by JJ Krzemien
For the first time in hours, I felt kind of safe. I knew where I was and where I was going. Soon I’d be in my own room with all my things. Only a few blocks from Sarah’s house. Her mom would know what to do about everything. Hopefully they were still there and not on their way to the hospital.
I spent the ride staring out the bus window, wanting to be home. At the Transit Center I switched to the 78 line and sat on the edge of the seat watching for my stop. Thirty minutes later, a quiet downtown Lake Oswego greeted me. The few blocks up to 7th Street were so peaceful I felt like the past few days were a dream. More like a nightmare. How could my parents be dead? How could I be wounded? None of that could be real here along this street I’d walked so many times.
No sidewalks, so I hurried along the middle of the street as usual. Street lamps stood between stretches of tall trees. I’d walked past these houses my entire life. Each one a different architectural style. Landscaped front yards with a community focused lawn sign stuck in the wet grass. I breathed in the clean smell of rain and damp cedar. The smell of home and safety.
Without thinking, I jogged up the front steps to my house, then stopped, waiting to feel pain in my stomach or shoulder. Nothing. From under the metal mailbox I grabbed the Hide-A-Key and let myself in. Half expecting to turn on the lights and find my parents at home, I called out: “Hello, anyone here?” But silence and cold were the only responses.
Up the stairs to the second floor, I went to my room. It was just as I’d left it. For a long moment I stood in the doorway. The housekeeper had made up my canopied bed with purple sheets. On the far side of the room, the wall above the dresser was filled with pictures of me playing field hockey and volleyball. The one of Sarah and me skiing last year hung in the center.
My stomach knotted with the realization that everything had changed. The girl in those photos had parents. She felt safe every day of her life. But I wasn’t her anymore. Tears stung my eyes as the realization hit me that my mom and dad were gone—forever. I brought my hands up to wipe away the tears and paused. In the full light they were filthy, smeared with blood. Thankfully the bus driver hadn’t noticed. I needed to shower. I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist.
In the bathroom at the end of the hall, I turned on the light and gasped. My reflection was horrid. Pale skin with dark circles under my puffy eyes. Some of my hair was singed. I took off the coat and started to unbutton the floral shirt. The bandages on my arms, chest, and stomach were bloodied. Probably from the shoulder wound. I wouldn’t be able to tell what was what until I washed. Should I shower with the bandages on or take them off?
I decided to take a look under one to see how bad the burns were. Slowly I unwrapped the dressing from my forearm. Not really wanting to see it, each time around, my hand shook more. Once it was unwound, another piece of rectangular bandage covered the burn. I’d heard stories of the gauze sticking to the blisters and having to soak it off. Hoped mine wasn’t stuck. With eyes squeezed shut, I peeled back one edge. No pain. I peeked at it, then squinted at it while removing the bandage. The skin was slightly pink, new looking. No blisters, or oozing, or pain. Weird.
Next I unwrapped my upper arm. Same result. I took off all the dressings except the one at my stomach. Besides looking like a patchwork of tanned and pale pink skin, I was fine. Maybe they got it wrong about the burns, maybe they looked worse a couple of days ago.
I had surgery though. No denying that. With a deep breath in, I removed the stomach bandage, surprised again to feel no pain. The stitches, more like staples, looked fresh. But a tiny white scar ran the length of them, as if I’d had the surgery weeks ago. In fact, it looked like the scarring had grown right around the staples. I stared for a minute. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe they had some kind of rapid healing spray these days. It was a research hospital after all. I bet they used it on me because I was an orphan, like an experiment.
After showering away the blood, I took a closer look at the gunshot wound. It had already closed up and I moved the shoulder around to ease the stiffness. Not a spray then, some kind of super drug. Whatever they gave me must still be in my bloodstream.
I dressed in jeans, white T-shirt, and pink hoodie. Downstairs I raided the fridge—leftover pizza, a slice of pumpkin pie, and soda. Healing was hard work, even with a miracle pill. I’d walk down to Sarah’s house after eating.
