Seconds Away (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

There was still
ten minutes until lunch ended. I headed outside to shoot some baskets. The same two flyers were posted everywhere. The first—the one most of the students were getting all excited about—had a surprisingly sexy photograph of Angelica Wyatt on it:

AUDITIONS FOR EXTRAS

TWO DAYS ONLY!

MAYBE YOU’LL MEET ANGELICA WYATT!

Be a Star—Even for a Few Seconds!

Pass, I thought.

Plus all my attention—all my focus—was locked in laserlike on the second flyer:

BASKETBALL TRYOUTS MONDAY!

3PM

MEET in GYM 1

Juniors and Seniors ONLY will try out for Varsity

Freshmen and Sophomores will try out for JV

Funny. Despite what happened the past few days, I still cared about basketball. I guessed that I would start off trying out for JV, but at the risk of sounding immodest, I didn’t plan on staying there very long.

I took a few shots by myself. I didn’t want anyone at my new high school to see me play before tryouts. Don’t ask me why. I traveled almost every afternoon to play pickup games in a tough section of Newark. That was where I’d been honing my game.

As I mentioned before, my uncle Myron was a great player—the leading scorer in this school’s history, a first-team collegiate All-American, a first-round NBA draft pick by the Boston Celtics.

But according to my father, I was better.

We would see. That was the beauty of basketball. It wasn’t about talk. It was about what happened on the court.

I was about to head back inside when I saw the now-familiar black car with the tinted windows pull up. I stopped and waited. That car. That car with the weird license plate. The car that had been following me since this all began. The car that held that mysterious bald guy. The car that had taken me yesterday to see Bat Lady.

It was back.

I waited for the bald guy with the freshly shaved head to get out. He didn’t. The bell would ring in another minute or two. What did they want now?

I started toward the black car. When I got closer, the back door opened. I slid inside. The bald guy was there. The divider was up so once again I couldn’t see who was driving.

“Hello, Mickey,” Shaved Head said.

I had had enough of him and his sudden appearances. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

“How are you feeling?” he asked me.

“Fantastic. Who are you?”

“We understand Rachel was shot.”

I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. I studied his face. He was younger than I’d first thought. Thirty, thirty-five at the most. He had strong hands and sharp cheekbones, and he spoke with an accent I usually associated with snooty prep schools.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Is Rachel getting shot related to you guys?”

“You guys?” he said.

“The Abeona Shelter.”

I had recently learned that my parents were not merely fun-loving nomads who traveled the world and did the occasional good deed. They ran covert operations to rescue children in danger as members of a clandestine organization called the Abeona Shelter.

Abeona was the Roman goddess who protected children. The organization’s secret symbol was the Tisiphone Abeona—a rather exotic butterfly with what looked like eyes on both wings.

I found the butterfly in that photograph of the hippies at Bat Lady’s house. I found another in one of Ema’s tattoos. And I found yet another at my father’s gravesite.

Bat Lady seemed to be the leader. Shaved Head worked for the organization too. And now, it seemed, the Abeona Shelter had recruited my friends and me. Two days ago, we rescued a girl from a terrible fate. But it hadn’t been easy.

“It seems apparent,” Shaved Head said, “that you’ve become very fond of Rachel Caldwell.”

“So?”

“So how fond?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Has she given you anything?”

I made a face. “Like what?”

“A gift. A package. Anything.”

“No. Why would she do that?”

Shaved Head said nothing.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. “Why was Rachel shot?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“Believe what you will. These are the risks we all take.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You take risks. She warned you about that.” She. He meant the Bat Lady. “But you can walk at any time.”

“I don’t understand. Why were we chosen to join you?”

He shrugged and looked out the window past me. “Why are any of us chosen?”

“That’s deep, really, but you’re avoiding the question. Spoon, Ema, Rachel, me—why us?”

“Why you?” He continued to look out the window. His jaw clenched and for a moment, he looked totally lost. Then he added something that surprised me: “Why me?”

The bell rang. He opened the door.

“Hurry back to class,” he said. “You don’t want to be late. And, Mickey?”

“What?”

“Whatever you do, don’t talk to your uncle about us.”

CHAPTER 10

Giggles from random
classmates accompanied Spoon as he approached my locker at the end of the school day.

I just stared at him for a moment. Then I said, “What are you wearing?”

Spoon frowned. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like surgical scrubs.”

“Exactly,” Spoon said. He smiled widely. “It’s the perfect disguise to get us into the hospital. I can pretend to be a doctor, see?”

I’m tall—six-four—and I weigh about two hundred pounds. Spoon was small in pretty much every way. He was the kind of thin that looked too fragile, like a strong wind might snap a bone. His glasses were never quite on straight and looked too big for his face.

I can easily pass for older than sixteen. Spoon could still buy movie tickets as a “child under twelve” without making the cashier bat an eye.

