There was a sound of splintering wood. A flood of sunlight. A man raced across the foyer toward her, his body outlined by the sun. His hands were around her, pulling her free of Kimmi.
“I’ve got you,” he said, racing out of the house. He had a van parked out front, and Dee was just able to recognize the US Postal Service logo on the side before he deposited her in the driver’s seat.
“Hello?” he said into his cell phone. “Is this nine-one-one? I’d like to report an emergency.”
Nyles isn’t Kimmi, Dee said to herself. Neither is Mara or Griselda. You can trust them.
Dee’s skin was icy cold as she walked down the middle of Ninth Street, her toes partially numb from the ridiculous shoes, and though she’d intentionally left the house without a jacket so as not to cover up her thematic outfit, she silently cursed that decision, wrapping her arms around her waist to stave off the shivers.
“Would you like my jacket?” Nyles offered, peeling the black corduroy off his shoulders. Which was totally and adorably sweet of him.
“No, thanks,” she said. “This outfit is clickbait, remember?”
“More like bait for pedos,” Griselda said.
Ahead of them, Mara stopped. “Here it is.”
The abandoned elementary-school auditorium was oddly out of place. In a compound that appeared to be cobbled together from portables, corrugated metal storage units, and a few other single-story structures, the auditorium soared above everything, a hulking mass in the darkness. And not only was it taller than the rest of the school, but its art deco style was completely anachronistic. Heavily adorned with sculptural flourishes and ornate geometric lines, it must have been a remnant of the world’s fair that had prompted the building of the island in the first place.
Nyles took Dee’s hand and led her up a short set of steps, their crumbling masonry precarious beneath Dee’s unstable footwear. They stopped at metal double doors, more modern than the rest of the building and in significantly better shape. Even in the subdued light, Dee could see that the material was sound, rust free, and most likely impenetrable.
“Are they meant to keep strangers out,” Nyles mused, “or victims in?”
Dee sighed. “Only one way to find out.” She swung open the door.
The smell hit her first, a mix of wet dog and manure that instantly reminded her of field trips to the Los Angeles Zoo, and as Dee stood on the threshold, she half expected to hear the deafening roar of a lion or a howling hyena cackle echoing from inside.
But the auditorium was blessedly quiet.
The moonlight streaming through the front door illuminated a small patch of the lobby, just enough for Dee to discern the threadbare carpeting, stained and ripped from years of neglect. She followed Nyles inside, ears straining against the oppressive silence, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that the doors leading from the lobby into the main body of the auditorium stood wide open.
The interior glowed a dull blue from a dozen tall, thin windows that stretched nearly to the vaulted roof, giving the old auditorium the appearance of a small cathedral. The bottom floor of the multipurpose room had been cleared of the chairs and tables that would have filled it during school lunches or holiday performances, leaving a vast empty space.
Well, mostly empty. There were notable exceptions: two large animal pens stood down center on the auditorium’s stage.
“I’ll give you this one,” Griselda said, at Mara’s side. “This is definitely Molly’s setup.”
“Thanks,” Mara said. In the pale light, her skin looked positively transparent. “But where’s Molly?”
Nyles and Dee crossed the auditorium, her kitten heels clacking against the tile floor. The cages loomed before them. They were identical: rectangular, about ten feet high, with thick iron bars pitted and marred with use and age. One side of each cage was missing entirely.
“Weird.” Dee climbed up onto the stage for a closer look. “The hinges on this side are gone.”
Nyles joined her. “Looks as if the doors have been removed.”
“Why would Molly dismantle her cages?” Griselda asked, mounting the stairs beside the proscenium. “That’s her thing. It’d be like Robin’s Hood burning his bow and arrows.”
“The doors must be around here somewhere.” Dee searched the darkened area upstage.
“Look!” Nyles pointed at a set of deep grooves in the splintered floorboards where something had been dragged on or off the stage recently.
Griselda folded her arms. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Dee’s eyes drifted from the scratch marks to a dark patch beside them, as if the old wooden stage had been stained by something.