What if she’d gone to the hospital already? This had to be the first time in my life I wished we’d had a land-line telephone. I’d still go to her house, I decided, and wait until she got back.
Turning on the TV, I plopped on the couch and ate. The hospital incident had to be all over the news by now. It was. But the story didn’t much line up with what had happened. They said a lone gunman had been loose in the building and my nurse was found murdered.
He shot me then killed her. Why? Was any of this connected to my parent’s death? I rubbed my temple, battling a headache.
Somehow the man had avoided all the security cameras, and eye witnesses gave conflicting descriptions. Some said he was in police uniform and others said he wore a black shirt and jeans. This didn’t make it easy for the police, who were still looking for the shooter.
Was the gunman a police officer or was he wearing a disguise to get past hospital security?
My picture popped up, full screen. Missing teenager with complete name and description. Crap.
The news cut to a different story. A familiar house flashed on the TV. Sarah’s house. The reporter was saying, “…this just in, an armed burglary went awry when a man broke in through the back door of this Lake Oswego home. Though shots were fired the family is unharmed. The man is still at large. Police appreciate any information you may have regarding this unsettling event.”
Live video footage of Sarah and her parents played for a second on the TV. So they were home. Only a couple of streets over, but I couldn’t go there now.
The gunman got to Sarah. I had given the nurse Sarah’s address and the gunman must have taken it. Or was the nurse in on it? Or was this an actual coincidence? Something was seriously wrong. Was the cabin explosion even an accident?
I put down the pie plate and hugged myself. He was looking for me at Sarah’s house. Oh crap! If he was looking for me there, he’d know where I lived, too. Stupid! How could I be so stupid?
I jumped up from the couch and took the stairs two at a time. In my room I grabbed a backpack and boots. Shoved a change of clothes in the pack, put on the boots, and found my winter coat. My school ID card sat on the night stand, I put it in my pocket. Better than nothing. My parents kept extra cash in their side table. I took it all. Back in the kitchen I stuffed food in the pack. What wouldn’t go bad? Pop Tarts, chips, canned food, and two protein bars.
He might be watching, so I didn’t want to go out the front door. Headed for the back instead. I was in the hall, approaching the door, and noticed it standing open—one of the glass panes shattered. I froze, a chill tickled my scalp. Someone had broken in. When? Why hadn’t I heard them? Were they still here? I stood there unable to move. Unable to decide if I should continue out the back door or go to the front. Overhead, footsteps creaked on the floor above. That decided it. I ran out the back and hopped over the picket fence into the neighbor’s yard. Behind me I heard breaking glass followed by the muted sound of silenced gunfire.
Around the neighbor’s house and out into the street, I ran for my life. Several blocks up, I stopped to catch my breath, listening for the assassin. The pounding of my heart was all I could hear. Leaning against a tree, I tried to calm down. Deep breath in, then out. From up the block I heard the crackle of tires slowly cruising toward me. A police car with its lights off. The passenger scanned the area with a flashlight. I dove into another yard, this one thick with shrubs, and lay on the soggy mulch.
Inch by inch, the car rolled past. The light trickled through the foliage, not enough to reveal me. Then, it stopped, and the driver’s door opened.
“I wa
nt to check something,” said the cop to his partner.
A woman’s voice responded: “I’ll come with you.”
They both walked straight toward my hiding place. Now two flashlights. I felt frozen in place and hoped they wouldn’t come around the bush. Holding my breath, I waited.
Closer and closer they came. Their lights sweeping from side to side, illuminating fallen pine needles and ferns. Inches from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut. Heart thundering.
“Hey,” said the woman officer, “check this out.”
Had she found me? That couldn’t happen. If they found me, and the assassin was a cop, they’d take me to him. If he wasn’t an officer, I might be safe. Too much to chance. I couldn’t risk it.
