Center of Gravity (32 page)
My knees buckle under the weight of my surprise. Mitchell Carson's fingers pressing into the cords of my neck, his face outlined in the darkness. My hands jerk forward, pushing against Mitchell's chest. It's like pressing into the worn grooves of a boulder, solid and unyielding. I rake at his forearms, my fingernails finding his skin.
“Dammit,” he growls, glancing down at the place I've scratched and torn. He shakes me, as if I'm a puppet made of cotton cloth, felt, and stitching.
As I draw a ragged breath, I smell sweatâMitchell's? My own? And the distinct scent of cypress branches after a rainstorm. I force my brain there, into a forest of trees, hoping to calm my frantic pulse.
Stay calm, Lucy. Stay calm.
“Leave us alone.” Mitchell hisses into my ear. His breath, hot and wet, settles on my clammy skin. When he steps back, his fingers loosen on my neck.
I suck in air, big gasping breaths. My throat, full of fire, fights the oxygen. My lungs scream for relief. I press my spine against the drywall, willing my weak legs to straighten and stand. Mitchell stares at me, motionless, as I meet his eyes, dark as obsidian and unyielding. His face, mask-like, reveals no emotion.
“My medicine. I can't breathe,” I gasp. His fingers tighten, close off my vocal cords. I can't scream. I can't make a sound.
It's then Mitchell turns and reaches for my inhaler. I watch as his fingers curl around the cylinder. His knuckles tighten, squeezing, before my medicine disappears into the depths of his pocket.
The light fades. Darker. Darker. My arms flail and jerk. I slump over. And see Mitchell Carson smile just before I hit the floor.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
What would Iron Man do? Please. He'd grab his brother, blast off into space, and leave this mess behind. His suit's awesome like that. Bulletproof, able to shoot repulsor rays, it protects him from anything.
Okay. So there's the heart issue. Never stopped Iron Man for long. Genius inventor, problem solver, supersmart guy. MIT grad.
Sheesh.
If he can't come up with some answers, the world's lost. For good.
I have to channel my inner Iron Man. There's work to do, solutions to find. I grab a pen and paper. Research possibilities: Dad's computer. Off-limits. House phone. Off-limits. Contacts: Ava. Dr. Bennett. The judge. Lawyers. My grandfather.
Clues: My dad's weird freak-out sessions. The box Ava gave me when Dr. Bennett was at our house. The box I stuffed under the bed. The gun in the kitchen. I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Ava. Me. Especially Sam.
Like he knows I am thinking about him, Sam sighs in his sleep, stretches his arms overhead. He exhales and rubs his cheek against the mattress. I climb out of bed, steal into the kitchen, and lift up the cover of the canister. The gun is still there. The metal glints back at me in the soft light from the hallway. Before I change my mind, and knowing my dad might ground me forever, I reach inside and pull it
out. It's heavy and solid in my hand. I squint, checking that the safety is on. Heart thumping, I replace the canister top and race back to my room. After wrapping the gun in a towel, I tuck it into my backpack and shove it under my bed.
While my cheek is pressed to the carpeting, I see the box from Ava. I hesitate, then pull it out, sit up on my knees, and examine the writing on the card. Flowery, like a girl wrote it. The box, a little banged up, is held shut with brittle tape and a plain yellowed ribbon. It breaks open when I tug. I lift off the cover, move the tissue paper aside, and pull out what's inside.
A children's book, with a drawing of a boy on the cover. He's six or seven years old, with a red cape flying in the breeze. It's me. The same eyes, nose, mouth. My hair is a little darker now, and I'm bigger. But it's a picture of me. No doubt about it. Here's the title:
The Adventures of Jack Carson: Super Kid.
The author and illustrator? Karen Carson.
The book spine cracks as I open the pages. My mother's drawings tell the story: a regular boy in a regular neighborhood with a regular life. One day he finds a red cape in an old trunk in his grandfather's attic. Every time he puts it on, amazing things happen. He saves a baby from being hit in traffic, he climbs a tree to rescue a kitten, he helps the police find a bank robber.
