Get Dirty (31 page)

“Sorry,” Bree said. “I’m just anxious.”

“Oh!” her mom cooed, perking up. “Why didn’t you say so?” Without another word, her mom hurried to her room and returned a moment later with a plastic pill organizer. “Let’s see . . . How about a Klonopin? That’s always a good start. Or maybe a Xanax? No, that will make you sleepy.” She glanced up at Bree. “Do you want to be sleepy?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” She returned her focus to the medication
cornucopia. “I find a Celexa-Cymbalta cocktail has a nice one-two punch, or if you want to cut to the chase, I can give you a Haldol and be done with it.”

Should she be concerned that her mom was apparently a one-stop shop for mood-enhancing prescription drugs? “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”

Bree thought about asking for her mom’s help. Maybe if she sent Olaf down to the gym, they’d stand a chance? She opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from the table and answered it without looking.

“You’re late,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“What?” Olivia asked.

“Oh!” Bree said. “Sorry. I thought you were—”

“It’s Ed!” Olivia yelled into the phone.

“What do you mean?”

“Ed is the killer. He lied to us. It was him all along!”

“That’s impossible,” Bree said. She had no idea what Olivia was talking about, and yet she could feel the panic in her friend’s voice. “He has an alibi.”

“Fuck the alibi!” Olivia screamed. “My mom has video from opening night of
Twelfth Precinct
on her phone. I just saw the curtain calls and Ed was there, in the theater, leaving through the stage door.”

“Are you sure?” Bree asked.

“Positive.” From Olivia’s end of the phone, a horn blared. “I’m heading to school. You’ve got to warn everyone.”

Bree froze. Had it been Ed the Head all the time? But Sergeant Callahan had the watch. How was that possible? Her brain had difficulty processing it all. Ed’s alibi was a fake. He’d been at the theater that night. He’d murdered Ronny and Coach Creed and Rex. Not to mention the other DGM victims. Now Logan and Margot, and . . .

Oh God. John was meeting Ed at school.

“Hello?” Olivia cried. “Did you hear me?”

Bree forced her voice to work. “He’s with John. At school. Ed has him.”

Olivia was silent for a moment. “I’ll find Kitty.”

Bree wasn’t sure what Olivia and Kitty could do by themselves, but she was in no position to argue.

“Call the police,” Olivia said. “And don’t panic. I’m sure John is fine.”

Bree hung up and immediately dialed John’s number. Without even ringing, his voice mail picked up. She dialed again, hoping it was just a cross call, but again voice mail. Again. And again.

Bree dropped the phone to her bed and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the image of a dead or wounded John from her mind. No, she wasn’t going to picture it. John was smart, and John was tough. He’d figure some way out of this.

“Bree?” her mom asked, her voice firm. “What is wrong?”

“I . . .” It would take too long to explain. “Hold on.” She needed to try and convince the police that a serial killer was at the Bishop DuMaine gym. Yeah, that wouldn’t sound crazy at all.

“Santa Clara County 911, please state your emergency.”

“Um . . .” Bree swallowed. What was the fastest way to get the police to respond?

“Is this a prank call?” the operator said, clearly annoyed.

“I’m calling to report a . . . a suspicious package at the Bishop DuMaine gym.” Bomb threats always worked with the cops, didn’t they? “I’m here for a volleyball tournament and I saw a guy walk into the gym with a large bag, drop it by the door, and leave.”

“Mm-hm,” the operator said. “You said Bishop DuMaine, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting. This is the second call we’ve gotten today claiming that there’s a bomb at that school. Kind of convenient considering just yesterday we got a memo from Sergeant Callahan at Menlo PD.”

Bree groaned. She didn’t like the sound of this.

“And he warned us,” the operator continued, “to expect some prank calls from high school students in regard to Bishop DuMaine.”

“Ma’am,” Bree said, trying to communicate the appropriate amount of seriousness in her voice. “I promise, this is not a prank. This is—”

“Young lady,” the operator said, interrupting her. “Do you have any idea of the penalty for making false statements to emergency response? The list of offenses is—”

Bree didn’t wait for the rest of the lecture before ending the call.

“Bree Deringer,” her mom said, hands on hips. “You tell me what is going on this instant.”

