Oscar burst through the door, holding Scott’s cell out like an offering. “Hey, man. This just went off. But you may want to plug it back in to Sylvie’s charger when you’re done. It’s still running low on battery power.”
The notification read Mom. He was about to dial her back, but then his voice mail indicator lit up.
“Scotty,” his mom said. “I just wanted to double-check your plans for later, make sure you’re still going to that party. You probably shouldn’t come home for a while. Dad’s . . . well . . .” A deep breath. “You probably shouldn’t come home.”
The words sounded as dull and flat as an old penny lying in the road, run over by a thousand tires.
“I’m at Aunt Linda’s with Evie for the night,” she went on. “After you left, I got thinking about that video, and I . . . I couldn’t stop shaking. I had to get out of there for some space, some time to think. Dad won’t be happy when he wakes up and finds we’re gone. Think you can find someplace to crash? That would be . . . easiest.”
He’d bet his entire night’s pay she’d been about to say “safest.”
“If not, come to your aunt’s. We’ll leave the spare key under the ceramic frog. And Scotty, listen. I’m sorry about before. Really. I don’t blame you for anything and you have every right to be upset with him. And me, too. You do a lot for this family. I see it, and some day, your dad will see it, too.”
That wiped out some of the tension creeping up his neck, but her next words undid it all.
“You know, this . . . this side of him isn’t the real him. He’ll snap out of it, you’ll see. Once he finds a job. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Come up with a plan. I love you, sweetie. See you tomorrow.”
Before the message cut off, Scott heard his sister crying in the background, and then his mom’s voice. “Oh, baby girl—”
He stared at the grayed towel in his hand. When would this nightmare end? At least this time she’d given him some warning and saved him from a surprise like the one he’d gotten on prom night.
Of course, Scott hadn’t gone to prom. No money for a tux rental or a limo or a corsage. Or the damned ticket. No prom didn’t mean no after-party though, and Scott had an in at nearly every event. Becky had wanted to go to Brian’s, so, at twelve thirty, that’s where he’d shown up to wait. The first people had already arrived by the time he got there. After the epic fight he’d had with Becky in the weeks before prom, followed by an even more epic stalemate, he hadn’t been sure what kind of mood she’d be in, but by the time she found him in the living room, any lingering crackles of tension between them had died out.
The rest of the night had been just like old times, but his good mood had crumbled as soon as he walked through his front door at four. He’d snicked the door shut as quietly as he could, which hadn’t been quiet enough. His dad stumbled from around the corner just as Scott spun to head to the stairs.
“Where-fuh you been?”
Scott had opened his mouth to answer, but his dad’s fist cut off his words, and he’d sported a bruised temple for the rest of the school year.
“Hey, Scott,” Oscar called from the storeroom behind the kitchen. “When you’re done with that, mind helping me restock the beverage cooler?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”
Why’d he have to keep thinking about this stuff? He glanced down at his reflection in the spotless stainless steel where he could just make out the remnants of his dad’s prom-night gift, a faint ghost of a smudge near his hairline that might be mistaken for dirt.
In the right light.
Becky used to ask him why they never hung out at his house. He was the king of excuses on that front. Never telling her he’d rather slit his wrists than expose someone he cared about to that scene. Or maybe he didn’t want to expose himself, to let her see that her boyfriend was the son of a drunk asshole in four-day-old Levi’s and a faded Sox tee, who barely left his chair, let alone the house.
Scott had almost made that mistake with Winny that winter afternoon after the football game. Winny had offered to drive him home, even though he could handle the two-mile walk just fine. When she pulled up to his house, he’d lost his mind for a second.
He’d invited her in.
Maybe the scent he’d come to associate with her—sweet vanilla mixed with cherry, or something fruity like that—had messed up his brain. Maybe it was the flash of her dimple when she smiled or the way she kind of snorted when she laughed really hard. Maybe it was that he was afraid of losing the chance he’d finally gotten to be with her, even if just for a little while.
