The noise was deafening, a high-pitched ringing that immediately filled the hallways with students, teachers, and staff. I threw myself into the current of bodies streaming to the stairs. Officer Lou turned toward me just as I was bolting down the stairwell. I knew he was right behind me. The stairwell was crammed with people which slowed us both down, but I had momentum and a head start on my side.
Kids were jostling and goofing on one another as we made our way down the stairs. I shoved past them, taking two and three steps at a time.
“Hey, no running during a fire drill!” some kid yelled at me, laughing with his friends.
I hit the bottom and emerged into the crowded first-floor hallway. I had to make a snap decision—charge out through the exit and risk Officer Lou overtaking me, or double back and hide in the bathroom or a broom closet or somewhere until Lou charged past and then I could slip out. I almost ducked into a nearby boys’ room. That was the craftier way to play it. But time was not on my side. If I were Officer Lou and I lost the guy I was chasing, I’d immediately lock down the campus and call in the SWAT team. Schools don’t mess around when it comes to security. In such a scenario, Officer Lou would probably seal the parking lots and, even if I did slip out of the bathroom, I’d never get my truck off the property. That would then make me a fugitive on foot, which has very low odds of escape. I’d be run down by younger, faster, stronger cops or spotted by the chopper that would immediately be mobilized.
No, I had only one chance. I had to get the hell out of there before that sequence of events was put in motion and take my chances out on the streets. I dashed out the school’s doors to the parking lot, bumping into a group of teens taking their time exiting the building. I muscled past them and sprinted to my truck. I threw myself into the cab and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life and I slammed it into gear. Just as I was pulling onto the street, I spotted Officer Lou charging around the corner of the building. He had chosen another exit and was now going from the staff and visitor parking lot to the student lot. I was glad that sheer laziness had compelled me to park in the first spot I had seen, which happened to be in the student lot. It had bought me a precious few minutes.
With the enormous crowd milling around, I didn’t know if Officer Lou had seen me drive off. He might have; he might not have. I was taking no chances. I needed to put as much distance between me and that high school as quickly as possible. I sped through some nearby residential neighborhoods as the sirens grew louder. Fire trucks probably. Cops, too, by now.
In my head I was mapping a route back to my roadside motel when my cell phone rang, startling me and causing me to steer wildly. I swerved back onto my side of the street and fumbled with the cell phone, pulling it up into view. I looked at the caller ID, expecting it to be Joey V. But it wasn’t. It was much more intriguing. Despite my high-speed flight from justice, I decided to answer and risk the signal being traced to the nearest cell tower.
It was Skip Balinor, Cam’s cousin.
“Talk to me, Skip,” I said into the phone. “I need that hard drive.”
“Hello, Officer,” Skip said in a languid tone, drawing the words out. “Yes, you do. And so do some very interesting people.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” he paused. “Do you have any idea what’s on that drive?”
“No, Skip. No, goddammit. Why do you think I asked you?” He was just being a jerk, milking the moment for whatever glory and adulation he could get, however reluctantly offered. “What’s on the drive?”
“As I said. Interesting. I’d rather not say over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming to see you,” I said, spinning the steering wheel hard to make a left from the right-hand lane. A Prius behind me honked.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah. It is.” I honked back at the Prius. “Don’t move. Don’t answer the door. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t do anything, Skip. You hear me? I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Thirty-three minutes later I skidded my pickup to a stop in the parking lot of Skip’s apartment. I grabbed my 9 mm Glock from the glove compartment, vowing not to go anywhere without it again. I shoved it into the back of my jeans and untucked my shirt to cover the handle. I sprinted across the parking lot to Skip’s ground-floor apartment. I pounded on the front door.
“Skip! Open up! It’s me, Mike Garrity!” There was no response. “Skip! Open the door!”
After a seemingly interminable pause, I heard Skip’s voice, a petulant, nasal whine. “You told me not to open the door.” I heard him snickering.
“Open this door or I’ll kick it in, I swear to Christ. Then I’ll shoot you in the foot.”
I finally heard a deadbolt slide and a door chain clink. The door opened a crack and I charged in, bouncing Skip back into his apartment.
“Hey!” he protested. “Ow! Watch it, ass-head. That hurt.”
