The Masked Truth Part 13

There are no knives in the kitchen. Am I surprised? Not really. We're mental health patients, and I'm well aware of the suicide statistics, especially for teens, especially for those with PTSD and trauma-related depression and anxiety. I was made aware of them by my first therapist, who constantly poked and prodded for signs of "suicidal ideation." I finally made the mistake of commenting that I find it hard to get through some days, and I just want to stop. I meant schoolthat there were days I wanted to take more time off, but I feared if I did, I'd never go back.

He misunderstoodrather willfully, I think. He'd been so hyperalert for signs that he immediately recommended suicide watch to Mom, and when I freaked out, the therapist said that proved I was considering it. My freak-out, though, did not come close to Mom's. Directed at the therapist. Mom knew that no matter how bad I felt, it was never that bad, and that even in my worst moments, feeling like I didn't deserve to live when the Porters had died, I'd never considered suicide. I wouldn't do that to Mom and Sloane.

Yet there isn't just a lack of knives in the kitchen. There's a lack of a kitchen ... or anything like a real one. The room is still under construction, with half-finished cupboards and sinks not yet connected to a water supply. We were having food delivered for the weekend, and I'd thought that was just to make it easy on the counselors, but obviously there wasn't an option. They brought in a mini-fridge and filled it with bottled water and soda, and there's fruit and granola bars on the counter, but otherwise nothing.

We search anyway. Aaron stands watch in the hall. When we are almost done, he pops his head in with "They're coming!" and we take off, all of us shoeless now, padding down the hallway at a jog, moving in the opposite direction of that relentless thump-thump-thump.

"You aren't getting out," Gray calls. "I know you kids are a little messed up, so let me explain it to you. There are two doors. If you have any brains at all, you've already checked and seen that they're locked tight. I heard one of you banging away, so here's a tip: it won't help. Those doors are so thick you'd need a grenade to get through them."

As he talks, we're on the move, heading away from his voice, checking rooms for a good one to lie low in. I hang back, listening to his diatribe, in case there's anything we can use.

"So you can pound and shout all you want, kiddies. I know it's frustrating, having a whole hostage negotiation team just beyond those walls. Your parents too. Well, some of them. Sorry, Brienne, but no one showed up for you. And your dad, Aaron? He's busy making financial arrangements for your release. Very slowly, though, which is why they think I'm not letting anyone else go. Personally, I think he just put in a call to his banker while he screws his new mistress. Who is, by the way, hotter than the old one, and a h.e.l.luva lot hotter than your mom. Oh, she is outside. Your mom, I mean. At least someone cares, right? Of course, she has to play good parent if she wants all those child support payments. Your mom's there too, Maximus, and Riley's."

My mom. Oh G.o.d, I really didn't want that. She doesn't deserve this. Not after everything she's gone through. But I can't think about that. Instead, I think of something else, something that is, right now, even more important.

And Gideon? I want to shout back. Maria? How about their parents? Their soon-to-be-grieving parents?

It would do no good. I saw what he did to Aimee, and I heard him laugh when Predator shot Cantina. There's no capacity for guilt there. No conscience. He calls us crazy? He's a d.a.m.n psychopath. They both are.

We keep looking, but we aren't finding a room. Most in this section are locked, and the rest are completely empty, giving us nothing to hide behind. Max whispers that we should head back to the room we were in last. I agree.

"I'd like to offer an apology." Gray's voice booms down the empty corridors. "Shocking, I know. But it's in order. Things went off the rails earlier. Blame Gideon, and if he were still alive, I'd shoot him on sightthe moron. Maria didn't help. I don't know what she expected, running at me with a d.a.m.ned letter opener. Of course I shot herall I saw was someone coming at me with a weapon. But enough blame. Things went wrong. We panicked. People died. You ran. Can't blame you. That's over now, though, and I think I have a solution. You guys come back. We'll complete negotiations with Mr. Highgate. I won't ask the other parents for money. Well, I'll ask, but I won't expect it. What counts is the big dog. He pays, and you all go free. Not before that, though. You'll have to wait, because I can't risk you tattling on me and jeopardizing our payday."

No one slows. We keep checking doors and popping down side halls. And he keeps talking.