“I can make you some cocoa,” he’d said. “A warm-up, you know, after the cold?”
Her thick, dark lashes had fluttered as she smiled down at her mittened hands. “Yeah. Sure.”
As their boots scratched against the sidewalk, he’d felt her behind him, making his neck prickle, making his head hot—not in the ugly lava way, but in a steamy-shower-on-a-cold-day way. It melted the January frost that had frozen his heart.
If it hadn’t been for the two panels of glass alongside his front door, he might have actually gone through with it. One glimpse of his dad heading from the kitchen to the living room was all it took to turn off the pleasant warmth.
Scott spun, and she’d been right there. Nearly touching him. So close, she’d jerked back at his sudden movement. Her puffy white jacket had squished in his fingers as he grabbed her arm to keep her from losing her balance and falling down his front stairs.
They’d stood like that, his hand around her elbow, the afternoon sun no match for the cover of clouds, nothing but a hint of a glow above their heads. Winny, so warm. Her gaze on him so firm. So grounded. So here. It had almost been enough to coax him into going through with it anyway . . .
Until he heard his dad call out, “Scotty? That you?” with that familiar booze-flavored drawl.
“You know what, I just realized, we’re out of cocoa.”
She’d shrugged. “I can drink coffee. Or tea. Or water.” She peeked around him, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker, but Scott had leaned to keep himself squarely between her and the window.
Shuffling footsteps on the other side of the glass drew closer.
Scott shook his head. “We’re out of coffee, too.”
Something clatter-banged from inside, and his dad had muttered a phrase Winny probably couldn’t make out—thank God. Scott recognized it, though, his dad’s trademark, “son-of-a-bitch-bastard.”
“Listen, Winny. I can’t. I mean, I just remembered, I promised my dad I’d help . . . I’ve got stuff to do.”
It had taken her a second to process his blindside, then realization settled in her eyes. Crazy how a handful of words could stomp a delicate smile into a cheap counterfeit of itself.
“Is something wrong?”
Footsteps from the other side of the door. “Scotty?”
She leaned around him and she saw. Of course she saw. Cringing, he tried to remember what his dad had been wearing when he’d left the house for the game. Jeans? Those cut-off sweatpants Scott used to wear for runs?
No. It had been just a pair of old boxers.
Scott closed his eyes for a second and commanded his throat muscles to relax. He would not make this worse by hurling all over Winny. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp. “Rain check, okay?”
“Sure.” Emotion wrinkled her brow and tugged at the corners of her mouth, and he struggled to decipher their message.
Was that worry? Hurt? Pity? Relief at her close escape?
“See you around, I guess.”
He was still holding her arm, but he let it go, feeling stupider than ever. “Yeah, see you around.”
Scott had seen her around, had even braved the shame rooted inside to ask her out. Once. Twice. Third time’s the charm. Except it hadn’t been for Scott. Instead of her cherry-vanilla aura and sunshine smiles, she greeted him with that wrinkled brow and a mouth that turned down at the corners before feeding him excuses about why she
couldn’t see him. Too busy with school, after-school commitments, like that paramedic training. Too busy for him. She never said it in a mean way—that wasn’t how Winny operated—but her message was loud and clear and it hurt all the same.
They’d be friends, that was all.
He’d found a way to settle for that, and he’d done the only thing he could. He’d moved on. Becky might not have been Winny, but she was good and real and what he needed.
Okay, but how did all that jibe with what happened in Winny’s driveway just a few hours ago?
“Scott? Hey, man, Becky’s here to see you.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.” If he could calm her down fast, he could finish up and they could almost be on time. If not, they’d be late, which she’d probably blame him for even though she was the one interrupting his schedule. He let his eyes rest on the polished stainless steel for a second before shaking himself out of his thoughts. After one last deep breath of lemon-cleaner air, he headed out to face the wrath of Becky.