The bush by my head rustled. Without thinking, I sprang up to make a run for it.
“Stop!” She took hold of my backpack and used it to tackle me to the ground. Her knee wedged into my upper back.
I screamed. “Help! Somebody help me.” Squirming into the mossy dirt, I tried to kick backwards.
“Don’t resist. Give me your hands.”
I kicked harder. Then they were both on me, pinning me down. Cold metal clasped around my wrists.
CHAPTER THREE
They had taken me into one of those interview rooms, like in the movies: Small, square, bland walls. Except no two-way mirrors—no mirrors at all. At least they’d taken off the cuffs. Then the questioning started. It felt like we’d been at it for hours already.
The woman officer looked over her notes. Her long brunette hair twisted into a bun. She chewed the end of the pencil. “You say your name is Lilianna Ross. That you were home when someone broke in and then shot at you as you left?”
I had thought of lying about my name, but my photo was paper clipped to the top folder in a stack. I desperately wanted to believe the police were the good guys. I told her as much of the truth as I could. Omitting the miracle drug part, of course. They didn’t need to think I was a science experiment. I wanted them to focus on finding the dangerous cop-imitator.
With a sigh I slouched in the chair across the table from her. “Yep, that sums it up.”
She leaned toward me. “Tell me what happened before this. At the hospital. Why did you run?”
While I’d been telling the truth, mostly, I had been thinking about what my story would be regarding the hospital. “There was an explosion. The cabin.” I swallowed hard. “My parents didn’t make it. But I was outside when it happened and only have some minor burns.”
“I saw that on the news. They say it was a gas leak. I’m so sorry.” She fixed me with compassionate brown eyes.
Gas leak? That explanation didn’t settle well in my mind. But murder as an alternative seemed crazy to even consider. If that had been the gunman’s first attempt to kill me, and the hospital the second… There was some bigger picture here that I couldn’t see. The biggest question of all: Why did he want me dead?
The officer cleared her throat. “What happened at the hospital?”
I refocused on her question. Someone once told me the best way to lie was to include as much of the truth as possible. Under the table I picked at my nails. “At the hospital, the nurse told me what had happened…to my parents. She went to get me some food. Then—then a man, dressed like a cop—just like you, came into my room. He pulled out a gun. He was going to shoot me but the nurse came back in. I saw on the news he ki-killed her.” My voice broke. “I had to get out of there. So I ran.”
The officer nodded, jotting down notes even though the whole conversation was being recorded. “He was dressed like a police officer.” She met my eyes. “Was it the same man at your house?”
“I think so, but I don’t know for sure. I didn’t see him.” I rubbed my back against the wooden chair to satisfy an itch.
“Can you describe the man at the hospital for me?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes. White. Really normal looking. Average height. Muscular.” I glanced around the room, racking my memory. I didn’t want to think about him. Every time I did, I saw the barrel of his gun pointed at me, and my stomach surged into my throat. “The cop uniform was the most memorable thing about him,” I told the officer.
“Okay. Do you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”
I nodded. His eyes, that polite voice asking my name, the plainness of his features, were all stamped into my memory.
“Why would this man want to harm you?”
“Absolutely no idea.” I’d been asking myself that same question for hours. “I’m just a kid. I go to school, play sports, hang out with my friends.” My voice rose in pitch as I went on. “There’s nothing special about me at all. I’ve never been in trouble for anything—ever. Just ask my teachers.”
“Okay. I think we’re finished for now. Thank you. This information helps.” She stood up, collecting her notes and the recorder. “Someone from Child and Family Services will be in to talk with you about your options.” She gave me a sympathetic smile as she left the room.
Getting to my feet, I started pacing the ten-by-ten space. Child services? I hadn’t realized what not having parents would mean. I hadn’t had time to think. Of course I wouldn’t be allowed to stay in my house—alone. I was an orphan. No living family at all. Someone could adopt me! It was too much. Just too much. I shook my head, as if that would make this all go away.
