Sanctuary (20 page)

Not because I had anything to say to him. What can one say to someone like him? He is never going to realize that we were right and he was wrong. People like Jim Henderson are incapable of changing their ways. They are going to believe in their half-assed opinions until the day they die, and nothing and no one is ever going to convince them that those beliefs might be mistaken.

No, I wanted to see Jim Henderson because I wanted to make sure they’d gotten him. That’s all. I wanted to make sure that guy didn’t slip away, didn’t run off deeper into the hills to live in a cave, or escape to Canada. I wanted that guy in prison, where he belonged.

Or dead. Dead wouldn’t have been too bad, either. Although I didn’t think Jim Henderson could really ever be dead enough for me. At least in prison, I’d know he was suffering. Death seemed like too good a punishment for the likes of him.

And I wouldn’t have been too sad to see Mrs. Henderson there in the morgue with him.

But though they brought in plenty of people I recognized as True Americans—all men, including the two from the four by four that had been chasing us, and Red Plaid Jacket, suffering from a bullet wound to the thigh—none of them were Jim Henderson. This was pretty disappointing, but certainly not unexpected. Of course a guy like him would run at the first sign of trouble. He wouldn’t get far, though. Not with me on the case. I would make it my personal psychic business to know where he was and what he was doing at all times. That way I could alert the authorities, who would hopefully catch him when he least expected it. Like when he was sleeping, or maybe making more baby True Americans. Some time when he wasn’t likely to be able to reach for a gun.

It was as I was examining the faces of the people being wheeled in, searching for Jim Henderson, that I saw one that looked more than a little familiar. I was up and out of my plastic seat in no time, and hurrying to the side of the gurney he was being wheeled in on.

“Chick,” I cried, reaching for his arm, which had already been attached to an IV bottle. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Chick smiled wanly up at me.

“Hey, there, little lady,” he said. “Glad to see you made it. Wilkins and the kid all right? How about the professor?”

“They’re all fine,” I said. “Or going to be fine, anyway. But what about you? What happened?”

“Aw.” Chick looked irritably at the nurse who was trying to get a thermometer into his mouth. “Stun grenade went off early.” He lifted his hands. I gasped at how raw and bloody they were.

“Chick!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”

“Ah,” he said, sheepishly. “It was my fault. I shoulda just thrown the stupid thing. But then I saw the guy had got all the women and children lined up in front of him, and I hesitated—”

“Jim Henderson, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Chick said. “Bastard was using his wives and kids as the old human shield.”

“Wait.” I stared down at him. “
Wives
?”

“Well, sure,” Chick said. “Guy like Jim Henderson’s gonna keep God’s chosen race going, he can’t afford to be monogamous. Lady,” he said, to the nurse with the thermometer, “I ain’t got no fever. What I got is burnt-up hands.”

The nurse glared at both Chick and me.

“No visitors,” she said, pointing imperiously at the plastic chairs, “in the ER. Get back to your seat. And keep that dog out of the trash cans!”

I looked and saw that Chigger had his head buried in the ambulance-bay trash can.

“But what about him?” I asked Chick, as the nurse, disgusted with me, began physically to push me from the crowded ER. “Jim Henderson? Did they catch him?”

“Don’t know, honey,” Chick called. “Place was a zoo by the time they got me out of there, cops and firemen and what all—”

“And stay out,” the nurse said, as she closed the ER doors firmly on me.

I walked disconsolately over to Chigger and pulled on his leather studded collar, eventually managing to drag him away from the garbage … though I had to pull his nose out of a Dorito bag. “Bad dog,” I said, mostly for my parents’ benefit, so they could see what an excellent and responsible pet owner I was going to make.

It was as I was doing this that I heard my name called softly from behind me. I turned around, and there was Dr. Thompkins, in a blood-smeared operating gown.

“Oh,” I said, holding onto Chigger’s collar. The smell of the blood was making him mental. I swear, it was enough to make me think the True Americans never fed their dogs. “Hey.”

My parents, seeing their neighbor from across the street, got up and came over, as well.

“I just operated,” Dr. Thompkins said to me, “on the leg of a man who told me he had you to thank for keeping him from bleeding to death.”

“Oh,” I said, brightening. “Dr. Krantz. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I was able to save the leg. That was certainly one of the more …
interesting
tourniquets I’ve seen applied.”