On the last few pages, Jack finds out the cape doesn't have superpowers, but he can still do all kinds of good things without it. It's the magic inside his heart that counts. When I turn the final page, a card and a photo fall out into my lap. My throat gets tight.
Dearest Jack,
This book is one of many surprises I planned for your birthday. It's a little late getting back from the printer, but I hope you like it. I'll miss you every minute and will be home as soon as I can
from the book tour! Here's a photo from last year. Look how much you've grown! I'm proud of you, my superhero son.
I love you more than anything,
Mommy
The photo's upside down, with names on the back. My mother's handwriting, because it matches the card.
Jack's birthday. Jack, Frank, Mitchell, Karen.
I flip it over.
I'm wearing a red cape. Sitting on my grandfather's lap. Beaming in the glow of candles. And I'm next to my mother, who
wasn't
going to leave me, after all.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
Dr. Bennett's office door is cracked open and the place is trashed. Garbage overturned, files knocked to the ground. The hallway's dark, so I can't see well. I grab for Ava's hand, fumble for the light switch and flick it on. Ava gasps. The light glares harsh on a crumpled body. Dr. Bennett's lying on her side. She's alabaster white, the color of drying plaster. Her cell phone is within inches of her outstretched hand. I crouch down and check her pulse. My fingertips catch a faint beat. Ava drops to her knees and holds her other hand.
I punch 9â1â1.
“What's your emergency?” the operator answers.
The woman records the address, sketchy details, and my name in the Mobile County EMS system. I grab the wrinkled pharmacy bag on the desk, turn it upside down, and shake out the empty Albuterol box.
“She has asthma. I can't find her medicine.”
Where's the inhaler?
On my hands and one good knee, we search the room. Ava starts opening drawers. I dump her purse, scattering pens and lipstick in all directions. Her wallet falls out last, a wad of cash stuffed in the pocket.
Though I don't say it to Ava, a voice in my head shouts.
This was no random break-in.
“An ambulance is on the way, sir. Stay on the phone with me until the paramedics arrive, please.”
“Of course.” I keep my fingers on her pulse. Check her arms and legs for bruising. Anything unusual.
Dr. Bennett groans, shifts her neck. And I see the marks. Big enough to match a man's hand and fingers. Around her throat.
My brain jolts. “Look.” I motion to Ava.
When she sees where I'm pointing, her face drains of color. She shrinks back, and her shoulders fold in.
Ambulance sirens blast. Doors slam. Voices yell.
“Mitchell,” she mouths.
Footsteps drum in the hallway, but Ava doesn't move. She's in a trance, body rigid, eyes fixed on Dr. Bennett's face. I move out of the way, stand up, then reach over and jostle Ava's arm.
She clambers to her feet, pushes her hair back from her face. Her voice is low and strangely calm. “Graham, I have to do
something
.”
The EMS team jogs into the room.
I frown and glance over at her. “What are you talking about? We did. The paramedics are here.”
Ava shakes her head.
One throws down a duffel bag and kneels next to Dr. Bennett. The rest jostle for room in the tight space. The first medic bends down his shaved head to check her vitals. His partner, a slight, dark-haired female, slips an oxygen mask over her face and starts an IV.
Ava pulls at my arm and motions toward the hallway. When we step out of the room, she starts pacing, her green eyes ablaze. “He's going to hurt the boys,” she whispers. “That message from Dr. Bennett. She was scared.”
I shake my head and lower my voice. “Look. No matter what happened hereâwhoever they find out is responsibleâI don't think
Mitchell will go so far as to hurt the kids. They're all he can hold over your head. He's using them to manipulate you. Why would he take his best weapon out of the mix? This way, he's in control, you're suffering. And he knows it.”
Ava sets her jaw. “I don't know.”
“Sir?” One of the paramedics calls out.
“Let me talk to them,” I plead. “Then we'll call the police, do whatever we need to do.” I reach down and squeeze her forearm. “But we have to be careful and do this right. There's too much at stake.”
“Sir?” the voice repeats, this time, louder.
Ava bites her lip. “Go. I need some air.”
