Property of the State (19 page)

3.5: Wait

Kristina's face goes gray. For a second, I'm worried she might pass out. I put out a hand to catch her, but she shrugs me off and her gaze hardens. In the space of a heartbeat she turns back into the girl I remember from all those late nights and lunges.

She's fast, but Bianca is faster. Before Kristina can reach her, Bianca slaps her across the face. Hard. Kristina's face blossoms livid red. She falls to one knee.

“Con
trol
yourself, young lady.”

“I won't let you take him back!”

Bianca sniffs dismissively. “Better me than your father, don't you think?”

“He's not my father.”

“He could have been, darling. You never gave him the chance.”

My blood pools somewhere below my heart. Anita said the same thing about Wayne, an impostor in a dad mask. Bianca can't be talking about Mr. Huntzel. Can she? It makes no sense. But what does make sense leaves me gulping like a goldfish out of water.

Bianca Santavenere, ex-teen actor, reality TV star, gossip site queen. Now that she's standing in front of me in real life, I see someone I never expected. Everything about her seems less exaggerated than I recall from pictures and video. Smaller nose, narrower chin—she's no taller than Kristina. Still, there's a presence to her. She's a woman used to getting what she wants.

But take away the spray tan, the designer clothes, and the attitude and what's left are the elf features of Philip and Kristina.

“This is…She's—?”

The words get tangled on my tongue. Caught up in their stare-down, they're not listening. In that moment my image of Kristina as a weird kind of orphan takes on new meaning. She's more like me than I knew. But for her the system running her life isn't some public agency. She was never property of the state, never had a caseworker—she had some personal assistant who probably worked for Bianca's publicist.

“She's your mother.” It's not a question.

“Don't call her that!”

“Kristina, you're being ridiculous. You'd think you'd show a little gratitude to the woman who bore you. I gave you
life
.”

“Your idea of
life
was locking me in the walk-in freezer when I broke your coke mirror—”

Bianca stumbles as if pushed from behind. Eyes bulging, Kristina crawls away from her, stops at my side. I follow her stare and see Mrs. Huntzel in the vault doorway.

“Nothing ever changes with you two, does it?” She looks from mother to daughter, her face dripping with scorn. “No entourage, Bianca? Are you afraid of a press leak you didn't plant yourself?”

The two women stand facing each other, a couple of short strides apart—well within range if Bianca decides to strike. She flexes her long fingers and I give Kristina a tug on the elbow. The vault, never large, seems to shrink around us. Mrs. Huntzel blocks our only way out, but I'd like to keep us out of the fray if all hell breaks loose. To the right and backward is our only option.

But then Mrs. Huntzel raises the gun and everyone stops.

Wouldn't even make the cut in your average first-person shooter
, I remember thinking when I found it. The gun looks much bigger than it did in her nightstand drawer. Her hand is completely still. In her place I'd be a scared kitten, but Mrs. Huntzel is a stone.

Bianca just looks pissed. She seems to inflate, oblivious to the threat lurking within Mrs. Huntzel's unsettling calm. Either she didn't register the body when she came in, or such a thing is beneath the notice of the likes of Bianca Santavenere. Too busy sneering at Mrs. Huntzel, maybe. “You think I need help dealing with the likes of you?”

In response, Mrs. Huntzel points the gun at Bianca's well-crafted chest. I brace for the shot—it's not the first time she's pulled the trigger tonight. What else could explain the still, bleeding figure dressed like a Walmart greeter behind us? Why she shot her husband is anyone's guess, but a dispute over the nylon bag full of stinky money would be motive enough.

A sound, half-snarl, draws Mrs. Huntzel's attention. I steal a glance at Kristina as she spits, “After all the help I gave you, the money—”

“Your
help
has led to this pass.” Mrs. Huntzel's lips pull back from her teeth in disgust. “Our arrangement was clear.”

“I wanted to be near my little brother.”

“He doesn't
need
you. All he needs is me.” Mrs. Huntzel's gaze lifts, as if she's inspecting the brickwork overhead. For a moment, her eyes glaze over and I wonder what she's seeing. What she's imagining. Then she lets out a breath that's almost a wistful sigh. “By the time the police sort through the rubble, if they even bother, Philip and I will be long gone.”

My mind flashes to the gasoline cans I saw up the hall. A sensation like melting ice drains through me, but before I can say anything, Bianca takes a step toward Mrs. Huntzel.

“Victoria, you're being ridiculous. What Philip needs is his mother.”

Mrs. Huntzel's eyes snap back to reality and her lips draw back from her teeth. “You were
never
his mother.” Her voice is a hiss now. “All you did was give birth to him. I'm the one who
always
took care of him.”

