21
SUNDAY, 6:31 P.M.
The shot penetrated its target directly in the forehead. A thumb-sized red dot appeared as the body thumped to the ground.
I grimaced as Postma’s frame crumpled, an unsuspecting, almost relieved look on her face.
Cody swore.
Chief’s eyes misted.
Contempt twisted my face, which burned with wrath. Why?
But there were no answers with the conductor. Just manipulation and torture.
“I’m going to kill you,” I said.
“She did everything you asked,” Renfroe added.
The conductor pulled the gun back to himself, tapping the barrel to his mouth. He kissed it. “Don’t you know anything about God? There’s a simple rule: you’re never, ever entitled to know why—except, of course, upon your death when the demons are comin’ to getcha.” He smacked the back of the chief’s head. “Wrap her in curtains. A little blood on your hands should feel just like home.”
I wasn’t sure what the conductor meant by that, but Renfroe complied, grabbing Postma from behind her arms and dragging her toward the showers.
The conductor started tapping the tip of the gun against his head. “You know, I’m actually tiring of this doing-the-opposite-of-what-I-say humdrum. I know it will be worth it in the end, but delayed gratification—what a tease.” He let his jaw hang open on that last word, bent at the knees, then popped back up. “Just dying to see the breaking, just a glimpse of the coming chasm. Every kid’s entitled to one present on Christmas Eve, yes? Let’s try this again.” The conductor jutted his chin at me and spoke flatly. “Take off your shirt.”
I shared a look with Cody.
“Take it off!” The conductor pointed the gun at my friend’s forehead.
I extended a hand to the conductor, took off my jacket, then pulled my shirt up and over my head. Flipped it out of my hand so that it landed halfway between the psychopath and me.
He pointed the gun at my pants. “Now those.”
“Stop the game, you’ve got us.”
“This is the point, Markus,” the conductor said, breathing heavily. “Vulnerability. Power. The breaking. Don’t you see? One way wins, and yours loses. You’re going to bleed—and you can’t do anything about it. So . . . Take. Them. Off.”
I squared myself to the conductor like a bull staring down a matador. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of feeling dominant in this moment.
Steph’s words returned to me as I wondered if Cody and I were facing our last moments on earth. He can’t touch us—not in a way that matters.
She had been talking about faith.
The conductor could break all the wills he wanted, he could manipulate people, he could hurt them with his string. But he couldn’t touch their source of strength.
My belt went first, then pants. Never once taking my eyes off him, I threw my clothes at the conductor’s feet.
“Tough-jock routine is as powerful as a man stripping because god told him to.” The conductor faced Cody. “You’re next, ladies’ man.”
Cody unzipped his pants so quickly you could hear the zing.
The conductor motioned toward the wall where Postma had fallen dead. “Over there. Grip that wall like an oak tree in the eye of a twister.”
We shared a look but complied, pressing our palms to the wall and looking over our shoulders.
The conductor craned his neck toward the showers but kept his eyes, and gun, on us. “Your derriere’s required.”
Renfroe trudged out from the shower stalls, hands covered in crimson, shirt and pants spotted with blood. Sweat had turned his hair from brown to nearly black.
The conductor patted his knee as if calling a mutt. “Look at the treats, Jackie boy. Not only were you spared, but the tables have turned.” The conductor pointed at the shirts on the ground. “Pick those up.”
Renfroe did.
“Good. Stuff them in their mouths.”
The chief, trembling, again did as he was told, wrapping Cody’s shirt in my mouth and pulling it tight enough to split my teeth. He followed suit with my shirt and Cody. We drilled him with our eyes, but he wouldn’t look back.
“Good grief, Chiefy, the hostility.” The conductor laughed. “Making them eat each other’s pits.”
Renfroe stepped off to the side.
The conductor took a stride toward Cody and me, but not close enough for either of us to make a move. He picked up the whip and tossed it to Renfroe. “Ready to die today, Chief? That’s what will happen if either of them move.”
Renfroe stepped up behind us gingerly, the conductor directly behind him. We both braced ourselves against the wall and made eye contact.
Cody wanted to move now.
I tried to shake my head ever so slightly, even though my mind was screaming that Renfroe wasn’t worth it, that we could use him as a human shield, that we needed to think about ourselves, Steph, the girls.
But then I saw it and shook my head again.
Cody pressed against the wall, face red and arms flexed, breathing hard through his nostrils. I could almost hear him saying, All right, bud. We’re dead but I’m with you.
“Stripe them up,” the conductor said. “Take that hatred for yourself and make them wear it.”
Renfroe gazed at the sharp, tiny hooks at the end of each strip of leather.
“Come now,” the conductor said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about taking Haas behind the woodshed? Get to it. The finale’s upon us.”
I eyed what I’d seen at my feet just a moment ago. Small and black, tucked under the small lip between the floor and wall: Postma’s canister of pepper spray, no longer than a thumb.
But the conductor and Renfroe were looking directly at us, which meant bending down for the spray was out of the question.
Unless I was forced to my knees.