“I think we screwed up. Bad.”

Her mom sighed. “Obviously. What can I do to help?”

Short of convincing her buddy Sergeant Callahan to send the entire Menlo Park police force down to Bishop DuMaine, she didn’t know . . .

Bree caught her breath. There was one way, one foolproof way to make sure the police went exactly where she wanted them to.

“What is it?” he mom asked.

Bree smiled at her. “I need to borrow the car.”

Her mom arched an eyebrow. “You want Olaf to disable the house alarm and take you somewhere?”

“Nope. I just want the car.”

“But the alarm will go off as soon as you leave the house. The police will trace your GPS signal.”

Bree smiled. “Exactly.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

AS OLIVIA SCREECHED HER MOM
’
S CIVIC TO A HALT IN FRONT
of the school, she was greeted by the sight of hundreds of people pouring out of the Bishop DuMaine gym.

Spectators and volleyball players alike exited through the two exterior doors, moving onto the lawn in a leisurely, unhurried kind of way. What happened?

She raced across the grass toward a group of blue Bishop DuMaine athletic uniforms. The girls’ volleyball team. She spotted Kitty behind the team, talking to two girls.

“Stay here,” Kitty was saying to the girls as Olivia raced up to her, “With Coach Miles until Mom arrives. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Kitty,” the girls said in unison. Kitty’s twin sisters.

She caught sight of Olivia and her eyes grew wide. “Good,” she said to her sisters. “I’ll be right back.” Then she grabbed Olivia by the arm and moved them out of earshot.

“What’s going on?” Olivia asked, panting. “Why are you all outside?”

“Someone pulled the fire alarm,” Kitty said.

Olivia didn’t miss the emphasis on “someone.” Ed was trying to clear the Bishop DuMaine gym. Why?

“You won’t believe it,” Olivia said, panting. “But I know who the killer is.”

Kitty eyed her. “Um, yeah. Sergeant Callahan, remember?”

Olivia’s stomach clenched as she slowly shook her head.

The words tumbled out of her mouth as she quickly and calmly explained Ed’s betrayal. She watched the same series of emotions pass across Kitty’s face that she’d felt when she realized what had happened: confusion, surprise, betrayal, anger, and finally, fear.

“I saw John with Ed about ten minutes ago,” Kitty said, her face instantly pale. “They went into the maintenance corridor behind the gym.”

“There you are!” Bree sprinted up to them. “You heard?”

Kitty nodded.

Olivia grabbed Bree’s arm. “Are the police coming?”

Bree smiled wickedly and pointed to her anklet. “Oh, they’re coming. They’ll follow this baby to the ends of the earth.”

Olivia heaved a sigh of relief. “Good.” She looked from Kitty to Bree and smiled, trying to appear significantly braver than she felt. “Shall we go save Margot?”

Kitty had never been in the gym when it was totally empty. The flashing lights and blaring sirens filled the cavernous space, accentuating the loneliness. It felt like she was alone in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and there was no one left on earth to silence the fire alarm.

No, not alone. Bree and Olivia stood by her side.

None of them said a word, but Kitty reached out and found their hands—Olivia’s on one side, Bree’s on the other—and grasped them firmly in her own. They’d started this journey together. They’d understood the risks, and they’d carried out their DGM missions faithfully, each for her own reasons. They’d weathered long-kept secrets, betrayals, lies, and jealousy. They’d bent but they hadn’t broken, and, together, they were going to face the enemy who’d been so close to them all along, and now held the life of their friend in his hands.

And this is how it would end.

There was a part of her that was almost relieved. Ed the Head had betrayed them all, and though he was a murderer and a sociopath, he was also their peer, not an adult, not a cop like Sergeant Callahan. Somehow, that made it seem easier, more feasible. Like they had a chance this time. Ed didn’t know they were coming for him. For once, they had the upper hand.

Kitty took a deep breath, then in one unified motion, they all walked toward the door marked “Access Restricted” that led to the maintenance corridor.

No one was surprised to find the door unlocked.

Once inside the short hallway with the door closed behind them, the pulsating blare of the fire alarm was muted, and Kitty could finally hear herself think. The so-called maintenance corridor was about ten feet long, with two closets and a door at the far end.

“Any idea where that goes?” she asked.

