Trapped (13 page)

It all just seems too far-fetched. It doesn’t make any sense to me why Phil would do it, or why the others would follow him. I look over at Chris, his eyes squinting down the tunnel, trying to work it out as well.

At last Chris says, his voice quiet, “Phil chose this day, at this time, for a reason. To kill a couple dozen congressmen from this part of the country…and upcoming Presidential candidates.”

I follow his gaze, my eyes landing on the small American flags above the rear windows of the town car.  When I’d first seen them, outside of the tunnel, they’d been waving proudly over the
Governor’s car, but now the folds rest still and lifeless. Like so many of the men and women that flag represented, made still by the plumbers’ cruel act of violence.

“Chris,” I turn to him
suddenly, my throat aching as I try to voice the words. He looks at me, his blue eyes glinting in the light, and I lick my lips, hesitating. The thought scares me, the idea that there could be more violence sinking heavily in my stomach. But I know it’s true – I know that the reason the plumbers blew up the tunnel has not been fully fulfilled.

Taking a deep breath, I whisper in a voice barely audible:
“Chris – the plumbers…they…they missed one.”

Chapter 13
– Relativity

“Miss?”

I look up from the papers in my hands, startled to see the
Governor’s driver outside of the window of our car yet again. His voice is low, in deference to my sleeping mom and sisters.

My
heart leaps into my throat. Is he here to deliver news similar to yesterday’s? Are we about to be told about another death…another murder?

Tears sting my eyes.
I left Chris barely an hour ago. Surely he couldn’t be…they couldn’t have…

“Yes?”
My voice trembles.

“
Governor Rosings asked that I spread the word to all of the families – we heard on the radio just a few minutes ago that the rescue team has confirmed their arrival time. They’ll be here in under twenty-four hours.”

I let out a long sigh of relief, my heart still beating far too rapidly.
“Just one more day?” I manage to ask.

“Less than that. They’re drilling as we speak.”

He nods to me then turns to walk away, and I think for a moment about stopping him, taking the rare chance at privacy to alert him. Chris and I had talked through the night about what we should do, but we couldn’t come up with a solution. There’s no doubt in either of our minds that the Governor’s life could still be in danger, but the workmen have had nearly a full week to kill him – and as far as we can tell, they haven’t even tried. It’s just possible that they won’t do anything, that they’re satisfied with the destruction they’ve caused already. And, perhaps, that they’re more interested in getting out of here without suspicion than they are in killing one last Presidential candidate.

Besides, if it’s
Presidential candidates they’re truly after, they don’t have much cause to go after Governor Rosings. He seems nice enough, but the general consensus is that his campaign is a long-shot. Even Hannah Avery had known that, and the book she’d given me had mentioned him as only a party radical. It’s most likely that they’ll leave him alone.

But still, watching Bernard walk away, I wonder if we’re making the right decision. If another person dies in here because of our secrecy – when we knew enough to
stop
them – I’m not sure if either Chris or I could bear it.

Yet for the moment…I can only be glad that Chris himself is safe. No matter the risk.

I glance back down at the loose pieces of paper in my lap, picking up my pencil again. The girls have doodled on most of our small paper supply, narrowing my choices for where to write my missive. But there’d been a clear half-page on the paper with the ‘Mash’ game. I’d torn it in half and barely started writing when Bernard had shown up.

When
I left Chris earlier this morning, he seemed very hopeful that things would turn out okay – that if the plumbers hadn’t wanted to kill one final politician so far, the Governor’s life was not in any danger. And that if Chris and I could just continue to keep our secrets and hold off suspicion, we would both make it out of here alive.

But behind his words, I could sense his fear.
Simon Tara had seen their guns, and he’d been killed so that the plumbers could keep their secret. If they were to find out what Chris and I know, we would get the same.

We realized, though, that it wouldn’t stop there
. Simon Tara’s death could be explained away. He was an old man, presumably at risk for heart failure already without the stress of a caved-in tunnel and a fight over food. But they wouldn’t get away with killing two healthy teenagers so easily. They might have to go so far as to get rid of all the other survivors…eliminating any chance of potential witnesses.

