Seconds Away (6 page)

CHAPTER 11

The nurses’ station
was in the middle of two corridors. There were rooms on both sides of the station. Three minutes after my attempt to enter the butterfly room, Spoon sprinted up the opposite corner to the nurse who had stopped me from entering.

“Nurse! I need a crash cart, stat!”

“Huh?”

“Stat,” Spoon said. “It means quickly.”

“I know what it means but—”

“Nurse, do you know the origin of the term?
Stat
is actually short for
statim
, which is the Latin term for ‘immediately.’”

The nurse squinted at him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Another frown.

“Okay, I’m fourteen. But I’m one of those genius kids you read about.”

“Uh-huh. And how come your scrubs have ‘Dr. Feelgood’ embroidered on the pocket?”

“That’s my name! Do you have a problem with it?” He arched an eyebrow. “By the way, you’re very attractive.”

“Excuse me?”

“We doctors always hit on the nurses, didn’t you know that? I bet you’re very flattered right now.” Spoon flexed an arm with about as much thickness and tone as washed-up seaweed. “Do you want to feel my muscle?”

Two more nurses stepped over. “Is this kid giving you trouble?” one asked.

“That’s Dr. Kid to you, Nurse.” Again he arched an eyebrow. “By the way, you’re very attractive.”

I was right near the butterfly door now. All eyes were trained on Spoon. I was just about to reach for the door when one of the nurses, maybe sensing something, started turning back toward me.

Oh, this wasn’t good.

I was going to duck . . . but what good would that do? I was right out in the open. The nurse’s eyes were almost on me when Ema shouted, “Kevin! Where are you? Kevin!”

The nurse swiveled her head back toward the voice as Ema hurried over to Spoon.

Time to move.

I opened the door with the butterfly on it and stepped into the dark. As the door closed behind me, I heard Ema going on, “Kevin, you were supposed to stay in the psych ward. I’m so sorry, this is my brother and he wandered off. I’ll take it from here . . .”

Her voice—all voices—fell away as the door closed behind me.

I was turning toward the bed when I heard someone say, “Mickey? How did you get in here?”

There, sitting up in the bed, was Rachel.

CHAPTER 12

I hurried to her bedside.
There was a bandage on the side of Rachel’s head, but she looked relatively okay. There wasn’t a ton of tubes snaking out of her or anything like that. Her sleeves were pulled up. My gaze was drawn to that old, horrible burn mark on her inner arm—the one flaw that seemed to enhance the rest of the physical perfection. Rachel’s eyes were wet from what looked like tears.

I wanted to hug her or do something, but instead I stood by her bedside and waited.

“How did you get in?” Rachel asked.

“Spoon is causing a diversion.”

She tried to smile, but broke into a sob instead. “My mom . . .”

I moved closer to the bed and sat on the edge. I took her hand. “I heard. I’m so sorry.”

Rachel’s head fell back on the pillow. She blinked and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s my fault.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” she said in a small voice. “I got her killed.”

I froze. Rachel started to cry again.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She just shook her head.

“Rachel?”

“You need to leave.”

I ignored that. “What do you mean, you got her killed?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t want to put you in danger too.”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? Just tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”

The door behind me started to open.

I have fast reflexes. That, I know, was a genetic thing. When your mother was one of the greatest tennis prodigies of her era and your uncle was a professional-level basketball player, that had to help. I didn’t hesitate. The moment I heard the door opening, I dived down and slid underneath Rachel’s bed.

Someone said, “Hello, Rachel.”

My stomach dropped when I recognized the voice.

I could hear Rachel adjusting herself on the bed. “Chief Taylor?”

“It’s been a long time,” Chief Taylor said, which, I thought, was sort of an odd thing to say to a teenage shooting victim. I could see his brown shoes move toward the bed. “How are you feeling, Rachel?”

There was something in Chief Taylor’s voice—a strange sort of tension. He was trying to sound like the confident cop, but something felt off.

“Fine, thank you.”

Rachel’s voice too. There was a strain there, a friction, something playing under their casual words.

“The doctors tell me you were very lucky.”

“Oh yes, very,” Rachel said—and I heard a tinge of anger in her tone. “My mother is dead. I feel so blessed.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Taylor said, ever the idiot. “I meant your physical health. It seems the bullet grazed your skull, but didn’t penetrate.”

Rachel did not speak.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Chief Taylor said in a voice that didn’t sound sorry.

“Thank you,” Rachel said in a voice that didn’t sound very grateful.

What was going on here?

“Did you know I was first on the scene?” Taylor asked.

“I didn’t, no.”

“Yep. I called the ambulance for you.”

Silence.

“What do you remember about the shooting?” Taylor asked.

“Nothing,” Rachel said.

