Messed Up (38 page)

“
Bryce?” I asked.

He nodded as a reply, but didn’t offer further comment. So I let it drop.

Levi came around the counter to where I stood in the kitchen. He pulled my arms up positioning them around his neck, and placed his own arms around my waist. I watched him as he closed his eyes and leaned in to rest his cheek on my head. We stood like that for a while, swaying gently in each other’s arms. I could sense his complete exhaustion, his head heavy on mine.

I wondered what he was feeling. Was it remorse at the fact that he was a participant in the brutal abduction of his friend? Did he feel guilty about getting me involved in all of this in the first place? Or was his somber mood due to the realization that he was just as much of a puppet as any of the Delancey Boys? Nothing more than another one of his father’s toy soldiers on an elaborate hunt for an elusive piece of paper.

When he left, twenty minutes later, it was with one long, particularly passionate kiss, like he was going off to war and leaving his new bride to fend for herself. As he waved goodbye from the bottom of the stairs an ominous expression fell on his smooth features, “Be careful, Chelsea, whatever it is you think you’re doing. Just be really careful,” he said before walking out the door.

I didn’t have time to consider what Levi was referring to. Anyway, I knew now, that although he was certainly dangerous, it wasn’t Levi that I needed to worry about, but his sociopathic father. And although he couldn’t protect me from Mr. Bennett, Levi would not help his father to destroy me. At least that was my grave hope.

I went to the cabinet in the family room and took out our dusty video camera usually reserved for birthdays and graduations. I set the camera up on the corner of my desk, and sat on the edge of my bed, assuring that I would be in the frame. I then carefully described, in as many details as I could, exactly what happed that night at the benches in Vistas. I went on to describe everything that I could think of that would point to the Bennett’s involvement in Toby’s murder. I included all the details I had gathered about the secret Delancey Society. I knew I didn’t have any proof of my allegations, but I hoped my closing statement would make an impact:
If you have received this video it means that the Bennett’s have murdered me. Please stop them from hurting anyone else.
Saying those words put the weightiness of my situation into serious perspective, but I didn’t have time for second thoughts. Bryce was probably being tortured at that very moment. I had to act quickly.

There were many aspects of my plan that were dangerous, but only one that had created true fright in the pit of my stomach. I needed to talk to Conner, which meant I would be putting him in harm’s way,
again
. The only consolation was that I would get to see him, touch him, be with him. It was an encounter that I knew would provide a much needed boost to get me through the next twenty-four hours.

I waited until midnight before getting into my car and driving to Conner’s house. I took a long and out of the way route, in hopes of confusing anyone who might be following me. I checked the rearview mirror often, and seemed to be alone.

Seeing Conner appear at his window this time was just as sublime as it had been before, the only difference was that he looked more awake. His huge smile lit up his face as he pulled me into his room. This time it was Conner who was the assertive one. He pressed his soft, warm lips against mine, and moved his hand up and under the back of my shirt. I could feel myself becoming instantly distracted from my mission.

“
Conner,” I whispered, pushing him away gently, “I can only stay for a minute. I have something very important to give you.”

“
Is everything okay?” he asked looking deeply concerned, if not a little pink in the cheeks. He kept his hands on the flesh of my back, caressing lightly.

“
No,” I whispered back, “Everything is not okay. But I have a plan. I think it could work, but I need your help.”

“
Anything,” he declared, “Name it.” I pulled out three large padded manila envelopes from my backpack and handed them to Conner. He looked at them and read the addresses slowly, “FBI, SJPD, the District Attorney? Chelsea, what are these?”

“
I don’t have time to explain everything. I need you to put them somewhere safe. Some place where nobody will find them. Don’t mail them unless…” I paused to take a breath, “Unless something happens to me. If I go missing or… Die. Then you’ll need to mail the envelopes right away.” As I spoke these words I watched the blood drain from Conner’s face, “I’m sorry to involve you in this,” I added quietly.