“Ass-head? That’s new.”
Cam was right. The place smelled like week-old Cheetos. It was dark, the blinds were drawn, and there were sci-fi movie posters tacked on the walls. The furniture consisted of two or three mismatched pieces picked up from garage sales and curbside discard piles. The only matching items in his decor were the consistent rips and tears in the fabric. The majority of the living room, however, was dominated by computer equipment, vast racks of hardware stacked from floor to ceiling. Monitors, printers, cables, boards, wires, plugs, peripherals, and great, unkempt stacks of CDs and DVDs. The place looked like Bill Gates’s junk drawer.
Skip was indeed heavier and pimplier than the last time I had seen him. He was also desperately trying, with minimal success, to grow a scraggly black beard. His round gut stretched a black T-shirt to its shiny limit.
“Look at you,” I said. “Why do you have to be such a nerd cliché?”
“Ass-head.”
“Where’s the hard drive?”
“Go screw yourself.”
I sighed. “Look, Skip. Either you can give me the hard drive or I can take it. But, either way, I’m walkin’ outta here with it.”
Skip rubbed his shoulder where the door had struck him. “Don’t you want to know what’s on it?”
“Yes. Of course I wanna know what’s on it. That’s why I’m here.” I waited a beat. “So?”
“How much would you charge for that information?”
“Aw, c’mon, Skip. We’ve been through this. I told you—I’m not paying you.”
Skip shook his head. “You’re not listening, Officer. Typical police. Never listen.” He placed his palms together almost as if he were in prayer. “I didn’t ask you how much you would pay for the information. I asked how much you would charge for it.”
I shook my head slightly, trying to clear my thoughts. “What are you getting at?”
“We need to decide pretty soon.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to have to give them a number.”
“A number? What are you talking about? Who do you have to give a number to?”
Skip leaned against a counter in his kitchen. He affected a sly smile, which merely stretched his coarse, sparse beard into a disturbing rictus. “As I said, there is some interesting information on that hard drive.” He reached behind himself and grabbed a CD from the kitchen counter. It was not in a case. “Here.”
I took it from him. “What’s this?”
“A backup. Everything on the flash drive.”
“Thanks.” I slipped the CD into the back pocket of my jeans. “Where’s the flash drive?”
He patted his front pants pocket. “A safe place. I even re-encrypted it so no one will know.”
“Give it to me.” I held out my hand.
“I don’t think so.”
“Who do you have to give a number to, Skip?”
He grinned the grotesque grimace again. “Once I cracked the security, I started reading what was stored. E-mails, mostly, but some documents, too. And I learned a lot. A lot. I can see why Jonathan Dennis saved it and encrypted it. He was good, too. But not good enough.”
“Listen to me, you moron. Jonathan Dennis is dead. Whatever is on that hard drive got him killed. Who do you have to give a number to?”
“One of the most interesting things I learned while reading was the names. One name in particular. So I called him. For a small financial consideration, I would give him the drive back and forget all about it.”
“Oh my God … You didn’t …”
“Of course I did. You would, too. That’s why you want it so badly.”
“No. No! I want it because the cops think I cut Jonathan’s throat for it. I want to know what the hell’s going on so I can prove I had nothing to do with it. You dumb schmuck. Do you realize what you’ve just done?”
“Yes, I do. I just won the lottery. I’m thinking a million dollars. If you saw what I saw on there, you’d know that was a bargain.”
“You dumb, stupid, idiot, moron …”
His phone rang suddenly. Skip crossed the dinette area to pick it up.
“Wait!” I said. “Just wait! Don’t answer that. Let the machine get it.”
Skip regarded me with bemused disgust and put his hand on the receiver. He lifted it.
“Hello?” he said cheerfully. “Hello?” Skip twisted his lips and placed the phone back in its cradle. “Must have been a wrong number.”
In what seemed like slow motion, a tumbler clicked into place in my head. I blinked at Skip.
“Get down!” I barked, throwing myself on the floor. “Get down and behind the kitchen counter. Is there another way out of here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Is there another way out of here?” I repeated, with a little more urgency.
“The sliding door in the bedroom. It leads out to the pool area. Get up, Officer. You’re embarrassing yoursel—”
Skip’s front window exploded in a hailstorm of bullets.