“So are we going to see Rachel?” Spoon asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He grinned. “You can call me Dr. Spoon. You know, to keep us in character.” He glanced left and then right. “Where’s Ema?”

I’d been wondering the same thing. I scanned the corridor in search of her. Nope. I had sent her a text to meet up here so we could all take the bus together, but she hadn’t replied.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“So it’s just you and me?”

“I guess. Wait, I thought you were grounded.”

“Yes, but today I have a meeting of the MILF club.”

I stopped. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Musicals I Love Foundation. I don’t like to brag, but I’m founder and president of the club.”

Oh boy. “You might want to change the name.”

“Why?”

“Forget it.”

He rubbed his chin. “I guess I can raise it at the next meeting.”

“How many other members are there?” I asked.

Spoon looked confused. “There’s supposed to be other members?”

I closed my locker.

“You want to join?” Spoon asked. “You can run for vice president. I love musicals, don’t you? Next week, Dad’s taking the whole club to see the new Frank Wildhorn musical. Do you know who he is?
Jekyll and Hyde
?
The Scarlet Pimpernel
? I love the song ‘This Is the Moment,’ don’t you?”

He actually started singing it.

“Yeah,” I said, so he’d stop. “I love it.”

I quickly sent Ema another text—
PLEASE COME WITH US.

No response.

I took another look down the corridor and sighed. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

“Shrek and Donkey!” Spoon shouted.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Better yet”—Spoon snapped his fingers—“Don Quixote and Sancho Panza! Do you know who they are? Forget the book, I’m talking about the musical.
Man of La Mancha
? You’re the brave Don Quixote and I’m his squire sidekick, Sancho. By the way, the play won the Tony for Best Musical in 1966, but you probably knew that, right?”

I didn’t know about the Tony Award in 1966—who did?—but weirdly enough, I did know the musical and the story. For once, a Spoon analogy made perfect sense: Don Quixote had been delusional and, well, insane.

I took one more look down the hall for Ema. Nothing.

“Come on,” I said.

Dr. Spoon and I walked toward the bus stop at Northfield Avenue. When we made the turn, I almost cried out in relief. There, waiting at the stop with an impatient frown, was Ema.

I ran up to her and gave her a hug. “Ema!” She seemed surprised by the hug. Then again, so was I.

“You came!” I said.

“Of course I came. If you two do this yourself, you’ll just mess it up.”

Spoon came over and became the third guy in the hug. When we all let go, Ema looked at Spoon’s outfit, then looked at me. I just shrugged.

Spoon spread his arms. “You like it? Sexy, right? Like that TV character.”

“Dr. McNightmare,” Ema said.

While we rode the bus, I filled Ema and Spoon in on my meeting with Shaved Head in the black car. They listened in silence. When we got to Saint Barnabas Medical Center, we tried the direct route: just walk in. That, not surprisingly, did not work. There was a front desk that demanded both a picture ID and a reason for being there, several security guards, and even a metal detector.

Ema frowned. “Who wants to sneak into a hospital anyway?”

“People steal medical supplies,” Spoon said. “They try to steal computers or medications or records—”

“I was asking a rhetorical question, Spoon.”

“Oh.”

She looked at him again. “Wait, is that a stethoscope around your neck?”

“Why, yes,” Spoon said, rather pleased with himself. “Part of my disguise.”

“Where did you get . . . ?” Ema looked over at me. I just shook my head as if to say,
It’s not worth it.
She stopped.

“So now what?” I asked.

Spoon said, “Follow me.”

So we did. We walked back outside and around the back. There was a big metal door that only opened from the inside. Spoon knocked on it three times, stopped, knocked two more times. We waited. Spoon raised his eyebrows, then gave the door two more knocks.

A man wearing a green janitorial jumpsuit opened the door. He looked out at us with a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Tansmore? It’s me. Arthur.” Then Spoon actually took the stethoscope off his neck, like maybe Mr. Tansmore wasn’t able to see him through this clever disguise. “Arthur Spindel.”

I’d forgotten that Spoon’s real name was Arthur, even though I’d only given him that nickname a few days ago.

“Oh, hello, Arthur,” Mr. Tansmore said. He looked out to make sure no one else was in the area. Then he said, “Come on in. Quickly.”

We did.

“See?” Spoon whispered to me. “The custodial network.”

Mr. Tansmore led us down into the basement. When we reached the bottom step, he turned and said, “You’re not up to no good, are you, Arthur?”

“No, sir.”

Tansmore didn’t like it, but he didn’t seem all that interested either. “If you get caught—”

“We never heard of you,” Spoon said. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay. Wait here five minutes, then do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Thank you,” Spoon said.

“Right. Make sure your dad knows—”

“It’s already taken care of,” Spoon said.

I looked at Ema. She shrugged. We do that a lot around Spoon.

Spoon asked, “Do you know anything new about Rachel Caldwell’s condition?”