I flashed Cody a look and was sure he didn’t understand it, but I rolled with it nonetheless, shouting through my gag, “Just do it!” It didn’t come out like that, but the chief could at least see I was bracing for blows.
The conductor seemed surprised. “The spirit in you.”
Renfroe cracked the whip into my back, and the pain bit like giant bugs sinking their teeth into my spine. I yelled into the shirt, producing a muffled growl.
“Again!” the conductor said. It sounded like he was bursting with excitement.
But it was Cody now who grimaced as the prongs slashed into his back.
Wait. Just wait.
“Hell’s fury, Chiefy—again, again!”
I could feel the stripes forming from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. My legs weakened and shook.
Almost. Almost.
“Your show now, Chief,” the conductor said. “Remember what I’ve got—what you’ve got.” He followed that up with a whisper, but I couldn’t make it out. Then it was back to his boisterous self. “Now more, Chief, more!”
It was Cody’s turn again to take the lashes. “Haas!” he screamed into his gag.
“Haas,” the conductor mocked. But his voice had come from a greater distance. He was backing out of the locker room area and would soon be in the hallway, past the coach’s office, out of sight, out of earshot.
“I’m sorry,” Renfroe said.
The whip struck me again. One more time, just one more time.
Next it was Cody. And again he yelled.
I braced for my turn once more. The talons sunk into my serrated back and I let my knees give way, collapsing to the floor. My right hand gripped the pepper spray.
The timing of Renfroe’s whips became predictable. He was raising it right now, about to strike Cody. I turned my hips in one quick motion, extended my hand with the canister as far as I could—everything hurting like flame-scorched nails embedded in my body—and pressed the dispenser.
What I hadn’t known was that the conductor had left Renfroe with a gun in his other hand. But the stream of pepper shot directly into t
he chief’s face and he stumbled backward, bringing both his whip hand and his gun hand to his face.
Cody had already pushed off the wall and was sprinting—no, leaping—toward the chief. He reared back, smashing Renfroe’s face left, right, left, right. The gun he had been holding slid across the floor.
The chief groaned, coughing and blinking rapidly. He tried to speak but Cody kept punching his jaw.
I tore off my gag, gripped my friend from behind, and pulled him off, nearly catching a blow myself. “Not worth it—he’s done, he’s done.”
Cody nearly wrestled free, yelling muffled words at the writhing man on the ground.
I put one hand on Cody’s chest, the other on his neck, and applied pressure. “People are in danger. Can’t waste time with that.” I pointed at the chief and Cody followed my finger, snarling the entire time. “Get his gun. I’ll get the rest.”
While Cody removed his gag and went to retrieve the firearm, I knelt by the chief. His eyes were watery and swelling. Blood oozed from a broken nose. I think he was mouthing something, but no words were coming out.
I actually found myself feeling pity. “I’m not the type to give life advice, Chief, but if you don’t rediscover whatever you used to stand for, you’re going to die. Maybe even physically. Get me?”
I didn’t wait for an answer as I patted down the chief. No other weapons. But he still liked to be entertained, because in his pocket were two tickets to the Celestial Orchestra—one expensive near the front of the amphitheater, the other in the gymnasium overflow seating. Both in row 1, seat 28. Why they weren’t together made zero sense unless this ticket was that special surprise he’d mentioned.
I shook my head. “This is what you meant by ‘accompanying you’?”
The chief stared at the tickets as if looking through them. Cody had really rung his bell.
Renfroe closed his eyes, appearing as though he were about to drift into the kind of sleep that could only be interrupted with a banging gong.
“How we going to get out of here without causing a scene?” Cody said.
“Not with those,” I said, looking at our bloody clothes.
“Can you stomach showering next to a body?”
We both hit the showers. The water pressure stung but the steam felt like a salve to my wounds.
“Coach’s office is down the hall—let’s hope he has clothes. Then you and I are going to the performance.”
“What’s he going to do?” Cody said.
I let my eyes do the answering, needed to think.
Observe.
The string had never been designed to last. It’d had an expiration date on it from the moment the conductor started entangling innocent people in it. And that expiration was tonight.
Whatever the conductor had been planning was about to unravel, and I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which people didn’t die. The conductor had killed Postma without a moment’s hesitation or twinge of guilt. Earlier, I had entertained the thought that the conductor might be a poser, all bark with no bite. But bloodshed had proven to be nothing to him.
Orient.
The conductor yearned for power, for the breaking. What did that look like at a Celestial Orchestra performance? He wouldn’t actually replace Ivan. I could put a bullet in his chest with ease now that we had recovered the gun he’d left with Renfroe.
Unless . . . the conductor had a load of guns to hijack the entire crowd.
But was that the enthralling power he longed for, leading an orchestra that was under duress? It didn’t make sense. The conductor had another play, something to stroke his ego. He thrived on manipulating the will, and that’s what he would do tonight—to an extent he’d not yet shown.
“You’re doing that OODA thing, aren’t you?” Cody said.
I nodded and we finished showering off, red liquid still pouring down the drain.
We raided the office of the women’s basketball coach, who thankfully was male, worked out, and had a well-stocked wardrobe. Trenton’s red attire was too bright and attention grabbing, but the alternative navy blended well enough.
