The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(60)
I grabbed the rail, feeling the mechanism jerk in my hand, just as the model roof caved in with a plastic crunch. Off balance, I shoved against the model, tipping the entire table and leaving me dangling one-handed with my feet kicking over empty space. If I let go of the rail, if I let the flint strike one more time, I was a dead man.
With the muscles of my left arm burning for relief, I pulled myself up then dropped down hard, trying to use my weight to break the rail free. The mechanism bucked under my hand. Gears pinched my palm and threatened my failing grip. Seconds from letting go, I lifted myself up one more time and dropped. The rail came with me, breaking away from the device. It landed in the model’s crumpled remains as we both fell down.
The smell of gas was overpowering now. I smeared tears from my eyes and rubbed my aching arm as I looked for a way out. With the trap disarmed, I was still far from safe. One spark, no matter how tiny, and this room would turn into a blast furnace. The hydraulic arm holding the door shut had regular, unshielded screws, but I didn’t have a screwdriver and ramming metal objects together didn’t seem like a smart move right now.
The fallen model of the Enclave gave me an idea. I crouched over the section I’d stood on, the plastic roof caved in, and grabbed hold of a glossy wedge. It broke free in my hand, an improvised shiv with a killing edge. I gently slid the triangle of plastic against the first screw’s head, gripping it with both hands as I gave it a careful turn. The plastic bent but didn’t break. Gradually, slowly, the screw swiveled and rose from its housing.
Three more screws and it was done. I took hold of the arm with a feather-light grip and pulled it away from the door. I held my breath. The study door whined on its hinges as it drifted open a crack.
I left the papers behind. Out in the hallway, my eyes and throat burning, every instinct screamed at me to run. With the gas flooding free it wouldn’t take much to engulf the entire house in a screaming fireball. Still, I couldn’t leave yet. Tony and Amber were gone. If I hoped for the slightest chance of saving the girl, I had to find out where he’d taken her.
The bedrooms lay empty, lived in but tidy. A lump tightened in my throat as I poked my head into Amber’s room, a swirl of white and pink. A well-loved teddy bear nestled between fluffy pillows. Hang on, kid, I thought, I’m coming. Down in the kitchen, a light flashed on the base of a wireless phone. One new message. I pressed the play button.
“Hey hon,” said a tired-sounding woman, “it’s me. I’m stuck at JFK for another two hours. Worst airport, swear to God. Mom and Dad said they’d pick Amber up from school so, as promised, you have a nice long weekend all to yourself. No wild parties, young man, and by parties I mean working. Civilization will survive if the world’s best architect takes a couple of days off, I promise.”
The rest of the words drifted past me like nonsensical syllables, blocked out as I scoured the drawers and cabinets looking for a clue. It was the perfect setup. With Amber staying at her grandparents’ house, Tony could strike at his leisure and have plenty of time to cover his tracks. I just hoped he planned to do it late tonight, when everyone would be asleep.
The kitchen’s rummage drawer by the phone yielded a spiral-bound notebook filled with names, addresses, and phone numbers. On the first page, one neatly penned entry read “Mom & Dad.” Whose parents, though? Tony’s or his wife’s? I picked up the kitchen phone and dialed from there, so they’d see a familiar name on the caller ID.
It rang once, twice, three times, each ring squeezing the breath from my lungs in an invisible fist. Come on, come on, pick up…
“Jill?” an elderly woman said, answering the phone on the fifth ring. A television blared in the background, a laugh track underscoring a drum riff.
“No ma’am,” I said, putting on a faint Southern drawl. “This is Officer Crosby with the police department. Now, don’t get alarmed, everything’s fine, but we’re responding to a breakin at this residence and we’re just calling to find the property owner. I understand you’re Jill Vance’s mother, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” she said, her voice rising. “Oh, oh my, is everything all right? Is Tony there? Was he hurt?”
“No, no, we think it was just some local kids. They got scared off by the alarm. We’re trying to get ahold of Tony. Now, according to our records, there’s a little girl named Amber who lives at this residence. We’re concerned because she isn’t here. Do you know if she would have come straight home after school?”
“Oh, bless your heart for asking,” the woman said. “She’s staying with her grandfather and me for the weekend. She’s sitting on the couch right next to me, safe and sound.”
My heart soared. I’m not too late. I’m not too late. I tore the page out of the address book, sticking it in my pocket.
“Well, that’s great,” I said. “You just make sure to lock your doors and windows tight tonight. Thank you, ma’am.”
I hung up, tossed the phone to the counter, and opened the sliding glass door leading to the back deck. I froze with my hand on the latch. I couldn’t leave the place like this, flooding with gas and ready to blow. Sooner or later somebody would come around, maybe a neighbor or another innocent bystander, and get a lethal surprise.
Out on the deck, next to a high-end grill, I scavenged a couple of bottles of lighter fluid from a cardboard box. Good enough. I laid a trail from the hallway, through the kitchen and outside, snaking it along the grass until the final bottle gave its last sputtering spurt. The trail blazed to life with a touch of my lighter and streaked through the grass toward the house like a bullet from hell.