Property of the State (20 page)

3.7: Bad as It Gets

Kristina moves to the back wall and sits, staring blankly. “I used to come here when I was little. This probably sounds silly, but I remember the house as a bright, sunny place. When grandma passed, my aunt inherited it. Dad got the house in Cannon Beach. He sold it right away—he was living in L.A. and had more than he could keep track of by then—but my aunt wanted to keep her childhood home in the family.”

“How did she die?”

“A car accident when I was nine. Drunk driver.” I expect her to start crying, but she just stares. “She was so beautiful and kind. Aunt Myra.”

“That's a pretty name.” The words feel stupid coming out of my mouth, but I don't know what else to say.

“It means ‘astonishing.'” She smiles sadly and looks up toward the ceiling. Sighs. “Philip hates this house. It reminds him he lost his grand life as a violin wunderkind when Victoria took him away from Bianca. He never understood he could have lost so much more if he'd stayed.” A bitter laugh escapes her throat. “She's dangerous and crazy, but she's his mom, you know?”

“Yours too.”

“Would you claim her if she was your mother?”

I wouldn't claim anyone. But that's not what she's asking. She's not asking anything. She's telling. The last thing she'll ever tell anyone.

I sigh.

“I wonder what the cops will think.”

She flinches a little, but then shrugs. “Does it matter?”

I guess not.

“Mrs. Huntzel knows how to mop up after herself, that's for sure.” Duncan must have figured out who Philip really is because of the violin playing, so she killed him. Whatever it takes to protect Philip. “Do you know where she'll take him?”

Now Kristina throws her hands down. “Who gives a fuck? We'll be dead.”

The air in the vault is stuffy. I wonder if the fire has started yet. Maybe not. There's no smoke detector in here, but there are plenty of others. Thirty-two in all. We'll hear when hell breaks loose. But by the time the ashes settle, she and Philip will be long gone with half a million dollars.

“Why are you so calm about this?”

It takes me a moment to respond. “I used to say where I come from doesn't matter.”

“What do you say now?”

I've already told her more about myself than I've ever told anyone else, caught in a moment of weakness that night after Trisha came to Huntzel Manor. I wish I could make sense of it.

“When I was six, I snuck off into the woods with my father's hunting rifle.”

“Something happened?”

“Yes. Something happened.”

“Bad?”

My throat constricts. “Bad as it gets.” I go quiet.

What I didn't know was the rifle was loaded, with a round in the chamber. I must have hooked the trigger on something, a branch in the thick undergrowth maybe, because the gun went off as I was looking down the barrel. By some miracle, the bullet missed me, crashed through the trees instead. The shot echoed, a sharp double-tap resounding through the Mount Hood foothills. Terrified, I flung the rifle into the woods as if it was an animal come to life in my hands. Didn't think about how Orville would probably want it back.

Not long after I smelled smoke. The house was burning. I ran to the front door and saw my father on the floor inside. The bullet missed me, but Orville Getchie wasn't so lucky. On its way through his brain, it knocked out teeth and his ever-present Lucky Strike. The cigarette must have caught a stack of newspapers, or maybe when he fell he knocked over the can of kerosene he kept to light the wood stove.

Near as anyone could tell, Eva didn't try to help. She left me there on the porch, left my sister in her crib—the crib I last remember draped with fire as the paramedics wheeled me away. They say I tried to get to Laura, but I don't remember that. I only remember the flames.

Orville Getchie was dumb as a post—leaving a loaded gun where a kid could get to it. Maybe he deserved what happened to him. But Laura didn't deserve what happened to her. All this time I've kept the secret of the rifle, as I've kept so much else hidden in cubbies and compartments. My shitty life is punishment for what I let happen to my sister. This moment seems inevitable.

And yet, I don't want to die.

I shudder, jam my hands into my jeans pockets. Something coarse scrapes my knuckles and I pull out the sea cookie. An interesting token—a wonder it hasn't broken. If they find me, if they find it seared into my hand, will they report the fact in the news? Will Trisha hear and know I thought of her at the end?

