Be Strong & Curvaceous Page 17

  Brett dropped the keys, and spent the next thirty seconds fishing them out from under his own feet.

  While he did that, I explained.

  “And so that’s when I told the cabbie to turn around, because the phone number on the envelope was registered to 1721 Bautista. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that David actually lives in that house there with the shrubs out front, and an even lower one that he brought her back here.”

  “To do what?”

  I shook my head. “He said he wanted to show her something, but in his e-mail messages he said crazy stuff like her days were numbered and they were going out in a blaze of glory. That doesn’t sound good to me.”

  “Not exactly an offer for soda and a pizza,” he agreed. Number 1721 was three houses down, and he gazed at it, his eyes flicking from porch to sidewalk to windows. “What’s the plan?”

  “You’re assuming I have one.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? That means you were going to do something, all by yourself.”

  “I hadn’t gotten that far.” I followed his gaze to the house. “It doesn’t look like anyone is home, does it?”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. He could just be keeping the lights off. Why don’t I go see if he’ll answer the door?”

  I stared at him. “Are you nuts? He knows who you are.”

  “What?”

  “He’s been stalking her for weeks. He saw us all go to that party at Callum’s, and he even knows what time you and Mac came back.” Even though I was totally over him, I felt the blood creep into my face.

  “And what time was that?”

  I shrugged. “Sometime after three, I guess. Not that I was, um, watching the time or anything.”

  “Then it wasn’t me. I left after you did.” His gaze flicked to me. “The party lost some of its juice when you took off.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “For me, it did.”

  Had I heard that right? His voice was kind of muffled. It must have been a mistake. I hurried on. “Anyway, he told her she couldn’t tell anyone, so if you show up on the doorstep, he’ll know she did and he might hurt her. Drive around to the next street, okay? Let’s look at the back of the house.”

  The darned Camaro sounded like a Harley without a muffler. Did Mac know Brett drove this monster? Would she recognize the sound and know that the cavalry was on its way?

  We rumbled around the corner and I leaned out of the window long enough to wave at the cabbie and tell him I’d met a friend. Brett loaned me another twenty and the cab sped away, the nice cabbie waving out his window, leaving the two of us on the street behind the house.

  “Come on.” I waited for him to lock up and we ran down the driveway of a nondescript duplex where someone inside was watching TV, the blue light flickering on the drapes. Behind the garage was a chain-link fence, and I thanked God for Mac’s foresight on the subject of footwear.

  Brett and I dropped as soundlessly as the jingly fence would let us into the backyard of number 1721. “Now what?” he whispered. “This is trespassing. Are we going to break in next?”

  Is my life full of weirdness or what? Here I was, sneaking through the undergrowth, trying to pull off a nocturnal rescue and contemplating criminal acts with Brett Loyola, scion of one of San Francisco’s wealthiest families. I swear, you can’t make this stuff up.

  In the pocket of my cargo pants, my phone vibrated against my leg like an angry cicada. I ignored it. “This is a multi-unit house,” I whispered, scanning the back of the building. “It’s just like the ones on my Tía Donna’s street, only uglier. The family lives on the main floor and rent out the separate suites upstairs.”

  “So that’s where you think he’s got her? In one of the upstairs apartments?”

  I shook my head. How should I know?

  There was a rush of movement in the yard next door, and a big dog flung itself at the fence, barking. I grabbed Brett’s arm and threw myself on the ground behind a group of plants in huge ceramic pots at the edge of the patio.

  Lights came on next door, and someone called the dog in.

  Lights came on above us, too. The right-hand suite, overlooking the back deck. For two seconds, I saw a head silhouetted against the window, red hair tousled and the face a pale oval shape.

  Someone grabbed her from behind and wrestled her away from the window. The lights went out.

  I turned my head and looked at Brett, on his knees next to me, both of us with gravel mashed into our jeans and the palms of our hands. The scent of rosemary hung in the air. I realized a second later that it came from the thick, prickly bushes growing in the pots, which did a great job of hiding us.