She frowns, zips up her jacket, and jogs down the hallway. When I get back to the paramedics, they're loading Dr. Bennett on a stretcher. It's another five minutes before I realize Ava is gone.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
I walk away from Dr. Bennett's office. My hands tremble. I find my cell, punch in Mitchell's number, and pray. The battery is dangerously low. Enough to eke out a few minutes? I hit Send. The sharp ring jars my heart.
“Dr. Carson,” he snaps.
I force my lips into a smile. Soften my voice. “Mitchell. It's me. Ava.”
Nothing.
“Do you have a moment or two?”
I can hear the breath expel from his lungs in a deep gust. Music plays in the background. Shopping carts rattle by. A loudspeaker announcement blares.
He's out somewhere. Where are the boys?
“I'm pretty busy.” He coughs, clearly distracted by the
bleep-bleep
of a checkout scanner.
“How are the children? They with you?”
Mitchell clears his throat. “Fine, fine. Home with Isabel.”
She's at Friday night Bingo. Unless the kids are sick. But I just saw them. They're fine.
I picture them in the apartment. It strikes me then.
They're alone.
“Great!” I squeak, trying not to sound desperately chipper. “Then
you could meet me. So I can just, you know, share some things with you. I need to tell you . . . um, I want to say this . . . in person. Apologize.”
He's intrigued. “It's a little late. I don't know if it's going to change anything.” Gruff. Stubborn. Typical Mitchell. But appealing to his sense of control definitely seems to be working.
“I know,” I gush a little. “It's probably just to make
me
feel better. But I need to see you in person. It would be a huge favor to me. I'd owe you.”
This gets him.
I scramble to think. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe for Mitchell, but not me. “How about the college? Your office?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
I calculate the distance to Mitchell's apartment. If I sprint, I'll be there in a few minutes. I have to try. Once he realizes I've tricked him, it's all over.
I start to run.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
The computer hums to life under my fingertips. If Dad comes home and finds me on his laptop . . . But I can't think about that right now. I google my grandfather's first and last name, then Birmingham, Alabama. The usual Internet garbage pops up. Sites with flashy graphics that promise to find anyone, anywhere, and want you to pay money. With a credit card I don't own.
I try his name again with the army, Vietnam. Nothing.
Combine his name and my dad's. Add “Karen Carson.” Hit return. A newspaper article. And my mother's obituary. I open the news story and read it. A few paragraphs sum up the last minutes of my mother's life. Dry, sunny day. Car accident. Investigation closed.
The obituary's twice as long.
Karen Carson. Beloved wife, mother, daughter.
Her picture stares back at me, empty, haunting, like a ghost. I'd almost forgotten the color of her eyes, the texture of her thick, shiny brown hair. She smelled like apples, crisp and fresh. Seeing her helps me remember what I've buried so deep inside my chest.
Graveside service at four o'clock.
The memories zoom back, sharp and biting.
Donations in lieu of flowers.
I check the name of the cemetery. I've never been back to the gravesite since the day she was buried. Dad refuses to take me. Won't
talk about it. Acts like it never happened. We used to have photo albums and scrapbooks. Where are they now?
I can't look at my mother's face any longer. I force myself to scan the words, look for clues. Anything. We're all listed as next of kin. Wait. The obituary lists Grandpa Frank as from Moulton.
I close the window, try the Internet white pages. Type in Frank Carson with my wobbly fingers. In seconds his information pops up on the screen. I write down the number, wonder if he's home, guess at what he's doing. Eating dinner? Watching TV?
I grip the scrap of paper, carry it to the kitchen, and stare at the phone. As if it'll dial itself. One hand out, I reach a little further and punch the buttons with a shaky finger.
I can always pretend it's a wrong number. Except I'm a terrible liar. With stomach cramps and a headache.
“Carson,” the voice barks. An older version of my father, rough around the edges.
I choke on my fear.
“Hello?” he says. “Hello?” he snaps, then his voice deepens a few octaves. “I don't appreciate these prank phone callsâ”
“Do you have a son?” I croak out. “Mitchell?”
The man stops his angry tirade. He's breathing hard. “Jack? Is this Jack? Talk to me.”
But I cut him off. Hang up. Sink to the floor, pull my knees to my chest, bury my head.