He saw shapes, shadows on top of shadows, but couldn’t make out what they were. Then Jake’s light caught a flash of something bright, something gold-a watch, maybe. He brought the beam back and soon had it fixed on a discolored hand. The fingers were knotted into a claw.
He realized it was a man’s hand. A teacher, perhaps? Jake couldn’t say for sure, and the way the body was positioned kept him from seeing the head. Jake could make out only one disfigured hand, but other shapes, probably other people, were in that crawl space. The pit made an ideal place to dispose a dead body.
Jake pictured the scene unfolding on the stage, and assumed hostages were in the auditorium somewhere, maybe on the stage, maybe in the seats. Jake powered the headlamp back on and fished out the master key from the pocket on his chest rig. It was tucked inside the pouch, next to the one where he kept Andy’s emergency glucagon kit. Jake slipped the key into the lock and gave it a turn.
He powered off the headlamp and darkness came once more. Jake would be almost impossible to see in the darkness, in his camouflage. He opened the door with his left hand, while the right hand was ready to shoot anything that came at him.
The smell of blood hit Jake like a tidal wave. He looked all around. No light filtered down, which meant no light could filter up. The chatter coming from the stage was louder and clearer. Jake heard thumps and bumps and heavy feet stomping about the stage. He could make out some words, but most of what he heard was in Spanish, or at least he thought it was Spanish. He heard grunts and a loud thud, as if somebody had fallen to the stage floor. This seemed to please some of those above him, because a series of delighted cheers broke out. A few choice words came to him.
“¡Lucha! ¡Lucha!”
No idea what that meant.
“Mátalo!”
Not that one, either.
Jake shifted his attention from the noises above to what was inside the pit below. He turned his headlamp back on and skulked into the pit area. He shone his light on the lumpy object closest to him and saw it was a body. The man’s face was covered in purple welts; below a shock of red hair, Jake saw cracks in the skull. The mysterious shapes Jake had seen under the door turned out to be two other bodies, tossed down into the pit, along with “Big Red.”
Those two had clearly been shot in the head. Big Red might have been as well, but he was badly beaten and it was harder to tell. Of the three, Big Red was the lightest colored, but the other two had the same skin tone as the guy Jake had ventilated with lead inside the bathroom. All four could certainly be a part of the same crew. They were a team, and none of them taught at this school.
Jake assumed these guys were involved in Laura’s murder, and were probably hostage takers. So, why were they dead? Who had killed them?
Jake’s first thought was Andy. His son had the skills to kill, and access to weapons. Maybe he was down in these very tunnels waging a one-man war. But the notion didn’t sit well with him.
Jake felt around the pockets of the dead men, searching for IDs or weapons, but found nothing. The commotion onstage continued until four sharply spoken words cut through the din.
“Get off me, David!”
That voice he recognized. It was Rafa, Andy’s friend. David was probably David Townsend. Was Andy with them? The pit had a microphone to let whoever was under the stage hear the cues clearly, but it was currently turned off. No worries-Jake’s earmuffs had those built-in sound amplifiers. Binoculars for the ears.
His flashlight danced around in the dark until he found the portable staircase tucked away in a far corner. They were a miniature version of the movable steps sometimes used to help passengers and crew board or disembark from an airplane. It would be easy for Jake to roll the stairs under the trapdoor, but he would have to move the bodies.
Jake went to work. He grabbed one of the dead guys by the back of the shirt and dragged him five feet or so. He was stiff, no bend to the legs or arms. His hair was matted down with dried blood. The gunshot wound had basically turned the side of his head into hamburger. Jake didn’t know if this guy had been dead one hour or five, and it didn’t much matter.
Sounds of fighting continued above him. Jake could hear the loudest shouts, and those were in English.
“Liar! Liar!”
“I don’t have it!”
He could tell Rafa’s voice from David’s. “I don’t have it!” What did that mean?
Grabbing the railings of the staircase, Jake gave a hard tug. The wheels rolled noiselessly over the concrete floor. No squeak. He maneuvered the stairs into position, climbed almost to the top step, and pressed one of the hearing protectors to the underside of the trapdoor. He adjusted the sound controls until the chatter focused into clear conversation.
The words were meaningless without context.
“Give it.”
“Hit him.”
“Está perdiendo.”
He heard every footstep, stomp, thump, thud, and body slam. This was a fight going on, for sure. It sounded to Jake like men screaming out wagers. He thought of a dogfight or a cockfight in some smoke-filled back room.
Somebody screamed-one of the kids. It was a howl of frustration, a call to battle of sorts. The kids were fighting each other, and whoever had taken them hostage was betting on the outcome, or so Jake believed.
His mind clicked over to a new problem. How would he reach Andy? He assumed he was outmanned, outgunned. Jake contemplated his options when he heard a new voice, a voice he didn’t recognize.
“¡La chica se ha ido!” The voice was angry. “¡Vayan a buscarla, pendejos!”
“Chica” was the Spanish word for “girl.” Could that be Hilary? Jake had tried to call Hilary, but he couldn’t reach her. Could all of Andy’s friends be a part of this? If so, why?
A new voice spoke up. This kid had been at Jake and Andy’s house plenty of times. He was a quiet kid, small for his size, but his voice spoke with authority. People called him Pixie. Jake had known guys like him in the minors and in The Bigs-small guys with guts and tons of heart-lions inside the body of cubs. Pixie roared, and what he said filled Jake with terror.
“Wake up, Andy! Andy, wake up!”
CHAPTER 36
Hilary took the stairs to the lower level, two at a time, threw open the bottom door, and raced down an empty corridor, pumping her arms to gain speed. The overhead lights were still on; otherwise, she’d be running blind in this windowless section of the Academy Building. Hilary was in good shape, not short of breath, and her sneakers provided decent traction.
As she turned a corner, she slowed. Somewhere down this long hallway was the classroom with a Harkness table inside, and a backpack containing an emergency glucagon kit. But which room? Hilary could not recall the specific location, so she would have to check them all.
Most of the classroom doors were open, and Hilary paused only long enough to poke her head inside and have a quick check about the room. Some classrooms had the lights off, so Hilary had to flick a switch to get a better look inside. She closed each door before moving on to the next. If they came looking for her, it might slow them down, though she feared it would buy her at most a few more seconds of life.
About halfway down the corridor, Hilary thought she should have reached Langford’s classroom by now. This flash of doubt mushroomed until Hilary believed she had screwed up royally. The classroom was behind her, she was now certain, and in her rush had somehow missed it. Hilary contemplated backtracking. She slowed and glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to have enough time to double back and finish checking the remaining classrooms.