Need (24 page)

I wonder if Nate is warm wherever he is. Is he scared and thinking of me the way I am of him? Or is he hurt and bleeding and thinking that no one is looking for him and the worst is coming? It isn't, though. At least not yet. My mother will text me if she gets contacted about a kidney for DJ. The longest that kidneys can last outside the body before transplant is about thirty hours, and less than a day is better. Mom and DJ would have to be contacted if the transplant were going to happen any time soon. And there would have to be a medical team and a hospital ready to perform the procedure. Nate's parents would also have to approve, and surely they would contact me if they heard something terrible had happened to Nate.

My phone rings and I shield the screen to look at the display. Officer Shepens. Nope. Not answering. On TV shows, cops trace cell phone signals. I'm not sure how accurate that is, but I'm not about to find out the hard way. If he has something important to say—like he knows I didn't hurt Amanda and he wants to help me take down NEED—he can leave a message. I need to think.

I trudge through the snow as I consider who at this school could be behind NEED. Most of my teachers are about as good with computers as I am. I guess Mr. York might be good enough to create a website like NEED. I've never taken a computer science class with him, but a lot of the gaming guys think he's a genius when it comes to all things programming. But what reason would he have? And really, unless his faded sports coats and out-of-style shirts are a deliberate fashion statement, I doubt the guy has the cash to pull this whole thing off.

Some of the students might have the skills to create and manage the website. Sydney . . . What the hell is his last name? Doesn't matter. Sydney designed his father's real estate website last year. Everyone was talking about it, probably because they were also talking about how bad his father is at selling houses. But unless Sydney's father got a heck of a lot better at his job or they won the lottery, Sydney and his family don't have the cash to fund all the NEED requests.

So, who does? Principal Dean? I doubt it. And she's about to retire anyway. Who else? Everyone says Mrs. Hennessey married a guy with money, but it's hard to imagine our nutrition and health teacher doing anything more evil than adding butter to a recipe.

As far as I can tell, no one is wealthy enough to give away phones and workout gear and hundreds of other “needs” that have been fulfilled. If this is about a personal grudge, that's a lot of money to spend. And who carries a grudge against an entire school? So it has to be something else. Who would be involved in something more? And what could that something be?

People suck, but I can't believe it's someone who has lived and taught here forever. It has to be an outsider. Or at least someone who is newer to the area. Someone chose this town because they wanted to cause problems. Someone . . .

I stop not far from the side entrance of the school as I notice something different about the ground. Footprints. Covered with fresh snow, but not enough to conceal them. They lead from the faculty parking lot to the side entrance. And they're not that old. They're filled with only an inch of snow. So are the car tracks in the parking spot where the footprints originate from. There are also another set of prints near where I'm standing. They, too, lead to the side door.

Part of me wants to run so I don't get caught. The other part wonders if whoever is behind NEED is associated with the school. Did they go inside? Could Nate be in there? School doesn't start for several days. It would be the perfect hiding spot.

I should wait for Bryan. I should go hide in the Newt Café, but I know there's something wrong here. The footprints. The car tracks. Something is off.

I walk to the door. The smell hits me.

Gasoline.

My heart hammers as I pull the flashlight out of my backpack. I expect the door to be locked, but still I pull.

It opens and I stumble back. My eyes water as fumes swirl around me. Waves of an oily, noxious smell that I can taste as I breathe. One step inside and I feel suffocated by the odor. The floor glistens where the light touches it. Not just here at the door, but as far as the beam will reach. The entire hallway is coated with gasoline.

One spark. That's probably all it would take to engulf this place in flames. I have to get out of here—now.

I'm turning back when I hear it.

The wind. I want to believe it's the wind. Then the sound comes again.

Scraping. A clank of metal. And a whisper that sounds like a voice calling for help.

F
INALLY
.

