by Wendy Heard
He might do it. He might think he has to.
“He’s nervous,” she says. “Poor little guy.”
I cuss her out through the tape, telling her she better hope and pray I don’t get out of these cuffs.
She casts a careless glance back at me. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.” She turns back to rip the duct tape off my mouth. It takes some skin with it.
As soon as it’s off, I’m talking. “Don’t ask him to kill Sofia. Don’t do it. Please. Please, I’m begging you.”
She returns her eyes to the iPad. “I hate improvising, but this time I think I’ve done well. I’ve decided your brother is going to be the Blackbird Killer we’ve been looking for. He’ll be the youngest active serial killer in Los Angeles history. Like it?”
“You’re framing him? You can’t do that. He’s just a kid.”
“I’m in charge of the investigation now. So, yeah. I can.” On screen, Joaquin is in the elevator. “And the way Carol has been keeping him holed up at home, he doesn’t have an alibi for any of the murders. I’ve already created a psychological profile for him, a child acting out of stress after imprisonment and abuse at the hands of his adoptive mother. It’s textbook. The injection of poison stems from his lifelong issue with needles as a result of his diabetes. It’s trauma and psychopathy. The media will love it, trust me.”
“But why?” The words come out as a wail. “Kevin was innocent. Joaquin is innocent. You’re supposed to help people like us. Why do you even do the murder club if you’re going to kill the people you’re supposed to be helping?”
She looks at me in the rearview mirror. Her dark eyes are fringed in long, pretty lashes. “I learned long ago not to be sentimental. When you’re weighing the value of lives, and you set your rules, you can’t make exceptions. Those are the rules of war.”
“This isn’t a war, you fucking bitch! This is my son you’re sending in to kill an unarmed woman!”
She smiles sadly. “That’s what war is, Jasmine. Any soldier can tell you that. Now be quiet and let me concentrate.” Her eyes disappear from the mirror, and she leans in to study the iPad.
My hands have gone past numb into painful tingle-stabbing, and the burn in my shoulders is becoming impossible to ignore. I wiggle my fingers, try to get some mobility back. The grab handle squeaks a little under my handcuffs. It brings Joaquin’s words back to me, about Carol’s car.
I know what he meant.
It was five years ago. I was doing pull-ups on the back seat grab handle to make Joaquin laugh, and it broke off, sending Carol into a rage. I had to buy a new one and fix it for her, but she still never forgave me. This grab handle is just like that one. It’s not one of the hinged ones that swings forward and back; it’s stationary and looks deceptively like it’s made of one plastic piece. It’s not, though. It’s made of three pieces. The middle piece is attached to the sidepieces, which are screwed into the car ceiling. I’d broken the middle piece, which is just plastic and only held on to the sidepieces with clips.
God, that kid is smart. I love him so much. Gently, so as not to alert Patel, I slide the handcuffs forward a couple of inches so the chain that connects them slips into the seam where the centerpiece connects to the side bracket. That should be the weakest part of the mechanism. I grip the handcuffs by the chain to take some of the stress off my wrists and pull, hard.
On the iPad screen, the elevator doors open in front of Joaquin, and he walks through them.
My muscles are weak from being suspended for so long, but pull-ups are such an automatic thing. The grab handle creaks. I pull harder, muscles trembling with exertion.
40
JOAQUIN
HE STANDS IN front of the door marked 215. The hallway stretches out on either side, silent and empty.
The syringe is a strange oblong shape in his pocket. He has his right hand wrapped around it to ensure the needle doesn’t stab him. With his left hand, he knocks on the door. His stomach is doing somersaults.
What does it feel like to die from poison? Do you just fall asleep?
There are so many doors in this hallway. What if one of them opened? What if he asked someone for help? Or he could just start yelling right now. Would that work?
But then he thinks of Jazz, in the car at gunpoint.
He has to be a hero. He has to man up. This is what you do in a crisis situation: you look out for your sister. Mom. Whatever. The thought hurts, a new ache in his stomach.
He looks down at the necklace. The eye of the camera is a small black pearl in the center of the fake Aztec coin. He can’t see a place for a microphone, though. It’s a smooth gold coin, no holes anywhere, just the shiny lens of the miniature camera. He pinches it between two fingers and pulls it a few inches away from his body to look at the back face of the coin. There’s no hole for a microphone back there, either. That’s weird. He’s sure the lady said she could hear him.
The door handle clicks. The door cracks open, fastened with a chain on the inside. A pair of brown eyes in a tanned face look out at him. “Joaquin?” The door shuts, the chain rattles, and the door swings open.
Ms. Russo stands before him, in leggings and a stretchy tank top. She is such a surprise, he stares at her silently like an idiot.
“Joaquin! What are you doing here? Are you all right?”
“Ms. Russo?” he asks, just to confirm he’s still in reality and hasn’t wandered down some Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole.
She checks the hallway behind him. “Joaquin, what’s going on? Where’s Jazz?”
He shakes his head, stricken with stupidity. How does she know Jazz?
“Where is she? How did you get here?”
He grips the syringe. He needs to pull it together. The coin on his chest is watching, listening. “Can I come inside?”
