Clay grins. “I’ll give you this, you’re a smart one.”
I press my hand against Victor’s neck. His skin is warm, which means he’s still alive. I jostle the chair and scan his face, praying, Wake up. Wake up. There’s a slight moan and I’m encouraged.
“I thought you said cutting the power disengaged the locks? Why didn’t you just do that?”
“Doesn’t work on the evidence room,” Clay says.
That’s right. The evidence locker had a different lock.
Victor groans softly and slightly flexes his hand. “Shhh,” I whisper.
“Give me a minute and I’ll get the door open for you.” I roll Victor’s chair right up next to the door. But there’s a problem.
The way Victor’s hand is taped down to the arm of the chair leaves his thumb about six inches away from the fingerprint pad on the door lock. I try to stretch the tape, but it’s too tight.
“Clay, I need you to cut this tape a little so I can reach his thumb up to the door. Then you can get what you came for.”
“You better not be working me,” he says.
“I’m not.” I rub the spot above my left eyebrow that continues to throb. It feels like my brain is about to blow out of my head. “Look.” I step aside and hold Victor’s thumb up toward the keypad. “I just need a few more inches.”
Clay approaches me and slices through a strip or two of tape, allowing me to stretch Victor’s thumb far enough to connect with the keypad. The lock clicks and the deadbolt slides back.
I push Victor to the side and behind me. “There. I don’t know what you need to do but just do it and get it over with.”
Clay grabs my arm and pushes me ahead of him into the evidence room. I haven’t been inside since this room was outfitted with the lockers. All three walls are lined with heavy steel lockers in a variety of sizes. The units fit right in under the high windows that run along the back wall.
To my knowledge the only evidence that has been delivered is from Jameson’s case. Clay did seem interested in the case. It can’t be that he’s going though all of this because he just wants to see it? Clay swings the locker open. We were both here when the evidence was delivered, so he knew right where to find it. I try to edge my way to the door.
He grabs my arm and yanks me back. “Get back here.”
My shoulder slams into the lockers and pain shoots through me.
“Find those shells,” he orders, pointing at the box with his gun.
“What?”
“You know. The shells,” he says. “The ones with my fingerprints etched into them.”
Ohhh. Stunned doesn’t begin to describe it. Whacked? Ambushed? Gobsmacked? Yes. All of that and more. I gasp. “You killed Rodney?”
“Stop stalling,” Clay orders, poking me with the end of the gun.
I dig around in the box. There wasn’t that much evidence in Journey’s father’s trial. The plastic bag of brass shells has slipped to the bottom. My fingers close around them. As I bring them out of the box, Clay snatches them from my hand. With the gun, he prods me into the corner of the locker room.
“Stay in that corner.” He backs out of the door and starts to close it. Then he pauses, looking at Victor. He places his foot on the bottom of Victor’s chair and shoves him into the evidence locker room with me.
He steps out and closes the door with a very final-sounding clang.
I rip the dust mask off Victor’s face.
“Put that back,” Clay orders, pressing the barrel of the gun against the holes in the mesh. “And stay away from him.”
I carefully put the mask back on Victor’s face, but I pinch one edge so it sticks up. I throw my hands up and move to the other side of the evidence locker, away from Victor.
Clay rummages in his toolbox and comes out with a handful of white plastic zip ties. Starting at the top of the evidence locker door, he slips a tie in place and cinches it tight, lashing the door to the doorframe. Working quickly, he adds seven more ties down the length of the door. The door won’t open until all of the zip ties have been removed.
My heart sinks.
I know from the last time I had those plastic things around my wrists and ankles that there’s no way to get them off without heavy-duty scissors or long, drawn-out sawing with a very sharp knife.
When he’s finished, Clay pats the door. “There,” he says. “That ought to hold the two of you.”
Next, he turns his attention to my friends. He pushes Journey, Spam, and Lysa up to the table. To the casual observer, it looks like they’re just hanging out, ready to have a meeting or a discussion, except for the creepy masks covering their noses and mouths.
Next, he goes into the lab area and twists the handle opening the gas valve. He takes out a bottle with a label large enough for me to read: ACETONE. He splashes it liberally around the entire lab.
“Clay,” I say, trying to reason with him. “You don’t want to do that. Just go. It’s not too late. You can still get away.”
He pauses for a second, which makes me think he’s considering leaving us alive. But then he just goes back to setting up the room.
“Talk to me, Clay. Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He shakes his head and continues about his business.
It’s terrifying how visible he is through the glass walls of the lab, and he doesn’t seem to care at all. He opens a cupboard and pulls out some plastic bottles of chemicals.
He dons plastic gloves and protective goggles. Then he pours about an inch of some liquid from a glass bottle into a beaker. Next, he rifles through a box of aluminum foil, crumbling layers until he has a ball of foil large enough to plug the top of the beaker. After that, he wraps several layers of foil over the plug and secures them with a rubber band.
Finally, he turns the beaker upside down and clips it to a beaker stand like that.
Underneath it, he positions a petri dish filled to the brim with another liquid.
He steps back, looking pleased.
