71
ANSON
I reached out and tentatively touched Meagan’s neck, just beneath the edge of the plastic. She was clearly dead. I didn’t expect to find a pulse, but she was still warm. She hadn’t been dead long. “Stash said she was at the hospital getting supplies.”
“She musta come back,” the Kid said softly.
“Or maybe she never left,” Vincent added.
More gunfire erupted from down below. Three quick shots, then four more. If Hillburn’s people weren’t at the stairs yet, they were getting close.
From one of the storage shelves, Vincent tore open a package of paper towels and handed each of us a roll.
From another shelf, he plucked bottles of water from a carton and tossed them to us.
He poured half the water from one of the bottles on his face and scrubbed away the gasoline with a fist full of towels.
“After the gas, I came in here to get this stuff. I found her instead.” He jerked an uneasy thumb toward Meagan.
Following Vincent’s lead, the Kid and I dumped water over our heads and let it run down our faces before wiping it away. The sting began to leave my eyes. “Does anyone else know?”
“Fuck no. Just you.”
I spotted a book of matches on the corner of the shelf and slipped them into my pocket just as Moss’s phone buzzed with another text message. I didn’t want to look but had little choice. It was from Hillburn.
Eight minutes.
“Eight minutes until what?” Vincent frowned.
While the Kid told him, I got a closer look at Meagan.
Although every inch of her was saturated in gasoline, her hair and face were not.
She’d been killed before the sprinklers came on.
The bag was made of thick plastic with a black drawstring at the mouth.
The string had been pulled tight enough to leave angry red marks on her neck.
Both her hands were pinned behind her back.
“Whoever did this was strong. They held her arms back with one hand and suffocated her with the other.” I leaned her forward just enough to get a look at her back.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing?”
“They held her from behind. I’m guessing they put their knee or a foot on her back for leverage.”
“I don’t give a shit how she died, Columbo. We need to find a way out of here. Now.”
I ignored him. “Somebody either figured out she’s been working with the killer, or somebody already knew and killed her to keep her from talking.”
His face twisted with impatience. “Who cares? This isn’t our problem.”
“It is our problem,” I insisted. “Whoever did this is strong. I don’t think it could be a woman.”
“There are a lot of men here. It could be anyone.”
I shook my head. “How many do you think actually know what’s going on? Know enough to want to kill her? I can only think of one.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Stash.”
The Kid quickly shook his head. “Stash wouldn’t kill Meagan. He loved her. Meagan told me she asked for the divorce, not him. He never stopped loving her.”
“According to her,” Vincent pointed out.
“Nobody knows how he really felt about her. Maybe it made him bitter. Maybe he resented her. Maybe they were working together, supplying people to this killer, and he got tired of splitting the payday.” He threw his arms up in the air.
“Maybe he’s wanted her dead for a long time, and today screamed perfect opportunity.
Again, I don’t give a shit. She’s dead. We are not.
I want to keep it that way. Grab that water. Come on.”
With the package of paper towels tucked under his arm, Vincent led the Kid and me back out into the hallway. I locked the storage room door behind us. The last thing we needed was someone else finding Meagan.
Making our way back to the north stairs, we handed out the remaining water and paper towels as we went.
We found Paul with Pudge at the north steps.
He snatched the last of the towels from my hand and quickly scrubbed his red face.
“I’m so glad we decided to hang around this place.
” He’d discarded his sketchpad off in the corner.
It had been soaked by the gasoline. Ruined.
When he finished, he offered the water and towels to Pudge, but he just shook his large head.
He was pacing back and forth in front of the door leading downstairs, both his beefy hands gripping his useless shotgun.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was burned red with spit at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a rabid dog.
Moss’s cell phone rang again.
Hillburn.
I ignored it. “Pudge, are there any cameras downstairs? Can you see what’s going on?”
“Yes and no,” he replied without stopping.
When he didn’t elaborate, I pressed him. “Which is it?”
There was a small television next to his stool. He tapped it with the toe of his shoe. “Video broke about fifteen minutes ago.”
I took a closer look at the screen. The camera was still working, but it was pointing at the ground.
“What was the last thing you saw?”
“People.”
“Were they cops?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they have uniforms on?”
“Don’t know.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, then smacked the side of his head with a closed fist. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Vincent grabbed Pudge’s arm before he could hit himself again, straining under the effort.
Vincent was strong. Pudge was stronger. He managed to calm him, though.
I didn’t ask again. With a grimace, the Kid bent down and checked the television.
It was still on, but the screen was blank.
“The camera is transmitting, but it’s been covered up with something. ”
Another text from Hillburn.
Five minutes.
I looked at Vincent. “Should we barricade the door?”
Pudge shook his head violently. “Nobody opens the door. That’s what Stash said. Nobody. Nobody opens the door.”
Another incoming call—this time it was Carmichael.
I quickly answered. “Hey?! Are you—”
“Listen to me,” he interrupted. “I need you to—”
The call disconnected.
Smash it, Champ. Father whispered to me. It’s clouding your thoughts. Smash it and be done with it.
Oh, how I wanted to. I wanted to throw it to the ground and stomp it until there was nothing left.
“Nobody opens the door,” Pudge said again from behind clenched teeth. “Nobody goes downstairs.” He grabbed his stool, jerked it in front of the door, and sat. Daring anyone to try to move him.
Ruddy came barreling down the hallway, his braided hair smacking his back and shoulders.
He skidded to a stop a few feet from us, out of breath.
He glared at the phone in my hand. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering that thing?
The cops have been trying to reach you. They regrouped on the other end of the building and found a way out.
You’re all that’s left. South stairs, now! ”
Without further explanation, he twisted on his heels and ran back the way he’d come.