"What's done is done. Can't be fixed. But let's not add to the body count. This will all go much easier if everyone takes a deep breath, calms down and cooperates."

Max snorts. Brienne, though, slows to listen.

"Let's stop this running-around nonsense," Gray continues. "I'm sure you're as tired of it as we are. And I'm sure you must be getting hungry by now."

I catch up to Brienne and whisper, "Seriously? We're running from gun-toting killers and thinking, Huh, I could really use a snack?"

"Actually, I was," Max says, falling in as Aaron continues on ahead. "In fact, I may have grabbed a few granola bars when we were searching the kitchen. It's been four hours. I'm b.l.o.o.d.y famished."

"And now you have food," I say. "Meaning we don't need to stop and risk death so we can eat something."

"I don't know if I have enough to go around. Someone might need to surrender. You'll volunteer, won't you?"

"I would, but I'm not hungry. Maybe later."

We're talking past Brienne, who's quiet but listening. We banter some moresilly jokes about snacks and guns that aren't very funny, but the point is the banter itself, the shared verbal eye rolls that these guys would actually think we were stupid enough to surrender. Brienne's hesitation evaporates, and she picks up speed, joining in with a few jibes about teen guys and food as we hunt for a hiding place.

Gray is still nattering on about "stopping this nonsense." Just come out and we'll all hold hands and sing campfire songs until Mr. Highgate coughs up the cash.

"I'd like Scotch," Max says as we follow Aaron around a corner. "Sorry, ladies, but if he offers Scotch, I'm gone. It has to be at least fifteen-year single malt, though. Anything less will not do."

"I'm holding out for a pony," Brienne says.

"Too much work," I say. "I'll take a puppy."

Brienne shoots back that a puppy is more work than a pony, and she's relaxed now, paying no attention to Gray's cajoling. Max winks at me, and I smile, and I feel ... I'll admit it, I feel good seeing that wink. As good as I can under the circ.u.mstances. That wink is a connection. We both knew that Brienne was wavering, and without a word exchanged we solved the problem together, and that feels ... yes, it feels good, or as close to it as I'll get tonight. It's a reminder that I'm not alone in this, that there's someone I can rely on and trust, someone on my wavelength.

Dad used to say thatwe're on the same wavelength, kidwhenever we came up with the same idea. Now I understand what he meant. I get Max, and I don't need to worry that he'll want to surrender or stop trying to escape or just say "to h.e.l.l with it," and rush Gray with our letter opener and safety scissors and hope for the best. I wouldn't do any of that. So neither will he.

I'm about to say I'm going to move ahead and help Aaron search when Max motions behind Brienne's back that he's going to go ahead to search, and I laugh under my breath. He arches his brows. I shake my head, smile and wave him forward while I keep an eye on Brienne.

CHAPTER 16.

"Here!" Max whispers. He's opening a door to a room Aaron has already checked, and Aaron starts snapping something, but I see Max is gesturing, and I glance inside to spot an interior door. It's right up near the front, meaning it's obscured when the hall door opens. While Max stands watch, I dart in and check the second door. It opens into an empty roomwhich makes it less than perfectbut its hall door locks from the inside, which would give us an escape route.

Aaron and Brienne agree it's a good temporary hiding spot. There are boxes in the first room. None are big enough to hide behind, but once we're all in, Max grabs one and sets it right behind the closed hallway door.

"I think they can push a box aside," Aaron says.

Max ignores him and sets a second one on top of the first.

"They can push that one too," Aaron says.

"But it'll topple when the door opens," I say. "Which we'll hear from that room"I point to the adjoining one"and can slip out the other way."

"Oh." Aaron eyes the setup. "Okay. That's a good idea."

I brace myself against Max's smart-a.s.s reply. He thankfully keeps his mouth shut and just fusses with the boxes.

Brienne and Aaron retreat to the next room. I stay and watch Max, intent on his task, getting it exactly right, frowning and reconfiguring when it's not. His hair falls in his face every time he leans forward, and after he makes a few increasingly impatient swipes, shoving it back behind his ear, I tug off one of my hair band bracelets and hold it out.