His mother looks back at him with a tense smile before going up the stairs. She's worried that he's upset about Amanda and Lynn's mother and has hovered since he got home, telling him how proud she is to have a son who is so concerned about others. Mom and Dad are so pleased that they don't have one of those kids who cause trouble. They'll blame themselves if they learn what he has done. They'll say it was heartless to not understand how much he needed the acne cream and shoulder the responsibility that is his alone. Because it wasn't really the cream that started this. It was his anger and his desire to hurt someone the way he had been hurt.

Bryan figures it will be at least ten or fifteen minutes before his parents fall asleep and he can slip out of the house. Maybe more. Time enough to check online to see if anything else has happened.

He goes upstairs and logs on to his laptop. What he sees on the first site makes him let out a sigh of relief. Post after post of New Year's resolutions and chat about what everyone is wearing to the big party tomorrow night. Post after post of normal stuff. Then he stops scrolling.

Lynn's mom is dead. Some kind of severe reaction to medication. Because of the snow and the number of other accidents tonight, the ambulance couldn't get to her in time.

There are a bunch of sympathetic responses. But under that are several more posts about clothes and shoes and dates. Buried in the middle of self-portraits and inane quizzes is another post that kicks him in the gut.

Sameena Jahn is dead. Suicide. There is shock. Outrage. Questions as to whether the announcement is real. Links to statistics on how suicide happens most during the holidays, along with assurances that the family will let everyone know about funeral details when they're available.

Quiet. Sameena was quiet and tried so hard. He tutored her once until her father found out and assured Bryan that his daughter no longer required assistance.

Bryan fights the urge to hurl and clicks on the link for the NEED network to see if his request has been fulfilled. No.

DUE TO THE STORM, YOUR NEED REQUEST DELIVERY HAS BEEN DELAYED. ONCE THE STORM HAS PASSED, DELIVERIES WILL RESUME. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE AND WELCOME YOU TO SUBMIT A NEW NEED REQUEST WHILE YOU WAIT.

Make another request? No way in hell. But even as he is repelled by the message, he's also relieved. The gun he has been promised isn't here. The decision about how or if he should use it has been taken out of his hands. Because he no longer wants to kill himself. He wants to track down and kill whoever is behind NEED.

But there is no gun. For now.

Bryan checks to see if his mother is asleep yet. Nope. A faint light glows under the door at the end of the hall. He's stuck, which gives him time to check on the NEED message board like Kaylee asked. He doubts he'll find anything that will help them track down Nate, but it couldn't hurt. After all . . .

He stops and scrolls back up to see the image that he just passed. The photo is dim. But something familiar about it catches his eye. The desk with a large calendar pad on it with lots of dates x'ed off. The nameplate next to a coffee cup that says Nottawa Newts. Next to that a clock that has wires coming out of it and a large fountain firework. He squints at the photograph but can't make out the name on the desk, so he copies the image and pastes it into a program that allows him to change the contrast and zoom in.

Dr. Amelia Jain

School. The photograph is of an office at school. Bryan clicks back to the message board, this time scrolling down far enough to see the caption above the photograph. One word that has him reaching for his phone and running for the door.

Boom.

C
RAP
. M
Y PHONE RINGS
as I stand with my hand on the door, trying to decide what to do. I silence it and listen again to the sounds of the empty school. No. Not empty. Because the whisper comes again and this time I can make out what the word is.

“Please.”

I jump as my phone vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket.

“Bryan?”

“Thank God. Kaylee, are you still outside the school? If you are, run. There's some kind of bomb in one of the offices. It's on a timer. You have to go.”

“I can't.” The plea comes again and, no matter how much I want to, I can't turn away. “Someone is trapped inside.”

Bryan yells my name, but I hit End and shove the phone back into my coat pocket. Bryan told me to get out. My eyes and throat already burn from the fumes. Somewhere a fuse is ready to be lit. This place is going to explode. God, I'm scared. I don't want to die.

Scraping. I hear it again. The sound of something being dragged. And the voice cries again. A girl's voice. It's not Nate. And since no one else except DJ cares what the hell happens to me, it shouldn't matter who might be somewhere inside this building waiting to die.

