Chapter Three: The Escape
Of the many things Baz trained his body to endure, contorting in the closet of a famous archeologist wasn't one of them. His general flexibility came in handy, but it didn't stop the coat hanger from digging into his back or the pins and needles in his foot.
Rei took her time, pacing the room a few times, taking a moment to redo her makeup presumably in front of the mirror directly on the other side of the wall from Baz. She slipped in and out of the sliver of reflection, gradually shifting from quietly furious to presentably resolved.
Finally, she wove around the walls and out of the room.
Baz unfolded himself, gripping the closet so he wouldn't immediately topple over on his half-asleep foot. No crashing to the floor.
There was just the issue of the box. Despite the ornate inlay, it wasn't old. It wasn't an example of the classic artifacts Jasper sent him after. On a more problematic level, it also wasn't pocket sized.
Outside, Gwen finished her speech. The music became the ambience again. Would she look for him? Baz couldn't be persuaded into a closet for round two. Round one was a distraction enough.
In any operation, Baz kept an eye out for alternate routes. Hillside was such a showcase project that it was easy to key into the details of it, that each unit had a balcony, that there were options outside the elevator he'd come up in. He'd prepared for a less conventional alternative to a walk-in, walk-out methodology.
Baz tried summoning his own resolve and leaned around the walls for a glimpse at the stairs.
Cheng positioned himself like a guard, not to keep Baz from returning to the party, but to keep Rei from leaving it. It was an unfortunate side effect that Cheng also stood between Baz and a clean exit.
Baz assessed. Even if he could slip past Cheng, box and rumpled appearance and all, he would have to likewise slip through the party, avoid running into Rei who would immediately recognize the box, avoid running into Gwen who might demand he entertain her further, get into the elevator where the attendant would have plenty of time to remember Baz's face, and lastly, Baz would have to walk right by the doorman.
That was a long string of witnesses. That was a long string of people who could notice he left with more than he arrived.
Jasper never mentioned how willing he was to bail Baz out of jail. Somehow, Baz had his doubts that would ever happen.
Pawing at his tux did little to flatten in. He dragged his thumb across his bottom lip, trying to rub off the red stain.
The more time he wasted, the higher the chance of getting caught. Gwen would come looking for him. Rei could make a break for the roof Cheng had pulled her down from.
The roof.
The exit to the rooftop had to be on the upper level. It was just a stretch between him and the spiral staircase at the end of the platform. It was just a walk past a glass railing, looking out across to the armchairs above the kitchen.
It was all about looking natural, like he belonged and there was absolutely nothing wrong with what he was doing. He was asthmatic and needed the air. Or maybe he was a smoker and needed the privacy.
Neither of those were good excuses. He didn't have an inhaler or a lighter.
But no one called out to him. No one stopped him from climbing up the spiral staircase one step at a time. The thunder of his heart didn't overwhelm the party music or conversation. He just pushed open the trapdoor above the last step and let himself onto the roof.
A little sanctuary. Most of it was green, paths forged between the planter boxes that gave ferns somewhere to root. A garden high above the city.
Very high. Very, very high. That was always a reality Baz thought he was prepared to face, and it said something about him that he preferred that threat to the threat of explaining himself to party-goers, but knowing Rei Collingwood lived on the 35th floor of her building was very different than being there.
The plan was 'simple'. It was simple in the way that the problem could be summed up in two words: get down. There were only fifteen floors between him and the point where the condo tower leveled into the larger body of the building that made up 19 levels of office buildings, and retail businesses.
The website had really been so helpful for number crunching. Straight math had seemed so much more manageable in the comfort of his warehouse. Hundred feet this and 'Tom Cruise could do it' that.
It was fine. Everything would be fine. He could find his way down the building with only equipment he could manage to conceal under a tuxedo. He came prepared.
Baz kicked off his shoes first, right over the edge of the building. An ultra low-profile martial arts shoe fit inside as long as he wore a dress shoe a size bigger than he normally would. A silicon sole would keep traction, even against glass.
The tux came off like an uncomfortable snakeskin, leaving him in the snug compression layers and the rope wrapped around his waist as many times as he could feasibly have without outwardly looking like he was trying to smuggle a snake into the party. The drawstring bag he'd worn the entire night under his jacket only had his gloves inside and he swapped them out and rolled the inlaid box in his dress shirt and tux before slipping it back in.
Every building had anchor points. Baz found his starting point at the ledge, looking over the lower level. He tied the rope around himself first, a makeshift safety harness that would probably save him from a splattery death, but would still hurt like hell if he lost his footing. He looped rope through the anchor and tied it to his harness loop. Doubling the rope back lost him a lot of length, but it was also the best way to recover the rope.
There was only an 80% chance he'd die. It was somehow better than the 97% chance he'd get caught trying to walk out the front door.
He took a deep breath. Everything was secure. There was nothing to do but go for it.
His life was in his own hands and that was the best-case scenario for any given situation. Baz stepped over the ledge, death grip on the rope. He lowered himself far enough that he could get his feet up against the wall. The silicon gripped even the smooth surface of marble and glass. All he needed to do was breathe, not die, and make it to the balcony rail below. One step... another... Baz resisted the urge to count the steps to the balcony. There was too much distance between him and the ground. Mumbling numbers to himself into the thousands wouldn't help.
The length of rope ran out just as he reached the balcony. The next step was more terrifying than lowering himself. He unknotted the rope, giving himself a free end to pull through the anchor high above. For a heart-pounding minute, there was nothing stopping him from dropping if he slipped. He wrapped one leg around the railing, both hands furiously pulling the rope back and around a post in the balcony. The end found its way back into his hands and he knotted it back to himself, hands shaking, not daring to breathe in case someone inside heard him.