With the stage set, Clay returns his tools to the toolbox. For my benefit, he makes a display of dropping the bag of shells in there too, along with his gun. He grabs his toolboxes and slips out the door, making sure it closes and locks behind him.
“Clay, wait.” I try to reason with him. “Please. Don’t do this.”
He takes a long, mean look at me. “Nobody cared about this case for years, until now.” He opens the door to the classroom to leave. “So this is on you.”
“Clay. Tell me what you did in there. What’s going to happen?” I beg.
“Ever hear of a chemical fuse?” He checks his watch. “You have about twenty minutes to say your prayers before this lights up. Amazing what you can learn on the internet, right?”
Oh my god. Potassium chlorate combined with sulfuric acid is a chemical fuse. And it will start a fire. That with the leaking gas and splashed acetone will destroy this whole room. And it will probably look like an accident, too.
“Clay. Wait.”
He turns the light out as he exits the lab.
It’s pitch dark and I have twenty minutes.
I pull Spam’s Bella phone out of my pocket. The screen is locked. Crap.
I try to remember her favorite passwords. I key in her birthday. Nothing.
I try it backward. I try her father’s birthday. No dice.
How do I not know Spam’s mother’s birthday?
Maybe Lyman. I’m trying to remember his birthday.
I just try typing the letters for “Lyman”—5, 9, 6, 2, 6. The phone blinks on and it’s open. Yes! I try to make a call, but there isn’t enough of a signal for it to go through. I try dialing 911 anyway and an error code appears on the screen.
Crap.
I glance at Victor. He’ll know what to do. I rip the mask off his face and toss it aside. I gently smack his cheeks.
“Victor. Victor, wake up.”
He groans.
I go to the mesh doors and shake them hard. They don’t lock f
rom the inside, but with eight zip ties holding them closed, getting out will be impossible unless I can find something sharp. I open every locker.
All empty.
The contents of Jameson’s evidence box are mostly paper. If only I could paper cut my way out of this. I remember how my stomach lurched when I saw the giant knife tumble out of my mother’s evidence box. What I wouldn’t give to have that here now.
I go back to the phone. It’s open and connected to Wi-Fi. Spam’s selection of favorite apps pops up. Right on top is that game—the one she and Lyman play. Lyman could get us out of this. Even if he only called the police for us. I open the app and the game automatically signs me in.
I don’t know the name of Lyman’s character, so I just post as Spam. SOS. NEED HELP. What does she call it when things happen not in the game?
In real life. That’s it.
I type again: SOS. IN LAB. NEED HELP IRL. LYMAN, IF YOU’RE THERE, CALL 911.
I pause and watch the cursor blink off and on for a few seconds, but those seconds feel like hours.
What am I going to do?
My gaze stops on the windows over the lockers. I step onto the arm of Victor’s chair and my foot slips off and kicks him in the ribs. He groans. But I manage to pull myself up on top of the lockers. I have to stay on my belly because there’s only an eighteen-inch gap between the top of the lockers and the ceiling.
I knew the windows wouldn’t open, but maybe I can kick out the glass and crawl out to get some help. I slam my foot against the glass. Nothing happens.
I try it again. Still nothing.
I give it a flurry of kicks, alternating feet.
“It’s bulletproof,” Victor says. His voice is thick and slow.
I look over the top of the lockers. Relief floods my body.
“Victor!”
I jump down from the lockers and start clawing at the tape. Once I have one of his arms free, he helps me work on the rest of the tape.
“Oh my god. Are you okay?”
“What happened?” he asks.
I let it all pour out—about Clay and him hitting me and taking the spent bullets.
Victor’s eyebrows raise. “Whoa. I did not see that coming.”
“Me neither,” I agree. “He seemed so nice.”
Victor moves around, loosening his muscles. He tries the door and runs his finger along the number of zip ties holding it closed. He nods at the lab. “What’s that set up over there?”
“Sulfuric acid and potassium chlorate.” I give him a grim look.
Victor tears off the last of the duct tape. He grabs the mesh and tries shaking it violently. “I’m smelling gas. We need to get everybody out of here.” Victor shakes the door, but it’s so tightly secured that it doesn’t even rattle. He tries to wedge his thumb through the mesh to reach the locking mechanism. But the mesh is too small.
“What can we do?” The metallic taste of fear forms at the back of my throat.
“I don’t know,” Victor says. He pats his pockets. “No cell phones, huh?”
I wave Spam’s Bella phone. “No signal.”
“We need to get a message out,” Victor says.
Spam’s phone suddenly begins to vibrate. I look at the screen and a red light is flashing. Throbbing. Flashing. Throbbing. My head is hurting so bad and my vision is so blurry I can barely read it. I cover my left eye with my hand.
Oh my god. It’s the Bella app!
Principal Blankenship is nearby.
Victor paces worriedly.
“Help me back up to the window,” I say to him.
“I already told you, you can’t break it,” he says.
“Just do it,” I shout.
He helps me up and I turn on the flashlight on Spam’s phone. Then I flash the light across the campus. What’s SOS—three long and then three short? I don’t remember. And it really doesn’t matter. I just need to get her attention. I flash three long and then three short. I wave the phone around in a circle. I flash from side to side.
