joey, the police want—”

I don't stick around to find out what. I scoot down the shingles, catch myself on the gutter before I slide off. An old rhododendron knots its way up beside the porch. The branches are gnarled and dense enough to hold my weight. From above, Wayne shouts as I crash through the leaves.

I'm running before my feet hit the ground, skid past the end of the detectives' car. Halfway up the block, I cut through an apartment complex, then weave my way through neighborhood streets. I listen for sirens, but all I hear is the smack of my shoes on pavement and the blare of horns as I dart across Eighty-second on my way to Mount Tabor.

About the time I reach the park's edge, the sky unloads. I climb past the basketball court through pouring rain. On the slick hillside behind Huntzel Manor, I half-expect to run into Caliban, but he has too much sense to be out in the rain.

The gate in the laurel hedge squeaks when I push it open. Kristina materializes at my side. The whites of her eyes glow in the shadows under the hedge.

“How did you get out?”

“The same way we're getting in.”

I point to her dark bedroom window, then head across the yard before my nerve breaks. Rain glues my jacket to my back. I pause at the edge of the veranda to listen, but all I hear is the patter of raindrops. No lights shine within the house. Even the exterior lights are off. I can't decide if that's good news or bad.

“Have you done this before?” Maybe she's thinking about how there's no old rhododendron here.

“Not really.” I try to laugh. Fail. “Catch me if I fall?”

She doesn't follow me across the veranda.

Now that it's come to it, I'm ready to rethink this idea. The pattern of protruding bricks is more widely spaced than they'd seemed in dry daylight from the window above. Each toe- and finger-hold is barely half an inch deep. The dripping water doesn't help.

Might explain why they didn't bother with security sensors on the second floor windows.

Cold rain trickles down my neck as I grab the first brick and heave myself up. My fingers are already losing sensation before I'm more than a few feet off the ground. My toes cramp. The smell of wet brick makes me want to sneeze. I can't help imagining an explosive
ahh-choo
blowing me back onto the stone veranda below.

When I finally reach Kristina's window, I rest my chin on the sill until I catch my breath. Then, hanging on for dear life with one hand, I give the window a shove with the other.

It doesn't move.

“
Fuck
.”

“What's wrong?”

Mr. Huntzel must have locked it.

I adjust my feet and stretch up as high as I can, hoping I'm wrong. With my next try, I reef with all I got. The window flies up as my toes lose their hold. I drop, chin cracking against stone. I'm not sure who squawks louder, me or Kristina. Somehow I catch the sill with my numb fingers, hang on for a second as my feet kick. I'm starting to slip when my toe finds the lintel on the living room window below.

“Are you all right?”

For a moment, I hang there and breathe. “I think I broke a tooth.”

“Seriously?”

What with all the noise I'm making, SWAT should be rappelling off the roof. I pull myself up over the windowsill and fall into Kristina's room. My arms are scraped and my jaw is half-unhinged, but I'm inside.

The house feels like a ghost. Or maybe I'm the ghost, haunting empty hallways and forgotten rooms, night after night, hiding in silence from my own shadow. I shake my head and, shivering, stick my head out the window. “Come on.”

What seems like a second later, she's beside me, dripping on the floor.

“You should have gone first and dropped me a rope.”

She throws me a strained smile. “I'm going to find Philip.”

And just like that, she's gone.

For a minute I don't know what to do. But it doesn't take much thought to figure it out. I'm in the wind. I need to grab what I can and go. The sooner I put miles between me and the detectives, the better.

I pull open Kristina's dresser drawer, then the closet. Wayne would have torn the room apart—then made me clean up after him. Mr. Huntzel didn't bother. Everything is right where I left it.

I pile my clothes into my suitcase and wrap Trisha's laptop in the
Symphonica d'Italia
sweatshirt I stole from Philip, tuck it among my skivvies. Then I loop the length of clothesline through the suitcase handle. After I lower the case down to the veranda, I give the room a final scan. Hard to believe I lived here only a couple of weeks, sleeping under the unicorn comforter, doing homework and eating pudding at the tiny desk.

Feels like a lot longer.

A sound draws my gaze to the open bedroom door, a voice maybe. Did Kristina call my name? I listen, but the sound doesn't repeat. The darkness looms like a weight. YouTube guilt squirrels through my belly. I tell myself I got her inside. That's all she asked.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm in the hallway. A faint glow shines through the windows from streetlights outside. In the direction of Philip's room I hear a door open, but I can't make anything out in the dark.

A shiver runs through me. If I had an ounce of sense I'd be on my way to the vault. Just a few stacks of stinky green could fund my escape. Hardly enough to be missed. They say you can live cheap in Belize.