But it does.

Bryan's warning screams in my head. My phone vibrates again in my pocket as if duplicating the plea. But as much as I don't want to die and I don't want to care about whoever is somewhere down the hallway, I have to help.

The floor is slippery. Each step makes me sick with fear that I will do something to ignite the gas and engulf myself in flames. Coughing, I pull my scarf over my nose and mouth and grip the flashlight tighter. Don't drop it. Don't send up a spark. No sparks.

I don't call out. If the person who set the bomb is still around, I don't want them to find me. I doubt they are, but I don't know for sure. So I stay silent. Which is good because the dry, burning ache in my throat is getting worse the longer I'm in here.

Go toward the offices or turn toward the gym? I don't know when the timer will go off. Any minute? My phone says it's eleven forty-five. If I were the one setting the timer, I would set it for midnight. That means I have ten minutes at most to find whoever is trapped if I want to have time to get out.

Oh God. I don't want to be here. I want to go home.

Propelled by the fear that the timer will go off any second, I come to the next hallway and stop as I hear the sound again. To my right. Away from the offices. Toward the English classrooms.

The floor has a line of shiny wetness running along it, but the entire surface isn't as slick and the smell isn't as strong. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. I don't care. I cling to the idea that this part of the school isn't as coated in gasoline and listen for the person to call out again.

“Hello? Ethan? Please.”

The last word, spoken as almost a whisper, makes me run. The girl's voice comes again. To the left. An open doorway and a trail of gasoline into the room beckon me forward and when I turn the corner and flash my beam I see her. Tied to the chair of the school desk is Hannah Mazur. Her eyes are wide. There's blood on her terrified face. The smell of gas is stronger in here and I see the pool of liquid that surrounds her chair.

“Help me.”

The words hit me like a slap and I realize I've just been standing there looking at her, doing nothing.

As she struggles against her restraints, the desk she's tied to scrapes against the tiled floor. “Help me. Whoever the hell you are.”

“It's Kaylee Dunham.” I pull away my scarf and point the flashlight upward so she can see my face. I cross the few feet between us and squat down behind the chair to get a better look. Tape. Lots and lots of duct tape that's become bunched and twisted so it's almost impossible to see where to pull it free. It would be easier if I could turn on an overhead light. But can I? Could something that simple cause the fumes to ignite? I don't know.

What should I do? Cutting her free would be easiest. But I don't have a knife. What else would work?

“Keys.” I left mine at home. “Do you have keys somewhere?”

She coughs. “Please don't leave me here.”

“I won't,” I agree. “But if you don't help, we both might die.” Time is slipping away. “Where are your keys?” I yell.

“In the left front pocket of my coat.”

She shifts so I can reach the deep coat pocket and I realize she's wet. Gas. Hannah is soaked with gas. I pull out the keys and almost drop them as I flip through looking for the one that will give me the best grip.

“Okay.” I put my bag down on a dry section of the floor and lay the flashlight on top of it so it shines toward Hannah's hands.

I attack the restraints with the key. The tape is thick. Wrapped at least several times to strengthen the hold. How much time is left? How long will it take for the gas here in this room, on Hannah and now covering my hands and who knows what else, to ignite? I keep sawing at the tape, all the while I can't help remembering mean comments I've heard Hannah make. Comments directed at me. I wonder for a second if she remembers those moments.

My eyes sting and I try to stay focused. My phone vibrates again in my pocket and I ignore it. No time to answer. The key rips through part of the restraints. It's a start. I saw harder. Hannah yelps that I've hurt her, but who the hell cares. She's going to hurt a heck of a lot worse if this place goes up in flames. I tune out her hoarse babbling and keep working.

More bits of tape break free. Getting there. “Hannah, pull your hands apart as much as you can. Harder.” She grunts as I saw. Another rip in the tape gives me hope and makes me attack it more furiously. We're going to get out of here. We are.