Property of the State

by Bill Cameron

  I pause at the foot of the ladder that climbs up to the garage proper and cock my head, listening. All I can hear is the quiet patter of rain on the garage roof.

  Kristina nudges me from behind. “What’s the holdup?”

  I’d like to avoid a headshot, I think, but I keep that thought to myself. With Kristina’s hands on my back, I stick my nose up over the lip of the garage floor. Dim light glows at the far end of the space, silhouetting a car in the near stall—the BMW. For a second I can’t believe Mrs. Huntzel abandoned her beloved Beamer, but then it clicks. Easier to escape notice in an anonymous Toyota than a high-end luxury car.

  Our own escape is behind us, through a side door that faces the house. For a few short steps, we’ll be in plain view of the kitchen and the front corridor outside the dining room. But a quick sprint around the corner of the garage and past the laurel hedge should lose us in darkness even if Mrs. Huntzel is still around to see.

  “Come on.” I hoist myself onto the concrete floor then turn to offer Kristina a hand. But she’s already up and rushing past me.

  “Oh, my god.”

  “Kristina, wait. We’ve got to…”

  The words die on my lips as I follow her around the nose of the car. The light is coming from the interior of the Toyota, parked on the far side of of the BMW. I blink, and a figure resolves in the passenger seat.

  Philip.

  He sees us almost as soon as we see him. I half expect him to make a break for it, but he just sits there.

  Kristina yanks the car door open and grabs his hand. “Philip, sweetie. Are you okay?”

  In the backseat, I spot black nylon and catch a whiff of B.O. The duffel bag is half-buried under a heap of Philip’s clothing and Mrs. Huntzel’s purse. I squeeze Kristina’s forearm, but his voice draws my gaze back to the front seat before I can say anything.

  “Did Mom say you can come with us?”

  At mention of his mother, an electric trill jumps through me. Kristina’s attention is all on her brother. “Of course, honey.” She’s studying him now. Her hands run up and down his arms as if checking for injury. Philip seems to be trying to meet her worried gaze, but his eyes can’t quite find focus.

  I lean into the open car door. “Kristina.” The air feels charged around us, or maybe that’s just me. “If he’s still here, she’s still here.”

  “Right.” A heavy breath comes out of her. “Philip, come on.” She tugs his hands, gently at first, then with more strength when he resists. “Come on, Philip. Please.”

  His chin starts bouncing side to side. “We gotta get my my violin.” His voice is plaintive and reedy, with a familiar slur.

  Kristina looks at me, eyes darting and anxious. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “We gotta get my violin,” he says again, more urgently. He sounds like Anita on a binge, sloppy and uninhibited.

  “Shit.”

  “What?” she snaps.

  “She drugged him.” The last of his Vicodin, most likely. Probably put it in his cocoa, thought it would make him more manageable.

  “Why would she do that?”

  I shake my head sharply. “It doesn’t matter. You found him. Now let’s go.”

  “Just give me a minute to calm him down.”

  “We may not have a minute.” I stare at the side door, watch for it to burst open. My pulse pounds inside my head, my nerves scream for me to run. But I stand there. I stand there and wait.

  When Philip starts crying, I look back as his big sister takes him in her arms and pulls him close. “Shhh, honey.”

  “I need my violin.” He sounds like a lost kitten now, helpless.

  “Okay, sweetie. Okay. We’ll find it.” He sinks into her embrace, peaceful at last. When she looks up at me I can see what she wants me to do.

  I tilt my head toward the back seat and the black nylon bag. “You can’t just buy him a new violin?”

  “Our father gave it to him before he died. It’s special.”

  “Nothing is that special.”

  “Joey, please.”

  As the pressure mounts behind my eyes, I watch Philip rocking in Kristina’s lap. He’s so different from me—chess wiz, violin prodigy. I remember thinking Philip took for granted a certainty Trisha and I never had, but here he is—with me—and his life is about to be turned upside down again. Like me, like Trisha, like every foster I’ve ever known. Not property of the state maybe, but a still pawn. Still just a kid trying to stake a claim to himself.