I stopped mid-stride. How was child services supposed to protect me from that madman? Had the officer believed my story? They should put me in a safe house, not in an orphanage.
In three steps I was at the door. It opened and I jumped back, out of the way. A younger woman, maybe late twenties, wearing slacks and a blouse, met my eyes and smiled.
She glanced at my backpack that leaned against the table leg; the officer had given it back to me after they’d searched it.
“Are you all ready to go?” Her voice was warm and friendly. “I’m Amanda with Child and Family Services. I’ll take you to the office, whenever you’re ready.”
She extended a hand and I shook it. “Lili.”
If I went with her, the gunman would surely find me. But it didn’t seem like I had a choice. I was probably a ward of the state or something now. With a frown, I zipped up my coat and lifted the backpack onto my shoulder.
“After you,” she held the door open and I walked through.
The hallway was short with both ends joining back into the main office area. There were a few cops coming and going. Changing shifts?
Amanda closed the door behind her and steered me to the left toward an exit sign. The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I turned to glance behind me, past Amanda. There he was. The gunman. Still dressed in the same uniform. Toward the back of the main office, he chatted with a couple of cops. One of them was the officer who’d interviewed me.
I gawked for half a second and his brown eyes came up to meet mine. For a moment we stared at each other, I watched his expression change from recognition to surprise then hatred. Or was it disgust? I shivered.
The trance broke. He looked down, seeming to ignore me. I staggered against the hallway wall.
“Are you okay,” Amanda asked, placing a hand on my arm.
I shook my head. I’d expected him to shoot me right then and there. He was too close. He knew where I was going and who I was with. Amanda was going to die, just like the nurse, if I didn’t do something right now.
With one hand on the wall for support, I stumbled-ran to a door marked EXIT.
Amanda called after me. I ignored her. This was for her own good.
Before the door slammed shut behind me, I glanced back. He stood there, laughing with his coworkers, as if he hadn’t put a bullet through me a few hours ago. I almost doubted that it was him. This man didn’t look like a killer. He was a cop. One of the good guys. Then his eyes locked with mine again. Nausea surged through me. The threat in them was unmistakable, it said: Run while you can, because next time I’ll get you.
I sprinted to
the bus station. Amanda ran after me for a couple of blocks before giving up. She probably returned to the police station to file a runaway report.
Still panting, I boarded the number 35 to downtown Portland. The further from Lake Oswego the better. I sat at the back of the bus by the window. All I could do was hug my sides and rest my forehead against the cool glass. My rapid breath fogging it up. I clenched my jaw against the shaking that radiated out from my core.
Why me? Various forms of this question spun through my mind. Why my parents? Where was Sarah? I repeatedly banged my head on the window. I was losing it. That couldn’t happen. If I lost it, I wouldn’t live very long; a feeling in my gut told me that. I had to make a plan.
Tonight, I would get into downtown, find a hotel to stay in, and start fresh tomorrow. No thinking about tomorrow until the morning. I pulled up my hood, then hugged myself tighter, focusing on the hum of the bus engine.
∞ ∞ ∞
This close to Christmas, downtown swarmed with shoppers. The stores were open late, offering sales on everything. A dry day in December was rare and people took advantage of it.
I made my way through the dense epicenter, searching for a hotel that did not offer weekly rates. Those seemed too shady to me. I settled on the Hilton. It was the chain we always stayed at when on vacation. My parents were—had been—honors members.
Walking through the marble-floored lobby a sense of familiarity and safety came over me. The Grecian-style pillars stood like sentries forming a barrier between me and the outside world. I approached the reception desk. “Hi, I’d like a room.” Swinging the backpack to my side, I rummaged through the small zipper pouch for cash.
“Welcome. Do you have a reservation?” The front desk attendant was a grey-haired woman with a perfectly pressed black suit and white shirt. She peered at me over frameless glasses.
“No, I don’t. I just need a room for tonight.”