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They needed out of this deathtrap, and they needed to go upstairs and see if by some miracle Boz had not yet left the building.
“Dreyfus?” Jason called again—and again, she didn’t answer.
He had never been in a fun house before, but he had a vague understanding of how they worked. Some of the attractions, like that monstrous seven-foot automaton juggler in the corner, were mechanical. But some of the attractions would require human attendants to reset props or jump out at people (thereby setting them up for years of therapy).
That meant there would be service panels and control booths.
There would be interior walkways behind these flimsy plywood walls to reach those control booths.
There would be entrances and exits.
Exits.
He left the railing and went to examine the walls. In several places the wood was buckling, panels popping out. He grabbed hold of one panel and yanked. There was a horrendous tearing away sound, and a section of wall came down, sending up a cloud of dirt, splinters, and mold spores.
Jason tried to cover his nose and mouth with his arm, squinting through the dust and flying particles at the gaping hole in the wall.
Yep, behind the wall was a service passage.
Chapter Thirteen
He had not gone too far when he heard voices.
“You’re just making it worse for yourself,” Dreyfus said. She sounded very young.
“I’m about to make it worse for you, if you don’t shut up.”
They sounded like they were on the other side of the wall. Jason pressed against the studs of the flimsy wooden barrier, putting his eye to a crack through the panel. Dreyfus stood a few feet away, her back to him. There were cobwebs in her ponytail. She had her hands up.
Ian Boz was pointing what appeared to be a Smith & Wesson .357 at her.
From his vantage point, Jason could see Dreyfus’ hands flex, her muscles bunch, preparatory to her jumping for the gun.
No. No. God no.
He took a step back, bumped against the other side of the makeshift passage, and charged forward, launching a kick with all his strength at the fragile plywood. Rusted nails screeched as a section of wall toppled forward like a falling stage set. Jason saw Boz’s astonished face and he saw Dreyfus leap forward.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Boz realized what was happening and turned back to Dreyfus, but instead of shooting her, he smashed the fist holding the revolver in her face.
Dreyfus cried out and crashed down on the floor at Boz’s feet. Boz turned the gun on Jason.
“Freeze.”
Jason froze.
Boz vented his feelings in a long stream of swearwords. “Get up,” he said finally to Dreyfus. His chest rose and fell in agitation.
She clambered to her feet, holding her hand to her face. Her nose was bleeding. Her eyes met Jason’s, and he could see the apology and misery there.
Jason tried to give her a look of reassurance, and God knew what that looked like because he was scared for her and furious with himself.
He said to Boz, “Listen to me, Boz. Don’t do anything more stupid than you’ve already done.”
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the pistol weaving between him and Dreyfus. He could see Boz’s lips moving, but could barely hear the words over the blood rushing in his ears.
Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot…
Boz’s words filtered through. “I’m warning you. I won’t go back to prison.”
