The First Councel

Trying not to panic, I dart through the open door of the bathroom and yank a white towel from the wall rack. Anything to get rid of the blood. After two minutes of frantic scrubbing, my hands come as clean as they’re going to get. I can turn on the faucet, but… no, don’t be stupid… if even a tiny chip of my skin hits the sink… Don’t give them anything else to trace you to it. Keeping the towel wrapped around my hand, I race out of the bathroom and step over Vaughn without looking down.

I’m at the door. No fingerprints, no physical evidence. All I have to do is leave. Just turn the knob and… No. Not like this.

Fighting every fear that’s swirling through my gut, I turn around and take a step toward the body. Whatever he did, Vaughn died for this one. For me. For trying to help me. He deserves better than a knee in the ribs.

I squat down next to him and use my towel-wrapped hand to shut his eyes. Patrick Vaughn. The one person who was supposed to have all the answers. “Sleep well,” I whisper. It’s not the world’s best eulogy, but it’s better than nothing.

Through the door, I hear a group of voices up the hallway. Whoever did this knew Vaughn was going to be here. Which means they probably knew I was going to-Oh, crap… time to leave. I pull open the door and race outside. Two people are waiting for me. Startled, I jump back.

“Sorry, man,” one of them says. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

The woman next to him starts to giggle. She’s wearing a baby-doll white T-shirt with a little rainbow across her chest. They’re just a young couple.

“I-It’s okay,” I say, trying to hide the towel that’s still around my hand. “My mistake.”

Brushing past them, I go straight for the elevators. All four are stuck at the lobby. Thirty seconds later, none has moved. “C’mon!” I shout, as I pound the call button. What the hell is taking so long? Down the hallway, I see the giggling couple coming back my way. That was a quick stop-maybe they just forgot something. Whatever it was, they’re no longer laughing. As they get closer, there’s a new purposefulness in their walk. I’m not sticking around to see what’s causing it.

Scanning the hallway, I spot a red-and-white exit sign above what looks like the door to the stairs. On the door is a yellow sticker with bright red letters: “WARNING: Alarm will sound if fire door is opened.”

Damn right it will. I shove the door open and hit the stairway. Two steps in, a shrill scream pierces through the horizontal cavern, echoing off the concrete. Most people aren’t in their rooms, but I can already hear the results down the stairway, from the ballroom level. Leaving their convention behind, three hundred teachers flood the fire exit. That’s what I was counting on: strength in numbers. Thundering down the circular stairs, the human wave of educators absorbs me as one of their own. There’s no panic or screaming-these people wrote the book on fire drills. And by the time we pour into the lobby, I’ve got all the cover I need. Lost amid the canvas bags and colored name tags, I slide out the front door and, at a brisk walk, keep on going. I can’t let anyone see me. The best-case scenario now is that they blame Vaughn’s death on me. Worst-case… I can still see the dark and crusted hole above Vaughn’s right eye.

I don’t slow down until I’m at least four blocks away. There’s a narrow alley with a phone booth in it. Catching my breath, I pull apart my pockets, searching for loose change. I gotta get some help. Trey, Pam, anyone. But just as I pick up the receiver, I slam it back down. What if someone’s listening on the other end? No time to take a chance. Do it face-to-face. Keep going. Run.

I crane my neck out of the alley and check the span of the block. No one’s there. Bad sign for a usually busy area. On the street, there’s a cab stopped at a red light. I wait until the light’s about to turn green, then make a mad dash for it. My dress shoes pound against the pavement, and just as the cab starts to inch forward, I reach out and grab the handle of the rear door. The driver slams on the brakes, and I slam into the door.

“Sorry,” he says as I clamber inside. “I didn’t see y-”

“The White House. Fast as you can go.”

***

“Stop the car!” I shout a few blocks from my destination.

The car jerks to an immediate halt. “Here?” the driver asks.

“Up a little further,” I say, eyeing the McDonald’s on 17th Street. “Perfect. Stop.”

Noticing the newspaper that someone left in the backseat, I pull off my tie and wrap it around the blood-smeared towel. When I’m done, I stuff both inside the Metro section of the paper, hop out of the cab, and toss a ten-dollar bill in the driver’s window. As the cab pulls away, I take a breath and walk as calmly as I can toward McDonald’s. Skirting around the line inside, it doesn’t take me long to reach the trash cans. With a quick push, I shove the ball of newspaper into the garbage. In here, every red stain is ketchup.