Lysa gives an irritated huff. “You only call me counselor when you’re using me to support your case.”
“That’s not true. This time I’m calling you counselor because I think you’ll know the answer.”
“Call me Lysa and I’ll still know. But, to answer your question, I don’t think Iron Rain has ever exonerated someone who has been incarcerated for fourteen years. That’s a really long time.”
“See, Spam? You don’t want to miss that.”
But her face is completely devoid of emotion, which is not a trait that would normally ever be applied to Spam. Her voice is unusually flat too.
“I just…” She trails off as if she doesn’t have enough energy to continue talking.
“We get it,” Lysa says, buckling her seatbelt and starting the car.
“I feel so bad for him. He shouldn’t have to tear up his whole life to protect his mom.”
“You mean aunt,” Lysa says.
Spam nods. “Aunt-mom. You heard how he feels about her. I know it seems like I haven’t known him that long, so how could I be so connected? But I knew him. I told him things about me that I’ve never told the two of you.”
Lysa and I glance at each other.
“I’m going to be honest here,” Lysa says. “It worries me that you got so attached so quickly.”
“Me too,” I say. “You were always the one who had no tolerance for boys. And now look at you.”
She gestures to her sad face. “Well, take a new look, this is unattached. I’ll probably never see him again. Our goodbye was practically a handshake.”
“There’s a chance you’ll see him again. When he turns eighteen he can come back,” I say. “Plus, you know how to find each other in that game. Right?”
“That’s why I wanted to stay home; I was thinking maybe he’d show up for one last raid before he goes.”
There’s a ping as another text from Journey comes in to my phone. “Oh, Journey says Victor just spilled something on his shirt and wants me to bring him a fresh one. Let’s go to my house, pick up a shirt for Victor. Then we can stop and get something to eat. By then it will be time to grab some coffee and meet them at the school. Once the test is over, we’ll drive you home. You’ll be home by nine-thirty or ten at the latest. That’s plenty of time to try to find Lyman on the game if he’s still around.”
Spam rolls her head against the back of the seat. “Fine,” she says.
* * *
When we arrive at my house, Lysa and Spam wait in the kitchen while I run upstairs and grab a clean shirt out of Victor’s closet.
I fly back down the stairs with a white shirt for Victor tucked under my arm. Lysa and Spam are curiously eyeing the dining room, now set up like Victor’s office.
“When did you do this?” Lysa wonders.
“It looks so different,” Spam says.
“Victor needed a place to work. Once school starts and he can officially move onto the campus this might change. But for now, this is his office.”
“Does Rachel even still live here?” Lysa asks.
“Oh yeah. She does,” I say. “She stays at the chief’s a lot. But we still see each other every day.”
“Is Rachel and the chief weird for you?” Spam asks.
I shrug. “Not really.”
I catch Lysa and Spam exchanging a look and I remember my intention to stop hiding my feelings. I lean against the door into the dining room.
“Yeah, it is kinda weird. There’s been a shift in our relationship. But it might be a good thing. It used to be I couldn’t breathe without Rachel in my business. Now it’s like she and Victor tag team, and his style is more hands-off.”
“Is she happy like this?” Lysa asks.
“I think so,” I say. Then remember my mission for honesty. “Actually, she’s a completely different person now, you should see her. She’s way happier. Turns out I was holding her back.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Lysa argues. “You and Rachel are family.”
“We are. But Victor told me she didn’t set out to be a 911 operator, she wanted to be a police officer. But she thought that wasn’t a wise occupation for a single parent.”
“She stayed and stuck it out with you though,” Spam says. “And that counts.”
“Kids aren’t supposed to think that their parents would have been better off without them,” Lysa says, pinching her lips together in a frown.
“I get that. But she deserves to have her own life too. Right?” I straighten the papers on Victor’s desk. “Things with Victor are better than ever—which is why he can’t find out about … you know.”
“Does Rachel know that Victor might be your father?” Lysa says.