  Maybe not so different from me, after all. We each cling to something we can to call our own. A few tools, a poem. For Philip, it’s his damn violin.

  Ten years ago, I failed my sister Laura. Three days ago, I failed Trisha. And tonight? Philip wouldn’t even be here now if I hadn’t pretended to be a chess player. Without me, his life would have continued—awkward and miserable maybe, but safe. For that matter, if I could have found a single moment of trust in Trisha, maybe YouTube wouldn’t have happened either.

  Duncan is dead, and Mrs. Huntzel is responsible, but in a way, so am I.

  I can’t help Duncan now. But maybe I can make up for my piece of it.

  I nod toward the backseat. “Her purse—”

  Kristina dumps the purse before I can finish the thought. She hooks the set of keys on one finger and displays them triumphantly.

  “Good. Now will you please get going?”

  She nods, but then she takes my hand. “Joey, you know I’d go for the violin myself if I could.”

  “I get it. You’re his sister.” I make no effort to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “It’s fine.”

  “How will I find you later?”

  I think for a second. “You know Uncommon Cup, on Hawthorne?”

  “Sure.”

  “Leave a message with Marcy there. I’ll get in touch as soon as I can, assuming I don’t end up a french fry.” My voice hitches and I have to blink away an image of burning walls.

  The way she squeezes my hand feels like it will be the last time. “Thank you, Joey.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  3.10: Smoke Alarm

  Stillness surrounds me as I creep back to the basement. My ears strain for any sound of movement, but all I can hear is my own drumbeat pulse, my own gasping breath. The smell of gasoline is almost overpowering as I creep up the stairs, but at least it’s not smoke. I wonder again, why hasn’t she started the fire? Against the pressure of the silence, I edge one foot ahead of the other and force my way through the house.

  Gasoline drenches the floors in the kitchen and butler’s pantry, and up the first few risers of the south stairs. That tells me she’s been here, which is good. I’m less likely to encounter her where she’s already been. The gas also confirms who won the WWE SmackDown outside the vault. No telling where Bianca is now.

  The air is clear of fumes and the carpet dry when I reach the second floor. I scurry down the dark corridor—expecting gunfire with each step—and dart into Philip’s room.

  Where I stall. I have no clue where he keeps the damn violin. Helpless, I stare into a degree of chaos that would make Mad Maddie stroke out. Scattered books, DVD cases, heaps of clothes, forgotten plates and bowls—and no sign of a violin.

  There’s no time for finesse. I tear through the room, spilling drawers, sweeping books off shelves, scattering clothes. Too loud, but I half imagine the smell of smoke already. I trip over Kristina’s bag and kick it out of the way. She can damn well buy another bag. No such luck with the violin.

  He needs to keep it secret, yet close enough to easily get any time he wants. In his place, I’d build a hide, but Philip never got a carpentry lesson from Mr. Rieske. The back of his closet is solid: old plaster years overdue for paint, oak floor intact, no unexpected seams. The room’s baseboards aren’t deep enough to hide a violin case.

 
Think, dumbass.

  But it’s no good thinking like me. When Wayne found out about my tools, he made them his—probably to sell on craigslist so he could buy a Blu-ray player to go with his new TV. But there’s no Wayne in Philip’s life, no Anita, or Reid, or even Mrs. Petty. Just Philip and the woman he calls mom. He might be hiding the violin from the rest of the world, but in the house it’s safe.

  Then it hits me.

  I turn to the bed.

  The sheets and blankets are wadded up at the head, same as the day I came to scrounge some clothes.

  What’s the violin to Philip?

  It’s Stravaganza del Talento, it’s the anti-chess. It’s his power, what he’s best at. It’s his escape.

  Even among neurotypicals, Reid said, there is no normal. The violin is what he loves.

  I grab a handful of the blankets and yank. As the covers untangle, the violin case tumbles out. Of course he sleeps with the damn thing.

  Time to bail.

