by Bill Cameron
“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.”
3.7: Bad as It Gets
Kristina moves to the back wall and sits, staring blankly. “I used to come here when I was little. This probably sounds silly, but I remember the house as a bright, sunny place. When grandma passed, my aunt inherited it. Dad got the house in Cannon Beach. He sold it right away—he was living in L.A. and had more than he could keep track of by then—but my aunt wanted to keep her childhood home in the family.”
“How did she die?”
“A car accident when I was nine. Drunk driver.” I expect her to start crying, but she just stares. “She was so beautiful and kind. Aunt Myra.”
“That’s a pretty name.” The words feel stupid coming out of my mouth, but I don’t know what else to say.
“It means ‘astonishing.’” She smiles sadly and looks up toward the ceiling. Sighs. “Philip hates this house. It reminds him he lost his grand life as a violin wunderkind when Victoria took him away from Bianca. He never understood he could have lost so much more if he’d stayed.” A bitter laugh escapes her throat. “She’s dangerous and crazy, but she’s his mom, you know?”
“Yours too.”
“Would you claim her if she was your mother?”
I wouldn’t claim anyone. But that’s not what she’s asking. She’s not asking anything. She’s telling. The last thing she’ll ever tell anyone.
I sigh.
“I wonder what the cops will think.”
She flinches a little, but then shrugs. “Does it matter?”
I guess not.
“Mrs. Huntzel knows how to mop up after herself, that’s for sure.” Duncan must have figured out who Philip really is because of the violin playing, so she killed him. Whatever it takes to protect Philip. “Do you know where she’ll take him?”
Now Kristina throws her hands down. “Who gives a fuck? We’ll be dead.”
The air in the vault is stuffy. I wonder if the fire has started yet. Maybe not. There’s no smoke detector in here, but there are plenty of others. Thirty-two in all. We’ll hear when hell breaks loose. But by the time the ashes settle, she and Philip will be long gone with half a million dollars.
“Why are you so calm about this?”
It takes me a moment to respond. “I used to say where I come from doesn’t matter.”
“What do you say now?”
I’ve already told her more about myself than I’ve ever told anyone else, caught in a moment of weakness that night after Trisha came to Huntzel Manor. I wish I could make sense of it.
“When I was six, I snuck off into the woods with my father’s hunting rifle.”
“Something happened?”
“Yes. Something happened.”
“Bad?”
My throat constricts. “Bad as it gets.” I go quiet.
What I didn’t know was the rifle was loaded, w
ith a round in the chamber. I must have hooked the trigger on something, a branch in the thick undergrowth maybe, because the gun went off as I was looking down the barrel. By some miracle, the bullet missed me, crashed through the trees instead. The shot echoed, a sharp double-tap resounding through the Mount Hood foothills. Terrified, I flung the rifle into the woods as if it was an animal come to life in my hands. Didn’t think about how Orville would probably want it back.
Not long after I smelled smoke. The house was burning. I ran to the front door and saw my father on the floor inside. The bullet missed me, but Orville Getchie wasn’t so lucky. On its way through his brain, it knocked out teeth and his ever-present Lucky Strike. The cigarette must have caught a stack of newspapers, or maybe when he fell he knocked over the can of kerosene he kept to light the wood stove.
Near as anyone could tell, Eva didn’t try to help. She left me there on the porch, left my sister in her crib—the crib I last remember draped with fire as the paramedics wheeled me away. They say I tried to get to Laura, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the flames.
Orville Getchie was dumb as a post—leaving a loaded gun where a kid could get to it. Maybe he deserved what happened to him. But Laura didn’t deserve what happened to her. All this time I’ve kept the secret of the rifle, as I’ve kept so much else hidden in cubbies and compartments. My shitty life is punishment for what I let happen to my sister. This moment seems inevitable.
And yet, I don’t want to die.
I shudder, jam my hands into my jeans pockets. Something coarse scrapes my knuckles and I pull out the sea cookie. An interesting token—a wonder it hasn’t broken. If they find me, if they find it seared into my hand, will they report the fact in the news? Will Trisha hear and know I thought of her at the end?
Kristina shivers. “I’m cold.”
Not for long. Even I’m not asshole enough to say that out loud. All she wanted was to protect her brother and make amends for leaving him behind when her own fear got the better of her. Whatever I’ve earned, she shouldn’t have to own a share of it.
“Joey?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember that night when you touched me and I said I didn’t like it?”
“Yeah.”
“I lied.”
It takes me longer than I expect to answer. “It’s okay.”
“I never wanted to become her, but look at me.”
A vision of her green bra and panties spills through my mind, and I remember her touch through the security bars earlier this evening. Was she leading me around by my dick? Maybe, but then I think about her fierce protectiveness toward Philip and the way she spoke about her Aunt Myra.
I swallow.
“You’re not her, Kristina.”
I join her against the wall, wrap my arm around her shoulder. I feel inadequate to her need, but I’m who she has. And she’s who I have. Perhaps that’s why she cuddled up to me in the middle of the night. Hard-case Kristina.
She’s me.
I’m her.
We’re all orphans.
A chill creeps over me, starting at my side and moving inward.
I sit up.
“What is it?”
“A draft.”
3.8: Boy Hero
Air pushes up through the drain opening next to us. The grate is inset, resting on the lip of the opening. At one time, it must have been secured with screws, but those rusted away long ago. I perch on my hands and knees and pull the grate off. From the dark shaft, I hear a trickle of water and catch a whiff of mud.