Tansmore just shook his head.

“How about what room she’s in?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Tansmore had a deep voice. “She’s under eighteen, right?”

“Right.”

“So she’ll be in the pediatric wing. Probably on the fifth or sixth floor. I got to get back to work.”

He left us alone in the basement.

“What was that stuff about making sure your dad knows and it’s taken care of?” I asked.

“Part of the custodial network,” Spoon explained in a whisper. “But I’m sworn to secrecy.”

Whatever. Spoon timed the five minutes on his watch. Then he led us out of the basement. When we got to the first floor, Ema asked, “Now what?”

Spoon considered this. “We need to find a computer terminal.”

This wasn’t easy. The first floor was mostly administrative offices, but they were all either occupied or with someone nearby. It wasn’t as though we could walk in and start using one.

“Maybe we should go to the fifth floor of the pediatric wing,” Spoon suggested.

Sounded like a plan. Not much of one, but I wasn’t sure what else we could do here. We took the elevator up, made a left, then a right, and entered the pediatric wing. The contrast was somewhat startling. The main part of the hospital was decorated in drab beiges and grays, which fit the mood. The pediatric wing was in bright colors, like one of those kiddie party places or a particularly cheery preschool classroom.

I understood the goal, but something about it came across as fake—as a lie even. This was a hospital. The kids in here were sick. You couldn’t mask that with bright colors.

You also couldn’t mask the smell. Sure, they had some heavy cherry air freshener, but underneath that, you could still smell, well, hospital. I hated that smell.

We started down the corridor. Most of the doors to the patient rooms were closed. When a door was opened, we tried to peek in, but you really couldn’t see enough to tell who was inside.

“This is pointless,” Ema said.

I agreed.

“We need to get hold of a computer,” Spoon said.

But I could see that it wasn’t going to happen. All the terminals were in plain view with strict security on them. There were all kinds of password and ID features too, trying to protect patient privacy.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

We kept walking. One of the nurses eyed us. We must have made some sight. I was dressed normally enough, I guess, with blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Ema was all in black, pasty makeup, silver jewelry, a plethora of tattoos. Dr. Spoon was, well, you know.

“What are we looking for?” Ema whispered to me.

I didn’t have a clue, so we kept walking.

There was a big art project, I guessed, going on. Every door had a different little-kid drawing on it. Some doors had five or six. There were drawings of elephants and tigers and assorted animals. There were drawings of castles and mountains and trees. The ones that moved me were the drawings of a house—always rectangular with a triangle roof—complete with a stick-figure family on the green lawn. There was always a bright sun in the corner with a smiley face.

Whoever drew those, I surmised, missed their homes and families.

I was looking at the drawings, my eyes skipping from door to door, when I saw something that made me freeze.

Ema looked at my face and said, “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, I just stared at the door. Ema slowly turned and followed my gaze. A gasp escaped her lips.

This door had only one drawing on it. There was only one subject. There was no background, no trees or high mountains, no stick-figure family or smiling sun in the corner.

There was only a butterfly.

“What the . . . ?” Ema turned back to me.

There was no question about it. It was the same butterfly as I’d seen at Bat Lady’s, at my father’s grave, in one of Ema’s tattoos. The Tisiphone Abeona. Except, for some reason, the eyes were purple.

I suddenly felt a deep chill.

“Mickey?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t get it,” Ema said.

“Neither do I, but we have to find a way into that room.”

The door was right by the nurses’ station in the Intensive Care Unit. It was, in short, under constant watch. I looked around and figured, what the heck. I might as well try the direct route.

“You two wait out of sight,” I said.

“What’s your plan?” Ema asked.

“I’m going to just walk in the door.”

Ema made a face.

“It’s worth a shot,” I said.

Ema and Spoon moved to the end of the corridor where no one could see them. I walked casually toward the butterfly door. I was Mr. Relaxed, Mr. Cool. I almost started whistling, that’s how nonchalant I was about the whole thing.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

The nurse stared at me, her arms crossed. She frowned like that librarian who doesn’t believe your story about why you’re returning the book late.

“Oh, hi,” I said, pointing at the door. “I’m visiting my friend.”

“Not in that room you’re not. Who are you?”

“Wait,” I said, dramatically snapping my fingers and then hitting myself on the side of the head. “Is this the fifth floor? I’m supposed to be on six. Sorry.”

Before the nurse could say another word, I hurried away. I met up with Ema and Spoon down the corridor.

Ema said, “Wow, you’re smooth.”

“Do we need sarcasm right now?”

“Need? No. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a little.”

“Maybe,” Spoon said, “I can go in, what with my clever disguise and all. I can just pretend I’m a doctor.”

Ema said, “Spoon, that’s a great idea.”

I looked at her, confused.

“Well, it’s a great idea,” Ema said. “But let’s make a few adjustments.”