He takes it and smiles, and it's not his c.o.c.ky grin or sardonic smirk or even his distracted no-really-I'm-fine smile. He pauses what he's doing and gives me a genuine smile. It's warm, and it's real, and it relaxes me. I suppose that's a weird reaction. Relaxes me. I should say "it sent a thrill through me," or "it lit up his face and I realized how cute he was." But it's like hot cocoa on a cold day, making me feel warm and happy and comforted. When he smiles, I hear, It's okay. We'll get through this, and that's exactly what I need.

He ties his hair back, and I gesture at the boxes, saying, "May I?" and he bowsnot his usual mocking formality, but as amiable as that smile. I tweak the top box, angling it slightly, and when he tests with the door, his smile widens and he says, "Perfect," and we head into the other room with Brienne and Aaron.

Max stops beside me and lowers himself to the floor, knees up, his back against the wall. Brienne opens her mouth, as if to say sitting isn't a good idea, but I join him.

After a moment Brienne crouches beside me and whispers, "How are you holding up? Are you okay?"

"Right as rain," I say before I can stop myself, and Max chuckles.

"I'm fine," I say as Brienne looks confused. "You?"

She nods. "I was worried about you."

"Max is keeping me on track." I smile over at him, and he dips his chin and shifts, as if uncomfortable accepting credit.

Aaron finally sits, sideways facing us, his knees drawn up.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'd say I'm sorry my dad's rich, but that just makes me sound like an ent.i.tled a.s.shole. Which isn't to say I'm not, but ..." He shrugs. "I'll at least apologize for having an a.s.shole for a father, which means I come by it honestly. I'm sorry he's not getting the money faster."

"I'm not sure it would help," I say. "Even after he pays, our captors can stall for a while before the police will expect us to come out."

"He will pay," Aaron says. "He just doesn't want to be too quick for fear they'll raise the final price. Like I said before, he can afford it, and it's a smart business move. It'll also buy him leverage with me. Which he also needs. Get his kid to shape up and toe the party line."

"Stop crashing cars?" I say with a half smile.

"Nah, he's fine with that. I'm supposed to be a hotshot brat. Follow in Daddy's footsteps and make him proud."

When I raise my brows, he says, "I'm serious. I actually crashed the Rover on purpose. Even had a six-pack in the car and an open can in the coffee holder. Which is why I'm p.i.s.sed off about this weekend. I did exactly what he expects, and he punishes me for it?"

Now Brienne and I both look at him.

"What?" he says. "Your families don't expect you to drink and drive and smash up a fifty-thousand-dollar car? Oh, right, sorry. You guys come from normal families."

"Not exactly," Brienne murmurs, looking uncomfortable.

It takes him a second to get it, but then he jostles her leg. "Sorry. Open mouth, insert foot. Especially when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Yeah, my family is screwed up. I crashed the Rover because I'm trying to convince my dad I'm just a normal bratty teen. I got in a fight with my girlfriend, dropped her off at the side of the road, bought some beer, cranked up the tunes and wrecked the car. Proving I'm the son he wants, and any evidence to the contrary was a one-time error in judgment."

"Uh-huh," I say.

He glances over. "He caught me in bed with Chris a few months ago. Chris and I have been best friends since grade school. Chris, by the way, is short for Christopher, not Christina."

"Ah."

"Yep. The world may be progressing, but in some circles, it's still the fifties. A gay kid is not what my dad wants for a son. That causes all kinds of inconveniences and complications, don't you know. So it's my job to convince my dad it was just teenage experimentation, indicating nothing but curiosity and a lack of judgment."

"Why?" Max says.

Aaron scowls at him. "Why what?"

"Why not just say this is who you are, so get stuffed, Pops. It doesn't seem as if you two get along anyway."

"Do you know what a conversion camp is?" Aaron asks. When Max frowns, he says, "You don't have them in Britain, I'm guessing. Lucky you. Mostly, they're religious, with therapy to 'straighten out' gay kids. Like this weekend, plus prayer. Lots of prayer. But there are others. There was one in South Africa a few years ago. Three kids died because they didn't get with the program. That's the sort of thing my dad was threatening. And as long as I'm under eighteen, he can do it. So I have two more years to play straight and then he really can 'get stuffed,' as you say. Just as soon as I'm sure my mom gets whatever money's coming to her."

