The Long Way Down (25 page)

Shick
, echoed a faint but insistent sound.
Shick
. A grating rasp every ten seconds or so, like the hammer of a gun falling on an empty chamber.

Or the striker on a spark ignition, I realized, horror dawning as the entirety of the design became clear. Tony Vance was serious about protecting Carmichael-Sterling’s secrets. Serious enough to destroy his entire life’s work with a raging inferno, along with anyone locked in the room when his trap went off.

Shick.

Thirty

I
had to find that striker. I started to tear the room apart, trying to find the source of the sound, pulling out drawers and yanking down shelves, a whirlwind of paper around me as—

Shick
.

I looked up. Inside the frosted globe on the ceiling, a black shadow slid sharply forward, the glass softly rattling. I climbed up on the table, balanced precariously next to the casino model, and strained toward it on my tiptoes. My fingertips slid feebly off the bottom curve of the glass. It was just too far to reach.

One wing of the Enclave model, linked to the spear-like tower, sported a roof with a gentle slope. I put one experimental foot on it, adding a little weight. The model quivered but didn’t collapse. Delicately, moving as fast as I dared, I settled both feet on the tiny rooftop and gained a few inches of height. I held my breath as I unscrewed the frosted-glass sphere.

The sphere came free. It slipped from my strained fingers and plummeted, smashing and sending shards of snowy glass skidding across the floor. A naked light bulb glared in my eyes as I studied the mechanism mounted beside it. It was simple, a chunk of flint mounted on a short iron rail across from a striking pad that resembled a thumb-sized match head. A timer rattled as the flint pulled back again to strike, riding the rail like the sole passenger on a roller coaster to hell.

I grabbed the rail, feeling the mechanism jerk in my hand, just as the model roof caved in with a plastic crunch. Off balance, I shoved against the model, tipping the entire table and leaving me dangling one-handed with my feet kicking over empty space. If I let go of the rail, if I let the flint strike one more time, I was a dead man.

With the muscles of my left arm burning for relief, I pulled myself up then dropped down hard, trying to use my weight to break the rail free. The mechanism bucked under my hand. Gears pinched my palm and threatened my failing grip. Seconds from letting go, I lifted myself up one more time and dropped. The rail came with me, breaking away from the device. It landed in the model’s crumpled remains as we both fell down.

The smell of gas was overpowering now. I smeared tears from my eyes and rubbed my aching arm as I looked for a way out. With the trap disarmed, I was still far from safe. One spark, no matter how tiny, and this room would turn into a blast furnace. The hydraulic arm holding the door shut had regular, unshielded screws, but I didn’t have a screwdriver and ramming metal objects together didn’t seem like a smart move right now.

The fallen model of the Enclave gave me an idea. I crouched over the section I’d stood on, the plastic roof caved in, and grabbed hold of a glossy wedge. It broke free in my hand, an improvised shiv with a killing edge. I gently slid the triangle of plastic against the first screw’s head, gripping it with both hands as I gave it a careful turn. The plastic bent but didn’t break. Gradually, slowly, the screw swiveled and rose from its housing.

Three more screws and it was done. I took hold of the arm with a feather-light grip and pulled it away from the door. I held my breath. The study door whined on its hinges as it drifted open a crack.

I left the papers behind. Out in the hallway, my eyes and throat burning, every instinct screamed at me to run. With the gas flooding free it wouldn’t take much to engulf the entire house in a screaming fireball. Still, I couldn’t leave yet. Tony and Amber were gone. If I hoped for the slightest chance of saving the girl, I had to find out where he’d taken her.

The bedrooms lay empty, lived in but tidy. A lump tightened in my throat as I poked my head into Amber’s room, a swirl of white and pink. A well-loved teddy bear nestled between fluffy pillows.
Hang on, kid
, I thought,
I’m coming
. Down in the kitchen, a light flashed on the base of a wireless phone. One new message. I pressed the play button.

“Hey hon,” said a tired-sounding woman, “it’s me. I’m stuck at JFK for another two hours. Worst airport, swear to God. Mom and Dad said they’d pick Amber up from school so, as promised, you have a nice long weekend all to yourself. No wild parties, young man, and by parties I mean working. Civilization will survive if the world’s best architect takes a couple of days off, I promise.”

The rest of the words drifted past me like nonsensical syllables, blocked out as I scoured the drawers and cabinets looking for a clue. It was the perfect setup. With Amber staying at her grandparents’ house, Tony could strike at his leisure and have plenty of time to cover his tracks. I just hoped he planned to do it late tonight, when everyone would be asleep.

The kitchen’s rummage drawer by the phone yielded a spiral-bound notebook filled with names, addresses, and phone numbers. On the first page, one neatly penned entry read “Mom & Dad.” Whose parents, though? Tony’s or his wife’s? I picked up the kitchen phone and dialed from there, so they’d see a familiar name on the caller ID.

It rang once, twice, three times, each ring squeezing the breath from my lungs in an invisible fist. Come on, come on, pick up…

“Jill?” an elderly woman said, answering the phone on the fifth ring. A television blared in the background, a laugh track underscoring a drum riff.

“No ma’am,” I said, putting on a faint Southern drawl. “This is Officer Crosby with the police department. Now, don’t get alarmed, everything’s fine, but we’re responding to a break-in at this residence and we’re just calling to find the property owner. I understand you’re Jill Vance’s mother, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice rising. “Oh, oh my, is everything all right? Is Tony there? Was he hurt?”

