The Masked Truth (11 page)

Blood money, that’s what those packages are, and I want to scream at her in school, just stop in the hall and call her a two-faced bitch, and let everyone know what she did and that it should have been her, goddamn it, it should have been her. Except I don’t wish it was, I don’t dare, because I wouldn’t have trusted her to keep Darla safe, and let’s be honest here, I wouldn’t have trusted her to keep herself safe, and I still care about her enough to think of that, even after what she’s done.

I’d tuned out most of what Aimee had said about herself, and now I regret that. She hadn’t been trying to be my friend. She’d just been trying to help. To connect. I refused that connection, like I refused a full tour of the building.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty. That’s what Dad always said.

What Dad always said
.

Max and I have a plan for the therapy room. We need to, because Aimee said Cantina was still alive when she left. Step one, then, is to see if that has changed. If he has “succumbed to his injuries,” as they say in polite society and English mystery novels. The English guy with me does not say that. Nor is his response at all polite when we realize Cantina has
not
succumbed.

Cantina isn’t just alive—he’s up and around. Maybe not exactly ready for a triathlon, but he’s sitting in a chair, his shirt and mask off, chest sloppily bound with what looks like his shirt. It’s bloody and he’s pale, leaning on the desk for support, but he’s alive and he’s conscious and he’s up.

Shit.

All of our plans had presumed that at least the last variable would be false. That even if he was conscious, he’d be lying on the floor in so much pain that Max could sneak up and gag him while I searched.

We peek inside the room. My gaze travels over it, looking for dropped weapons or anything we can use to bang on the door. I know where Maria lies and I don’t look there. I can’t. But as I’m scanning the rest of the room, I see Gideon and my knees wobble.

Max steadies me and then tugs me back down the hall muttering, “Prat,” and I have no idea what that means, but I can tell it’s not a compliment and I stiffen, because Gideon is dead.
Dead
. I can still see him. His open eyes fixed on the ceiling, his blood-covered hands pressed against his wound. The look on his face …

I reach for my crucifix. It’s not there. Hasn’t been there in four months. They’d taken it off in the hospital.

No! I don’t need a hospital. I’m fine. It’s them. The Porters. You need to help them
.

A whispered voice, one paramedic to the other.
She’s in shock, poor kid
.

I did know the Porters were dead, but I still wanted the paramedics to take care of them, to do … something? They were shot. They were covered in blood. I was fine. Because I’d hidden under the bed.

They took off my crucifix in the hospital, and I never put it back on. That wasn’t an oversight. I’d worn it since my parents gave it to me at my first Communion. The only other time I’d removed it was after my dad died, when I flung it across the room and cursed God in every way I knew. I had it back on for the funeral, but only because it made my mother anxious to see me without it, to know that in a moment of crisis I had abandoned my faith.

But I didn’t put it back on after the Porters. It isn’t a crisis of faith. I’m not sure I ever had faith, not the way Mom does. Mine is more like Dad’s—I believe there is a God, and I believe in honoring Him, but I’m not sure how much of a role He plays in our lives, and I don’t blame Him for that, because it’s up to us, isn’t it? It’s up to us to say we’ll be a good person because that’s what we believe is right, not because it’ll earn us a better place in the next life.

I still reach for my crucifix, remembering the look on Gideon’s face, the horror, as if he saw the Grim Reaper coming for him, scythe raised, and he could do nothing to save himself.

So yes, I stiffen at Max’s insult, but when I look over, there’s no hardness in his eyes, no
He brought this on himself
. He’s shaking his head, his gaze downcast, and it’s like when Travis broke his arm doing a stunt on his dirt bike, and Lucia and I rolled our eyes and called him an idiot, not because we blamed him, just, well, just
because
, and maybe, a little, acknowledging that it was kinda his fault.

Gideon didn’t deserve to die. Gideon was afraid, maybe more than any of us. I saw that in the lineup, when he panicked at being touched. Afraid and lashing out to hide it. But
despite that excuse, he still did—stupidly and senselessly and thoughtlessly—begin and perpetuate the chain of events that led to his death. His actions led to the death of Maria, lying fifteen feet away in her Happy Bunny tee, and of Aimee, in the hall—
brains splattered on the wall
—and maybe of Lorenzo, if we didn’t get help soon.