Kristina slides in beside me. “There are drains like this throughout the basement. Do you think they’re connected?”
“You’d think.” I shake my head. “But it would kinda defeat the purpose of the big metal door.”
“The vault goes back to Prohibition when the house belonged to some old bootlegger. My grandparents added the drains later. A lot of water comes down off Mount Tabor when it rains.”
I think about the smell Mr. Huntzel wanted me to find. Water isn’t the only thing.
“So, what we know is there are openings in other parts of the basement and air is coming through this one.”
She inspects the opening. “It’s small.”
No argument. The shaft is barely shoulder width across. I can’t see the bottom, but the trickle sounds close. “It might be our only way out.”
I slide my feet into the hole and grip the edge with my hands.
Kristina grabs my arm. “Joey, don’t be crazy.”
“Won’t know if I don’t try.”
Before I can drop into the hole, she pulls me back.
“I’m smaller. I’ll go first.”
“It’s too—”
“Oliver, puh-leeze. Do not go all Boy Hero on me.”
“Who was it that needed me to climb into the house first?”
“That was different. You never said you left my window unlocked. Besides, if it didn’t work, the worst thing that would happen was we’d both get rained on.”
She’s not the one who nearly broke her jaw on the window sill. But I can tell by the look in her eyes she’s in no mood for an argument. Maybe this is her way to prove to herself she’s not Bianca.
“What if she spun the dial?”
She rolls her eyes. “My house, Oliver. You think I don’t know the combination to my own damn vault?”
“Okay, okay. Be careful. You don’t know where either one of them is.”
The edge of the hole comes up to her waist. With a little wriggling, she’s able to lower herself until only her head is above the rim. “There are openings at the bottom. I think one points toward the next room over.”
“Is it big enough?”
“Of course!” Her grin is strained. “Here goes.” With that, she slithers out of sight. An echoey grunt sounds from the bottom of the hole, but in her black outfit, she’s invisible. I hear the scrape of gravel and inhale a fresh breath of pungent mud. Then, nothing.
All I can do is wait. I keep my back to Mr. Huntzel, walk to the vault door and press my ear against the cold steel. Silence. I feel weirdly alone without her. Acid rises in the back of my throat. My fingers drum metal. My pulse thrums in my hands and feet, but my chest feels as hollow as an empty barrel. After an interminable wait, I return to the drain hole.
“Kristina?” My voice barely makes it past my thickening tongue. “Kristina?”
I hear a distant metallic sound, so faint I wonder if I’m imagining it. The chamber is starting to feel hot. I sniff for smoke, but all I can smell is dust and my own sweat. A scrabbling sound rises from the dark shaft, like nails on concrete.
“Are you all right?” I want to shout and whisper at once. I’m as afraid Mrs. Huntzel will hear me as I am Kristina won’t. After a moment she answers.
“Joey, can you hear me?” Her voice, resonating up through the drain, sounds so close I almost expect her face to materialize in the hole below me.
“Are you stuck?”
“I’m in the laundry room. I couldn’t get the vault door to open.”
“I thought you knew the combo.”
“That’s not the problem. The door won’t budge. It’s been so long since it was closed, either the hinges seized or something’s jammed in the frame.”
“Should I crawl through?”
Her hesitation is enough to tell me she thinks that’s a bad idea. “If you push the door while I pull, we might be able to force it.”
“Okay. Tap on the door when you want me to push.”
I move back to the vault door. The steel is cold against my cheek. After what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, I detect a faint, metallic tink-tink-tink. With a grunt, I throw my shoulder into the door. There’s nothing to grip but a frame of smooth rivets. My feet scrabble against the concrete floor for purcha
se. At first, it doesn’t move. After a moment, I gasp and sag against the door.
I suck in a deep breath. A glance toward Mr. Huntzel gives me strength for one more push. The vault door groans open.
Kristina pulls me through a gap barely wide enough for my narrow shoulders. I take a moment to catch my breath, then look around. There’s blood all over the hall. I don’t know if that’s good news or bad. But we’re free.
“Kristina, you’re insane.”
“You’re out of the vault, aren’t you?”
“I’m not complaining.”
She gives me a feisty smile. Her face is streaked with mud, her green hair plastered against her head.
“You look like Caliban.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.” She offers me a tight-lipped smile. “He’s a sweet fella. I hope he gets away.” But then her face darkens. “I need to find Philip.”
“We need to get out of here.” I look down the hall. Mrs. Huntzel’s gas cans are gone. “This place could up go any second, if it’s not burning already.” Only the quiet offers any reassurance. Thirty-two smoke detectors will make a helluva racket once she ignites all that gasoline.
“If she gets away with him, with all that money—”
“Worry about that after we’re safe.” I tug her forearm, and for a second she resists. I can almost feel the weight of the house above us. “Please, Kristina. You didn’t crawl through that pipe just so you could die in this hallway.”
She stares at me another half second, then nods. “You’re right.”
This time, Boy Hero takes the lead.
3.9: We All Have Secrets
We can’t risk going back through the house. Kristina’s door in the rec room isn’t an option after Mr. Huntzel jammed the lock, and we could too easily be spotted from the open shaft of the staircase if Mrs. Huntzel is up that way sloshing gasoline around. Instead, I guide Kristina the other direction, down the utility hall past the laundry room and under the stairs. There, a narrow passage connects the basement and garage cellar. The space is moldy and dank, but mercifully free of the stink of gasoline or smoke.