7
WINNY
EIGHTEEN MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
The cops! Before we take two steps, my muscles go woozy and weak with relief, and my head clears enough for me to squeeze Scott’s hand. The cops are here, and they’ll fix this, no matter how smooth that guy Ryan thinks he is. When the installers came to set up our home alarm system, they said law enforcement has strict rules about responding to situations like this. They’ll go through the proper protocols and realize this is a crisis, and we’ll be saved as long as we stay alive a little while longer.
We shuffle toward the EMPLOYEES ONLY door in the little vestibule just past the ladies’ room. On the other side, Twitch and Toto hover by the door, while the rest of us cluster to their left. Scott and I are on either side of Oscar to help him stay on his feet.
“You okay, Pavan?” Oscar asks the old man, who takes a spot behind us.
“Don’t worry about me,” Pavan replies.
“Thanks,” Oscar mouths when I let him use my shoulder to balance.
“No problem,” I mouth back.
The dim corridor is tight, and I don’t like the feel of the gloom at my back. But the real-life monsters are right beside me, spotlighted by the ancient halogen over our heads that sizzles and flickers, making this feel even more like the horror movie this night has become. Not fifteen minutes ago, I thought nothing could be worse than the trouble I’m in with my parents, but my definition of “nothing worse” has had an extreme makeover since then.
Toto leans close to the swinging door, probably to watch for signs of trouble so he can keep his promise to us—his promise about what he’ll do if the police enter the café.
“We should try to run,” Scott mouths, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.
Three doors open off the corridor in the back. The one to the right looks like it leads into the kitchen. I can’t tell where the one to the left goes. And the one all the way at the far end . . . A red-lettered sign glows EXIT.
Tight-lipped and sweaty with pain, Oscar shakes his head. “Just do what they say and shut up.”
Maybe Oscar is dealing with more than pain. He could be going into shock. In EMT training, they taught us that shock can be triggered by blood loss, and it’s just as fatal as the bullet wound itself. That woman out there is bad enough, but at least she’s a stranger. I know Oscar and Sylvie. I see them all the time. What would it be like if it were one of them on the floor? Oscar, who always makes sure to put extra whip on my macchiato? Or Sylvie, who never forgets to hide the last lemon scone for me on Wednesdays, because she knows I’ll be in after choir practice?
How could someone I know maybe die?
For now, though, Oscar is hanging on.
Twitch’s mumbles grow in volume, little by little, until I can make out his words. “The ether. They’re coming from the ether. But how?” He’s still doing this finger-tapping thing, and he increases the speed as though his anxiety is turbo-charging his motor neurons. “They know, out there, looking for me. The etherkind.”
“What?” Scott mouths.
I shake my head.
“That man is not well,” Pavan whispers behind us.
“Shut the fuck up with that ether bullshit, man,” Toto says to him, but Twitch only giggles once—or was that a whimper?—and goes on mumbling, finger-tapping the whole time. Turning, Toto gets in Twitch’s face. “I mean it.”
“What’s he talking about?” Scott asks. “What ether?”
I can’t believe he’s talking to a murderer.
“Don’t ask me,” Toto says. “Some of that is the programmer in there talking, and the other half . . .” He shrugs. “That’s the meth, pure and simple.”
“Programmer? Like computers?” Scott says.
“Not anymore. Stay away from drugs, kids. That shit will kill you.”
“If you don’t do it first,” Scott mutters.
“That’s right, my man. Now shut up, all of you.”
Twitch’s gaze remains riveted on the door, and his mumbling surges into full-on chanting, his voice growing higher in pitch with every word. “Mean it, seen it, been it.”
“They’re gonna hear you,” Toto says, but it does no good. “Don’t make me shut you up myself.”
“Hear you, bear you, fear you. Fear them. The etherkind.”
“I will take you down.” Toto lunges, and Twitch screams and stumbles away until his back strikes the wall.
Too much is happening, and I can’t process it properly. Oscar’s weight seems to double against me as Scott releases his hold. Twitch screams again, loud. Loud enough for the cops to hear?
Please, please.
And Scott, he takes a step backward. What’s he doing?