Blood.
Dee could easily picture the scene that had played out. An inmate, probably drugged during the kidnapping, wakes to the deafening roar of Bengal tigers, famished and ready for mealtime, pacing menacingly in the cages. A moment of panic, the desperate search for an escape, Molly’s taunting. Then, the inevitable. Screams of agony, a body torn limb from limb, gore spilling from the victim’s remains, the coppery metallic tang of blood filling the air as…
A thud broke Dee from her thoughts. She froze, visions of mangled bodies and ravenous beasts forgotten. What was that? Footsteps? A door closing? Was Molly here after all?
She spun around toward the open auditorium. “Did anyone hear…” But the rest of the sentence faded on her lips. The floor of the auditorium was empty.
Mara was gone.
“MARA!” DEE CRIED. SHE raced down the steps to the auditorium floor. “Mara, where are you?”
Nyles was beside her. “Outside,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I thought I heard a door close.”
Dee ran as fast as her stupid kitten heels would allow, with Griselda following close behind. They burst through the metal doors onto the crisp, dark night, but the street was abandoned.
“MARA!” Dee listened, desperate to hear Mara’s reply rippling through the still air, but the only response was the gentle swoosh of the evening wind.
Someone had taken her. Dee knew it. They’d been on the stage, backs to the auditorium, examining the cages. One of the Painiacs could have slipped into the school behind them and grabbed Mara while no one was looking.
How long had it been—two minutes? Five? Luckily, whoever had Mara didn’t have much of a head start.
Dee spun around, grabbing Nyles by both arms. “We have to go after Monica.”
Nyles tilted his head to the side. “Mara.”
“Yes, of course,” said Dee. Had Nyles lost his mind?
“You said Monica.”
“I did?”
Nyles nodded.
Whatever. The name didn’t matter. “We still have time to save her.”
Griselda’s lips hardened into thin lines. “Like we still had time to save Ethan?”
“Like we still had time to save you,” Dee said, lashing out. She was tired of Griselda’s shitty attitude.
Griselda arched an eyebrow. “There are seven other locations on the island. We’ll never find her in time.”
She was right. Searching them one at a time, Mara might be dead before they reached her. “Then we split up.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind, Princess?”
But Dee wasn’t listening. “I’ll take Gassy Al’s pavilion,” she said, hurrying down the broken steps, “then make my way back across the island and meet you in the middle.”
“Dee, wait!” Nyles called.
“Go to the dry dock first and the coffeehouse!” she cried over her shoulder. “Please!”
Nyles opened his mouth to protest, then paused and gave her a curt nod.
Dee turned on her heels and sprinted across the island.
Dee’s feet were sore and blistered as she ran, but she didn’t slow down until she reached the pavilion. Her decision to try Gassy Al’s kill room first wasn’t random. Mara seemed to think that he was the one they’d be most likely to encounter, and Dee pray
ed that she was right.
But as Dee approached the pavilion, her heart sank.
Everything was dark and silent.
Dee limped around the perimeter, hoping for signs of life. A rectangular outer structure of cinder blocks and mortar had been built around the glass-walled pavilion, and though the metal door—which opened onto a grassy hillock on the north side—looked formidable, it swung noiselessly open with the slightest pull. Inside, the wall formed a courtyard around the tented structure, which was ringed with cameras for a full view of the “fun.” Furnished with wood-framed lawn chairs embellished with brightly hued cushions, this spot was where Gassy Al toyed with his victims.
It was the perfect setup, too. Once used for weddings, luncheons, and special events of all flavors, the pavilion had see-through glass walls and a vaulted tentlike ceiling, which must have presented quite a spectacle back in its heyday. Without the surrounding wall, it would have faced the water, offering visitors a panoramic view of the San Francisco skyline, and as Dee slowly circled the inner building, she could picture the lavish scenes it must have hosted once upon a time.
But now the lights were off inside the tent, leaving its contents dark and mysterious. Al, like Gucci, liked to dress up his set in a variety of outlandish themes, ranging from historical re-creations like the Tokyo subway sarin gas attack and a Depression-era death row to postapocalyptic fantasies reminiscent of Mad Max.