Rinse and repeat.
The rope creaked under his weight, fibers stretching. It would hold. Baz kept telling himself it would. If anything, his nerves would snap before the rope did. There was a 70% chance of that happening.
He steadily made ground, only once losing grip, dropping the last five feet of the rope more dramatically than he meant.
It held, the loop around his waist, jarring but survivable. It took an extra few minutes of clinging to a balcony railing before Baz calmed down to trust his grip again.
After the nerve-wracking descent down floors 35 through 19, the last chunk was a cakewalk, more parkour and gymnastics than sport climbing. Hopping and climbing down, balcony ledge to balcony ledge, looked easier than it felt. If every muscle he had wasn't already threatening to buckle from easing down from the penthouse, they would've been tense from the dogpile of threats lurking in the back of his mind.
He could be caught. He could still be caught. He could be caught later. There was plenty of evidence that he was in the suite. His fingerprints were all over the library, the closet, Gwen. There were witnesses. There was the possibility of a security camera he hadn't thought about, one he may have looked right at.
After all, on the side of a building, security cameras were not the thing he concentrated on. For all the threats to his well-being, plummeting to his death was still number one.
He swung from a second-floor balcony and leapt finally to the ground, awkwardly taking his momentum and rolling into his shoulder. Terrible technique, and he'd bruise for it, but it was the ground and Baz had stopped caring how he reached it.
It took all the will he had left just to pull himself to his feet and trudge down the street, putting distance between him and the crime.
Baz pulled his phone from the safety of a zippered pocket and dialed Jasper. He answered on the first ring.
"Come and get it," Baz said, "I'm on King Street headed west."
He hung up. Baz had done the hard part. The least Jasper could do was come and get the stupid box.
It took about five minutes before the black sedan pulled up and parked just ahead of him.
Baz slid into the back seat, as per the routine. He let the drawstring pack slide off his aching shoulders.
"I hate you so much right now," he said.
Jasper reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, brows furrowed so deep and so baffled Baz almost laughed.
"What happened to you? Is that lipstick on your face?" Jasper took Baz's chin in his hand to physically turn his head. "Is that a hickey?"
"You sound like my father," Baz said, twisting out of Jasper's grasp, "just take your damn box."
There was no rummaging necessary. There was nothing in the pack except the box, wrapped up in Baz's dress shirt and tux jacket. He hastily unrolled the box from its makeshift packaging before Jasper saw the lipstick on his collar too.
Jasper took it, cradling it delicately in his hands, as if the thing hadn't already survived the descent from Mount Everest.
"How'd you get out?" Jasper asked, eyes still fixed on the box. His fingers hovered over it, like he was tempted to touch the wooden inlay, but was still working up to it.
"Well, after tonight, I think I'll pass on ever becoming a window washer," Baz said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fighting off the temptation to sleep. If he leaned back, he'd be out like a light. There was still the walk home. Jasper would drop him off where he always did, but no bike would be waiting. He would've looked idiotic riding a bike in a tux earlier in the evening.
"You joke too much," Jasper said.
"I'm only half joking."
Jasper shot him yet another bewildered look. Baz just rubbed his face, trying to get back some sensation other than the sting of wind against his skin.
"I'm over it. You've got your box, give me my money..." Baz said, "and let's just stick to the ol' 'hop the fence and steal the jewels while the family's in their summer home in Hawaii' routine from here on out."
For once, Jasper had nothing to say to that. His briefcase popped open and he handed Baz a fat envelope. If the mission had gone smoother, maybe there would've been a retort on the tip of his tongue, but in that scenario, Baz would still be in a tux and would've come down the elevator like a reasonable man.
The bewilderment faded into a look Baz dared to call admiration.
***
A vibration jarred Baz into consciousness.
It kept going. He groped, still half asleep, for the object of offense just to shut the damn thing off. It was too early. It might've been noon or three in the afternoon, but his bones ached and his head was too heavy to move. His cat pawed at him, equally upset about being roused from sleep.
He found it, still vibrating as he held it. Baz squinted at the screen.
Not the alarm. Jasper's name bannered the screen. The little red reject button beneath his number glowed temptingly.
Except, Jasper might know Baz rejected him. If he let it ring out... maybe Jasper would be more inclined to believe Baz just slept through the message.
He let the phone drop onto the mattress, burying his face back into a pillow. If he followed his athletic instincts and years of training, he would've filled his whole damn bathtub full of ice and let it numb him down.
That hadn't happened. There was an 89% chance he was unconscious as he let himself fall into bed. Everything hurt. A Costco tub of Tigerbalm wouldn't be enough to soothe the ache, but it could be a start. He'd smell like menthol for weeks.
The phone rang again, somehow more urgently. Baz got his groan out before hitting answer.
"What?" he asked. He wanted to snap, but not even his throat wanted to cooperate.
"What did you do last night?" Jasper demanded.
What had Baz done last night? In his half-conscious daze, the whole party felt simultaneously like a dream and a million years ago. Had any of that actually happened? Was it possible Baz simply got hit by a bus and limped home to have a fevered dream of making out with an international supermodel?
That was what it felt like and getting hit by a bus sounded more plausible than the night he really had.
"I got you a stupid box that didn't even look that old, to be honest." Baz rolled over, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. The sun was definitely up, but not high enough that it was acceptable for Jasper to interrupt Baz's sleep.
"Turn on the TV."
"I don't have a TV. Just tell me what—"
"Rei Collingwood is missing."