Authors: Gina Damico
Wax (34 page)
She froze. All four of them slowly looked toward the display window, where a dozen elderly tourists stood, each of their mouths open in shock at seeing the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company manhandling a teenage girl.
Several took photos.
Anita dropped Louisa back into her chair and flashed a winning smile at the group. “Hello!” she said, waving like a beauty queen. “Welcome to our factory!”
Sensing a bit of urgency, the tour guide ushered the group away from the window and closed the curtain, encouraging them on toward the wicking room.
“Should I go get their cameras?” Preston asked Anita.
“No,” she said, thinking. “We'll have to spin this a different way now. We were . . . I don't know, we were rehearsing a play or something. Engaging with the local theater youth, or some nonsense. Yes, that's it!” She lit up. The roaring fire behind herâââreeking of lighter fluid, much larger than its hologram versionâââmade her glow, as if she'd been sent from hell. “It was all performance art! We can say the interview was scripted, and turn the contamination rumors into something marketing came up with. Contaminated . . . with fun! Infected . . . with love!”
Preston got into the spirit. “Poisoned . . . with safety!”
Anita was beaming now. “Girls, what do you think?” she asked, extending her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Louisa looked at Banks. Banks looked at Louisa.
They stood up and extended their hands.
âââââ
Colt Lamberty's expensive sports car bumped and jostled over the craggy surface of Channel Six's back-roads shortcut into town. He was about to hang a left when a large boy appeared from nowhere, landing with a disturbing crunch on his windshield.
Colt sighed impatiently.
He got out of the car and assessed the damage. The hood had not been dented, nor the windshield cracked. The boy looked dead, but the paint job seemed to be intact.
“Help!” Connor sprang back to life, gasping and grasping at Colt's lapel. “Sir, you gotta help me!”
Colt recoiled. “Oh. You're alive.” As if handling a large insect, he peeled Connor's fingers off his jacket. “Here,” he said, pulling a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and tossing it at Connor. “A little something for your troubles.”
Connor watched it flutter to the ground. “I don't need help! My friend does!”
“I do not care about your friend.”
“But, sirâââhe's in
danger!
”
Colt raised a splendidly groomed eyebrow.
“Danger?”
âââââ
Mr. Kosnitzky finished washing his storefront window, put the Windex away, and looked at the clock: 7:36.
Just enough time left over to do a little spying.
He sat down in his chair and stared, eagle-eyed, at the town center. No teenagers in the gazebo. No teenagers at the lake. One teenager over by the post office, but he supposed that she could just be mailing something, not up to anything nefarious.
But he could not be certain.
Just then a flash of shiny crimson Euro-ness screeched around the corner. That dolt Colt Lamberty was at the wheel, as usual, chasing some ridiculous lead. A cat trapped in a tree, probably, or the Virgin Mary in someone's pancakes.
But waitâââsomeone rode in the passenger's seat.
Someone wearing a cape.
Someone young.
A
teenager.
âââââ
“Where'd you say this place was, kid?”
“On” (gasp) “the” (gasp) “other” (gasp) “side” (gasp) “ofââ”
“Would you stop crying?” Colt dug around the cup holder, pulled out a napkin from Smitty's, and thrust it at Connor's blubbering face. “And don't you dare get any snot on the seats. They're Italian leather.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry, mister.”
Connor then burst into a fresh batch of tears.
Colt's lip curled. The sound of children crying was almost as painful as the sound of their laughter. “So tell me againâââwhere is your friend now?”
“Trapped in a well!” Another sob. “We found this shack in the woods, and we thought it was an outhouse, so we went to investigate, and when we opened the door, there was just a big hole in it, and he fell in!”
“And how did you end up so far away from your friend?”
“I got lost!”
Connor cried. “I've been wandering through the woods all night! I couldn't find my way out! I had to eat a bug to survive!”
“Okay, do me a favor. Stop talking until we get there.”
They continued toward the mountain, when Connor let out a squeal. “There!” he said, pointing at the turnoff for Secret Service Way.
Colt set his jaw. How many godforsaken back roads was he going to have to ruin his car on today? “How far?”
“Just a few moreâââthere!”
They came to a stop. Connor flung himself out of the car and huffed up a small hill, thrashing through the high grass. “This way!” he called to Colt.
Picking his way through the mud and ruining his expensive Italian leather shoes in the process, Colt followed Connor with no small amount of fuming. “This better be worth it, kid.”
When he finally reached Connor, the boy was standing next to a large wooden structure. “In there,” Connor said fearfully.
Colt rolled his eyes. “This isn't a well, kid.”
“Yes it is!”
“No, it's not.” He grabbed the handle of the door. “These aren't even the deep woods. This is on the spa's propertyââ”
“Oh?” said Connor, moving up behind him. “Really?”