“Yeah,” I said, humbly. “Well, I did get an A. In sixth grade first aid.”

“Yes,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I imagine you did. Well, in any case, Dr. Krantz is going to be fine. He also explained to me how he happened to have been shot.”

“Oh,” I said, not certain where Tasha’s dad was going with this part. Like if he was going to yell at me for being irresponsible or something. Had someone told him it was me who’d rammed a pickup through the ambulance bay doors? I wasn’t sure. “Well,” I said, lamely. “You know.”

Dr. Thompkins did a surprising thing. He stuck his right hand out toward me.

“I’d like to thank you, Jessica,” he said, “for your part in attempting to bring my son’s killers to justice.”

“Oh.” I was a little shocked. Was that what I had done? I guess it was, sort of. Too bad I hadn’t been able to catch the guy who’d been ultimately responsible… .

“No problem, Dr. Thompkins,” I said, and slipped my hand into Nate’s father’s.

Just as I did so, yet another ambulance came wailing up to the doors I’d smashed. The doors to the back of the vehicle were flung open, and the paramedics wheeled out a man who had been severely injured. In fact, he was practically holding his intestines in place with one hand. He was still conscious, however. Conscious and looking all around him with wild, crazy, blue eyes.

“Dr. Thompkins,” one of the paramedics cried. “This one’s bad. BP a hundred over sixty, pulse—”

Jim Henderson. It was Jim Henderson on that gurney, with his guts hanging out.

So they’d got him. They’d got him after all.

“All right,” Dr. Thompkins said, looking over the chart the paramedics handed to him. “Let’s get him upstairs to surgery. Now.”

A pair of ER nurses took over from the paramedics, and began wheeling Jim Henderson down the hall, toward the elevator. Dr. Thompkins followed them, and I followed Dr. Thompkins. Chigger followed me.

“Hey, Mr. Henderson,” I said, when the nurses pulled the gurney to a halt outside the elevator doors.

Jim Henderson turned his head to look at me. For once, his crazy-eyed gaze focused enough to recognize me. I know he did, because I saw fear … yes, fear … in those otherwise vacant orbs of blue.

“Get that dog,” one of the nurses said, “away from here. He’ll infect the patient.”

“Jessica,” Dr. Thompkins said. The elevator doors opened. “I’ll finish talking to you later. But right now, I have to operate on this man.”

“You hear that, Mr. Henderson?” I asked the man on the gurney. “Dr. Thompkins here is going to operate on you. Do you know who Dr. Thompkins is, Mr. Henderson?”

Henderson couldn’t reply because he had an oxygen mask over his mouth. But that was okay. I didn’t need an answer from him anyway.

“Dr. Thompkins,” I said, “is the father of that boy you left dead in that cornfield.”

Dr. Thompkins, with a startled look down at his patient, took an involuntary step backward.

“Yes,” I said to Dr. Thompkins. “That’s right. This is the man who killed your son. Or at least ordered someone else to do it.”

Dr. Thompkins stared down at Jim Henderson, who, it had to be admitted, looked pretty pathetic, with his guts out all over the place like that.

“I can’t operate on this man,” Dr. Thompkins said, his horror-stricken gaze never leaving the man on the gurney.

“Dr. Thompkins?” One of the nurses slipped into the elevator and lifted a phone from a panel in there. “You want me to page Dr. Levine?”

“Not to mention,” I said, “this guy’s also the one who kidnapped Seth Blumenthal, burned down the synagogue, and knocked over all the headstones in the Jewish cemetery.”

The nurse hesitated. Dr. Thompkins continued to stare down at Jim Henderson, disgust mingling with disbelief on his face.

“How about Dr. Takahashi?” the other ER nurse suggested. “Isn’t he on duty tonight?”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Mr. Henderson doesn’t like immigrants very much either. Right, Mr. Henderson?” I bent down so that my face was very close to his. “Gosh, this must be very upsetting to you. Either a black guy, a Jewish guy, or an immigrant is going to end up operating on you. Better hope all those things you’ve been saying about them are wrong. Well, okay, buh-bye, now.”

I waved as the two nurses, along with a dazed Dr. Thompkins, stepped onto the elevator with Jim Henderson. The last thing I saw of him, he was staring at me with those wide, crazy eyes. I can’t be sure, but I really do think he was reevaluating his whole belief system.