“Uh . . .” Cody said, pointing at my back.
I looked over my shoulder. Blood had already seeped through my new shirt. I nodded at Cody to pass me another article of clothing.
I checked the time. The performance was starting soon.
We didn’t know what we were walking into, we only had one gun with limited ammunition, and the only two seats we could position ourselves in were in two different buildings: one in the amphitheater, the other in the gymnasium overflow.
Cody handed me the gun. “Better shooter gets the shot.”
I took the weapon.
“Besides, I’ve never minded the overflow. Better view of the single ladies.”
I knew this was how my friend handled stress. “Be careful.”
“You too, Haas.”
22
SUNDAY, 7:19 P.M.
After waiting long enough to make sure our wounds had clotted up, we each shoved our ticket into our pockets and snuck out the way Cody had come in. Thankfully, nobody was around the back of the gymnasium.
A low rumble came from the dark clouds above.
We circled around to the front. With the performance set to start in ten minutes, people were filing toward the gymnasium lobby, then they’d either take their seat in the gym or walk the sky bridge to the amphitheater.
Cody and I pushed ourselves into the cluster of people to blend in, shuffling toward the entrance of the gymnasium, where security guards in red jackets were checking bags and waving people through. Everyone waiting in the long line was fully distracted by members of the Celestial Orchestra on the other side of the ticketing gate. They were erupting into symphony each time volunteers ripped another stub from a ticketholder, playing and transitioning so fast it was hard to tell if their tune was planned or spontaneous.
This was the way of the Celestial Orchestra, from what I’d heard. They were the anti-orchestra in that they never took themselves too seriously or bought into the idea that a suit and tie or fancy dress was the lone acceptable attire for their performances. All that mattered was excellence in the performance, and that wasn’t just about what people heard or saw—but how they were made to feel.
We made it through the line, and our tickets were ripped and the stubs handed back to us.
“Glad to have you—just in time before we close the gates,” the attendant said. I was directed to the right and walked the sky bridge into the amphitheater, while Cody was directed left into the gymnasium.
The chief had gotten himself quite a seat, front row to the left. I worked my way to the cushy red armchair, keeping my head down. I couldn’t shake the feeling that even now the conductor was watching me.
But who was the conductor? And when was he going to make his move?
I had thought it might be Declan. But Cody said he wasn’t a match, and seeing that Steph hadn’t suspected as much also cast doubt on that theory. The conductor and Declan couldn’t be one and the same. Couldn’t.
But that left . . . Ivan? Which had been Alec’s suspicion. Had the kid known something that Cody and I hadn’t? Or had he truly been trying to figure it out for himself even though he was in the midst of betraying us?
The thought of Ivan as the conductor seemed impossible. I thought back to videos of the acclaimed leader of the Celestial Orchestra, picturing him falling off his platform and landing on Renfroe before the game. Had the conductor planned it all—as Ivan? Faked the fall and disappeared to play the white-faced demon? Ivan was a performer; the conductor was a performer. Like Declan, similar height, similar build. But what of the voice? I supposed he could manipulate that as well. But then the research and planning . . . Ivan was always traveling and performing. How would he have executed this? My head hurt.
Unless . . . Postma. She arguably had more access and sway at Trenton University than the president himself, because she was the one with the relationships. She could ha
ve fed the conductor all sorts of information. And most of his communication had come via video, so . . . was it possible Ivan had recorded remotely while having others do his dirty work at the university until he touched down a few days ago?
Janet had received a video when her dog was stolen, but had she actually seen whether or not her dog was there with the conductor? On the other hand, the dog incident had happened just a couple of days ago. Ivan could have easily been in town then.
But why would a rich man doing what he loves throw it away to torture a university twenty years after it had launched his fame? If the conductor were Ivan, the anniversary had something to do with his motivation. But Trenton was what had propelled his career. Why would he target it? What would drive a rich and famous showman to crack under the supposed motivation of “godlike power”?
My thoughts were broken as members of the Celestial Orchestra marched down every aisle, each equipped with their instrument of expertise, playing them as if they’d been doing so since they were old enough to pick them up.
From the moment I’d approached the ticketing gate to now, the orchestra had choreographed every step and beat and sound. They were like grifters, executing the perfect heist with each movement, misdirection, and sleight of hand.
I craned my neck, taking in the crowd and presentation unraveling all around me. So much pleasure among the people was betrayed by the fact that a man among them was here to destroy—all under the guise of control and power over the human will.
The conductor was here tonight for no other reason, it seemed, than gripping goodness by the neck, shoving it to the ground, and choking the life out of it.
I couldn’t warn anyone without appearing like a lunatic. The guards in the red security jackets wouldn’t listen to a suspended TUP officer, let alone a spectator. That left me with a partially emptied mag to protect hundreds from a psychopath in possession of a small armory’s worth of firepower.
The conductor had to put himself front and center at some point, exposed. One shot and it would be over. But what if neither Declan nor Ivan had anything to do with the string? I couldn’t take a shot unless the conductor’s identity became clear.
The String Page 21