I pause. “I’m pretty sure if Victor had told her, she would have said something to me. So I’m guessing the answer is no.”
This is a reminder that at our next dinner I need to broach the subject with Rachel.
A Snapchat arrives from Journey.
It’s a video of the turnoff sign to Cape Disappointment. One of our favorite landmarks. This means they’re about thirty minutes away.
“We better get going.”
* * *
We park next to Victor’s car in the school parking lot and I’m the first one out.
I head straight for the stairs, but by the time I reach the door I realize I’ve got a problem.
“Hey … somebody get the door.” I’m juggling Journey’s special coffee, Victor’s clean shirt, my messenger bag, and my cell phone?
I glance behind me. Dang! Lysa and Spam aren’t even to the stairs yet. Okay. It’s possible that I’m a little overexcited and, also, that I mostly ran here from the parking lot.
I try shifting everything to my left arm to see if I can free my right thumb to activate the lock. When that doesn’t work, I lightly kick the door in the hopes that Journey will hear me and come let me in.
They obviously can’t hear me, so I have no choice but to wait until Lysa and Spam get here. I can’t help it—I’m going to totally geek out watching Victor and Journey pull off this test.
This could be it. The moment of getting an innocent man released from prison. How amazing would that be? Journey could be reunited with his dad. I’m proud of the fact that I’m the one who found the article on the CERA machine and the idea of checking for fingerprints etched into the shell casings. Even Victor said it was a good call. And he admitted he had been too busy to focus on the case.
Those shells probably made Jameson look like a liar fourteen years ago. And now they might set him free.
I hear Lysa and Spam coming down the stairs behind me.
“Finally. Can someone get the door?”
Lysa waves the fact that she has her cell phone, purse, and iPad in one hand and a fully loaded cardboard coffee carrier in the other. “Obviously, I can’t,” she says.
We both look to Spam.
Spam is oblivious. She has her cell phone in one hand and her Bella tracking phone in the other and she’s moving around, waving her arms to try to get a stronger signal.
“Spam, what are you doing?” I ask.
“I get that the basement gets crap reception, but there’s not even any connectivity on these stairs.” She continues waving her arms. “What if Lyman needs me?”
“Open the door,” I say. “There’s Wi-Fi in the classroom.”
“That’s right.” Spam slips both phones into one hand and presses her right thumb onto the pad, unlocking the door. She opens it and we pour into the classroom.
The light is off in the classroom but on in the lab and shining through the large window. I catch a glimpse of Victor and Journey from the back. They’re sitting next to each other at the lab conference table. I’m so glad Journey is getting this opportunity to work with Victor. They are so much alike.
We dump our stuff on the nearest lab table and I turn to flip on the light.
Suddenly, Clay appears blocking my way.
“Clay! You scared me! What are you doing.”
/>
Then I see the handgun, pointed right at my face.
“Oh my god!” Spam shrieks.
44
Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there.
—MISS P
I’m too stunned to move or react. Nothing here makes any sense.
Clay waves the gun from side to side. “Step back. Slow and easy. Hands up.”
I glance at Victor and Journey. Why aren’t they doing anything? Why aren’t they taking care of this? Why aren’t they even moving at all?
“Clay?” I say.
“Shut up,” he barks. “Just do it.”
I back awkwardly into Spam and Lysa. This is completely surreal. We look like characters in a bad TV show.
“What is this?” Spam whispers.
“Clay? I don’t understand,” I say.
“Cell phones? Let’s have them,” he demands.
The three of us don’t move, but shift our gaze to the cell phones lying on the nearby desk. Clay follows our gaze.
He smashes the phones a couple of times with the butt of the gun and shards of glass spit in all directions. “Drop them in the sink,” he orders.
Lysa scrambles forward, scooping up the cell phones and dumping them in the nearest sink.
“Turn on the water,” Clay orders.
Lysa turns on the water, then she steps back behind me and clutches Spam.