“Kristina?”

My voice is so feeble I can barely hear myself. Somewhere ahead, the door slams. Footsteps slap toward me. I shrink against the doorframe, then nearly topple over when she whams into me. “Oh, my God…oh, my God.” Her hands grip my arms with frantic strength.

“What's wrong?”

“She took him.” I can smell her sweat: fear cut with acid.

“Who took who?”

“Victoria.” Her moist eyes pick up a gleam from the street light. “She took Philip.”

Between what I've guessed and what Kristina has admitted, even I might concede Mrs. Huntzel taking Philip away ought to be a good thing. Sure, she killed Duncan—the crap she fed the cops about me driving her car confirms what Courtney already guessed—but still, she's his mom. According to legend, mothers look out for their kids.

And if I'm a good little boy, Santa will bring me a brand new bike.

“Kristina.” There's too much I don't know, but I'm starting to have my guesses. “What haven't you told me?”

“There's nothing to tell.” In the dim light I can see her jaw clench so tight it might crack.

This isn't my problem
.

Behind me, wind and rain rush through the open window. Three steps and a fall and I'm on my way. It'll be tough, living on shoplifted pudding cups while dodging cops and hobos. I'll have to keep my eyes open and my head down every second. In other words, exactly what I've been doing my whole life.

But I can't escape the fact if I leave Kristina here in this hallway, it's Trisha on the couch all over again.

“Kristina…” Nothing good ever comes of learning other people's secrets. “…who else knows about the money?”

“What money?” There's no conviction in her voice. I wait. After a moment she sags. “I don't know. No one.” The
I hope
is left unsaid, but I can fill in the blanks.

Of course it's hers. Makes sense, really. The Huntzels would keep it close at hand, in Mrs. Huntzel's office or their bedroom—maybe inside Mr. Huntzel's unused mattress. Behind a loose board in the basement vault is the choice of a lurker. Like me.

My best guess is Kristina took it from Nick or Bianca while they were caught up in Philip's violin adventures. She keeps it in the vault because she can get to it easily. Sneak in through the side door while everyone's asleep and make a withdrawal. For a girl on the run, it was safer than a bank until I showed up, the wayward orphan with his own shit to hide.

I can feel Kristina's wet gaze in the darkness. “Philip was always the special one, the one with a talent Bianca could use.” Resignation seems to bleed from her pores. “I was the inconvenient afterthought. So I left.”

“Just to sneak back again? With that much money, you could go anywhere.”

“It's my house, too.” Her words burst out in shreds. “All I wanted was to stay close to my brother. But he hates me for abandoning him.”

I don't need to ask what she ran from. Not good enough, pushed aside, ignored. She can blame Bianca all she wants, but the choice belonged to her mother and father. It's like Kristina is her own kind of orphan. Her parents may not be dead, or in jail, or fugitives, but as far as she's concerned, they may as well be.

“I'm sorry.” My words sound hollow, but she seems to take them for what they should mean rather than what they don't. How do I tell her she's nothing special? People run all the time. Eva Getchie ran as the house burned. Wayne ran from me. And now I'm running too.

“We should go.”

She shakes her head. “I need to search the house. She might have left something behind that will tell me where she took Philip.”

“And the money?”

“What about it?” Suddenly defensive.

I'm not sure how to say this, so I just say it. “Listen. I didn't take any, but the day I found it, your mom saw me coming out of the vault.”

“Victoria?”

Victoria…Ludolph. Kristina's habit of referring to her parents like they're actual people is unsettling. “I didn't think she noticed anything at the time, but—”

Almost before I realize she's moving, she bolts. In an instant, she's a dozen steps ahead of me.

“Kristina! Wait!”

I chase her down the main stairs to the basement and into the utility hall. My feet skid to a stop outside the vault door, eyes drawn to a cluster of gasoline cans at the far end of the hallway.

“Kristina—”

“Shut up.” Inside the vault, she's tossing Mason jars. One of them breaks at the foot of the wine rack. I have the crazy thought I should get the broom and dustpan. As I dart to her side, another jar rolls to a stop against a lumpy shape near the wall. I blink, and the shape resolves into a half-familiar figure in a wrinkled suit. In the dim light of the overhead bulb, I see dark blood pooling around the figure's heaped shoulders.

“You need to look at—”

“Shut.
Up
.”

As she tears at the bottom shelf, I hear the scrape of a shoe behind me.

“Don't be a fool, darling.”

The woman in the doorway stands in shadow, but her voice is somehow familiar. We both gape as she slips a scarf off her head and steps into the vault.

Just as Kristina had feared, Bianca Santavenere followed the YouTube trail right to our damn door.