“Tell him!” Rafa screamed. “Give him the key! Give it to him!”
David picked up his head just in time to see more fists coming his way. He reached up at exactly the right moment and took hold of Rafa’s right wrist. Without letting go, David leapt to his feet, clenched Rafa in a tight embrace, and hurled his friend hard to the stage floor. David went down to the ground, his hair exploding around him, and the wrestling continued.
The two rolled around on the stage floor exchanging punches, much to the delight and cheers of Fausto’s men, who had circled the entwined pair like a group watching a schoolyard brawl.
Rafa went for David’s eyes with a clawed hand. David blocked the strike with his forearm, but Rafa managed to grab hold of a clump of David’s thick hair and gave it a hard yank. David howled in pain as he fought to raise his head high enough to sink his teeth into the exposed flesh of Rafa’s delicate wrist. It was a vicious bite, like that of an angry dog.
Now it was Rafa’s turn to cry out, and he let go of David’s hair as he ripped his hand away. Rafa favored his wounded left hand as he scrambled back to his feet. David clawed his way back to his feet and cleared Rafa’s blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
The two squared off again.
Solomon slid over to the far corner of the stage, away from the commotion, and huddled into a fetal position, traumatized. Pixie didn’t budge. He just sat in his chair and watched the chaos unfold as if it were a feature film.
Fausto waved to the guard at the door, the one Andy called Whippet, to join everybody onstage. In his hand, Fausto clutched a stack of colorful bills and he held them up over his head and shouted something in Spanish. The rest of the men took the cue and went looking for bills in their pockets. Soon they were shouting indecipherable commands and money began to exchange hands.
“Cuarenta por El Flaco,” Una Mano said, pointing to Rafa. Fausto ripped the bills from Una Mano’s hand.
David stepped forward and unleashed a vicious punch to Rafa’s gut. The blow landed hard enough to double Rafa over. This was followed by a rapid exchange of money. The men were laughing and clapping; and though they spoke only Spanish, it was obvious they were betting on the outcome.
Hilary saw Whippet leave his post by the door to join his comrades onstage. Andy was slipping in and out of consciousness, sweaty, mumbling, glassy-eyed. Hilary knew he was dying.
Everyone was so focused on David and Rafa’s battle that nobody noticed Hilary leave her seat and sneak over to the unguarded auditorium door. She glanced back at Andy. Even from a distance, she could see his lips moving, and it was easy to imagine him saying, “Harkness, Harkness, Harkness,” over and over again.
Hilary engaged the push bar and cringed at the sound it made. It was probably just a soft click, and most likely drowned out by the shouting men, but to Hilary it rang out like a gunshot. She froze in place and looked to the stage. All attention was on the boys.
Hilary opened the door enough to let in a sliver of light, enough for her to slip out. She stepped into the empty hallway directly outside the auditorium and kept pressure on the door to make sure it closed as silently as possible.
To her left, Hilary saw the building’s exit. Gray light filtered in through two tall picture windows on either side of the front door. Beyond those windows was a wide expanse of green and brown lawn-The Quad. She could run for it. By the time they noticed she was gone, it would be too late. She would lose them in the woods. She could get help. But then how long would it take to get someone back inside? Get Andy his medicine? Andy would never last that long. Never. Or worse, maybe there would be dire consequences because of her escape, and Fausto would slaughter her friends in retribution. What kind of survival would that be? Instead of being their savior, she would contribute to their execution. Her mind flashed on the image of Fausto bludgeoning El Gallo to death all because someone might have alerted the police. What would he do if the police tried to get inside the school for real?
Hilary took one more wistful look outside. They will negotiate for our release, she thought as a single tear slid out from her eye and snaked down her face. She thought of her mother and father. Her sisters. The life she might never get a chance to live. Her stomach cramped from the weight of her decision.
Inside, the shouts of the men grew louder. It was the sound of laughter and joy, pure revelry. Hilary turned from the door and sprinted down the hall headed for the stairs. She had taken history with Mr. Langford last year.
She knew which basement classroom had a Harkness table.
CHAPTER 35
The tunnel ran straight as a razor’s edge, and Jake had choices about which way to go. East would take him the rest of the way underneath the Academy Building. West would bring him back the way he came. He headed east.
Surges of adrenaline kept his mind sharp and body tense. His heart thudded like the steady beat of a war drum. There was enough headroom to stand upright, and plenty of space for Jake’s Glock. He kept the pistol out in front of him as he walked. Five years ago, this section of tunnel had received a much-needed face-lift, and a lot of the wiring was fairly new. But it wasn’t pristine, by any stretch. It still smelled dank, and the walls were slippery to the touch. Jake could hear dripping water anytime he stopped walking.
As he made it another twenty yards or so, Jake picked up a different sound. Not dripping water. Not rats. Nothing mechanical.
It was the sound of laughter.
The laughter resolved itself into something else-shouting that became indiscriminant chatter. The noises were muffled but distinct. Jake paused to listen. He thought he heard somebody shout, “Give it,” but the long corridor and thick walls distorted the sound.
Those noises became yelling. The tumult roused Jake and drove him to a quicker pace. He let his mind go blank. His pistol aimed at nothing. He ignored all the precautions he should have been taking. The voices were coming from aboveground, and he knew only one place where that could be-the stage in the Feldman Auditorium.
The tunnel ran right underneath it. There were two locked doors on either side of the pit below the stage. The pit was nothing but a crawl space about six feet high, taking up roughly the same area as the stage. Theater productions used the pit for all sorts of things, mostly set changes, but a movable staircase down there allowed actors to make quick entrances or exits if required. Running along the back of the pit wall were utility pipes that came through holes bored into the concrete, as well as a sizable fuse box, tapped into the main power supply, which controlled electrical currents for the auditorium. The pit was otherwise empty, with no way out unless somebody had the keys to the tunnel entrances.
Closer to the pit doors, Jake forced himself to slow down. The voices bellowed even louder. Jake could not make any sense of what was being said, or how many people might be involved. Was it a mix of hostages and hostage takers, and was Andy among those present?
Jake shut off his headlamp and let the darkness take over. He got onto his stomach and peered through the sill of the green metal door, which secured access to the pit, looking for any trace of light. If the trapdoor happened to be open when Jake went inside, he’d be spotted for sure. He couldn’t see anything, but his nose picked up a definite smell. It was the musty, metallic odor of the blood-splattered bathroom, only on steroids.
He put his nose against the doorsill, took a big whiff. Something horrible was behind the door, the smell of death. Jake took off his headlamp, turned it on, and shone the light through the crack, trying to see what lay beyond.