Lorenzo. Don’t forget Lorenzo. That’s my new crucifix, my new talisman, the shining object I must keep in front of me at all times.

“You need to take him out,” I whisper as we move farther down the hall to talk.

“Take him out?”

“Cantina. Subdue him. Without causing a commotion. If he’s too alert, I’ll distract him while you sneak up. You take him down, and we’ll gag him.”

He stares at me. Then he says, “I can’t do that.”

“You need to, and yes, I’m saying that because you’re a guy. He’s bigger than me. A lot bigger.”

“I understand what you mean, Riley, but …” He shakes his head, and there’s a look in his eyes, that same flinch as when I’d raised my hand, the same as when he’d avoided getting into it with Gideon.

I remember reading that the chance of abusing your spouse or child is higher if you were a victim of abuse. Is that it, then? It must be. He’s heard that, in therapy, and he shies in the other direction, avoiding violence, avoiding fights, and I want to say,
But this is important! You can break your rule for this
, except that’s not right. It isn’t like going vegetarian and then your life depends on eating a steak. This would be a line he didn’t dare cross, the proverbial slippery slope, like me making sure I’m out of bed by eight every day because I don’t ever want to get out of bed these days, and if I give in, just once, because I’m really tired, I’ll never get up again.

“It’s my condition,” he says. “My heart. Undue exertion and all that.”

I nod, absently. “We need to disable him. There’s no way to sneak in and grab the meds. We don’t know where they are. Aimee didn’t tell us …” Because she didn’t think she needed to. She expected to be here, with us. “We need to hunt for the meds and the counselors’ phones.”

“All right,” he says, shoulders lifting. “I’ll … take care of him.”

“No, I wasn’t trying to convince—”

“I have this.” Fear flickers behind his eyes, but he squares his shoulders. “I have this.”

“Maybe I can—”

“No, you’re right. It’s not sexism. You’d do better as a distraction. I’d do better taking him out, as you put it.”

“Do you know how?”

“My father is an army general, remember? He’d be a poor one if he didn’t give me some military training. I can put Cantina in a choke hold …” He trails off and that smile evaporates fast. He pulls back, gaze going distant, as if he’s seeing something I can’t. A memory, like my flashbacks. It’s his father, then. Or it was—I can’t imagine his dad would still hit him when he’s eighteen and six feet tall.

“Something,” he says. “I can do something.” That straightening again as he pulls on that overly British accent. “Right-i-o. Onward and upward, then. The trick, old girl, is to avoid the gun. At all costs, avoid the gun. Particularly the barrel end.”

He goes still, wincing, as if realizing this might not be the right thing to say to me, but I snort a laugh for him.

“He doesn’t have his gun,” I say. “Remember? Aaron or Brienne got it from him. I’ll still be careful, though. Now let’s do this.”

In his year four, Max had gotten the words confused, telling his teacher that temerity caused a friend to refuse an oral presentation.
No, Max
, she’d said.
It’s timidity. Temerity is the opposite—being too cocky, too full of yourself. Timidity is Jay’s problem; temerity is yours
.

His classmates had laughed. Max didn’t care, which was, perhaps, a sign that his teacher was right. He’d never suffered from timidity. He’d been brought up to be confident, to be bold and even brash. The confidence from his mother—
you’re smart enough to be anything you want to be, Maximus
. The boldness from his father—
show them who you are, and don’t let anyone make you feel like less, Max, that’s how you get somewhere in this world. Be an officer, a leader of men
.

If anyone thought Max was a little too full of himself, that was their problem. Their insecurity. Their timidity. He didn’t crow over his successes or mock others for their failures. Needing to put others down suggested a lack of confidence, his mother would say. You don’t climb up on the backs of others, his father would say. Eyes on your own horizon.

The truth—

Yes, Maximus, tell us. What is the truth?