“
Chelsea, what if we ran away right now? I’ve got a little money in the bank. We could drive to Texas and sell my car and fly out of the country. We could go to Costa Rica and surf and eat mangos, and forget all about this,” his voice picked up hope as he described his fantasy plan.

I smiled at him, “I don’t surf, remember?”

“
I don’t want to have to mail these envelopes, Chelsea, please. There has got to be a better way.”

“
It’s all going to work out, Con. Don’t worry,” I said faking a confident tone.

“
How will I know you’re okay?”

“
I’ll tell you myself,” I kissed him on the forehead, “And I won’t come sneaking through your window to do it.”

As I drove away from his house, my mind focused on the last image I had of Conner. He was sitting on his bed smiling at me as I crawled out the window. I was about to scale the fence once more, but something made me glance back over my shoulder at him. Conner had closed his eyes, and brought his hands to his chest in prayer. Conner was praying for
me
. He looked like one of those little pastel porcelain figurines of a praying kid. I know it’s completely cheese ball, but it was that image that would give me hope throughout the harrowing events of the night to come. I was certain, that if anyone in this world had a direct line to God, it was Conner Bianchi.

37

Although my mind had pondered Toby’s whereabouts many times that summer, his location had completely eluded me. The strange thing is, in some part of my subconscious, the answer had been there all along, waiting patiently for me to find it. By the time I finally did, it was too late for Toby, but I hoped that there was still time to save Bryce.

The realization had hit me as I was working out the details of my plan earlier that afternoon. The success of my scheme relied upon being able to find Bryce. I reasoned that he was being held some place that was secluded; a location that would be suitable as a makeshift jail cell. But where would Alistair Bennett hide his living hope of getting to the Hawksley fortune? My stomach heaved as the answer struck me. I could practically feel a jolt of discovery as my brain made the final connection; Charles Hawksley’s hotel, The Valencia.

Admittedly, it was nothing more than a hunch, but I felt certain that Bryce was being held captive in one of the cells Levi had described earlier that summer. I felt nauseous at the realization that I’d been just steps away from Toby the night I’d gone to The Valencia. How like Levi to tempt fate by taking me there. He got off on sick ironies like that. I wondered if Toby had heard my voice that night, or the police sirens that chased us away. Was that part of the torture they’d planned for him to endure?

I parked my car about a mile from the neighborhood where Levi and I had once entered The Valencia property. I slung my backpack over my shoulders and started on my long walk. Thanks to Google Maps, I’d been able to find a satellite image of The Valencia Hotel which included the surrounding neighborhoods. My plan was to use the compass I’d dug out of my parent’s camping supplies and attempt to walk in a straight-line to the hotel. I had determined that I would need to keep the compass directed in the northeasterly direction. This would be a first ever for me and a compass, but I rationalized that it was better than nothing.

Climbing over the fence without Levi’s assistance proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated. After several flailing attempts, I finally made it over, falling the last six feet and landing with a hearty thud on my butt. I knew I’d be hurting in the morning, but I pressed on, the mounting adrenaline helping to ease any physical discomfort.

The night was dark already, with only a tiny crescent moon for light, but once in the dense trees, I was swallowed up by a darkness like ink. I turned on a small flashlight, another item I’d procured from my parents, and moved its beam along the ground just in front of me. I stumbled through the thick growth feeling my heart dive as branches from trees and bushes seemed to jump out to grab at my body. The night was eerily silent, making the pumping of my heart sound especially loud in my ears.

I walked for a long time, checking my compass constantly; keeping to a direct line on a path I hoped would end at The Valencia. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I’d miscalculated, the trees came to a sudden halt and I found myself on the edge of a clearing, the enormous looming structure of the hotel before me.

I quickly switched off my flashlight and crouched down in the trees, my eyes scanning the hotel for signs of life. Everything was completely still, silent. I had anticipated coming upon some Delancey Boys at this point, and their absence made me wonder if I was wrong about Bryce’s location. On the other hand, if I was right, it would certainly make my plan go more smoothly.