  I listen at Philip’s door, wishing I really did have the super hearing Trisha makes fun of. I hear nothing, but that’s small comfort. I ease the door open to the stench of gasoline and a deeper silence. All I can do is make a break for it, but when I slip out of Philip’s room, Mrs. Huntzel is waiting. A gas can rests on the floor at her feet, but my attention is all on the gun. The black hole in the end of the barrel freezes me.

  For a moment, she looks at me like I’m a rat turd in her salad. I don’t know who she was expecting as she waited outside the door, but I’m not it. Then the understanding seems to set in.

  “You always were a resourceful boy.”

  I have no response, but she’s not looking for one.

  “My husband warned against bringing you into our lives.” In the faint light, I can just make out the trace of a wistful smile. “I suppose I should have listened, but you know I always liked you, Joey.”

  No one ever says I always liked you unless things are about to go sideways.

  “You took care of my baby when he needed you, and I’m grateful for that.” She sounds resigned, but the gun in her hand tells a different story. I assume the only reason she hasn’t pulled the trigger so far is fear of hitting Philip’s precious instrument.

  “I’ll leave. We can all leave.”

  Her response is a sad shake of her head. “Give me the violin.”

  I take a step back and clutch the case to my chest. Kristina should be gone by now. I hope. “It belongs to Philip.” I only have to stall long enough to be sure.

  “I’ll take it to him.”

  At that moment I hear approaching sirens.

  “What have you done?” she snaps.

  I can’t help but smile.

  She raises her arm and fires. I stumble back as the bullet shrieks…into me or past me? There’s no time to think about the sudden pain along my jawline, because Mrs. Huntzel screams as flames erupt and engulf her arms and chest. Gas fumes and gunfire: not a good mix.

  In horror, I crawl backward as she throws herself against the wall, howling like an animal. Her thrashing throws sparks in all directions. Then the gun goes off again. The gas can on the floor explodes and throws me down the hall. Everything goes dark.

  Seconds or minutes later, the shriek of smoke detectors snaps me back to my senses. Around me, the walls are on fire, the carpet crackles, black smoke boils along the ceiling. I spot the smoldering lump of Mrs. Huntzel against the far wall and, for an awful instant, picture my sister’s crib draped in flames. I shut my eyes, clench my teeth, but the piercing wail of the detectors alights every nerve, exhorting me to run.

  Philip’s violin is still in my arms. I roll over, crawl away from the flames, jump to my feet. Fire chases me down the hall, then leaps up to block my way through the library. It’s too much. I head back the way I came. Flames climb the walls of the central staircase and leap across the treads. I start down anyway, four steps, five. Then lunge backward when something cracks overhead and shower of sparks and burning debris falls across my path. When I turn, the hallway is impassable. My only choice is down—or dead. I jump—

  —and hit the top of elevator, one leg crashing through sheet metal. Fire pours down the lift cable. I throw myself backward, nearly twisting my foot off. A sharp pain knifes through my ankle as I fall. Something cushions my landing, but my breath whuffs out of me. At least I manage to hang onto the damned violin.

  When I roll over and look up, Bianca stares back at me.

  I yelp and crab backward. The violin case skids across the floor, but her eyes don’t follow. She’s propped against the bottom of the lift. Her flesh is the color of old concrete. Her designer outfit is in shreds, her shoes gone. She doesn’t react when a cinder falls on her exposed forearm. Her body is what broke my fall.

  I shudder and turn away. I find the violin and drag myself to the rec room door, test the wood before I reach for the doorknob. It’s like touching a stove burner. The other direction, at the far end of the utility hall, the firelight is blinding. The smoke detector screams are less piercing now, or maybe my eardrums have burst.

