The Hand on the Wall(69)

The second problem was that they could not actually get the dynamite up to the hatch itself. They could only place it underneath and hope the force of the blast was enough. Which meant . . . more dynamite.

They decided to use two sticks.

“That should probably do some damage, right?” David said as they set it down.

“Or bring the ground down on us.”

“Or that,” he said.

David managed the wiring of the caps. Stevie didn’t really want to watch this part, because of the terror she felt and also the fact that she suspected he was making this up as he went along. Then they both hunkered behind one of the small rock formations. This meant they had to be closer to the blast, but it provided some shelter. Stevie and David huddled under the foil blanket that Janelle had so thoughtfully packed and demanded they take.

“You’re sure you won’t go in the back?” David said.

“Before we do this,” she said in reply. “There’s something I want you to know.”

“Oh boy.”

“I solved it.”

“You what now?”

“I solved it,” she said simply. “The Ellingham case.”

“You solved the crime of the century.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And who did it?”

“George Marsh,” she said simply. “The cop, the guy from the FBI.”

“And . . . that’s it? You just know?”

“I don’t just know,” she said. “I worked the case. I researched. I sat in the stupid attic reading menus and inventories.”

“You . . . solved it.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“And who knows this?”

“Nate,” she said.

“Nate.”

“Yup,” she said. “Nate knows.”

He waited a beat.

“Sure,” he said. “Seems about right.”

“So now tell me why I couldn’t have a tablet,” Stevie said.

David shifted next to her.

“He got to you once,” he said. “I didn’t want him to be able to get near you ever again. Happy now?”

“As happy as I can be in a hole in the ground about to blast some old unstable dynamite.”

“And there’s this,” he said. “When you took off, I was coming to show you something.”

He pulled out his phone and opened up a message.

“Call Me Charles replied to Imaginary Jim,” he said.

Stevie read the note:

TO: [email protected]

Today at 3:47 p.m.

FROM: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Mr. Malloy,

We appreciate the senator’s concerns, and we certainly thank him for his help with our internal security system. Attached is a copy of Albert Ellingham’s codicil. We trust that the senator will keep this strictly private.

In addition to all other bequests, the amount of ten million dollars shall be held in trust for my daughter, Alice Madeline Ellingham. Should my daughter no longer be among the living, any person, persons, or organization that locates her earthly remains—provided it is established that they were in no way connected to her disappearance—shall receive this sum. If she is not located by her ninetieth birthday, these funds shall be released to be used for the Ellingham Academy in any way the board sees fit. It is further stipulated that no member of the faculty or administration of Ellingham Academy may claim this sum as their own.

“It’s real,” Stevie said. “The codicil is real.”

“Apparently.”

“It’s real,” she said again.

“Yeah.”

She leaned her head back on the cold rock wall and laughed. The laugh quickly turned into a kind of laugh vomit, endless and rolling, to the point where she was gagging from it. David laughed too, probably because she was laughing.

“So you have your thing,” he said. “Did it tell you what you needed to know?”

“No,” she said, painfully coming down from the hysteria. She wiped her eyes.

They settled into each other. She wrapped her arms around his middle and he did the same to her. The foil blanket rattled.

“I’ve decided not to ignore you,” she said. “I don’t care if I promised.”

“Doesn’t matter. My ass is toast.”

He pulled up another message, this time, a text.

Today 2:24 p.m.

I see someone named Jim Malloy now works for me. I can only assume this is you. I also understand you have returned to Ellingham. Be aware that I know that you accessed my safe and our private server. If you think I won’t press charges against you, you are much mistaken. As a public official, I need to set an example—my son will not get special treatment. Think very carefully about what you do next. How do you want your life to go?

“Wah-wah,” David said, imitating a sad trombone. “My life, as I once knew it, is done. Especially after I sent this.”

He pulled up one more message.

Today 2:26 p.m.

Your blackmail stuff has been destroyed. I want my life to go better than yours, and now it will. Suck it.

“You didn’t wait very long,” Stevie noted.

“No,” he said. “There was nothing to think about. But he is going to make my life very, very difficult.”