But I know the answer. Scott is going to bolt. And that’s good, but if Scott runs, what will Toto do to us?
I could tell Scott not to leave, but I can’t take my eyes off Toto and his gun.
It’s aimed at Twitch’s head, but Twitch doesn’t see it. Not the gun, and not Toto. Nothing but the door. Or maybe he sees something we don’t. His fingers tap faster and faster and faster, and his monologue is nothing but a steady whimpering ramble now.
“I said—” Toto takes a step closer to Twitch—“shut.” He presses the gun barrel to Twitch’s temple. “Up.”
I can’t look, but I can’t not look. My muscles seize until they hurt, and I can’t move. Twitch is a killer, but I don’t want to see his head blown off right here, four feet in front of me.
Finally, the skinny guy’s rabbit eyes roll upward and take in the gray muzzle of the handgun. “Oh shit! Don’t shoot! Don’t do it, Toto. Don’t do it, man!”
Finally, I pull my eyes away, focusing on Scott, and he takes another step toward the back exit.
“Scott, don’t be stupid.” Oscar’s hissed words are drowned out by Twitch’s shouting.
Scott’s focus never wavers from the door. “This may be our only chance.”
“Just great.” Ryan’s shout echoes from the café.
Footsteps. Coming our way.
The cops?
They didn’t fall for Ryan’s lies. Any second now, they’ll open that door, and we’ll be okay.
This whole thing is going to be over. All over.
But what if it’s not the police?
It could be Sylvie and Ryan, or even worse, just Ryan. I close my eyes and shake my head. I can’t see, don’t want to know. The end to this terrible night might be waiting for us behind this door. Or it could be more of the same hell. If that’s not the police, I don’t think I can handle it.
The door bursts open with a whoosh of air that tickles my face.
“They’re gone,” Ryan says.
No.
No!
It can’t be. I clench my eyes even tighter. I won’t look. If I don’t look, it won’t be real. I’m crying, but that doesn’t matter as long as I don’t look.
If you cover a fire, you still have a fire.
My eyes betray me,
flying open as Oscar totters and nearly goes down, threatening to take me with him.
Toto grasps Scott’s arm, and they eye each other—Toto’s expression full of swagger and Scott’s full of hate. A slow grin spreads across Toto’s face. “You tried, I’ll give you that. Too bad your ass failed. Now get back in there.” He points at the café door.
Sylvie’s already helping Oscar to a stool at the counter, and Scott flies against her when Toto shoves him.
From out in the back hall, Ryan calls from the doorway. “I’m going to cut the phone lines so we won’t have another alarm incident.”
White-faced, Sylvie gestures at the wound in Oscar’s leg, and he nods. Despite the gentleness of her probing, he still throws his head back, hissing, and draws Toto’s attention.
“He needs a doctor,” Sylvie pleads. “He’s lost so much blood.”
“No one’s going anywhere.” Toto comes toward us and throws a quick glance at Oscar’s leg, then goes around the counter. “Here. You can use these.” He tosses a clean stack of bar towels at Sylvie.
She flinches, but reflexively throws up her hands and catches the towels. “This is going to hurt,” she says to her husband.
Oscar nods, but stays quiet when she presses the stained white towel against his leg. It’s going to leave lint in the wound, could maybe even cause an infection if it wasn’t properly cleaned, but I don’t say anything. Why bother when we could be dead any minute anyway?
“No one’s calling out,” Ryan says as he emerges from the employee hall. “We need to regroup.”
I let the rest of his words fade. We were so close. The people who were supposed to save us were right out there, and now they’re gone.
Chwal ki gen dis mèt mouri nan poto. A horse with ten masters will die tied to its post.
I can’t even argue with the mom-voice this time, because she’s right. Waiting for someone else to fix this could kill us. Only problem is, every time I try to think of what to do, my heart rate speeds up, and my skin gets too hot, and my head spins too much. The gloom of the back hallway wasn’t fun, but being in here with the bright lights—and what they reveal—makes everything worse.
Ten After Closing Page 4