Property of the State

by Bill Cameron

  The house feels like a ghost. Or maybe I’m the ghost, haunting empty hallways and forgotten rooms, night after night, hiding in silence from my own shadow. I shake my head and, shivering, stick my head out the window. “Come on.”

  What seems like a second later, she’s beside me, dripping on the floor.

  “You should have gone first and dropped me a rope.”

  She throws me a strained smile. “I’m going to find Philip.”

  And just like that, she’s gone.

  For a minute I don’t know what to do. But it doesn’t take much thought to figure it out. I’m in the wind. I need to grab what I can and go. The sooner I put miles between me and the detectives, the better.

  I pull open Kristina’s dresser drawer, then the closet. Wayne would have torn the room apart—then made me clean up after him. Mr. Huntzel didn’t bother. Everything is right where I left it.

  I pile my clothes into my suitcase and wrap Trisha’s laptop in the Symphonica d’Italia sweatshirt I stole from Philip, tuck it among my skivvies. Then I loop the length of clothesline through the suitcase handle. After I lower the case down to the veranda, I give the room a final scan. Hard to believe I lived here only a couple of weeks, sleeping under the unicorn comforter, doing homework and eating pudding at the tiny desk.

  Feels like a lot longer.

  A sound draws my gaze to the open bedroom door, a voice maybe. Did Kristina call my name? I listen, but the sound doesn’t repeat. The darkness looms like a weight. YouTube guilt squirrels through my belly. I tell myself I got her inside. That’s all she asked.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in the hallway. A faint glow shines through the windows from streetlights outside. In the direction of Philip’s room I hear a door open, but I can’t make anything out in the dark.

  A shiver runs through me. If I had an ounce of sense I’d be on my way to the vault. Just a few stacks of stinky green could fund my escape. Hardly enough to be missed. They say you can live cheap in Belize.

  “Kristina?”

  My voice is so feeble I can barely hear myself. Somewhere ahead, the door slams. Footsteps slap toward me. I shrink against the doorframe, then nearly topple over when she whams into me. “Oh, my God…oh, my God.” Her hands grip my arms with frantic strength.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She took him.” I can smell her sweat: fear cut with acid.

  “Who took who?”

  “Victoria.” Her moist eyes pick up a gleam from the street light. “She took Philip.”

  Between what I’ve guessed and what Kristina has admitted, even I might concede Mrs. Huntzel taking Philip away ought to be a good thing. Sure, she killed Duncan—the crap she fed the cops about me driving her car confirms what Courtney already guessed—but still, she’s his mom. According to legend, mothers look out for their kids.

  And if I’m a good little boy, Santa will bring me a brand new bike.

  “Kristina.” There’s too much I don’t know, but I’m starting to have my guesses. “What haven’t you told me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” In the dim light I can see her jaw clench so tight it might crack.

  This isn’t my problem.

  Behind me, wind and rain rush through the open window. Three steps and a fall and I’m on my way. It’ll be tough, living on shoplifted pudding cups while dodging cops and hobos. I’ll have to keep my eyes open and my head down every second. In other words, exactly what I’ve been doing my whole life.

  But I can’t escape the fact if I leave Kristina here in this hallway, it’s Trisha on the couch all over again.

  “Kristina…” Nothing good ever comes of learning other people’s secrets. “…who else knows about the money?”

  “What money?” There’s no conviction in her voice. I wait. After a moment she sags. “I don’t know. No one.” The I hope is left unsaid, but I can fill in the blanks.

  Of course it’s hers. Makes sense, really. The Huntzels would keep it close at hand, in Mrs. Huntzel’s office or their bedroom—maybe inside Mr. Huntzel’s unused mattress. Behind a loose board in the basement vault is the choice of a lurker. Like me.

  My best guess is Kristina took it from Nick or Bianca while they were caught up in Philip’s violin adventures. She keeps it in the vault because she can get to it easily. Sneak in through the side door while everyone’s asleep and make a withdrawal. For a girl on the run, it was safer than a bank until I showed up, the wayward orphan with his own shit to hide.

  I can feel Kristina’s wet gaze in the darkness. “Philip was always the special one, the one with a talent Bianca could use.” Resignation seems to bleed from her pores. “I was the inconvenient afterthought. So I left.”

  “Just to sneak back again? With that much money, you could go anywhere.”

  “It’s my house, too.” Her words burst out in shreds. “All I wanted was to stay close to my brother. But he hates me for abandoning him.”

  I don’t need to ask what she ran from. Not good enough, pushed aside, ignored. She can blame Bianca all she wants, but the choice belonged to her mother and father. It’s like Kristina is her own kind of orphan. Her parents may not be dead, or in jail, or fugitives, but as far as she’s concerned, they may as well be.

  “I’m sorry.” My words sound hollow, but she seems to take them for what they should mean rather than what they don’t. How do I tell her she’s nothing special? People run all the time. Eva Getchie ran as the house burned. Wayne ran from me. And now I’m running too.

  “We should go.”

  She shakes her head. “I need to search the house. She might have left something behind that will tell me where she took Philip.”

  “And the money?”

  “What about it?” Suddenly defensive.

  I’m not sure how to say this, so I just say it. “Listen. I didn’t take any, but the day I found it, your mom saw me coming out of the vault.”

  “Victoria?”

  Victoria…Ludolph. Kristina’s habit of referring to her parents like they’re actual people is unsettling. “I didn’t think she noticed anything at the time, but—”

  Almost before I realize she’s moving, she bolts. In an instant, she’s a dozen steps ahead of me.

  “Kristina! Wait!”

  I chase her down the main stairs to the basement and into the utility hall. My feet skid to a stop outside the vault door, eyes drawn to a cluster of gasoline cans at the far end of the hallway.

  “Kristina—”

  “Shut up.” Inside the vault, she’s tossing Mason jars. One of them breaks at the foot of the wine rack. I have the crazy thought I should get the broom and dustpan. As I dart to her side, another jar rolls to a stop against a lumpy shape near the wall. I blink, and the shape resolves into a half-familiar figure in a wrinkled suit. In the dim light of the overhead bulb, I see dark blood pooling around the figure’s heaped shoulders.

  “You need to look at—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  As she tears at the bottom shelf, I hear the scrape of a shoe behind me.

  “Don’t be a fool, darling.”

  The woman in the doorway stands in shadow, but her voice is somehow familiar. We both gape as she slips a scarf off her head and steps into the vault.

  Just as Kristina had feared, Bianca Santavenere followed the YouTube trail right to our damn door.

  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.

  “Control 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 m
atters.

  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.”