The lab door is propped open with a chair. Upon closer inspection, I realize that Victor and Journey are strapped into chairs with duct tape. Their heads are tilted forward. I can’t see their eyes; they aren’t moving.
Are they dead?
I’m consumed by a surge of rage, fueled by despair.
I grab two of the nearest coffees, flick off the lids with my thumbs, and fling the entire contents straight at Clay’s face.
“Run!” I scream to Lysa and Spam. I whirl, heading for the door to the lab. “The glass is bulletproof!” If we can get inside and close the door we might be safe.
Clay curses loudly and deflects most of the liquid with his arm. It’s been a while since we bought the coffee so it wasn’t scalding hot enough to do any real damage, but it makes him accidentally fire off a shot anyway.
Lysa and Spam clutch each other and duck at the sound of the bullet ricocheting around the room. They won’t make it into the lab and I won’t go without them. I edge back to them, but I can’t take my eyes off Victor and Journey, so I don’t see it coming when Clay slams the left side of my head with his fist, which is wrapped around his gun. My head jerks to the right and the whole world turns a watery gray. My knees weaken. I grab the edge of a desk as a large area of pain blooms slowly over my left ear.
I press my hand against my wound. A large knot swells and throbs.
I shrink back from Clay. But he’s right there, holding the gun pointed directly at my forehead.
“Oops.” I want it to sound mouthy and unafraid. But it comes out like more of an apologetic croak.
“Try that again and I will put a bullet in your brain.”
Spam and Lysa clutch at my arms. I’m unsteady and dizzy.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice thick and drowsy.
“Shut up,” he says. “All of you, into the lab.”
He motions for us to walk ahead of him. My fingers wander into something warm trickling down the side of my face. “But we’re not allowed in the la—”
“Walk,” he roars.
“Erin, don’t antagonize him. He’s literally homicidal,” Lysa whispers.
Gee, Lys, ya think? The whole left side of my head is literally screaming at me exactly how homicidal he is.
I keep quiet and flow along with them into the lab. I’m dying to get a look at Victor and Journey. As we pass through the door I scan them for signs of trauma. I don’t see any, so maybe—hopefully—they’re still alive.
They’re each taped to a chair. Their feet are taped to the pedestals. There’s tape around their torsos. And their arms are taped to the armrests. On their faces are disposable fume masks like the one Clay wore when he was painting.
“You,” he orders, waving the gun at me. “Smarty pants. Tape your friends into these chairs. Now. Move.”
He pulls out two more chairs from the conference table.
“Sit,” he orders them.
“You don’t need to hurt us,” Lysa says. “Just take what you need and go.” Her voice is firm, calm, and well modulated, just like her mother’s.
“Really?” Clay stifles a laugh. “You’re telling me what I need.” He drives his foot into the soft spot behind my knee, nearly taking me down. “TAPE. Good and tight. Start with their mouths, I’m sick of listening to all of you. Tape their hands to the arms of the chair. Tape their ankles together. And then tape around their shoulders. Trust me, there won’t be a last-minute salvation where you wind up on TV talking about how you saved the day. Not this time.”
My head throbs and I’m trembling so hard I can barely stand. Also, he just said he was going to kill us.
This isn’t a dream but it might as well be. What in the world is going on?
Lysa knows how to keep her emotions in check, so I start with her. I’m afraid to even look at Spam, because we’ll both lose it.
It’s weird how I manage to do it, but I separate my brain and my hands into two different worlds.
My hands work fast. Taking care of business. Completely unemotional. I could tape down a row of kittens and it wouldn’t faze my hands.
My brain is another story.
It’s murky, sketchy, woozy, and on fire, all at the same time. I’m trying to plan three steps ahead. But there’s this fog that I can’t seem to crawl out from under. And I’m worried to death about Journey and Victor.
Why is Clay doing this? What could he possibly want? Lysa says psychopaths love to talk about themselves and display how much smarter they are than everyone else.