  Behind me, the central staircase collapses, burying Bianca in flames and debris. Every exit is cut off by fire. My ankle is a mess, my chin bleeding. I stand on one foot. The slate floor won’t burn, even if everything else will. I hobble to the back wall near the bathroom. The plaster-coated concrete will probably be the last thing to go. Does concrete burn? Hot as it’s getting, fucking steel will burn. I sag onto my ass and cradle the violin. Water floods my eyes. I can hardly breathe. “I’m sorry, Philip.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. For failing to escape with his precious instrument? For letting his secret out into the world? For not understanding who he really is. An orphan, like me. Like all of us.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. See Kristina…and Trisha. I’m sorry I’ll never be able to make things right with her. My head swims. I can’t stop the sounds burbling up from my throat. I don’t want to die like this, like my sister died. I’m sorry, Laura. I’m sorry for a lot of things. All I can hope is that Trisha frees herself from Mr. Vogler, and that Kristina and Philip get away. Hell, I even hope the ugly old dog got clear of this disaster—

  The dog.

  “Caliban.” The name is a revelation in my throat.

  No one knows how he comes and goes. I remember him jumping into that hole up the hill from the house, the scrabbling sounds I heard rising from the shaft when I called out for Kristina from the vault. A lot of water comes off Mount Tabor when it rains, she said. The drains must not connect just to each other, but to a larger system.

  Is it big enough? Caliban is half my size. Kristina is near enough to me, though, and she made it. But it’s one thing to match her feat, crawling through the pipe from one room to the next. It’s quite another to think I can wriggle my way up the hill to the hole the damn dog uses. But I’m dead for sure if I stay where I am.

  Fuck it—

  Fire chases me down the utility corridor. I beat it through the first storage room door and claw at the grate covering the drain. The screws here are intact. Caliban must have another way out, a drain where the grate has rusted away. Maybe the spot where Kristina came up during the Great Vault Escape.

  For half an overheated second, I wonder if I can get to it. But a whumpf and the crash of falling brick in the doorway cut me off from the basement maze. I look around for something to pry up the grate, but all I see are bare walls. Six months ago, I cleaned this space out and got rid of anything of possible use. The project earned me my first Huntzel hundred. Nice job, Joey!

  Out of options, I thread my fingers through the bars of the grate and heave with everything I’ve got. I’m not sure what will give first, the screws or my shoulder sockets. A cinder lands on my neck and I scream, the sound punctuated by a sudden pop as the old screws break. Momentum throws the grate into my chin and I topple over backward. For a seco
nd I lay there, dazed. But the sight of flames boiling across the ceiling clears my head in the space of a single coughing gasp.

  I kick the violin case into the hole, then drop down after it. I splash into knee-deep water, in some kind of catch basin. A pair of pipes run off in opposite directions. Pick a hand, white pawn or black. Either option is as likely as the other to end in checkmate. I grab the violin and go for the one which smells less of smoke.

  The space isn’t big enough for me to crawl on my hands and knees. I have to push the violin case ahead of me and wriggle on my belly, like a cork trying to squeeze back into the bottle.

  Cracks in the pipe offer fingerholds I can use to pull myself along. Sharp edges tear at my arms and legs. The stench of rot threatens to bring up whatever’s left of the conveyor belt sushi I ate a lifetime ago. If I get out of here, I’m going to have to soak in a vat of antibiotics for a week.

  At the next catch basin, and the next, the drain shafts look up into the inferno. Falling cinders keep me moving through a tunnel that seems to go on forever. I only hear the roar of the fire and the sound of my own sobbing. As the world above burns, all I can do is thrust the violin case forward and follow what I hope is the hideous, beautiful dog’s escape route. Not until I reach a basin with a third option, a pipe that slopes upward, do I dare allow myself a shred of hope. I choke on rushing water. Inhale mud. Roots and stones scrape my flesh. But somehow, I find my way through Caliban’s hole in the hillside into free air.

  Below me, Huntzel Manor burns. The night sky is filled with glowing ash. For a few minutes, all I can do is sit in the mud and draw exhausted breaths. But I can’t afford to rest for long, not with emergency vehicles pouring into the area. I give myself another minute, then hobble down the hill to retrieve my suitcase with Trisha’s laptop from the upper veranda.

  Moments later, as the house collapses behind me, I limp off into the wet night.