“You don’t remember being shot?”

“No.”

“What do you remember?”

“Chief Taylor?”

“Yes.”

Rachel yawned. “I’m not feeling very well right now.”

“But you just said you were feeling fine.”

“I’m still on some medications. I’m feeling very drowsy. Could you come back another time?”

There was a long pause. Then Chief Taylor said, “Of course, Rachel. I understand. Maybe we can talk later.”

“Sure.”

I watched his brown shoes head away from the bed. They stopped at the door. “One more thing,” he said.

Rachel waited.

“A homicide investigator named Anne Marie Dunleavy will be coming by to interview you. Don’t feel obligated to talk to her before we speak again, okay?”

Huh?

“If you do talk to her,” he continued, “well, you just said you don’t remember anything. It’s okay to tell her that.”

Double huh?

Chief Taylor opened the door to head out, but there was a nurse at the door.

“We need to roll her down for X-rays,” the nurse said.

“I’ll hold the door for you,” Taylor said.

I was trapped.

As the nurse came in, I stayed where I was. So did Chief Taylor. From the bed I could hear the nurse pull a lever and then those sidebars came up.

They were going to wheel her out in this bed.

There was no way I wouldn’t be exposed.

I looked left and right. Nothing. I could try to commando crawl, but where would I go? Taylor would see me in an instant. The nurse was positioned to roll the bed. Chief Taylor was holding open up the door.

There was nowhere for me to hide.

“Wait . . . ,” Rachel said weakly.

“For what, dear?”

“I’d like to use the bathroom first.”

Ah, Rachel! Good thinking.

“There’s one where we’re going,” the nurse said in a voice that was not going to be denied. She started to push. “It will be easier to go there.”

“But—”

The nurse started pushing the bed. I did the only thing I could. There were bars under the bed. I grabbed them and pulled myself up. I pressed my feet against the underside and lifted my entire body off the floor.

The nurse stopped, probably because of the additional weight. “Is the brake still on the wheels?”

I held on as she checked. Have you ever done that exercise called the plank, the one where you hold your body in an upper push-up until your entire core starts to quiver? Well, that was sort of what I was doing, except upside down. I felt like a bat or something.

I didn’t know how long I could hang on.

The nurse wheeled the bed right past Chief Taylor’s shoes.

My fingers were starting to tire. My stomach was turning to jelly.

The nurse started down the corridor. I watched the distance between us and Taylor’s shoes increase. I wondered whether Rachel had figured out what I was doing and I guessed that maybe she had. When we reached the elevator, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I let go, collapsing back to the floor.

“Nurse?” Rachel said.

“Yes?”

“Could you get me my stuffed bunny?”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m really sorry. Kirbie—that’s my bunny’s name—is in my room. I’m . . . I’m scared to go anywhere without her. Please?”

The nurse sighed.

“Please?” Rachel said again.

“Okay, dear. Just wait here.”

As soon as the nurse moved away, I slid out from under the bed. “You have a stuffed bunny?”

“Of course not. Get out of here before she gets back.”

“I want to know—”

“Another time, Mickey, okay? Just go.”

The elevator doors opened beside me. I stepped inside and pressed the button. I watched as the doors started to close. Rachel tried to smile at me, but it wouldn’t hold. And then, maybe half a second before the doors shut all the way, I saw someone else behind her.

It was Chief Taylor. And he was staring straight at me.

“Hold that elevator!”

But I didn’t let my fast reflexes work this time. The doors closed all the way. There was a small delay, as if the doors might open again and let Chief Taylor in. But they didn’t.

I headed down to the lobby and walk-sprinted out the door.

CHAPTER 13

I caught up
with Spoon and Ema in the parking lot.

“Keep moving,” I said. “Chief Taylor might be on to us.”

We hurried down the block and back onto Northfield Avenue. There was a dry cleaner located on the corner. We ducked behind the building.

“Was Rachel in that room?” Ema asked.

I nodded and told them everything that had happened.

“So,” Ema said, “somehow Abeona is involved in this too?”

“Seems so,” I said.

Spoon was silent. He looked a little lost. I worried about him. He hadn’t asked for any of this. True, none of us had, but he seemed a little more like a babe in the woods. Our friendship, if that was what this was, started only a few days ago when he walked up to me in the cafeteria and offered me, well, his spoon. That was how our relationship, not to mention his nickname, started.

“So what do you think we should do?” Ema asked me.

“I hate to interject,” Spoon said, finally speaking, “but the Musicals I Love Foundation meeting would definitely be over by now. My parents will be expecting me.”

“Musicals I Love Foundation?” Ema repeated.

I gave her a don’t-ask headshake.

