“I told you it’d be a hard one,” Gallo adds, sounding like he’s moving further up the aisle. “But all you have to do is use your brain. You were in the tunnels under Disney World. How do you think we found you?”
His footsteps are close, but he’s headed in the wrong direction. I duck under the front of the pirate ship and blanket myself in silence.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you couldn’t find any of Duckworth’s relatives when you worked at the bank?” Gallo asks. “He didn’t have any, Oliver. Never married. No kids. Nothing. If he had, we never would’ve used his name in the first place. That was the whole point of creating and keeping his name on the account. If anything went wrong, no one was there to complain.”
“He’s a liar!” Gillian shouts.
“Oh, she’s getting pissed now, isn’t she?” Gallo asks. “I don’t blame her either. I saw what she did to Duckworth’s old place – from the photos… to the soft-touch bedsheets… You have to give ’ em the A-plus for effort – they pulled it together pretty quick.”
They?
“Personally, I think the paintings were the nicest touch. I’m betting those were to win over Charlie. Am I right, Gillian, or was it just part of the show?”
For the first time, Gillian doesn’t answer. I try to tell myself it’s because she doesn’t want to reveal her location, but as I’m finally starting to realize, every lie takes its toll. Especially the ones we tell ourselves.
“Time to make a choice,” Gallo says, his voice coming from everywhere at once. “You can’t do it all by yourself anymore, Oliver.” Like before, he lets the silence of the room pound his point into my brain. “It’s time to get out of here, son. Now which one of us do you want to trust?”
79
The first thing DeSanctis noticed were the heads. There were two when he walked in – Goofy’s and the Mad Hatter’s. Neither was attached to a torso; they were just two colorful costume heads lying lifeless on the bright white linoleum floor. From the small folding table that was knocked over, DeSanctis knew where they’d fallen from. That much was simple. The hard part was seeing where it led. Exiting the closet and stepping into the hallway that ran perpendicular to it, he held his gun with both hands. On his right, toward the back, was a rolling laundry cart. Straight ahead was another room that smelled like bleach. On his left was the front door to the building, the easiest way out.
DeSanctis headed for the door, but as he tried to pull it open, the single deadbolt was locked. He took a quick scan for windows or other doors. Nothing that led outside. Wherever Charlie was, he was still here. Hiding. Turning around, DeSanctis raised his gun and studied the long white hallway. There were a few yellow gym lockers along the walls, the knocked-over folding table up ahead, and the same rolling laundry cart in the back. Through the walls, he could hear Gallo’s muffled shouts at Oliver. On his left, next to the folding table, was the room with the bleach smell. On his right, past the maintenance closet, was a room he must’ve missed. Those were the only choices. One room on his right; one on his left.
As he learned in training, when choosing between the two, the majority of the population favors their right. Of course, this was Charlie. DeSanctis started on the left, where the door to the bleach room was slightly ajar. As carefully as possible, he used the tip of his shoe to edge the door open – just enough so he could peek in between the gap by the hinges. He angled his head to double-check. Nothing there.
He nudged the door open further and slowly inched his way into the room, finger still on the trigger. His back was against the doorjamb as he slid around it. Inside, he aimed his gun at the only thing in the room: an industrial-sized washer and dryer that took up most of the back wall. The machines were as big as DeSanctis had ever seen. Big enough to hide in.
With his gun cocked straight in front of him, he carefully crept toward the closed metal door of the washing machine. Over his shoulder, he could still hear Gallo shouting at Oliver. Letting it fade, he pulled back the hammer on his gun and carefully reached for the handle on the washer door. Leaning in, he didn’t make a sound. The sharp stench of bleach filled the air. Just as his fingertips hooked around the handle, the washer sprang to life with a loud motorized whir, churning into its next cycle. DeSanctis jumped back at the noise, but as the machine flipped from Soak to Spin, he raced forward and tugged the door open. A pile of colorful clothes tumbled to the floor with a wet smack. Green leotards… bright red Santa pants… red, white, and blue skirts. Nothing but costumes.
Kicking them aside, he slammed the door shut and headed straight for the dryer. Again, he cocked his gun. Again, he pulled open the door. And again, he found nothing but a pile of bright multicolored costumes. Without a word, he angrily tossed a fistful of clothes to the floor.
Reentering the hall, he was about to cross into the next room when he noticed the one thing that was out of place. Up the hallway. Against the wall. The rolling laundry cart that was in the center of the hall… was now on the right. Something moved. Or someone moved it.
DeSanctis grinned and edged sideways up the hallway. Not smart, Charlie-boy… not smart at all, he thought to himself as he pointed his gun at the cart. But as he finally got in close – as he stretched his neck to peek inside the cart – he realized it was empty. Still, carts don’t move by themselves. DeSanctis looked up the hallway. At the end, a tall wooden folding screen blocked access to the rooms in back. Shoving the cart aside, DeSanctis went right for the screen.
Ten steps later, he cut around the screen and skidded to a stop. In a room that felt like a smaller version of the warehouse, he stared at row after row of rolling wardrobe racks. In front, a red-and-white polka-dot dress hung from a hanger labeled “Minnie.” One rack over, on a hanger labeled “Donald,” the blue suit and white fuzzy tail of Donald Duck’s butt was hanging in the air. In front of the suit, Donald’s head hung upside down on a specially made hanger. Another Donald head sat on top of the rack, and a third sagged sideways on the floor where DeSanctis walked in. Throughout the room, the heads were the one thing DeSanctis couldn’t miss – from Minnie, to Donald, to Pluto, to Eeyore, to all seven of the Dwarfs, the empty heads seemed to be staring blankly at him.
Trying his best to ignore them, DeSanctis did a quick scan of the aisles. The costumes draped to the floor and blocked every clear view. If he wanted Charlie, he’d have to flush him out. Methodically moving forward, DeSanctis squeezed between two sequined butterfly costumes and entered the first aisle of racks. With every step, a kaleidoscope of colored costumes brushed against both shoulders, but DeSanctis didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were locked on the floor, searching for Charlie’s shoes. Every few feet, he jabbed his gun into the side of a costume that looked too lumpy, but otherwise, nothing slowed him down – that is, until he reached the end of the aisle and saw the familiar black tuxedo with the bright red shorts. Two white gloves, specially stitched with four fingers, were clipped to the sleeve. Raising his head, DeSanctis traced the costume up to the top of the rack, which held the head of the world’s most famous mouse. Instinctively reaching out, DeSanctis tapped a knuckle against Mickey’s smiling face.
“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” a voice asked behind him.
DeSanctis spun around, but by the time he caught sight of Charlie, it was already too late. Wielding an industrial broom like a caveman’s club, Charlie swung away. Just as DeSanctis turned, the broomstick sliced through the air. There was a loud thud as it collided with DeSanctis’s head.
“That’s for messing with my mom, asshole,” Charlie said, already winding up for another. “And this one’s for my brother…”