We can’t let that happen. We won’t – not with our charade. Not with how Chris is interacting with the workmen. We’ll do everything we
must to make sure they don’t suspect us. Because it’s not just our lives on the line…it’s everyone’s.

And that includes not telling the
Governor, or even Bernard, what we suspect. We can’t risk it, and we hope we don’t have to.

But just in case, Chris had told me to do this. To
write a short letter about what happened in the tunnel, so that, if the worst should happen…if none of us make it out alive…at least we’ll have a shot at justice.

To Whom It May Concern:

I write the words automatically, though I’m not sure why. A formal salutation to a letter like this surely is about as unimportant as five words can get.

I am writing as one of twenty survivors from the cave-in of the Eisenhower tunnel. We have reason to suspect that this cave-in was not an accident, as we’ve heard
it called on the radio reports. We believe it was caused by five plumbers – Phil, Doug, Henry, Terry, and Bob. We do not know their last names.

My fingers
write the words slowly as I try to figure out what to say. I’m not a writer, unless you count x’s and y’s in math equations. The sentences feel unnatural as I try to convey what we know.

Our evidence is this: three of the men were seen bending down on the sidewalk of the tunnel just before the explosion. Later they claimed to have been riding with the other two in their truck, though we know this couldn’t have been
true. The truck came stocked with a large quantity of food and drinks. They’ve been eating well for the entire week we’ve been trapped.

Additionally, when the cave-in occurred, one survivor saw an explosion toward the eastern entrance of the tunnel. The rocks filled in the tunnel, flowing toward the middle, not coming straight down as we’d suspect in a cave-in. In an exploration of the ventilation system, we found a piece of mirror from a car, which we also believe was from the explosion.

I hesitate over the words, wondering how to make them convincing. So far all we have are two instances witnessed just before the cave-in. My limited experience watching “Law & Order” tells me that this probably won’t be enough.

Finally, another survivor discovered guns in the back of the truck. After this discovery, he was found dead, though the cause was unknown. We believe that he confronted the plumbers and paid for it.

The reason I am writing this, instead of waiting to take our evidence to the authorities, is from fear of a similar fate. We believe if they discover our suspicions, we won’t make it out of this tunnel to share what we know. We have survived down here for seven days – if we do not make it out alive, that may be all the evidence needed to back up our case.

Signed,

Emily and Chris

I put my pen down, quickly folding up the paper. I don’t dare re-read it – I know it’s not good enough. Except for that last paragraph – if we make it out alive, we’ll be able to prove it to the cops, or FBI, or whoever we need to, by talking to them and taking them through everything we learned. If we don’t make it out…well, it will achieve the same end.

Except for us, of course.

I look around the car, wondering what to do with my letter. If I leave it in the car, is there a chance the workmen will find it?
Probably not. They haven’t even come near either side of the tunnel. I open up the glove box and slide my letter in.

“What’s that?” my mom asks, waking up slowly beside me.

“Hmm?” I say, slamming the glove box shut.

“What did you just put in there, Emily?”

“Nothing. It’s just one of the twins’ drawings.”

My mom sits up. “Give it to me.”

“It’s nothing, Mom, really—“

“Give it to me now, Emily.”

I open the glove box slowly, worry making my head pound. My mom cannot read this. She won’t be able to stop herself from freaking out, much less act as if nothing is wrong. Of course, it’s not as if I’m doing a great job at that, either. But if she reads this…we’re sunk.

I shuffle through the papers in there, hoping to find something else, but she stops me. “The folded one on top, Emily. The one you just put in there.”

I pause, slowly lifting my letter.

“I want it now, Emily. I’m through with your secrets.”

“I can’t, Mom,” I say, my hand reaching for the door handle. She moves to snatch the letter from me, but I jump out of the car. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you see it.”