Kristina shivers. “I'm cold.”

Not for long
. Even I'm not asshole enough to say that out loud. All she wanted was to protect her brother and make amends for leaving him behind when her own fear got the better of her. Whatever I've earned, she shouldn't have to own a share of it.

“Joey?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that night when you touched me and I said I didn't like it?”

“Yeah.”

“I lied.”

It takes me longer than I expect to answer. “It's okay.”

“I never wanted to become her, but look at me.”

A vision of her green bra and panties spills through my mind, and I remember her touch through the security bars earlier this evening. Was she leading me around by my dick? Maybe, but then I think about her fierce protectiveness toward Philip and the way she spoke about her Aunt Myra.

I swallow.

“You're not her, Kristina.”

I join her against the wall, wrap my arm around her shoulder. I feel inadequate to her need, but I'm who she has. And she's who I have. Perhaps that's why she cuddled up to me in the middle of the night. Hard-case Kristina.

She's me.

I'm her.

We're all orphans
.

A chill creeps over me, starting at my side and moving inward.

I sit up.

“What is it?”

“A draft.”

3.8: Boy Hero

Air pushes up through the drain opening next to us. The grate is inset, resting on the lip of the opening. At one time, it must have been secured with screws, but those rusted away long ago. I perch on my hands and knees and pull the grate off. From the dark shaft, I hear a trickle of water and catch a whiff of mud.

Kristina slides in beside me. “There are drains like this throughout the basement. Do you think they're connected?”

“You'd think.” I shake my head. “But it would kinda defeat the purpose of the big metal door.”

“The vault goes back to Prohibition when the house belonged to some old bootlegger. My grandparents added the drains later. A lot of water comes down off Mount Tabor when it rains.”

I think about the smell Mr. Huntzel wanted me to find. Water isn't the only thing.

“So, what we know is there are openings in other parts of the basement and air is coming through this one.”

She inspects the opening. “It's small.”

No argument. The shaft is barely shoulder width across. I can't see the bottom, but the trickle sounds close. “It might be our only way out.”

I slide my feet into the hole and grip the edge with my hands.

Kristina grabs my arm. “Joey, don't be crazy.”

“Won't know if I don't try.”

Before I can drop into the hole, she pulls me back.

“I'm smaller. I'll go first.”

“It's too—”

“Oliver, puh-
leeze
. Do
not
go all Boy Hero on me.”

“Who was it that needed me to climb into the house first?”

“That was different. You never said you left my window unlocked. Besides, if it didn't work, the worst thing that would happen was we'd both get rained on.”

She's not the one who nearly broke her jaw on the window sill. But I can tell by the look in her eyes she's in no mood for an argument. Maybe this is her way to prove to herself she's not Bianca.

“What if she spun the dial?”

She rolls her eyes. “My house, Oliver. You think I don't know the combination to my own damn vault?”

“Okay, okay. Be careful. You don't know where either one of them is.”

The edge of the hole comes up to her waist. With a little wriggling, she's able to lower herself until only her head is above the rim. “There are openings at the bottom. I think one points toward the next room over.”

“Is it big enough?”

“Of course!” Her grin is strained. “Here goes.” With that, she slithers out of sight. An echoey grunt sounds from the bottom of the hole, but in her black outfit, she's invisible. I hear the scrape of gravel and inhale a fresh breath of pungent mud. Then, nothing.

All I can do is wait. I keep my back to Mr. Huntzel, walk to the vault door and press my ear against the cold steel. Silence. I feel weirdly alone without her. Acid rises in the back of my throat. My fingers drum metal. My pulse thrums in my hands and feet, but my chest feels as hollow as an empty barrel. After an interminable wait, I return to the drain hole.

“Kristina?” My voice barely makes it past my thickening tongue. “
Kristina
?”

I hear a distant metallic sound, so faint I wonder if I'm imagining it. The chamber is starting to feel hot. I sniff for smoke, but all I can smell is dust and my own sweat. A scrabbling sound rises from the dark shaft, like nails on concrete.