But not tonight, and as Dee turned to leave, she could only hope that Nyles and Griselda had already found Mara and saved her.
CRASH!
Just as she reached it, the metal door swung closed, locking her inside the courtyard.
“Mara!” she cried, hope reignited. Come on. Please!
Suddenly the lights inside the pavilion came on, flooding the courtyard with piercing whiteness.
Dee squinted against it, her eyeballs screaming out in agony as they raced to constrict, but as they adjusted, she found herself staring at a familiar scene.
It was a girl’s bedroom, complete with false walls on three sides. A twin bed stood in the middle of the space. The frame was white wrought iron, its paint chipped in places, with princessy flourishes. Probably meant for a child. But this was clearly a teen’s room, judging by the posters that adorned the false walls: separate shrines to the Hemsworth brothers and Michael B. Jordan, plus a wall entirely devoted to outfits worn by a certain Gucci Hangman, including fabric samples, runway dupes, and sketches.
More importantly, it was a room Dee recognized. The Hemsworths and Michael B. Jordan were Monica’s celebrity crushes; Gucci Hangman, Monica’s obsession. The crocheted afghan on the bed. The cube-shaped mood-light alarm clock on the nightstand, glowing purplish blue. The half-empty bottle of lime sparkling water beside it. Every detail was exact.
Dee was staring at Monica’s bedroom.
Only instead of Monica on the floor, her face purple and her bulging eyes lifeless, Mara lay facedown on the bed.
“WAKE UP!” DEE POUNDED on the glass with her fists. It felt as solid as the cinder-block wall that surrounded her. “Mara! Get up! You have to get up!”
The figure on the bed didn’t stir.
“Do you want her to wake up?” a voice asked. It was robotic and devoid of inflection, as if computer generated. She spun around, ready to find Gassy Al standing beside her, but there was no one. Just a speaker mounted on the wall. “I can make that happen.”
The sound of rushing wind filled Dee’s ears. Mara began to stir. Al must have drugged her and then woken her up with a blast of oxygen, like when Dee had woken in the white room, or on a dusty warehouse floor on Alcatraz 2.0.
It took Mara a few seconds to fully regain consciousness. She sat up, eyes heavy, and glanced around the “room.” Instantly she registered the danger.
Mara jumped to her feet, and Dee got a full look at her. Not only had she been imprisoned in a replica of Monica’s bedroom, but Mara had been dressed up in a similar outfit to the one Dee’s stepsister had been wearing the day she was murdered: dark leggings, a tunic cinched with a wide silver belt, and flip-flops.
Gassy Al or The Postman or whoever the hell was in charge knew way too much about Monica’s murder.
Mara was in full panic mode when she spotted Dee. She raced over and slapped her palms against the glass. “Help me!” she screamed, her voice muted by the thick wall of glass between them. “Dee, get me out of here!”
“Look familiar?” the voice asked.
“Let her go!” Dee cried out. “It’s me you want.”
The voice ignored her, as if it hadn’t heard a word she said. “You have to earn nice things.”
Dee froze. That was exactly what Kimmi used to say when she was taunting Dee.
“What does that mean?” Mara said, her eyes wide in terror.
Before Dee could explain, a sickening hiss filled the speaker. The pavilion was starting to fill with gas.
“Concentrated Uragan D-two,” the voice on the speaker announced. “Frequently used as a pesticide. Incredibly effective.”
All thoughts of exposing The Postman and the atrocities on Alcatraz 2.0 fled from Dee’s brain. All she could think about was saving Mara. “Cover your mouth!” she yelled, and held the hem of her dress up to her face, to mimic the action. She must have flashed half of America, but she didn’t care. Keeping Mara alive was all that mattered.
Mara nodded, understanding. She ripped off the belt and, without hesitating, pulled the tunic over her head, exposing a lace bralette underneath. She wadded the tunic into a tight ball and held it to her mouth and nose; then, spotting the sparkling water on the nightstand, she doused the tunic with it.