“Of course. Come in, come in.” She pulls him in with a hand on his back, almost a hug, which is weird; he barely knows her.
What alternate reality has he wandered into? What is happening? Why is his AP hugging him? Why is he even at her apartment? And how did he never notice her boobs before?
She closes the door behind him. It’s a rich-person apartment, with shiny wood floors and a kitchen full of fancy appliances visible to the left.
Inspiration strikes. “Hey, I’m sorry, Ms. Russo, but with my diabetes, I get kind of shaky. Do you have a glass of milk or something?”
“Of course!” She leads the way to the kitchen.
Now is when he should inject her. His hand tightens on the syringe.
Jazz wouldn’t want him to. But Jazz doesn’t get to decide. He’s lived his whole life thinking his biological mother abandoned him. To know there is no such person, that it’s been Jazz this whole time—
Ms. Russo opens the fridge and peers inside. “Jazz would laugh at me, but all I have is LaCroix and coconut water. How about I make you some hot tea?”
Jazz would laugh at her? She knows Jazz well enough to know what Jazz would laugh at? How do they know each other? Is he in trouble at school and no one told him?
Ms. Russo puts a mug in the microwave and pushes a few buttons. She says, “Now tell me what’s going on. Where’s Carol?”
He remembers Jazz’s face in the car. She doesn’t want him to do it. She’d kill him if he did this.
The decision happens without his approval. It’s just a click in his head, a relaxing of the muscles in the hand that holds the needle in his pocket.
He can’t do it.
The realization breaks his heart. This means Jazz might die. Because of him. Because he can’t. It’s not in him. It’s not who he is, and it’s not who Jazz would want him to become.
So now he has to find a way out.
41
JAZZ
DON’T DO IT, Joaquin. I’m thinking it at him like he can read my mind, begging him, pleading with him.
>
If Patel looks behind her, she’s going to see that I’m almost in a full chin-up, muscles shaking.
The grab handle creaks. I pull harder.
Come on, Joaquin. Don’t do it. No kid’s morals should ever be put to the test like his are right now, but I’ve learned life is fucked up like that. Should and shouldn’t are nothing in this world.
On the iPad, Sofia is putting a mug into a microwave. Patel grumbles to herself. She seems annoyed by how long it’s taking Joaquin to kill her.
Don’t do it.
I pull my knees into my chest to get all my weight off the seat, to make myself as heavy as I can.
The handle snaps. I tumble forward, bashing my face into the cloth seat.
Patel spins around. The gun points at me. It fires—a hiss—there’s a silencer.
I fling myself behind the driver’s seat. I push myself up behind her and whip my handcuffed hands around her neck, choking her out from behind. Her gun hand flies up. She tries to aim it at me behind her, but she can’t get her hand positioned right.
In her ear, I growl, “Do you think it’s gonna be that easy? I have fought for every breath my son has taken.”
42
JOAQUIN
MS. RUSSO STIRS the tea. He’s sweating. His brain reminds him that she is still wearing the tight tank top. Shut up, brain, please.
Her phone is on the counter. It’s dark and silent. If he could just call 911 without alerting Ms. Russo, so she doesn’t ask questions the horrible lady in the car will hear...
He turns his back to the phone so it’s not visible to the camera. He reaches out for it.
Ms. Russo turns around and hands him the mug. “Give that a try.” She steps past him and picks her phone up. “Let me call Jazz. Does she know you’re here?” She unlocks the screen and searches for a contact.
I’ve got to get her away from her phone.
He drops the mug onto the floor, a little harder than would be natural. It cracks into pieces, and boiling hot tea goes splashing all over the floor and his shoes. “I’m so sorry,” he cries. He’s a terrible actor. It sounds so fake.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll get the broom and a towel. Hang on.” Rather than put her phone on the counter, she tucks it into the strap of her tank top. Fuck! She hurries out of the room, leaving him standing there in a puddle of tea. The kitchen light catches the coin. He can see every little crevice.
There’s no microphone hole. For sure. For sure.
That lady lied. He’s pretty sure she can see him, but she can’t hear him. She just didn’t want him saying anything to Ms. Russo. Ha!
Ms. Russo returns, a broom and a towel in her hands. He turns his back on her so the camera is facing the opposite direction.
“Ms. Russo, listen to me.” His voice is shaky. “I have a camera around my neck and a needle full of poison in my pocket. I’ve been sent up here to kill you. I know this sounds totally crazy. But there’s a lady holding Jazz hostage down in the car. She wants to see me kill you or she’ll kill Jazz. Can you call 911 from your phone real fast?”
Ms. Russo is quiet for a moment. He holds his breath. She’s not going to believe him. She’s an assistant principal. She’s going to think he’s playing some weird prank on her. She’s going to—
Then she says, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to go downstairs and hide in the closet of the pool house. My keys are on the little table by the front door. I’m going to wear the camera necklace, and I’m going to call the police and explain the situation. What kind of car is she in?”
“It’s like...a four-door old American car. Beige or gray. Parked on the small street to the side of your building.”
“Perfect. You’re doing great.” She’s in full teacher mode now, in control. He feels her fiddling with the catch of the necklace. “We’re going to take this off you and put it on me. I’ll move around so it looks like you’re just waiting in the kitchen.”
