The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [50]
“Just get us out of here,” I say, refusing to look.
At the top of the escalator, which dead-ends into a cluster of magazine shops and newsstands, the only clear path veers to the left, back to the Main Concourse. Charlie keeps running straight—toward the beige service door in the corner.
“It looks locked,” I say.
“It’s not,” he insists. “Or at least, it never used to be.”
Praying that things don’t change, I watch him plow into the door. It swings open and leads into an industrial beige hallway. Charlie’s strides get longer. He’s back on home turf. And I’m more lost than ever. Refusing to fall behind, I squeeze my fists tighter and pick up speed. My nails dig deep into the palms of my hands.
“You okay?” Charlie asks, feeling the instant vibe.
“Yeah,” I tell him, still staring dead ahead.
In front of us are two automatic swinging doors. We stomp on the sensor-mat and the doors blink open. I immediately smell gas fumes. Through the doors, the lights dim and the cavern expands. Brick walls, no windows, and an old wooden teller booth with a punch clock on the outside. Charlie glances around at the fifty or so cars that’re parked bumper-to-bumper in the underground garage.
“You got a ticket?” a man with a Puerto Rican accent shouts from the teller booth.
“No, thanks,” Charlie says, catching his breath. Over his shoulder, he checks the automatic doors and searches for Gallo and DeSanctis. The doors mechanically close. No one’s there. At least, not yet. But before we can relax, my stomach lurches and I heave uncontrollably. There’s a violent splash against the pavement as I vomit up the milky-brown remainder of this morning’s Raisin Bran. The smell alone makes me want to do it again. I clench my jaw to keep it in.
“You sure you’re okay?” Charlie asks for the second time.
Bent over, with my hands pressed against my knees, I spit out the final chunks as a string of saliva dangles from my chin.
“Don’t think I’m cleaning that up,” the Puerto Rican guy warns from his booth.
Ignoring him, Charlie puts a hand on my shoulder. “They’re gone,” he promises. “We’re fine.” The words are nice, but he’s missing the point.
“What?” Charlie asks, studying my green coloring. “What is it?”
My stomach’s empty, and I’m about to pass out. But it’s not until I backhand the spit from my bottom lip and slowly struggle to stand up that my brother gets his first good look at my eyes. They wander around the garage, dancing anxiously in every direction.
Without a word, he knows why I wouldn’t look back while we were running. Sure, I was scared—but it wasn’t just from what was chasing us. It was from what we left behind. Shep. I stare down at the splatter of throw-up by my feet. Forget fear—this is all guilt.
“It’s not your fault, Ollie. Even when you were willing to hand them the account, Shep told you to stay quiet.”
“But if we weren’t— Dammit, how could I be such a meathead? I’m smarter than that! If we weren’t there… If I wasn’t so stupidly enraged about Lapidus…”
“If, if, if. Don’t you get it yet?” he asks. “It doesn’t matter what you were thinking—or why you talked yourself into it—Shep was stealing that money whether we were there or not. Period. End.”
I pick my head up. “Y-You think?”
“Of course,” he shoots back with a throatful of instant Charlie confidence. But as the words leave his lips, his expression falls. Reality hits hard. And fast. Now he’s the one who’s suddenly green.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he motions toward the steep ramp that leads up to the snow-lined street. “You ready to go?”
Before I can nod, Charlie takes off and runs straight up it. Behind him, I once again close my eyes and picture Shep’s shattered body, twisted like a broken puppet across the floor. Unable to shake the image—or the rash decision that got us there—I chase my brother, racing as hard as I can to the top. Too bad