She stood there, frozen, and for an instant Dee thought it was all over. The effects of the gas were already kicking in, and soon Mara would be convulsing on the floor. But instead of dropping like a rock, Mara spun around and jumped onto the bed, leaping gracefully from it to the dresser to the top of the fake bedroom wall.
Dee didn’t remember shit from chemistry class, other than the fact that some gases were lighter than air, others heavier. She could only hope that Mara had guessed correctly, and that the Uragan D2 would sink before it mixed fully with the breathable air in the chamber, giving Mara extra time.
Which Dee was going to need. The glass felt sturdy and thick when she was pounding on it with her fists, just like the Hardy Girls’ tank. She didn’t have Ethan’s ax, so there was no way she’d be able to break through the walls, and there was no door leading into the pavilion. At least none that she could see. Which left one option.
The tensile roof.
Dee kicked off her shoes and stashed one down the front of her dress. The tentlike structure looked like it might be made of fabric, and Dee was hoping she could rip through it. Barefoot, she dragged one of the wooden chairs over to another, tossed the cushions onto the ground, and lifted it on top, repeating the action until she’d built a rickety lawn chair tower reaching two-thirds of the way to the edge of the roof. Without hesitating, she scaled the side of her makeshift ladder, until she was balancing precariously on the uppermost chair. Dee could just reach the roof with her fingertips, its smooth fabric tantalizingly close. But there was nothing to grab onto, no ledge or bar she could use to hoist herself up. She could, however, easily reach the top of the cinder-block wall behind her. She leaned back, the furniture tower swaying beneath her, looped her arm over the top of the wall, and heaved herself onto it.
The gap between the top of the wall and the vaulted roof of the pavilion looked to be about ten feet, and if Dee had been James Bond or Natasha Romanova, she could easily have leaped across it, landing effortlessly on the edge of the roof before scaling the sloping, white peak as easily as a Himalayan Sherpa scaling a shallow hillside. But she wasn’t a superspy or a superhero. She was a relatively unathletic high school senior, barefoot in a corset-laced prom dress. Odds of her missing the roof and landing in a broken heap on the ground were at least fifty-fifty.
Mara stil
l held the wet tunic to her nose and mouth. She balanced atop the false wall on her hand and knees, her face obscured by her hair, shoulders convulsing as she coughed.
Dee was running out of time. She took a deep breath, crouched as low as she could, and launched herself across the gap.
She landed stomach first, the angle between the tensile roof and the window catching her just below her rib cage. It knocked the wind out of her, and it wasn’t until she began to slide backward that Dee even realized she’d made the jump. Gasping for air, she clawed at the dew-slicked material, desperate to get a grip. She’d expected the tentlike structure to bow under her weight, but it was tauter than she’d realized, and barely gave way. She managed to haul her right leg up onto the hard edge of the glass wall, planting her foot to maintain balance, and stared up at the peaked roof.
Mara was in the middle of the pavilion. Dee would have to scale the side of the tent between the two peaks in order to reach her. It was going to be like rock-climbing a glacier.
But at least she had an ice pick.
She fished the shoe out from the bust of her dress and turned it upside down to use the heel as a hammer.
The first whack left an indentation in the plastic fabric, but it didn’t break the surface. Dee swung harder and the heel went straight through, poking a neat little hole. Finally, a practical purpose for her stupid shoes.
Using the hole as a toehold, she heaved herself up the side of the tent. One puncture hole at a time. At least she was allowing fresh air into the pavilion.
“Dee! What are you doing?”
Dee glanced down over her shoulder and saw Nyles outside the courtyard wall with Griselda by his side.
“Mara’s in there,” she explained quickly.
Nyles nodded. “Hang on. We’ll get the door open.”
Yeah, like she was just going to hang out there while Mara suffocated inside. Not a chance. With one more heave of her Lucite heel, Dee hauled herself over the peak in the tensile roof, then allowed her body to slide down the other side.
#MurderTrending Page 20