  “There’s your answer,” I said. “Now the only thing we have to decide is who’s going up there to get her.”

  Chapter 19

  DID ANYONE EVER tell you that you are insanely off the hook?”

  “Not lately.” Nothing moved behind that window. Had David left Mac in there or moved her to a different room? And did she realize that she wasn’t alone anymore? “Not ever, actually.”

  “You know what Vanessa calls you?”

  “Besides MexiDog?” My tone sounded bitter. “I don’t need to know, thanks.”

  “MexiDog?” His voice dropped in shock. “That’s harsh.”

  I shrugged. “Can we stay on topic, please?”

  “She calls you ‘sweet lamb.’ ” Ew. On the whole, I think I preferred MexiDog. “Because you’re so nice to everyone.”

  “She only says that to stay on Mac’s good side,” I told him. “Hey, I just thought of something. Do you work on your car yourself?”

  “My dad and I do. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Because if you were just a dumb rich kid who didn’t know anything about engines, my idea wouldn’t be any good.”

  “Thanks. I think. What’s your idea?”

  “Go and do something minor to the engine, and push the car down the block so it stops in front of the house. Ask to use the phone or something, but I’m betting that a guy who’s handy enough to build bombs wouldn’t be able to resist getting his hands on it.”

  “I thought you said he’d recognize me.”

  “We have to risk it. If he does, say you were coming to visit your brother in the frat house.”

  “My brother goes to Stanford.”

  “Brett.” I gave him a look. “This is called extemporaneous acting.”

  “Okay. I can do that. What are you going to do?”

  “Get Mac’s attention and get her down from there.”

  “How long do you want me to stall him?”

  I pulled out my phone. “Give me your number and set your phone to vibrate. I’ll call you when we’re back over the fence.”

  “What if you run into trouble?” I’d always thought his eyes were amazing . . . long-lashed and dark and penetrating. But now, in the dim silver light of the streetlights behind us, I saw something that made them even more beautiful.

  Respect. And concern.

  For me.

  I shook myself so I wouldn’t just fall into his arms like ninety percent of girls probably did. “The police have to be on their way, especially since I didn’t turn up at school. We could wait for them, but I’m afraid if he hears them coming and gets scared, he’ll do something to her. Brett,” I said, putting a hand on his arm, “I don’t have a Plan B. This has to work.”

  “Good enough. Give me your number and I’ll buzz you when I’m out front.”

  We programmed our numbers into each other’s phones while the little fangirl inside me did cartwheels and ignored the fact that if it weren’t for this crisis, his having my number was the last thing that would ever happen on this earth. Possibly just ahead of the apocalypse.

  He raised his head and did a fast recon of the backyard, making sure no one was moving inside the house. Then, he took my chin in his hand.

  And kissed me, hard, on the mouth.

  My eyes and lips formed three
circles of astonishment as he let me go. I’m sure I looked like some stupid cartoon character, because he grinned and whispered, “For luck.”

  And then he ran into the dark.

  I heard the fence jingle softly as he went up and over it, and still I sat there like a melting truffle, touching my lips and wondering if I was dreaming.

  Don’t wake me up. If this is a dream, maybe it will happen again.

  A piece of gravel gouged my knee extra-hard and I winced and snapped out of it. I picked it out of my jeans and then bounced it in my hand as I considered the window.

  Not yet.

  Out front, I heard a creak like the door of a Halloween house as it swings open to welcome you to your doom. What on earth . . . ? And then I identified it. The Camaro’s hood going up. My phone buzzed against my thigh. Not Ms. Curzon—Brett. I silenced it and heard voices out front. I couldn’t hear much more than tones, but they were male tones. Two of them.

  I tossed the bit of gravel up, softly.

  Not hard enough. I picked up another little stone and lobbed it up again, harder. It bounced off the glass with a click.

  Nothing.

  I threw two bits of stone, then three, and then I started to get scared. What if he’d moved her? What if I were chucking rocks at an empty room, wasting time and maybe even putting Brett in danger for nothing? What if David had that gun tucked into his waistband? What if he recognized Brett and shot him, right there on the street?

