73
ANSON
When Ruddy vanished down the hall, I told Paul and Vincent, “Take Pudge. I’ll be right behind you.” I turned to the Kid. “Go with them.”
“What are you going to do?”
I pulled the matches from my pocket and nodded toward the door leading downstairs. “Make sure Hillburn doesn’t follow.”
The Kid’s eyes widened. I expected him to argue with me, but he didn’t.
Neither did Paul or Vincent. They gripped Pudge’s hefty arms. “Come on, big guy, we’re getting out of here.”
“. . . But the door,” he protested.
“The door will be just fine,” Vincent told him. “You did a great job, but it’s time to go.”
Pudge mumbled something incoherent, then nodded and rose from the stool. Vincent gave me a quick nod, then the four of them were gone. I was alone.
The cell phone vibrated again.
Three minutes.
This time I clicked on the phone number—it only rang once. When Hillburn answered, I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “We need more time,” I told him. “The gasoline created a panic. Not everyone wants to listen, but they’re coming around.”
Hillburn clucked his tongue.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye. It had come from the television monitor on the floor. The image jerked to the side, then up. A blurry image. Then Hillburn’s face filled the screen, a phone pressed to his ear.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in . . .” Then he tapped the lens with the knuckle of his index finger. There was this smirk on his face, this ugly half-grin. “I’ll give you three more minutes. No more.”
I hung up.
I’d only need one.
Bending to the base of the door, I folded the lid of the matchbook in on itself so that half of the match-heads were pressed against the strike strip, then I jammed it under the door and wedged it in tight.
Another trick Father had taught me—the moment the door was opened, the friction would grind the matches against the strike plate and ignite them.
With all the gas on the surrounding floor and walls, the entire place would go up.
Satisfied, I got back to my feet and ran down the hall.
Somehow, the Quick had emptied behind us. Most of the doors were open. The rooms were deserted. I didn’t see a single person. When I passed the storage room, I thought of Meagan’s body inside. There was nothing I could do about that, not now. No time.
They weren’t at the south stairs. Not exactly.
When I rounded the final corner of the hallway, I nearly ran into Stash and Detective Moss.
Both were standing next to a bookcase that had been pushed aside, revealing what looked like the mouth of a slide.
A hand-painted sign hung above it, as ancient as dirt.
It read, “Fire Exit.” I’d seen slides like this on the outside of old buildings before, schools in particular.
When Moss spotted me, she rolled her eyes and spoke into her radio. “We’ve got him. He’s the last one.”
The voice I knew as Carmichael quickly responded. “Copy that. Follow him down. We’re gone the second you load up.”
“Understood.” Detective Moss eyed me with frustration. “What the hell, Anson? I gave you my phone so you could talk to him and help coordinate, not ignore him. You could have gotten people killed!”
“I didn’t ignore him; the call dropped.” As I spoke, my eyes never left Stash.
My thoughts were on Meagan. The strength it took to kill her like that.
To quiet her. I could picture him doing it.
Taking her life. He was still cradling the shotgun, and I couldn’t help but look at his hands.
Callused. Covered in the scars of a life led rough.
I wanted to see red lines, something that matched the drawstring on the bag I found over Meagan’s head, but there was nothing so obvious.
“Did you see anyone else?” he asked me in a hurried tone, glancing back the way I’d come. “Anyone at all?”
When he turned back to me, I met his eyes and refused to look away. I needed to know the truth. “Everyone is out. Are you sure Meagan didn’t come back?”
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look away from me. His voice was filled with worry. “She would have found me. She said she’d track me down the second she got back.”
“You can call her from the road,” Detective Moss said. “Tell her where to go.”
You saw that, right? Father whispered. Her eyes looked up and to the side for a quick second before she spoke.
“Go,” I told Stash. “I’ll be right behind you. I need to run something by Moss.”
He nodded and climbed into the slide. A second later, he was gone.
When I looked back at Detective Moss, her gun was out.