“I don’t know what you want, but you must be pretty smart, Clay. I’m guessing Victor underestimated you.” I glance at Victor, feeling a little sick to my stomach. Then I shift my gaze to Lysa. Her eyes tell me this is a good direction.
“Shut. Up,” he says.
Lysa nods for me to keep going.
“I’m just impressed. I’ve been dying to get into this lab and look at you. Bam, you’re in!”
“I cut the power,” he brags. “No power, no door locks.”
“But you’re still hanging around, tying people up. Which means you didn’t get what you needed. Am I right?”
“Less yakking, more taping,” he orders.
“I’m trying,” I complain. “But it’s really sticky and not easy to pull off the roll.”
“Just do it,” Clay growls.
I finish securing Lysa and move to Spam. I gently put the tape over her mouth and she keeps dropping her eyes down. Up and then down. Up and then down.
Based on Spam’s look I get the message that there’s something on me. I slide my hand down, along the waistband, over my hip. There it is. Spam slipped her Bella phone into my back pocket.
I tug my shirt down over it and turn my hip away from Clay.
I don’t know what’s going to happen once I finish taping Spam. I can’t bear to look in her eyes. Her terror only makes mine worse. The blow to my head is giving me double vision.
“Step back.” Clay waves the gun in the direction he wants me to move. As much as it kills me to do so, I step back, away from Lysa and Spam. Their eyes are huge and round with terror.
Keeping the gun trained on me, Clay uses his other hand to turn a couple of disposable fume masks face side up on the table. He covers his own nose and mouth with his elbow before spritzing the inside of both masks with something.
He keeps his gaze on me and the gun at the ready as he slips one mask over Lysa’s nose and mouth. Then he repeats the process on Spam. They struggle a little, but they’re only breathing through their noses, and within a few seconds their eyes flutter shut and t
heir heads tip forward.
“You don’t have to do that,” I yelp, stepping forward. “They’ll be good. I promise.”
“It’s just a little bit of ether,” he says. “I can’t stand looking at their eyes.”
“Ether?” I scream. “That’s dangerous. Please, take it off.”
“Shut up,” Clay says. “They’ll be fine. I have another job for you.”
I follow his request and step back, but I’m not feeling very conversational. I give him my most angry, steely gaze.
“Now you’re going to help me with my next problem,” he orders.
What problem? Nothing’s making any sense. What can I possibly help him with?
“Is there something wrong with the construction, Clay? Is there a problem with the inspection?” I ask. I’m grasping at straws but it’s all I’ve got.
“Shut up. I need to think.” Clay tucks the gun into his waistband and pulls his keys out of his pocket.
I zero in on his key ring.
It’s a carved wooden ring, with a dolphin motif in the center—a twin to the one Journey’s father gave him. The next thing I notice is the rather large Swiss Army knife.
Clay opens the blade and holds it up in such a way that the light glints off it.
“Here’s a question for you, smarty-pants,” he says. “Do I need to hack off the whole thumb or can I get by with just the skin? And which thumb should I should use—your uncle’s or your boyfriend’s?”
45
Forensic evidence can change the outcome of a criminal investigation.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
“Don’t be an idiot.” It’s all I can think/blurt out.
The chairs are on wheels. I grab the back of Victor’s chair and try to wheel it away from Clay, but Victor’s feet keep it from rolling smoothly. I turn the chair and push it. This puts me between Victor and Clay. I glance at Journey and my heart sinks. How am I going to save them all? Light glints off the blade of the knife.
“You don’t need to cut anything,” I add.
“It’s the fastest way,” he says.
“Really? I didn’t think you’d be that stupid.” I try to keep my voice level as I push Victor’s chair toward the evidence locker door. “Cutting off a thumb with that knife will take longer than you think, and it’ll get really messy. You’ll wind up with incriminating evidence all over you.”
To Right the Wrongs Page 23