  My lungs began to constrict and I scooped up a whole handful of gravel. I stood up and flung it at the window in a desperate overhand. Gravel rained down everywhere, pattering on the patio and the drainpipes.

  And Mac’s face bobbed into view behind the glass.

  I waved frantically.

  Why was she shaking her head? What was wrong? Why didn’t she—

  And then I saw the dark strip across her mouth and the strange set of her shoulders. Too straight. Pulled back.

  Duct tape. Her hands are taped behind her.

  Her feet probably were, too, which was why she’d hopped to the window. At least she wasn’t tied to a chair.

  I had to get her out of there, and I only had brief minutes. But I hadn’t babysat Antony and our yelling horde of semi-cousins for years without learning something. I wrapped my hands around the ivy-covered deck post as high as I could reach, and began to shinny up it. I gained the deck rail just as the lights went on downstairs, illuminating the patio where I’d just been hiding.

  I yanked my dangling feet up and out of sight and froze.

  Thirty awful seconds went by while someone slid the glass door back and looked outside. Then it slid shut again and the light went out.

  The roof extended past the deck rail. I crawled onto it. Then, trying to keep my steps soundless, pulled myself up next to Mac’s window.

  Her face floated behind the glass, eyes wide and staring above the strip of thick tape. The same tape that had no doubt been used to plug the ends of the pipe bombs.

  Fear flip-flopped in my stomach as I tried the window. It slid up. People never locked their second-floor windows. “Mac, are you okay? Did he hurt you?” I whispered.

  She shook her head, and tears overflowed her eyes, running silently down her cheeks to be diverted horizontally by the tape.

  “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

  Papa always pulled Band-Aids off us in one fast rip. Now I understood how he must have felt. Mac sucked in a gust of breath through her nose as the tape came off, and she clamped her lips together to keep from crying out.

  “I can’t get in the window,” I whispered. “It’s too high and I’ll make too much noise. Put your hands up here so I can get the tape off them.”

  She shook her head. They were tied behind her.

  “Bring them to the front. Lie on the bed and slide them under you. Pretend you’re a gymnast. Hurry.”

  It must have hurt, stretching muscles that weren’t meant to go in that direction. But she did it, silently. When she rested her hands on the windowsill, she was flushed and breathing hard. But neither of us said a word as I got out my nail scissors and snipped. We pulled and wriggled, and I even used my teeth until the wretched tape came free.

  When she’d snipped her feet free, she pulled herself over the sill and out the window. “Thank God,” she breathed as she practically fell into my arms. “I didn’t think He would listen to me, but you came.”

  “Me and the angels. Come on. Don’t make a sound.”

  I don’t know how we got down off that roof without killing ourselves or bringing the person who lived downstairs outside, screaming about burglars. I remember the dark herbal smell of torn ivy. The grit on the shingles that saved us from sliding down the pitch of the roof. The massive sliver I got in the pad of my thumb when I transferred from the deck railing to wrap my legs around the post that held it up.

  And then the scent of rosemary that meant freedom—and Brett’s kiss. Even now, when I pass a clump of it in someone’s garden, that night comes back to me and I’m right there, kneeling behind those pots in the dark with Brett’s mouth on mine.

  I went over the back fence a lot more clumsily than the first time, thanks to the sliver and my wobbly knees and trying to help Mac. I thought the racket would bring the whole neighborhood down on us, but they must have been absorbed in the eleven o’clock news, because nothing moved as we slipped down the driveway and back out to the street.

  I scrolled to Brett’s number and called, then put the phone back in my pocket when it went to voice mail.

  Far away, like maybe a mile, I heard the sound of a siren. Two. Then three.

  “Carly, where are we?” Mac said breathlessly, rubbing her bare arms. She’d begun the evening with a jacket and handbag, and now both were gone. “We have to get out of sight. He’ll find us.”

  Somebody gunned the Camaro into sudden, rumbling life.