“Are you all right?” I want to shout and whisper at once. I'm as afraid Mrs. Huntzel will hear me as I am Kristina won't. After a moment she answers.

“Joey, can you hear me?” Her voice, resonating up through the drain, sounds so close I almost expect her face to materialize in the hole below me.

“Are you stuck?”

“I'm in the laundry room. I couldn't get the vault door to open.”

“I thought you knew the combo.”

“That's not the problem. The door won't budge. It's been so long since it was closed, either the hinges seized or something's jammed in the frame.”

“Should I crawl through?”

Her hesitation is enough to tell me she thinks that's a bad idea. “If you push the door while I pull, we might be able to force it.”

“Okay. Tap on the door when you want me to push.”

I move back to the vault door. The steel is cold against my cheek. After what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, I detect a faint, metallic
tink-tink-tink
. With a grunt, I throw my shoulder into the door. There's nothing to grip but a frame of smooth rivets. My feet scrabble against the concrete floor for purchase. At first, it doesn't move. After a moment, I gasp and sag against the door.

I suck in a deep breath. A glance toward Mr. Huntzel gives me strength for one more push. The vault door groans open.

Kristina pulls me through a gap barely wide enough for my narrow shoulders. I take a moment to catch my breath, then look around. There's blood all over the hall. I don't know if that's good news or bad. But we're free.

“Kristina, you're insane.”

“You're out of the vault, aren't you?”

“I'm not complaining.”

She gives me a feisty smile. Her face is streaked with mud, her green hair plastered against her head.

“You look like Caliban.”

“I'm not sure how to take that.” She offers me a tight-lipped smile. “He's a sweet fella. I hope he gets away.” But then her face darkens. “I need to find Philip.”

“
We
need to get out of here.” I look down the hall. Mrs. Huntzel's gas cans are gone. “This place could up go any second, if it's not burning already.” Only the quiet offers any reassurance. Thirty-two smoke detectors will make a helluva racket once she ignites all that gasoline.

“If she gets away with him, with all that money—”

“Worry about that after we're safe.” I tug her forearm, and for a second she resists. I can almost feel the weight of the house above us. “
Please
, Kristina. You didn't crawl through that pipe just so you could die in this hallway.”

She stares at me another half second, then nods. “You're right.”

This time, Boy Hero takes the lead.

3.9: We All Have Secrets

We can't risk going back through the house. Kristina's door in the rec room isn't an option after Mr. Huntzel jammed the lock, and we could too easily be spotted from the open shaft of the staircase if Mrs. Huntzel is up that way sloshing gasoline around. Instead, I guide Kristina the other direction, down the utility hall past the laundry room and under the stairs. There, a narrow passage connects the basement and garage cellar. The space is moldy and dank, but mercifully free of the stink of gasoline or smoke.

I pause at the foot of the ladder that climbs up to the garage proper and cock my head, listening. All I can hear is the quiet patter of rain on the garage roof.

Kristina nudges me from behind. “What's the holdup?”

I'd like to avoid a headshot
, I think, but I keep that thought to myself. With Kristina's hands on my back, I stick my nose up over the lip of the garage floor. Dim light glows at the far end of the space, silhouetting a car in the near stall—the BMW. For a second I can't believe Mrs. Huntzel abandoned her beloved Beamer, but then it clicks. Easier to escape notice in an anonymous Toyota than a high-end luxury car.

Our own escape is behind us, through a side door that faces the house. For a few short steps, we'll be in plain view of the kitchen and the front corridor outside the dining room. But a quick sprint around the corner of the garage and past the laurel hedge should lose us in darkness even if Mrs. Huntzel is still around to see.

“Come on.” I hoist myself onto the concrete floor then turn to offer Kristina a hand. But she's already up and rushing past me.

“Oh, my god.”

“Kristina, wait. We've got to…”

The words die on my lips as I follow her around the nose of the car. The light is coming from the interior of the Toyota, parked on the far side of of the BMW. I blink, and a figure resolves in the passenger seat.

Philip.