When the bus showed up, we hopped on and started back for home. We got off where we had begun, on the corner of Kasselton Avenue and Northfield. I figured that I’d walk home via Bat Lady’s house and stop by to see her. But I didn’t know what to say. I was exhausted and scared and confused.

As we neared Bat Lady’s street, my cell phone trilled. It was Uncle Myron. I was going to ignore it, but that wouldn’t do any good. “Hello?” I said.

“I figured you’d be home by now,” Myron said.

“I’m on my way.”

“Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, I’m good.”

“But you’re on your way?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Myron said. “I need to talk to you about something.”

I switched hands. I could see Bat Lady’s creepy house now. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

“Okay then. I’ll be home soon.”

I hung up. Bat Lady’s house looked, as always, haunted. The wind had picked up and for a moment, I almost thought the gusts would topple it. There was a bent willow tree in the front yard and, I knew, woods in the back. Night had started to fall.

Ema and Spoon stayed on the sidewalk across the street. As I approached, I noticed that no lights were on. Not one. Strange. Usually the Bat Lady had a light on in her bedroom. But not tonight. I knocked on the door, feeling the porch beneath my feet shake. One of the columns had already collapsed.

There was no answer.

I walked back over to Ema and Spoon. We started down the street in silence. Suddenly—yet as always—Ema said, “I’ll see you guys later.”

She veered toward the woods without another word.

I wanted to ask where she was going or if I could accompany her, but I had been through that before. She would only get upset with me. I watched until she vanished into the thickness.

Unsure what to do, I let my curiosity get the better of me. I knew that it was probably wrong, that it was some kind of breach in our trust and friendship. As I said before, we are all entitled to our secrets. But I asked anyway.

“Spoon?”

“Yeah?”

I could still back off, but I didn’t. “What’s Ema’s deal?”

“What do you mean?”

I gestured toward where she’d just disappeared. “Where does Ema live, who are her parents, that kind of thing.”

Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. He seemed lost in thought.

“Spoon?”

“No one really talks to me directly. So this is all stuff I’ve overheard.”

I thought about that, about this town, about what it has done to him. Spoon wasn’t so much actively bullied or picked on as he was ignored. Week after week, month after month, year after year—ignored or worse. He had found an escape by pouring himself into things that don’t turn away from you—musical theater, books, random facts, his imagination. He was like a sponge, absorbing all of this information and goodness, but he didn’t really have anyone to wring himself out on, as it were.

Except now, I guessed, he had me.

“Well,” I said, “you’re a great overhearer.”

Was that even a word?

Spoon smiled. “Really? You think so?”

“Sure. So tell me. What have you overheard about Ema?”

He made a face as though he was mulling that one over. “No one seems to know much,” Spoon said in a faraway voice. “But . . . there are stories.”

“Like?”

“You know her real name is Emma, not Ema, right?”

I did. It seemed that Buck had helped give her that nickname in Spanish class, noticing that her real name was Emma and that she was kind of emo.

“She moved into town three years ago. I’ve never been invited to her house. Big surprise, right? But it isn’t just me. I don’t know anyone who has. Rumor has it, she lives in a cabin in the woods, you know, and her dad does something illegal. Like making moonshine or something.”

I frowned. “Making moonshine?”

“Moonshine is a slang term for an illegally produced distilled beverage. There are other terms for it. Hooch, Devil’s Brew, White Lightning—”

“I know, I know,” I said, putting a hand up to slow him down. “It just sounds kind of weird.”

Spoon’s eyes were wide now. “They also say her dad’s an alcoholic. And he hits her a lot. They say she’s got all those tattoos to cover up her bruises.”

Could that be true? I didn’t know what to say, but it suddenly felt like something heavy was sitting on my chest.

“I Googled her once,” Spoon said. “Emma Beaumont. But there was nothing relevant. In fact, there is no listing of a Beaumont in town.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” Spoon said. “In short, I don’t know what Ema’s ‘deal’ is. But I like her a lot, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said. And then, corny as it sounded, I added, “I like you a lot too.”

My words startled him. Spoon looked up at me, blinked a few times, and then puffed out his chest. “I like you a lot too.”

Spoon and I both just stood there, saying nothing.

“We’re having a moment, aren’t we, Mickey?”

“Right,” I said, “and now I think it’s time to end it.”

“Agreed,” Spoon said. Then: “Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you think it’s time you told me all about Abeona?”

He had a point. He had more than earned his stripes. “Yeah, Spoon. Maybe we should talk.”

“As we walk,” he said. “I have to get home, remember?”

“Right. The Musicals I Love Foundation meeting is over.”

“Exactly. Do you want to be vice president?”

“Sure, why not?” I said. “It’ll look good on my college applications. One thing, though.”

“Yes?”

I threw my arm around him. “We need to work on a name change. . . .”