The catch releases. He ducks down out of the necklace, and he steps aside. Ms. Russo puts the chain around her own neck and fastens the catch. She has her phone in her hand, and she’s starting to dial. He casts his eyes around the kitchen. A knife block.
She looks up at him. “Go. Now. Pool house. Hide.”
He reaches a sneaky hand out and pulls a paring knife out of the knife block. On his way out of the kitchen, he passes a wine rack filled with dark bottles. He grabs two of them and runs for the front door of the apartment.
He’s not going to the pool house. No way. He’s going outside to help Jazz, because he knows who he is.
43
JAZZ
I’M CHOKING PATEL so hard my arms are cramping up. She flails, wild. The gun goes off, fires into the ceiling.
Outside the windshield, a flash of movement. A small body—Joaquin—and then a crash as something hits the windshield. The glass cracks in a web. The windshield is covered in blood? No—
Wine? He threw a wine bottle.
Another bottle smashes into the windshield with a massive crack. More wine coats the glass.
Patel twists out of my grip and raises her gun to aim at Joaquin. The wine and cracked glass make it impossible to see. I scream and try to get my handcuffs around her neck again, but she’s too fast. She fires through the windshield, sending more cracks through the tempered glass. I try the door handle—of course it’s child locked—and Patel points the gun back at me. I drop down fast. A bullet slices through the back seat with a thunk.
The door beside me opens, and Joaquin beckons me out. I jump out and fall on my face on the asphalt, cuffed hands in front of me. My ankles are tied. Joaquin crouches by my feet. He saws at the knots with a little kitchen knife.
The driver’s door opens, and the gun precedes Patel out. It kicks back and a chip of asphalt splinters violently off the ground next to my hand. I grab the door with both hands and slam it into Patel’s face. She drops back, squeezing the trigger as she goes, shooting the palm fronds above us and sending little bits of tree tumbling down.
I kick the ropes off my feet and Joaquin and I sprint away from the car, closing the distance to the apartment gate, and tuck ourselves behind the trunk of the palm tree. Our breath is fast and ragged in the quiet suburban night.
To Joaquin, I say, “Go up to Sofia’s apartment. Use the side gate. That’s a short fence—you can hop it.”
“I have a gate key.”
“Good! Perfect.”
“Ms. Russo is calling the police. So they should be here soon.”
“You’re awesome.” I peek out sideways from the tree. Patel is hiding behind the car, the gun aimed at me over the trunk. To Joaquin, I say, “Get behind the concrete wall that surrounds the planter, and stay behind it the whole way in case she starts shooting at you. If she makes a run toward you, I’ll tackle her.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course. I’ll keep her busy till the cops get here.” With my tethered hands, I grab some of the white decorative rocks. “Go!” I say.
I reach back and hurl the handful of rocks at Patel’s car. She shoots at the motion, and Joaquin takes off in the other direction, vaulting over the concrete wall and ducking behind it into the planter. He’s fast, his hoodie and jeans dark on dark in the shadows. He’s strong and he’s fast because he’s my son. The thought fills me with explosive pride, and fear is a distant memory as I imagine ripping Patel limb from limb.
I yell in the direction of the car, “The cops are on their way. You can say hi to your friends when they get here and tell them what you’ve been up to.”
A bullet hits something nearby. I sprint across the sidewalk to the front gate entry and duck inside the nook where the keypad is, which shelters me from being shot, but now I can’t see Patel. I try to catch my breath.
“Come on, bitch,” I call out. “What are you waiting for? C
ome and get me.”
Silence.
I sidle back around the corner and peek between the bars of the gate.
She’s not at the car. She’s gone.
44
SOFIA
SOFIA KEEPS HER phone down by her side, out of view of the camera. She dials 911. She brings it to her ear.
It rings. Three times. Four times.
She can’t just stand here. But if she doesn’t make it look like Joaquin is still up here, that could mean Jazz’s life.
Six times. Seven. Come on, she screams internally.
Nine rings. Ten.
Her phone cracks to life. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I need you to send the police. 12774 Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Someone has a gun. Someone is trying to kill someone in the front of my apartment building. You need to send the police. Please. Now!” She forces herself to hold still, to keep the necklace steady.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a deep breath and repeat yourself. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Years of training bring Sofia’s panic to a screeching halt. She’s been through lockdowns. She knows how to handle an active shooter situation. Steady and calm, she says, “There is someone with a gun holding someone hostage in a car. I need the police to come to 12774 Laurel Canyon Boulevard.”
“Ma’am, are you in the car that is being threatened?”
“No, I’m upstairs in my apartment. Someone just told me they saw it happening.”
“One moment. I’m going to transfer this to LAPD. Stay on the line.”
It’s pure torture to hold still, but she does, and in the silence, she hears gunshots.
Jazz.
She can’t just sit here.
She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter. Carefully, she unlatches the necklace and, keeping out of view of the camera, hangs it on a fridge magnet shaped like California, from a long-ago vacation. The camera has a view of the oven. It’s not ideal, but it’s at chest level, at least.