“Basement,” Bree said. “I was down there during the prank
on Melissa Barndorfer. It’s a mix of pipes and ducts, some storage, electrical, water, gas, air conditioning. And the boiler room tucked away downstairs in the back.”

“How big?” Kitty asked.

Bree scrunched up her face, thinking. “Spans the whole area beneath the gym and locker rooms, I think. But I haven’t seen all of it.”

“Where it all began,” Olivia mused, quoting Ed’s last message. “What do you think he means?”

“It all began with Christopher Beeman,” Bree said.

Kitty nodded. “And he hung himself in the boiler room at Archway.”

Olivia stared at the door to the basement. “Any chance the basement isn’t the creepiest place I’ve ever been?”

“Nope,” Bree said.

“Come on.” Swallowing her fear, Kitty marched up to the basement door and yanked it open.

The stairwell to the basement was significantly darker than the brightly lit hall above, and Kitty paused at the top of stairs as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Bree and Olivia filed in behind and the door slammed shut, blocking out the majority of the light with one jarring thud.

There was another door at the bottom of the stairs, and Kitty could just make out a dim yellow glow beneath it, seeping into the darkened staircase. The basement lights were on, which somehow gave her the courage to reach for the handle and swing the door open.

The dim lighting was the result of yellow bulbs screwed
directly into sockets in the low ceiling, and though it was better than the darkness of the staircase, they still didn’t provide enough illumination to penetrate the shadowy recesses.

And shadowy it was. The long, open basement was packed with crap. Old chairs and tables from a variety of historical areas were piled haphazardly along with several rows of plush theater seats. An ancient floor polisher, more rust than metal. Dusty file cabinets and long-forgotten book boxes. A basketball scoreboard from the 1950s, the kind a scorekeeper needed to change by hand. Bags of cement, cans of paint, and a variety of brushes, brooms, mops, and tools. Sixty years of Bishop DuMaine castoffs shoved into one space.

Kitty paused, listening for any sign of life. Nothing.

“Where’s the boiler room?” Olivia whispered. Her voice sounded small in the seemingly endless expanse of the basement.

“Stairs at the far end,” Bree said.

The closeness of the basement combined with limited light and the odd, disconcerting shapes of piled-up junk made Kitty feel like they were being watched. She kept thinking she heard noises—the creaky springs of an old theater chair, the clanging of pipes and the soft fall of footsteps. Once or twice she could have sworn she saw something move, a quick dash of motion from behind the stacks of garbage. She felt the girls press in close behind her as she crept toward the boiler room stairs, and her speed slowed down as fear overtook her.

That’s when she heard it.

“Ooooooh.”

Kitty froze.

“What the hell was that?” Olivia’s voice was little more than a strangled squeak.

Kitty swallowed. “I . . . I don’t—”

“My head.”

Bree caught her breath. “John?”

“How can you tell that’s John?” Olivia asked.

“Bree?”

“John!” Bree turned, and dashed around a set of old file cabinets. “John, it’s me!”

Kitty raced after her, Olivia close behind. As they rounded some giant metal cabinets, they saw Bree crouched on the floor, her arms around John, who was sitting up against the wall next to a pile of old carpet rolls.

“Are you okay?” Bree cried. Her voice shook.

“Okay,” John said.

“What happened?” Kitty asked.

“We split up in the basement,” John said. He jabbed his thumb behind him. “I was snooping around and found them. Thought I heard someone behind me and then . . .” He shrugged. “Guess I got clobbered.”

“What do you mean, ‘found them’?” Kitty asked.

John turned, one hand pressed to the back of his head, and swept his arm across the rolls of old carpet behind him. “Them.”

Bree scrambled over to the nearest bundle and pulled away a blanket, uncovering a face. Even in the dim light, Kitty recognized her.

“Tammi Barnes!” Kitty and Olivia dashed to the other bundles, yanking their covering away to reveal Xavier Hathaway, Wendy Marshall, and the Gertler twins.

“Are they dead?” Olivia asked.

Kitty pressed her fingers to Wendy’s neck. “No,” she said with a sigh of relief. “Drugged I think, but alive.”

Bree pulled out her phone. “We have to call the cops.”

John shook his head. “No signal down here. I already tried.”