  She jumped about six inches at the sound and I grabbed her arm. “That’s Brett. That’s why David left you alone. Brett pretended to have car trouble and knocked on the door.”

  “Brett?” She sounded dazed. “Brett who?”

  “Loyola. Don’t run. He’ll be here any second.”

  “From school? That Brett? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “He followed me over here. Listen, it’s a long story and I’ll tell you everything later.” I tracked the sound of the engine to the corner and the short side of the block. The volume of the sirens was increasing, too—in decibels and number.

  The Camaro shot around the corner, fishtailed, and straightened as Brett got control of it. Half a dozen police cars, lights blazing like a Boys Like Girls concert, flashed past in the opposite direction and lit up the night sky over the roofs of the houses behind us. Brett pulled up to the curb in a cloud of exhaust and noise.

  “Get in!” he shouted, and yanked the passenger seat forward.

  Mac dove into the back and I fell into the front, and before I could even get the door closed, he gunned the engine again. I wrestled it closed as we peeled away from the curb.

  “What happened?” I said breathlessly, buckling up as fast as my shaking fingers would let me.

  “That guy is a total nutcase.” His eyes were black with adrenaline and excitement, but his hands were sure on the wheel. “Is Mac okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded muffled. “Wretched seatbelt. Where is it?”

  “Down the side. Lap belt.” He rounded the corner and I suddenly realized what he was doing.

  “Where are you going?” I demanded. “Get us out of here!”

  “They all think Mac’s in there, about to be blown up or killed. We need to let them know she’s safe.”

  “No!” Mac grabbed the back of his seat and her voice spiraled into panic. “Get me away from him, now!”

  Ahead of us, two police cars blocked the street. Four more were parked helter-skelter on the road and even up on the sidewalk in front of number 1721. As we watched, two uniform
ed cops ran up the old-fashioned, wide stairs and into the house, while another one pounded up an outside staircase.

  And then the entire left side of the house exploded.

  Fire and plumes of smoke arced into the air, and the cop on the stairs tumbled all the way down, his arms and legs cartwheeling like those of a rag doll tossed aside by a child.

  Wood and shingles and bits of plumbing rained down on the police cars. Fire roared up out of the hole in the roof and, seconds later, the two cops reappeared, staggering with shock, carrying an old man between them who was wearing nothing but a red-splattered robe and a pair of boxers. I wondered, stunned, if that had been who had opened the door while I was climbing up the deck post.

  “Brett!” Mac pounded on his shoulder, her fist smacking him so hard I could hear it even through the noise. “The ambulance is coming. We’re going to be trapped here if you don’t get moving!”

  “But they’ll think you’re—”

  “Move!”

  He dropped the Camaro into reverse and shot backward, all the way to the corner. Mac rocked forward, then back, and finally found her seatbelt. Just in time, too. He took off like a bat out of you-know-where and headed for the fastest route back to Spencer.

  I didn’t dare look at the speedometer. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone.

  PEOPLE V. DAVID BRANDON NELSON

  EMERGENCY SERVICES TRANSCRIPT

  MASTER 27, SIDE 2

  23:27:04 2009-MAY-02

  911 OPERATOR: 9-1-1. What is your emergency?

  U/F: My name is Carolina Aragon, and I need to tell someone that Lady Lindsay MacPhail is safe.

  911 OPERATOR: What is your location, ma’am?

  ARAGON: We’re in the car, heading back to school. [Pause] Spencer Academy. Lady Lindsay was kidnapped a couple of hours ago by her insane half brother—

  U/F #2: Carly! Don’t tell them that, you idiot!

  ARAGON: —and a whole bunch of cop cars showed up at his house a minute ago, and there was this big explosion, and we’re afraid people might think she got blown up, too, but she didn’t. We’re all safe. Could you let them know that, please?

  911 OPERATOR: Where was this explosion?

  ARAGON: At 1721 Bautista Court. He taped her hands and feet and kept her in the upstairs apartment, but we got her out before it blew up.