68
ANSON
“Don’t answer it,” the Kid said softly, looking down at Detective Moss’s phone. “Just turn it off or something.”
I looked down the hallway, hoping to spot Detective Moss, but I didn’t see her.
Some of the color returned to the Kid’s face. “If his call is coming in, the block is off. Hang up and try dialing her partner!”
I had no idea how to do that—I’d never used a cell phone before.
When I hesitated, the Kid snatched the phone from me.
He quickly pressed decline and keyed through several menus until he found what must have been the speed dial options.
Carmichael was in the first spot. The Kid clicked on the name.
A second later, “No Service” appeared on the screen.
“It’s not working.” He tried again but got the same message.
He was about to try a third time when a text appeared on the screen:
Answer the phone or you’re all dead.
When it rang again, the Kid only stared at the screen.
One ring.
Two.
“Give it to me,” I finally said, reaching for the phone.
When he handed it to me, I pressed accept and brought the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
At first, there was only silence, then Hillburn’s voice came over the line like some snake slithering under the crack in a door. “Well, this isn’t Detective Moss, now is it? Who am I speaking to?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He went silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his words were like a dead thing brushing against my skin. “I knew you wouldn’t run, Anson. They all told me you would, but I knew. I knew you couldn’t help but stay. You just can’t help yourself. How’s your arm doing?”
My arm had been in a steady state of hurt since I broke it, but the truth was, it felt better.
The pain was gone and had been for a few days now.
I’d been told it would itch next, but that hadn’t started yet.
I didn’t tell him any of this. What I did tell him surely would have scored me a scolding from Mother and Father.
“Fuck you.”
The Kid’s eyes went wide at that, and I imagine mine did too. I’d never used profanity before, not once. Honestly, it felt good. Empowering.
“You’re not going to Guyon, Anson. Not like the rest. I’m going to make an example out of you. What I’m going to do to you will be so horrible, everyone in the Quick will beg to go to Guyon. They’ll line up two by two.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere.”
“I miss that,” Hillburn said. “About being a kid. The imagination. Belief in the impossible. That kind of thing fades as you get older. Eventually, it goes away altogether. The world loses its color and goes to shades of gray. Imagination fuels hope. Your friend, Libby? She had hope. She held onto that hope. She firmly believed you and the other boys would somehow appear and rescue her. Tegan and Kristina, too. Even when we dragged them from that car and loaded them into my van. Even when we tied them up and stuffed their pretty little mouths with gags, they looked over our shoulders, their eyes filled with hope. You didn’t appear, though.
Christ, you should have seen their faces when we locked them in that box.
I think that’s when it hit—nobody was coming. ”
If imagination fueled hope, anger fueled mistakes. He wanted to get me angry. He wanted me to make a mistake. I tamped the anger down, ignored it, as Father had taught me.
When we locked them in that box.
He wanted me to ask about the box, too. I wouldn’t.
That would open a door. One that led to where he wanted me to go.
Instead, I told him, “We killed Welderman and Stocks, and we took out Finicky and your entire operation in that house. If I have any regret, it’s letting you and Porter walk away.
Maybe it’s time to fix that. I wonder if the Genovese family understands how sloppy you were at Finicky’s.
I wonder if Tucker knows. I doubt it. You wouldn’t be breathing.
He should know, though, right? Somebody oughta tell him? ”
Hillburn went silent with that.
Imagination not only fueled hope—it could also fuel fear.
Nothing was more frightening than the conjurings of our own subconscious.
In my mind’s eye, I could see Hillburn on the other end of the phone call, maybe lowering the phone slightly from his face at the mention of Genovese or Tucker—two names I shouldn’t know.
Before he could respond, I dug in deeper.
“Did you know Meagan was working for the Genovese family, too? She made it sound like it was some kind of secret. What did she call it? Oh yeah, compartmentalization. She didn’t want to talk about any of that when we first figured out what she was doing, but I can be very persuasive with a knife.
Father taught me. I imagine if you read my file from Camden, you know all about that.
Dr. Oglesby was quite fond of taking notes. He knew all about my knife.”
The Kid was staring at me, his mouth hanging open.
“You can tell Tucker whatever you want. He knows it was Porter who dropped the ball at Finicky’s.
I made that very clear. He also knows what’s happening at the Quick.
He knows I’m the one making it all right.
So don’t you worry about me. I’ll come out of this just fine.
You need to concern yourself with what happens next. ”
It was my turn to go quiet. I didn’t say anything.
“Tell Detective Moss her team is down. The officers she had patrolling the Market have been neutralized. I’ve got snipers on all the exit points.
The last thing we want to do is shoot anyone else, but we will.
You are completely alone. There is nobody to call for help.
Your only chance at surviving this is surrender.
I’ll make you a personal promise—you do that, you surrender, and I’ll take you and your friends to Libby and the girls.
I’ll reunite you at Guyon. If you don’t surrender, we have a problem.
I’ve got a solution for that, too. Want to guess what it is? I’ll give you a hint.”
From somewhere above my head, I heard a soft click. When I looked up, the sprinklers came to life. All around the Quick, I heard shouts. It wasn’t water raining down from those pipes; it was gasoline.