“Spare me the amateur dramatics, Victoria. You're a glorified babysitter.”

“I'm more of a mother than you could ever be.”

“You're an employee. An
ex
-employee. And isn't that what this is really all about—?”

“Shut up.”

“You resent the fact that I fired you—”

“I said shut up.”

“—and in a petty act of vengeance you stole
my
child!”

The gunshot explodes in the confined space of the vault.

I expect someone to fall, but no one moves. The acrid stench of burnt gunpowder sears my eyes as the gun tracks from Kristina to me, then back to Kristina again. It hangs there in Mrs. Huntzel's hand.

“Wait.”

My voice sounds like it's coming out of an old radio. I raise my hand.

“You stupid bitch!” Bianca's shout tears my eyes away from the gun. “You could have killed me.” Blood drips from her arm, but Bianca seems less hurt than outraged. She launches herself at Mrs. Huntzel, all flailing arms and flying spit. Kristina and I watch, stunned, as the two women grapple through the steel-framed doorway.

Kristina reacts first, managing two steps toward the door before the gun goes off again in the hallway. Someone screams. I scramble after Kristina and pull her back as another shot sounds. Then a loud, metallic shriek fills the vault. By the time I realize what it means, it's too late. I gape, helpless, as the vault door slams shut.

Kristina rushes the door, pounds on steel. “Are you going to help?”

“Kristina—”

“There has to be a way. A latch or something.”

Except for a line of bolts framing the inner edge, the vault door is a smooth expanse of steel. I grab her by the shoulders, turn her to face me.

“She has gasoline.” My voice is trembling. “I saw cans of it in the hall.”

At first she resists me, then the horror registers on her face.

Her forehead falls against my chest. A tremor runs through her, like power in a high tension line. “Oliver, I don't suppose you have a phone.” The fabric of my shirt muffles her voice.

“A long way from here.” In my backpack, wherever Mrs. Petty left it.

“Mine's in my messenger bag. I think I dropped it in Philip's room.” Her shaking could be a humorless laugh or the start of a sob. All I can do is hold her.

By the time the police sort through the rubble
, Mrs. Huntzel said,
Philip and I will be long gone
. She's going to burn the house down, us with it. Witnesses, evidence, any traces of the Huntzels will all be reduced to ash and soot.

And there's not a damn thing we can do to stop her.

3.6: In the Vault

After a while Kristina pulls away. It's only then that she notices Mr. Huntzel.

“Oh, my God.”

“Tell me about it.”

In all the crazy, I guess he was easy to miss. I cross the vault and kneel next to him. He's lying in a pool of drying blood, black under the dim overhead light. A sickly wobble churns my guts as I check for a pulse at his wrist. Nothing. No sign of breathing either. I wonder if I should try CPR. I've never had the class, but I don't think it matters.

He's dead.

I slip off my jacket to cover him, but before I can, Kristina says, “See if he has a phone.”

Last thing I want to do is loot a corpse, but she gets points for being practical. We're short of options.

I run the back of my hand across my mouth. His cologne stings my eyes as I pat down his suit coat and rifle his pants pockets. Nothing. He doesn't even have keys or a wallet. Mrs. Huntzel must have searched him first. A shudder ripples through me and I toss my jacket over his head and upper body. His exposed legs seem somehow more horrible than his dead face.

I turn away.

Kristina is staring blankly at the vault door.

“So. Which one of your mothers do you figure locked us in?”

At first I think she's going to jump my shit—not that I could blame her. It's a lame attempt at humor.

“I never had a mother.” She offers up a sad little laugh.

I open my mouth to say I'm sorry, but she just shakes her head. “Victoria is the one with the gun. You tell me who locked us in.” She eyes me cautiously. “I suppose you have a lot of questions.”

One or ten. “I've figured out a few things. You stole a bajillion dollars from your father—”

“
Step
-father.”

Right.
Us Weekly
mentioned a dead first husband, Pip McEntire. “—and ran away. Mrs. Huntzel was what, the nanny?”

“Philip's nanny, at least until Bianca decided Victoria had become a little too important to him and fired her. I was pretty much left to myself.”

“Did your—did Mrs. Huntzel really kidnap him?”

She takes her time answering. I don't push it. Not like I have anywhere else to be.

“When I was little, Bianca would audition, but she couldn't land a role to save her life. My father was a hot shit entertainment lawyer, and through his connections, she got into reality TV. But after he died, the spotlight faded. Fewer invites were coming her way, swag parties dried up. When the Grammys dropped her from their seat-warmer list, she went on the prowl. Within a month, she turned up married to Nick Malvado. Scary tan, gold chains, and way too many bodyguards. A real estate developer, Bianca called him.”

