CHAPTER 37
The green, rust-speckled Dumpster smelled of ammonia, rotting food, and gasoline. I saw the chain used to secure the flip-top lid on the blacktop beside it, coiled like a metal snake poised to strike. I could see where the chain had been cut, presumably with bolt cutters and undoubtedly by Uretsky’s hand. I pried open the lid and let it drop with a clang. Hesitating, I did a quick double take and agreed with Uretsky’s assertion that this desolate part of town saw very little foot traffic. Still, I pulled my hat down lower and the handkerchief covering my face up a bit higher. I climbed onto the lip of the Dumpster with ease. For a second or two, I crouched there, with my legs spread wide and my sweat-slickened hands down between my knees, gripping at the lip for balance.
“Apparently, he likes to hide things in the trash,” I said, remembering that he’d hidden a gun in a bathroom waste receptacle at the movie theater.
Beneath a cloudless sky and pale yellow sun, I jumped in and sank waist deep into the spongy refuse. The smells were more intense down here. Gag worthy, in fact. It was a potpourri of scents taken from the worst places imaginable: think the Port Authority bathroom, a field of rotting vegetables, a trash-filled car left baking in the sun.
I felt about blindly, reaching my hands lower and lower into the seemingly bottomless mass of foul-smelling trash. I dug and dug until the tips of my fingers brushed against a plastic handle. Gripping that handle, I yanked the object toward me. Almost immediately, my throat closed as my gag reflex kicked into overdrive. Evidently, I had brought to the surface, along with the first canister of gasoline, a fetid rag that stunk of excrement. Maybe it was something else, but it sure didn’t smell that way to me. It was a reminder that Uretsky was always playing games, using any opportunity he could to torment me.
It didn’t take long to find the other two containers of gas Uretsky had stashed down there. I set them in a neat little row on the blacktop beside the Dumpster.
I checked the time and swallowed hard. I didn’t know whether Uretsky first choked his victims and then cut off their fingers, or if it went the other way around, but if we didn’t pull the fire alarm in ten minutes, Winnie would have a few seconds of terror to find out.
While I was busy fishing containers of gas out of the trash, Ruby looked up some information on her smartphone. “There are two firehouses nearby,” Ruby said. “There’s one on K and Fourth Street and another on D and Third.”
“Perfect. So the fire department will get here in two minutes, tops,” I said.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You pull the alarm, and I’ll stand by the warehouse door with a match. We wait forty seconds, and then I light the gas. The pallets will burn for no more than a minute before the fire department gets here, and we’re already gone. Uretsky sees the pallets are on fire via his hidden camera—no false alarm, either, as it’ll be on the police scanners—and we’ll have met his demands without creating a towering inferno.”
Ruby thought a beat, searching for any holes in my plan.
“It’ll work,” she said. “But is he going to honor the rules of his game?”
I nodded. “He will,” I said, certainty in my voice. “It’s the only thing honorable about him.”
I was preparing to dash across the street, gripping the three red plastic gas canisters, when I heard an approaching car. I grabbed Ruby and pulled her down behind the Dumpster with me. We watched as the car—some sort of sedan—turned right onto B Street. Only when the sound of its wheels and engine had gone did we dare breathe again. We popped up from behind the Dumpster like wary prairie dogs.
Once again I hefted the gas canisters. Dropping into a crouched position—as if that would render me invisible in broad daylight—I broke for the warehouse across the street. I didn’t dare think about someone spotting me from a darkened window of the nearby buildings.
I checked my watch.
Ten minutes to go.
I went to the door that Uretsky said would be open, tried the knob, and found it was locked. I cursed under my breath. Again, Uretsky had proved he never tired of toying with us. Rather than search for an unlocked entrance, I decided to break the glass of a first-floor window to get inside. I assumed I could open the locked door from the inside; if not, I’d have to find another way out.
I looked around for a solid object to use, found half a brick, and pitched it baseball-like through a first-story window. Shards of broken glass fell to the ground, sounding like wind chimes plinking in a soft breeze. I motioned for Ruby to cross the street, and she came over in a crouched posture, same as I had done.
“Help me up,” I said to her.
My breathing wasn’t labored. I was surprised, too, at the calmness of my voice. I wasn’t relaxed, but I wasn’t hurried, either. The adrenaline rush made me so focused on my goal, I forgot to be completely terrified. Perhaps that’s how real criminals feel before they commit their crimes—more amped than afraid.
Ruby locked her fingers together, and it seemed the adrenaline had got to her as well. Even in her weakened condition, she had no trouble giving me the needed lift. I set my forearms on the windowsill, relieving Ruby of my body weight, and clumsily used my elbow to push the remaining glass inside to clear away the jagged edges. I had just enough room to swing my body around until my legs dangled on the inside and my torso extended outward.
“Pass me a canister,” I called. I had my body perfectly balanced on the sill, making it easy to reach down and grab hold of the gas. I tossed the first canister into the warehouse, then the second, and soon enough I had all three of them down there. The rising vapor stung my eyes and burned the back of my throat, but that didn’t stop me from sliding off the sill as if I was being sucked down the gullet of some gas-breathing monster.
Ruby called, “John, are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” I shouted back.
The warehouse was dark inside except for places where the paper coverings on the windows had peeled back to allow slivers of light inside. Dust motes swam in and out of those light shafts, agitated by my presence. I took out the portable flashlight tucked in my back pocket and shone the beam around. The warehouse was nothing more than a big open space with concrete support columns staged evenly throughout.
Almost immediately, I saw the pile of broken wooden pallets Uretsky had instructed me to burn. I shone my flashlight around some more, wondering if I could spot one of Uretsky’s hidden cameras. I saw huge piles of debris scattered about, but I didn’t inspect them closely—there simply wasn’t enough time or reason. Nor did I worry that they would catch fire. Judging by the distance from the pallets, I felt confident the fire department would get here before the closest—and largest—pile could burn.
“Hello!” I yelled out. “Anybody here?” My heart was pounding in my chest, and my shaky voice mirrored my nerves.
Are you watching me right now?
I shone the light on my watch and shivered.
Six minutes to go.