âââââ
Principal Lincoln strode down the hallway, his shoes clacking against the floor. He didn't know much about the kid Kosnitzky had called about, but he thought he'd seen a cape-wearing boy often hanging around the auditorium. And if the boy was with Colt, then he obviously had a flair for the dramatic.
But Principal Lincoln had checked Connor's files, and he'd never been absent from schoolââânot once. Something was up. Something originating, Principal Lincoln had a feeling, with the Giddy Committee.
He knocked on Mr. Crawford's classroom door. “Those kids who sang in the parade,” he said. “Is one of them named Connor?”
“How should I know?” Mr. Crawford said. “I've only been this guy for a day.”
Principal Lincoln gritted his teeth. “Come with me. I have a feeling about this.”
He led Mr. Crawford to the Gaudy Auditorium and paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the theaterâââwhen a bright spotlight snapped on. It was pointed at the stage, upon which sat a giant pile of weed.
Jesus.
Upon the weed sat a person smoking a joint and laughing.
JESUS.
“Hello, Lincoln,” Jesus said as the two men made their way down the aisle, their eyes popping out of their heads. “Crawford. Want some?”
Once the shock wore off, Principal Lincoln rubbed his hands together. “You,” he said, pulling out his phone, “are going to
burn
for this. Pun intended.”
Jesus shrugged, his eyes bleary. “Whatever. I just wanted to, you know, call a truce between us. Let bygones be bygones.”
“Shut up, you little pissant.”
“No need for language, Lincoln! I'm extending some goodwill here. I tried to kill you a couple times, and you wouldn't die. You win. No hard feelings, bro. Come on up here and join me.”
Principal Lincoln ignored him, jabbing at his phone.
“Whatsa matter?” Jesus continued. “You don't like to party?”
Mr. Crawford, who had hung back to watch the unfolding scene, now grasped Principal Lincoln on the shoulder. “Anita, waitââ”
But Principal Lincoln shook him off. “Yes, hello?” he said into the phone, grinning evilly. “I'd like to report a felony.”
âââââ
Big Bob was sitting in his office, staring at the bust the town had given him.
It was a decent likeness. Tussaud could have sculpted a better one. But the talentless gutbags had tried their best.
First he put it on his desk, but that wasn't high enough. He moved it to the top of his file cabinets, but those didn't convey the air of import that the bust implied. It needed to be somewhere dignified, a place of honor and reputeâââ
His phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you, Councilman Bursaw, but this is Officer Reynolds down at the station. I've got Principal Lincoln on the line, ranting and raving about some kid down at the school sitting on a
mountain
of pot.”
Big Bob grinned and leaned back in his chair. “You don't say.”
“It gets better. The principal says the kid is so high that he gave up the location of his stash.”
“What? That's fantastic! Call the media. They can film the seizure liveââ”
“Yes, butâââwellââ”
“What?”
“He says it's in your swimming pool.”
“My
pool?
”
“Yes, sir. Apparently he and your son are friends, and that's where they've been keeping it. Like I said, he's stoned out of his mind.”
Big Bob grunted.
“What I'm saying, sir, is that we are the only people who know its location, and that I'm giving you a heads-up. Honestly, we're a little short-staffed todayâââChief Peltor hasn't shown up for work, and no one knows where she isâââso if there
happened
to be a delay, and the stash
happened
to be relocated to a less incriminating place before the media caught wind of itââ”
Big Bob nodded. “I understand.”
“Or we can call it off altogetherâââlot of trouble for such a smalltime drug bustââ”
“No, of course not!” Big Bob shouted, jumping out of his seat. “Drugs are not rad!”
“So . . . you'll move it?”
“Of course I will. Hell of a photo op!” Big Bob cleared his throat. “I'll call you when it's all clear. Shouldn't take too long. And, Officerâââthank you for the warning.”
“No problem, sir. Good luck.”
“Over and out!”
News of the bust spread quickly. As Big Bob strolled down the hallway, the town hall employees erupted in cheers, slapping him on the back and giving him high-fives and shouting, “Drugs are not rad!” The smile remained on his face all the way to the mayor's office, where it was replaced with a contemptuous scowl.
“So?” said Miss Bea after he'd filled her in on the situation. “Why bother sticking your neck out like that? Who cares about any of this?”
“Hey,
you
were the one who said we needed to keep up appearances as much as we could. Big Bob Bursaw cares about this stupid drug thing, so
I
have to care about this stupid drug thing!”
Miss Bea let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. But I don't see why you need my help. Or the kid's.”
He tossed her a set of car keys.
“Because many hands make light work.”
âââââ
“Don't try to run,” Principal Lincoln told Jesus, climbing the stairs to the stage. “The police are on their way.”