Victor stands below, watching me. “What do you hope to accomplish with that?”
“Blankenship’s here. I’m hoping she’ll see the light.” I keep working the flashlight beam. Right. Left. Up. Down. Long. Short. Back and forth.
“But—” Victor is just about to tell me how this will never work when all of a sudden, an upside-down face appears in the window. Blankenship’s face. The face of the one person who has actual keys to this room.
She’s puzzled. And angry. When she recognizes me she’s very angry.
“Key,” I shout at her.
It’s clear she doesn’t understand, so I mime using a key to unlock a door.
Victor stands on the chair and peers over the lockers.
She’s even more shocked, but when she sees his face she turns and runs.
I jump down off the lockers. “How much time do we have?”
Victor studies the beaker. “Best guess? Less than five minutes.”
“She can make it,” I say.
“The key won’t help.” Victor tries to pry the zip ties.
“What can we do?” I say.
“Call Chuck. This is going to get messy,” Victor says.
I wave the phone. “No cell service.”
Suddenly, the door to the classroom bursts open and Lyman races in. He pauses and turns back to flip on the light.
“Lyman!” I bang on the door to the evidence locker. “Hurry! Get us out!”
Victor glances at me. “He can’t do anything.”
“Yes, he can!” I scream. “Lyman, hurry!”
Lyman races to the door of the lab. He’s holding a Play-Doh finger.
Victor squints in amazement. “What the—”
Lyman presses the finger against the lock.
It doesn’t work. Lyman is shocked.
“It just worked,” he says, pointing to the classroom door.
“Try again,” I say.
He reshapes the finger and tries again. It still doesn’t work.
He looks panicky.
“Keep trying,” I say. “Don’t give up.”
Blankenship races in. She stops and sizes up Journey, Spam, and Lysa duct-taped to the chairs. Then she shoves Lyman out of the way and uses her key to unlock the door.
Blankenship heads toward us, but Victor points to the group at the table. “Get them out of here,” he says. “That room is about to blow.”
She and Lyman move into action. She kicks off her high heels as she rolls Journey out of the lab and across the classroom. Lyman is pushing Spam and pulling Lysa behind him.
“Take off their masks,” I shout.
Lyman and Blankenship pause long enough to rip the masks off their faces. They toss them aside and push them out of the classroom.
Victor throws himself against the door of the evidence locker, then again. “Help me,” he grunts.
We time it and slam the door at the same time.
After about ten tries, two of the zip ties snap.
“Two down. Six to go,” Victor says. “One, two, three … go.”
I’m giving it every ounce of strength I have and there is zero budge to the door.
Blankenship runs back in. She has scissors in one hand and a small Swiss Army knife in the other.
Victor watches the beaker. A thin stream of white smoke trails up from one corner of the wad of aluminum foil.
Blankenship tries to wedge the scissors in between the zip tie and the doorframe, but it’s too tight and the scissors break apart.
“Taryn, you need to go. It’s going to explode,” Victor says. “We’ll take cover in the lockers.”
I glance at the lockers. While they might protect us from an initial blast, if there’s a fire, it will be like hiding in an oven.
I’m shaking and so terrified I can’t even think.
Lyman suddenly races back in the door. He grabs Clay’s hammer from the crime scene display and charges at the door of the evidence locker with the hammer over
his head. Using the claw part, he whams it against two more zip ties, splitting them.
Blankenship manages to wedge the knife blade in between one of the ties. She pulls down quickly and it snaps off.
Lyman takes out two more with the hammer.
“Hurry,” Victor says, urging them on. He and I keep our eyes on the beaker. The thin stream of smoke is getting thicker.
There’s one zip tie left, positioned high up on the door.
“Stand back,” Victor orders.
Blankenship and Lyman move back and he and I ram the door as hard as we can, busting off the last zip tie.
At that same moment, there’s a fizzle sound and a bright flash of light.
Victor grabs my arm and barrels out of the evidence locker. Blankenship grabs Lyman and we charge toward the door on the other side of the lab.
A fireball follows right on our heels.
We start up the stairs and a huge blast pushes at our backs and blows us to the top.
We tumble out into the cool night air just as another boom and giant fireball explodes below us.
46
Going strictly by the rules, a criminal trial is not a quest for the truth, but an indictment of what is believed to be true.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
The air feels cool.
The sheets feel cool.
Everything feels cool.
Only, the left side of my face is on fire.
I try to sit up, but my arm is tangled in the sheets.
“Hey, hey. Easy. Careful.”
My eyes flutter open. Rachel is sitting by my bed. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
I yank myself out of the fog and struggle to sit up. “Where is everybody?”
“Victor’s fine. He’s in another room. They’re checking him out now for solvent exposure.”
“What about—”
“Everyone’s fine. Journey, Spam, Lysa … even the new boy,” she says.
I’m too dizzy to sit up. I flop back in the bed and search for the controls to raise it up. Rachel finds the controller and does it for me.
“I need to see them. Take me.”
“Relax. You’ll see them soon,” Rachel says. “They were exposed to solvents, which requires medical supervision, but you, m’dear, have a concussion.”
To Right the Wrongs Page 24