Max nods and says, "All right. I get it," and Aaron relaxes, because Max wasn't challenging himhe really was curious.

"My father will come through," Aaron says. "He's d.i.c.king around, same as he wouldn't jump too quickly at a good investment opportunity. Which is what this is, in a way. He can't seem too eager."

"Even if it's his son's life at stake?" Brienne says.

Aaron shrugs. "You don't seize control of valuable a.s.sets and then torch them. We just need to stay out of their way long enough for him to cave."

I glance at Max. He says nothing, but I can tell by his expression he doesn't believe this, any more than I do. No more than we think Brienne's right and these are just messed-up guys who panicked and regret their mistake.

When Mr. Highgate transfers over the hundred-grand down payment, Gray will say it took too long. Highgate stalled and that wasn't a show of good faith and any agreement to resume freeing kids is null and void. He'll tell the negotiators we're all staying until the money is paid.

In a normal hostage situation, the negotiator would continue trying to arrange our early release, because that was the sure thing. He'd offer food, water, media coverage, helicopter transport, whatever it took to guarantee live bodies walked out that door. Except this is really a kidnapping dressed up as a hostage-taking. We have more than enough food and water to get through the weekend. There's no political angle, so no need for media. And I'm sure Gray has transportation all worked out. The only thing he wants is money, and I'm afraid even that isn't enough now. They'll take the hundred grand. Then they'll get the h.e.l.l out, leaving nothing behind except bodies.

Pessimistic? Yes. Realistic? Yes, even as the thought makes me stifle a whimper, makes me want to curl up and put my hands over my ears and shout, "No, no, no!" But it's true and I need to remember that and not for one second give them the benefit of the doubt. Know they plan to kill us. Make d.a.m.ned sure they don't.

I say none of this to the others. I just take out the blueprint and study it, while Max looks over my shoulder.

"We need an escape hatch," Max says.

"Sure," Aaron says. "Or maybe a bulletproof bunker, loaded with guns and a direct line to the White House and pizza delivery."

Max doesn't even favor him with a look, just keeps studying the map with me.

After a moment, I look up sharply. "Guns. Didn't you have one, Aaron? We heard shooting."

"I grabbed one from the guy with the Star Wars mask, but it ran out of bullets."

"Where is it?"

"Back there," he says, waving vaguely. "Not much point in carrying it without ammo."

Actually, there was. I remember one of my dad's stories, about a time he'd been jumped by a kid and he'd pulled his gunand knocked the kid out with it. I'd heard some of the guys, years later, teasing him about that.

"And then there's Vasquez here, who mistakes his gun for a set of bra.s.s knuckles."

"Hey, do you know how much paperwork they make you fill out if you fire the thing?"

"Could have saved us some trouble if you did, Jim. One less g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger to worry about."

One less g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger. Ha-ha. Dad always laughed along, but I knew paperwork had nothing to do with it. I remember, too, overhearing a couple of guys at a police BBQ saying Dad was soft on the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers because he'd grown up with guys like that. Which was presumptuous and racist bulls.h.i.t. Dad was raised in the suburbs. He didn't shoot that kid because he wouldn't shoot any kid. Wouldn't shoot any person if he didn't absolutely need to.

And, maybe, even if he needed to.

A g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger hadn't killed him. It'd been a forty-year-old woman in the suburbs, exactly the kind he'd grown up in. Ordinary neighborhood. Ordinary house. Ordinary family. Or so it seemed from the outside. Inside was a guy who liked to knock around his kids and his wife, and one day his wife took his gun and shot him and then barricaded herself and the kids in the house. Dad was trying to talk her into letting the children go. She shot him. Point-blank shot him. His partner jumped her, and the kids were safe and Dad was a hero. A dead hero.

"Riley?" It's Max, his fingers resting against my arm.

"We should get the gun. It makes ..." I'd been thinking something else too, before I got distracted. Right. I turn to Aaron. "How many shots did you fire?"

"What?"

"Two," Brienne says.

"And there were two fired earlier," I say. "The gun holds more ammo than that."

"Then it wasn't full," Aaron says. "I tried a few times."