“What did you call him?”

“Everyone knew he was a drug dealer. I'm not sure what she married him for, the coke or cash.” She shakes her head. “We ended up in this weird plate-glass house in Miami. It was a nightmare, but Philip was oblivious. I mean, he was eleven years old. And anyway he had his violin. Bianca was getting him on TV, mostly in Europe—not that he cared where. He loved any chance to play. But things around the house were horrid. She was using, and Nick's creeper goons kept hitting on me like I was a party favor.” She releases a long, ragged breath. “Do you remember when she OD'ed?”

An image from last spring flashes through my mind—Anita mesmerized by an
E! True Hollywood Story
—and suddenly I remember why Bianca's press conference was so familiar. The segment was from the year before, after her overdose. That's what the video was all about— Bianca making a fuss about going into rehab. “
For them, I promise to get clean
.” Despite the tears, the state of Florida threatened to take the kids. I don't remember ever hearing their names.

Philip and Kristina.

But a week into rehab, the kids disappeared. The husband claimed they ran away, but no one believed that. Big investigation, lots of hand-wringing on cable news. No way could two kids simply vanish without a trace, not on their own. But the investigation went nowhere. The
E!
story ended on a question mark.

She sees the lights come on in my eyes. “The unofficial speculation was Nick dropped us in the Gulf Stream where we wouldn't be found until body parts washed up on Amity Island. What most people didn't know was I'd been gone a couple of weeks before Philip disappeared. One of Nick's men cornered me in the back hallway and tried to put his hand down my pants. When I told Bianca, she said I had no reason to complain. With my assets I could lead guys around by their dicks. I just had to put my mind to it. I was
fifteen
.” She laughs bitterly. “After that, I knew I had to get away.”

“And the money—?”

“Was a fucking
bonus
.”

Over the years, I've known a lot of foster kids who made a break. They always turn up. Sometimes they're three states away, sometimes they're wrapped in a tarp on Pioneer Courthouse Square. It may be days, weeks—even months. But they're always found, alive or dead.

Whole 'nuther matter when you have a duffel bag full of money.

“Why did Mrs. Huntzel take Philip?”

“Nick threatened to hurt him if Bianca didn't get the money back. I don't know how Victoria found out. Maybe Philip called her—they've always been tight. All I know is I woke up one morning and there was Bianca on TV whining about her missing baby. She couldn't be bothered when the missing baby was me.”

“Miami to Oregon is a long way.”

“It was obvious Victoria had taken Philip. Sooner or later Nick would have found them, unless they had help hiding. I went to Ludolph. They were divorced, but I figured he'd know how to reach her. I suggested Portland.”

“To this mansion you had sitting around.”

“The house belonged to my dad's sister.” She sighs, long and wistful. “When she died, she left it to us in trust, but title doesn't transfer until Philip turns twenty-one. I'll be twenty-five. In the meantime, a property management company looks after it. I gave Ludolph cash to spread around and he quietly arranged for Victoria to get hired as caretaker.”

Give Kristina credit. The girl has her shit together. Still, something's not right. “Isn't this the first place Bianca would look?”

“My father had all kinds of property, but my aunt's estate was never part of it. There are layers upon legal layers protecting this house.”

“So the Huntzels just picked up and moved across country to nanny Philip again?”

“Victoria did. Ludolph still lives back east, though he comes out pretty often. We made a deal: if they help me hide Philip until he's old enough to be on his own, they can have the house. I always figured they'd sell and split the proceeds, but whatever. In the meantime, Ludolph's job was logistics. He arranged Philip's ID and transcript so he could get into school. He's also good at finding things out.”

That explains why Kristina and Mr. Huntzel met downtown. He's her henchman.

“And you don't live here because you ran away.”

“That was the most important part of the deal. Victoria won't forgive me for leaving him alone with Bianca, and Philip won't forgive me because I'm why he couldn't stay. I even bought them that fucking
car
to drive around in, for all the good it did me. I'm screwed any way you look at it.”

I find myself gazing at Mr. Huntzel's rumpled form. “Why did she kill him?”

“I bet he talked to Bianca. That would explain how she found us so fast.” She considers for a moment. “I don't know if she called him or he called her, but either way he had to know things were unraveling. He probably thought he could make a deal.”

“Mrs. Huntzel has her own plan.”

“No kidding, Oliver.” Her voice breaks. “No. Fucking. Kidding.”