“No, no, we think it was just some local kids. They got scared off by the alarm. We’re trying to get ahold of Tony. Now, according to our records, there’s a little girl named Amber who lives at this residence. We’re concerned because she isn’t here. Do you know if she would have come straight home after school?”

“Oh, bless your heart for asking,” the woman said. “She’s staying with her grandfather and me for the weekend. She’s sitting on the couch right next to me, safe and sound.”

My heart soared.
I’m not too late. I’m not too late
. I tore the page out of the address book, sticking it in my pocket.

“Well, that’s great,” I said. “You just make sure to lock your doors and windows tight tonight. Thank you, ma’am.”

I hung up, tossed the phone to the counter, and opened the sliding glass door leading to the back deck. I froze with my hand on the latch. I couldn’t leave the place like this, flooding with gas and ready to blow. Sooner or later somebody would come around, maybe a neighbor or another innocent bystander, and get a lethal surprise.

Out on the deck, next to a high-end grill, I scavenged a couple of bottles of lighter fluid from a cardboard box. Good enough. I laid a trail from the hallway, through the kitchen and outside, snaking it along the grass until the final bottle gave its last sputtering spurt. The trail blazed to life with a touch of my lighter and streaked through the grass toward the house like a bullet from hell.

I didn’t stay for the fireworks. I’d already lost too much time. The sky flashed yellow at my back as I got into my car. House windows shattered and doors blew out with an eardrum-pounding explosion. A car alarm went off, howling in the dark. I drove away.

I hit the highway doing eighty, swerving up the ramp and redlining the engine the second I had a straight shot of clear road. I didn’t have a plan, just a mission. Priority one was grabbing Amber and stashing her someplace safe until I had a word with her father. He’d switch sides or I’d put him in the ground. Either way, he wasn’t laying a hand on that girl, not while I was still breathing.

• • •

Amber’s grandparents lived in a tract house on the outskirts of Vegas, a sleepy little neighborhood where retirees gathered to soak up the sun. Inside lights warmed the flimsy white curtains in the living-room window, and the faint flicker of a television set filled me with hope as I ran up the driveway. I pressed the doorbell, pressed it again, then hammered the heel of my hand on the door. I didn’t know what I’d tell them. I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

Nobody answered. I jogged around to the back of the house, to the kitchen door, and hammered on that one too.

They’re old
, I told myself.
Maybe they can’t hear you, or they’ve got the television up too loud.
I fished out my picks and went to work on the lock. If I stumbled in on them, I’d just have to keep them from calling the cops until I explained myself.

Your son-in-law is on his way over. He’s going to murder your granddaughter unless I can talk him out of it. Yeah, they’ll believe that.

The door opened with a faint squeal, drowned out by the television blaring in the next room. An audience went into hysterics as David Letterman riffed on the week’s news. I crept across the yellowed linoleum, ears perked, edging toward the open doorway. A tin of cocoa mix sat beside a still-wet spoon. A trail of spilled powder dusted the countertop.

I rounded the corner and found Amber’s grandparents. Her grandfather slumped on the sofa, his head lolling over the armrest and his arms and legs sprawled at haphazard angles. Her grandmother lay on the carpet between the sofa and the coffee table, unmoving.

I ran over to them, feeling for a pulse. They were both alive, their breathing shallow, but out cold as I snapped my fingers next to their ears and shook their shoulders. A porcelain cup lay on its side, inches from the grandmother’s outstretched fingers. Spilled cocoa stained the shag carpet. Another cup sat on the end table, half-finished and still warm. I picked it up and gave it a sniff. Chocolate, but something underneath, concealed by the strong scent. Something chemical.

He drugged them
, I thought, picturing it my mind. Tony came by for a visit, offered to make hot chocolate for everyone, then went into the kitchen alone to add a little something special to the drinks. As soon as the narcotics kicked in he’d have the house under his total control, which meant—

No!

“Amber!” I shouted as I ran through the house, slamming open doors, not stopping to think or even breathe. “Amber? I’m a friend of your mom’s! If you’re hiding, come out, okay?
Amber
!”

I flung open the bathroom door at the end of the hall.

Amber lay face-down at the bottom of the bathtub. Her golden hair spread out in the water like streamers, like tiny fingers reaching for help that never came.

Thirty-One

W
ater spots smeared the wallpaper. Puddles pooled on the cold tile floor. Even drugged, she’d fought him. I plunged my arms into the lukewarm water and hauled her out. Water drenched my clothes, but I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t even think. I laid her out on the floor, on her back. Her limp hand slapped against the tile. No pulse. I felt her blue lips, her clammy skin, frantic. I’d taken a CPR class years ago, but everything I’d learned was just a mishmash of half-remembered facts. I tried compressions, my hands engulfing her tiny chest as I pressed down against her rib cage, counting, breathing into her lifeless mouth. I knew even before I started that it was a lost cause.

I caressed the little girl’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and left her dead on the bathroom floor.

I shut the door and stood in the hallway, feeling the world quietly fall apart. I took a slow, deep breath.

“
Fuck!
” I screamed, slamming my fist into the wall. A mirror hung at the end of the hallway. I tore it down, threw it to the carpet, and stomped it again and again, glass shattering under my heel, just for the sake of breaking something.