C H A P T E R
19

J
im Henderson didn’t die. Not on the operating table, anyway.

Drs. Levine and Takahashi operated on him, in the end. Dr. Thompkins excused himself. Which was pretty noble of him, actually. I mean, if it had been me, I don’t know. I think I would have gone ahead. And let the scalpel slip at a crucial moment.

But Jim Henderson lived through his surgery. He owed his life to two people who came from religious and ethnic groups he’d been teaching his followers to hate. I kind of wondered how he felt about that, but not enough actually to ask him. I had way more important things to worry about.

Primarily, Rob.

It wasn’t until the next day that Rob finally woke up. I was sitting right there when he did it. I did go home right after the thing with Jim Henderson—actually, hospital security came along and threw me out, which is a terrible way, if you think about it, to treat a hero. But one of the ER nurses who’d escorted Jim Henderson to surgery apparently finked me out, saying I’d “threatened” a patient.

Which of course I had. But if you ask me, he fully deserved it.

Anyway, I went home with my parents and brothers and Claire, and got a few hours of sleep. I showered and changed and ate and walked Chigger and went a few rounds with my parents over him. They were not too thrilled to have a trained attack dog living under our roof, but after I explained to them that the cops would have sent him to the pound, and that the True Americans were not the world’s best pet owners, as far as I can see, they came around. They weren’t exactly thrilled with the way Chigger had chewed through an antique rug while we’d all been asleep, but after three or four bowls of Dog Chow, he was fine, so I don’t see what the problem is. He was just
hungry
.

It hadn’t been much of a surprise to me that on top of everything else, Jim Henderson and his followers turned out to be lousy pet owners.

Anyway, I was sitting there flipping through a copy of the local paper, which mentioned nothing about me and the important role I’d played in the capture of the dangerous and deranged leader of the largest militia group in the southern half of the state, when Rob started to come round. I put the paper down and ran for his mom, who’d also been waiting for him to wake up. She’d been down the hall getting coffee when he finally opened his eyes. She and I both hurried back to his room… .

But at the door, a voice from across the hall called weakly to me. When I turned, I saw Dr. Krantz lying in the bed of the room across from Rob’s. Gathered around his bed were a number of people I recognized, including Special Agents Smith and Johnson, who used to be assigned to my case. Until Dr. Krantz fired them from it, that is. It was good to see they could all let bygones be bygones and get along.

“Well, well, well,” I said, strolling into the crowded room. “What’s this? A debriefing?”

Dr. Krantz laughed. It was a startling sound. I wasn’t used to hearing him laugh.

“Jessica,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. There are a couple of people here I want you to meet.”

And then Dr. Krantz, whose leg was in a long sling, with spikes coming out of a metal thing around the patched-up wound where I’d stuffed my rock, pointed to various people crowded into the small room, and made introductions. One of the people was his wife (she looked
exactly
like him, except that she had hair). Another was a little old lady called Mrs. Pierce, whose name suited her, since she had very piercing eyes, as blue as the baby bootie she was industriously knitting. The last was a kid about my age, a boy named Malcolm. And of course I already knew Special Agents Johnson and Smith.

“That was quite the invasion of the True Americans’ Compound you launched, Jessica,” Special Agent Johnson said.

“Thanks,” I said, modestly.

“Jessica’s always impressed us,” Special Agent Smith said, “with her communication skills. She seems to have a real flair for rallying people to her cause … whatever cause that happens to be.”

“I couldn’t have done it,” I said, humbly, “without the help of many, many Grits.”

There was an awkward silence after this, probably on account of no one in the room knowing what a Grit was, except for me.

“You’ll be happy to know,” Dr. Krantz said, “that Seth is going to be fine. The burn should heal without leaving a scar.”

“Cool,” I said. I wondered what was happening in Rob’s room. He and his mom had probably had a nice little reunion by now. When was my turn?

“And the police officer,” Dr. Krantz went on, “who was shot should be fine. As should all of your, um, friends. Particularly Mr. Chicken.”

“Chick,” I corrected him. “But that’s great, too.”

There was another silence. Malcolm, who was sitting over on the windowsill, playing with a Gameboy, looked up from it briefly, and said, “Jeez, go on. Ask her, already.”