He sees us almost as soon as we see him. I half expect him to make a break for it, but he just sits there.

Kristina yanks the car door open and grabs his hand. “Philip, sweetie. Are you okay?”

In the backseat, I spot black nylon and catch a whiff of B.O. The duffel bag is half-buried under a heap of Philip's clothing and Mrs. Huntzel's purse. I squeeze Kristina's forearm, but his voice draws my gaze back to the front seat before I can say anything.

“Did Mom say you can come with us?”

At mention of his mother, an electric trill jumps through me. Kristina's attention is all on her brother. “Of course, honey.” She's studying him now. Her hands run up and down his arms as if checking for injury. Philip seems to be trying to meet her worried gaze, but his eyes can't quite find focus.

I lean into the open car door. “Kristina.” The air feels charged around us, or maybe that's just me. “If he's still here, she's still here.”

“Right.” A heavy breath comes out of her. “Philip, come on.” She tugs his hands, gently at first, then with more strength when he resists. “Come on, Philip. Please.”

His chin starts bouncing side to side. “We gotta get my my violin.” His voice is plaintive and reedy, with a familiar slur.

Kristina looks at me, eyes darting and anxious. “What's wrong with him?”

“We gotta get my
violin
,” he says again, more urgently. He sounds like Anita on a binge, sloppy and uninhibited.

“Shit.”

“What?” she snaps.

“She drugged him.” The last of his Vicodin, most likely. Probably put it in his cocoa, thought it would make him more manageable.

“Why would she do that?”

I shake my head sharply. “It doesn't matter. You found him. Now let's go.”

“Just give me a minute to calm him down.”

“We may not
have
a minute.” I stare at the side door, watch for it to burst open. My pulse pounds inside my head, my nerves scream for me to run. But I stand there. I stand there and wait.

When Philip starts crying, I look back as his big sister takes him in her arms and pulls him close. “Shhh, honey.”

“I need my violin.” He sounds like a lost kitten now, helpless.

“Okay, sweetie. Okay. We'll find it.” He sinks into her embrace, peaceful at last. When she looks up at me I can see what she wants me to do.

I tilt my head toward the back seat and the black nylon bag. “You can't just buy him a new violin?”

“Our father gave it to him before he died. It's special.”

“Nothing is that special.”

“Joey, please.”

As the pressure mounts behind my eyes, I watch Philip rocking in Kristina's lap. He's so different from me—chess wiz, violin prodigy. I remember thinking Philip took for granted a certainty Trisha and I never had, but here he is—with me—and his life is about to be turned upside down again. Like me, like Trisha, like every foster I've ever known. Not property of the state maybe, but a still pawn. Still just a kid trying to stake a claim to himself.

Maybe not so different from me, after all. We each cling to something we can to call our own. A few tools, a poem. For Philip, it's his damn violin.

Ten years ago, I failed my sister Laura. Three days ago, I failed Trisha. And tonight? Philip wouldn't even be here now if I hadn't pretended to be a chess player. Without me, his life would have continued—awkward and miserable maybe, but safe. For that matter, if I could have found a single moment of trust in Trisha, maybe YouTube wouldn't have happened either.

Duncan is dead, and Mrs. Huntzel is responsible, but in a way, so am I.

I can't help Duncan now. But maybe I can make up for my piece of it.

I nod toward the backseat. “Her purse—”

Kristina dumps the purse before I can finish the thought. She hooks the set of keys on one finger and displays them triumphantly.

“Good. Now will you please get going?”

She nods, but then she takes my hand. “Joey, you know I'd go for the violin myself if I could.”

“I get it. You're his sister.” I make no effort to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “It's fine.”

“How will I find you later?”

I think for a second. “You know Uncommon Cup, on Hawthorne?”

“Sure.”

“Leave a message with Marcy there. I'll get in touch as soon as I can, assuming I don't end up a french fry.” My voice hitches and I have to blink away an image of burning walls.

The way she squeezes my hand feels like it will be the last time. “Thank you, Joey.”

“Don't thank me yet.”