I took a white t-shirt out of my backpack and left it to mark where I’d come out of the forest. My hope, God willing, was that I would be able to exit in the same place. I crept along the edge of the clearing, staying partially hidden in the trees. Once certain the coast was clear, I dashed across the open expanse, and pressed my body against the stone exterior at the side of the hotel. I moved slowly toward the very last window on the rear corner of the structure.
I remembered Levi mentioning that the cook had been cleaning out the pantry when she’d seen Charles Hawksley lead his wife into the cellar. It seemed logical that the pantry would be in the kitchen and the kitchen would be in the rear of the house, so that is where I planned to enter. I shown my flashlight in through the dusty window, but couldn’t make out what sort of room it was. Obviously, I would have to go inside.

I fumbled through the overgrown grass for something that would be suitable for breaking a window. I settled on a large rock. Clutching it in my hand, I pulled my arm back and swung at the window. My hand bounced back, the window unfazed by my assault. I took a deep breath, and summoning all my strength I heaved the rock forward as quickly and as forcefully as I could. This time a spider web of shattered glass spread across the window, leaving it weakened but still intact. Thinking quickly, I reached down and tucked the hem of my right pant leg into my sock, and then with one mighty kick, my foot busted through the glass, sending it crashing to the ground.

I paused momentarily, looking frantically in all directions. The night was silent with no sign that anyone had heard my mafioso attack on the windowpane. I quickly pulled my body through the broken window. Although I attempted to use the sleeves of my sweatshirt to protect my hands, I could feel the sting as about a dozen fragments of sharp shards of glass dug into my palms. Mental note, I told myself, next time you go climbing through a broken glass window, bring a pair of gloves.

I found myself in a small empty room. Running the beam of my flashlight all around the space, my heart beat anxiously as I half expected to find Alistair Bennett standing in the darkness. I was alone in what seemed to be a small stair well. I moved through the doorway, carefully maneuvering around gaping holes in the floor boards. I entered an enormous open room with a tall vaulted ceiling and huge exposed wooden beams. My flashlight reflected off the wide picture windows that looked out into the indoor pool where Levi and his friends had devised their private skate park. A Persian rug covered the vast center space of the room, its richly colored ornate design muted by decades of dust accumulation. My eyes froze on a trail of foot prints worn through the dust. They led to a door at the side of the room.

I walked carefully across the room, the floor boards creaking wildly under my feet. If anyone was in the hotel, I was certain they could hear me coming. I pushed the side door open, bracing myself for whatever, or whoever awaited me on the other side. I took a step forward and a razor-sharp pain stabbed at my ankle and I fell to the floor. My knees buckled under me; my stomach hitting the filthy ground with a crash. Struggling I pulled my foot out of the floor board it had fallen through. My heart was racing as I pulled myself up again and found that I had reached the kitchen.

I could see the path of footprints continue on the black and white checkerboard floor. They led to a four foot high door in the corner of the room. I felt certain this was the cellar door, and the large padlock covering it’s handle confirmed any doubts I might have had. I got to the door and pulled at the lock. To my astonishment it fell off in my hands. I tugged the door open and stared down a dark, steep, and exceptionally narrow stairway. Its width only large enough to accommodate one small person, and even me, who is small personified, would have to duck to avoid bumping my head on the ceiling.

I took a long deep breath, and then another, and then one more before commanding my body to move onto the stairs. I walked quickly, knowing that if I didn’t act fast, my looming claustrophobia would get the better of me. After seeming to descend for an eternity, the stairs finally came to an abrupt halt. Before me was a deep hallway, my flashlight’s beam disappearing into endless darkness. The walls were made of concrete and no more than five feet high and barely two feet wide. The top of my head brushed the ceiling and I could barely extend my arms to my side before my hands came in contact with the cold wall. Ninety-nine percent of my brain screamed at me to turn around, but that one crazy percent won, and I moved forward with the stanch determination of a lunatic.