The truth is that it’s easy to hold on to temerity when you’ve never had cause to doubt yourself, and as soon as you do …

As soon as you do …

Max can see his target across the room. Cantina, Riley calls him. The Cantina alien in
Star Wars
, the one Han Solo shot. That’s what Max had thought when he first saw him, and yet he hadn’t been sure because these days, he wasn’t sure of anything. Oh, he could fake it just fine. Tallyho and all that, whatever it meant, and yes, he wasn’t even sure himself, but he could say it with all due confidence, the same way he’d said “temerity” in year four and he hadn’t cared when he was corrected, hadn’t been embarrassed to use the wrong word, because you won’t learn if you don’t try.

Every time one is corrected, it is not a humiliation but a learning experience. Yet even in the confines of his own mind, he hadn’t allowed himself to say more than that their captor’s mask came from
Star Wars
.

Timidity. Doesn’t suit you, Maximus. Not at all
.

But it has to, because he
isn’t
sure, isn’t sure at all, can’t tell if what he sees is real, if what he hears is actually there, in the same plane the rest of the world inhabits. Temerity for him is dangerous. It lets him look at his best friend and be sure,
so sure
of what he sees that he nearly kills him.

Max forces himself to start toward Cantina. The man is resting with his head on the desk. He’s alert, though. He moves too often to be asleep. Can’t make this easy.

Max had crawled into the room, to avoid being a blur spotted out of the corner of Cantina’s eye.

Speaking of blurs …

He’d seen one, in the hall. A shadow passing the end, just at the periphery of sight. Except there was no shadow, because Riley had been facing that way and she didn’t see a thing. Didn’t see the way he jumped like a scalded cat, either.

Timidity: showing a lack of courage or confidence
.

Not a lack of courage in his case, though Max wasn’t really sure what courage was. Oh, yes, technically, he knew:

Courage: the ability to do something that frightens one
.

But what is courage really?

Well, boy, let me tell you about courage. Courage is being in Afghanistan, in a convoy heading through Taliban territory—

Sorry, Dad, really not the time. Can I call you Dad? It depends, doesn’t it? On your mood, on what else is happening in your life, and you’ve never said I
can’t
call you that, but there are moods, and I can read them, and sometimes it’s just best to go with
sir
, isn’t it? Yes, sir. I understand, sir.

I understand, sir, that perhaps you’d rather I didn’t call you Dad now, after what’s happened, that you’re thinking a paternity test is in order. You’d never say so, but you think it. I know you do. This affliction of mine can’t possibly come from you. It’s your mother’s side, son, you know she’s always been intense.

Intense: having or showing strong feelings or opinions; extremely earnest or serious
.

That’s why we couldn’t make it work, she and I. Why we never married, never even lived together. It’s her fault, this fever in your brain. As for those times you’ve caught me talking to myself or staring into space for hours or locking myself in a room … that’s just war—war is hell, kid, and I’m fine. I’m just fine. Too bad you aren’t, son.

Courage: the ability to do something that frightens one
.

That’s what he’s doing here, isn’t it? Sneaking up on Cantina while his heart pounds so hard he’s sure it will give him away.

But can you carry through, Max? That’s the question. That’s real courage
.

It depends on what “carry through” means. Put Cantina
in a choke hold, as much as he flinches at even the thought? Yes, he can do that. For Riley, he’ll do that.

Oh, that’s so sweet. So chivalrous.

Chivalry: courteous behavior, especially that of a man toward women
.

No, again, like courage, it doesn’t quite apply. He’ll do it for Riley, because Riley deserves to get out of here. To survive this. She’s good and she’s kind, and she has stuck by his side and watched out for him even though he was a jerk and made the initial situation worse, didn’t come to her defense quickly enough, because maybe, if he had, she’d be out of here already.

Ah, but you don’t want that, Max, do you? You’re quite happy she’s still here, with you, giving you a chance to show her you’re more than the idiot in the corner
.

No, he wants her to get out. She deserves to get out.

And no one else does?

There’s Lorenzo, but Max isn’t convinced he’s even still alive.

I wasn’t talking about Lorenzo, and you know it
.