“You give it here this instance!” she hisses at me, reaching over the seat. “I don’t know why you think you don’t have to listen to me anymore, but there are rules! Give it to me, Emily. Now.”

“I…I can’t, Mom, please…it’s…it’s a letter from Chris. I can’t show it to you.”

I shove the note down in my pocket, turning quickly away from my Mom’s glare.
Her cheeks are bright red, her eyes squinted in anger.

A
nd I run right into Mrs. Potts.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, trying to get past. She grabs hold of my shoulders, though,
her fierce grip stopping me.

“I heard yesterday about your…
relationship
…with that boy,” she says, her breath washing over me in a horrific wave. “Everyone did. Tell me, is he the one who’s been getting you your food?”

I can hear my mom scrambling out of the car behind me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen you and your sisters go down there, then come back whispering about crackers and water and twinkies. He’s been giving you food. That’s probably why you’ve been
seeing
him in the first place.”

My cheeks flame at the emphasis she puts on the word ‘seeing.’ She means a lot more than that.

“Is this true, Emily? Are you doing what you’re doing for food?”

My mom is close behind me, her voice low.

“Can you bring some back?”

I snap my head around. Is my mom…is she honestly suggesting that I…

“This is ridiculous,” I hiss the words, unable to believe what my mom is implying. I struggle over what to say next, what to object to first. “Chris has no food, you know that. His car was destroyed.”

“He gets it from those men. They’re all buddies
now,” Mrs. Potts tells my mother, gripping me tighter. “And your daughter gets it from him. She’s been holding out on you again, Mary.”

“I am
so
hungry,” my mom says, taking a step forward. “And you’d do this to me, Emily? You’d be with that boy to feed yourself, and you won’t even share?”

“Go do your thing,” Mrs. Potts snaps. “But make it worth his while. Bring us all back some food this time.”

I look at my mom with stricken eyes. She’s staring at Mrs. Potts. Agreeing.

I can’t stay there any longer. Wre
nching away from Mrs. Potts I hurry down the tunnel, struggling against the tears clouding my eyes. I trip once, my knees scraping painfully on the pavement, but I keep going, wiping at my eyes as I hurry to get away.

But there’re not many places I can go. I pass the middle of the tunnel, and a couple of the workmen who are still snoozing. I pass the town car and Simon Tara’s empty truck, and the mini-van as well. I see Chris,
lying sprawled out on the road, still asleep. But I choose instead to scramble over the railing and settle on the sidewalk, in the furthest corner I can find.

Curling my knees up to my chin,
I lean back against the debris blocking off the eastern entrance, trying to keep myself together. Tears sting my eyes as I bury my face into my knees.

They all think that not only am I not good enough for
Chris, but I’m selling myself for food? And my mom and Mrs. Potts – they’re encouraging it? How could they think such a thing?

The tears spill over, pooling down my cheeks and onto my raised knees. My face burns with emotion, anger and hurt filling my core and
making my stomach tense. My body shakes, my chest aching as I take unsteady breaths. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the flow of tears.

But
I haven’t felt this betrayed, this
hurt
, since my dad left. The twins had been just five months old, their days filled with diapers to be changed, bottles to be fed, and the need for constant soothing as they started to teethe. We had a sitter during the hours I was at school, and then I would come home and take over her role, helping my mom do everything in the evenings after her work. My dad would come home from teaching at the local college, but he didn’t help. He’d just give each of us a quick kiss and then lock himself in his office, ignoring his family to focus on his theories and equations every evening.

I couldn’t understand why he left. He had no obligations around the house – he’d made sure of that. He could have stayed, dealt with the twins.
He had his own office on the opposite end of the house. He didn’t even come out for dinner, choosing instead to eat alone behind the locked door. In the end, though, it was their mere existence that had proven too much for him.
They break my concentration
, he’d told my mom.
Not only when they’re crying, which is all the time now. We weren’t supposed to have any more, Mary. It just…it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I can’t deal with it.

He’d chucked me under the chin,
a suitcase under his arm.
It was just supposed to be me and you, kid. Just us math nerds
.