He stares at Spam’s feet and shakes his head. “Look at you with your ridiculous costumes. Why can’t you wear normal shoes like everyone else?” Using one hand, he jerks off her boots, first one and then the other, and tosses them randomly into the back of the van.
Mr. Roberts bends to slide the loops over Spam’s ankles, and as he does, a large crucifix necklace slips out of the front of his shirt. The way it dangles there, free around his neck, catches the light from the headlights on Rachel’s car and casts a small shadow of a cross on my leg.
A sudden memory explodes in my brain, loud and painful.
I turtle my shoulders protectively around my head. If my hands were free I would bury my ears in them. I would do almost anything to block this pain. It’s sharp and intense, like being shot in the skull.
There’s a woman’s voice … a voice I’ve never heard before but suddenly remember. It’s a voice that’s clear and bright and strong.
She’s not your daughter.
I look around the van. Where’s it coming from? I stare at the cross on my leg.
“I remember now.…” My voice is barely a whisper.
“What?” Mr. Roberts turns his head sharply toward me.
“Oh my god. It’s her. My mother.” It feels strange to finally say it and mean it. I stare at the shadow swaying on my leg. “I remember now.… She yelled at you.”
“No. No.” Principal Roberts fumbles, trying to lash Spam’s feet together.
“She did. She said: ‘She’s not your daughter.’”
“No!” he roars.
“Yes … and then you hurt her.”
He grabs me roughly by the arms, picks me up, and tosses me farther into the van. I land just beyond Victor’s shoulder, near Journey. Spam scoots next to me, trying to stay out of his grasp.
“Shut up. Just shut up,” he yells. “She only said that because he was filling her head with lies. You have been my daughter every day for the last sixteen years.”
For some reason I know it in my bones; I feel it in my cells. There’s no way this crazy psycho’s blood pounds in my veins. He’s not my father. I’m 100 percent sure of that.
“Liar!” I scream.
“Just shut up,” he says, his voice cracking.
From my angle in the back of the van, I watch him duct-tape a three-inch flexible hose to the exhaust pipe and secure it to the bumper with heavy strips of tape. He then works the flex hose up through a piece of dry, rotted wood flooring. He brings the hose up to about the middle of the van wall. Then he tapes it in place.
When he’s finished, he slams the rear doors, locking us inside. A few seconds later, he opens the driver’s door, reaches in, and attempts to start the engine.
The van sputters and dies on the first two tries and I’m hopeful. If ever there was a perfect time for Journey’s van not to start, this is it.
But no such luck. Third try, the engine cranks over.
Mr. Roberts pounds on the side of the van. “Okay, chums. I’ll be back in a bit to set the murder-suicide stage. Don’t worry, I won’t wake you.”
And then he’s gone.
Carbon monoxide pours down on us from the hose and begins to build up inside. The smell is strong, like sticking your head under a bus … only maybe worse.
41
Keep this in mind, nearly everywhere you go, you’re surrounded by a cloud of bacteria that is as unique as a fingerprint.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Victor rocks from side to side, twisting around and worm-crawling to the back of the van.
“Somebody check on Journey,” he says. “I need him working with me.”
I try to roll to Journey’s side, but it’s awkward and I end up stuck, face down, because it kills my shoulder to roll over on it.
“I’m awake, I’ve just been laying back,” Journey says. “Let’s do this.”
I’m flooded with relief. I roll onto my hip and struggle into a semiseated position. “Thank God,” I whisper.
“Journey, back here. We need to bust out these windows to let in fresh air,” Victor says. Journey squeezes between me and Spam to get to the back. I go first, rolling to the left. Then Spam goes right. Journey grunts as he makes a powerful crawl and manages to squeeze between us. I gasp for air. With all four of us trying to move in different directions, it’s quickly getting tight and sweaty, and the exhaust fumes are getting thicker by the minute.
Victor surges up on his knees and starts to ram the back window. It’s too high for his shoulder, so he’s forced to slam it with his forehead. It sounds a lot like trying to break glass with raw chicken.
Journey has made it to the back, so now instead of one thump against the window I hear two: thump, thump.
“Erin, get to the front,” Victor gasps. “You and Spam … away from the fumes. Find a way to turn off the key.”
“Okay.” My voice sounds thin and papery. If I stretch my head and neck forward and then bring my knees up toward my chest, I’m able to move across the rough wooden floor. Splinters gouge my skin straight through my clothes.
Spam stops. “Wait,” she says. “Over here. I found the boot phone.”
A crazy laugh escapes my ravaged throat. I turn to roll toward her instead of heading to the front of the van. “Coming,” I say.