by Jason Parent
“Man, you ran right into those cops before I could stop you. And as you may recall, we’d been smoking. No sense in both of us getting caught.”
“So...” Michael’s eyebrows pinched together. “You bailed on me.”
“You were on a sinking ship, Captain Ahab.”
“Who?”
“Wow, you really aren’t reading it, are you?” Dylan chuckled. “Ms. Alvarez will not be happy.”
Dylan shuffled his feet, trying to peek around Michael and into the apartment. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“What are you doing here?” Michael kept his arms crossed and leaned on the doorframe, blocking entry. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“Same reason as you, I’m guessing. I didn’t exactly get to my homework.” He fake coughed into his hand. “Called in sick. Heck of a cold going around.”
“A twenty-four-hour one?”
“You know it. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I thought I’d check in on you—actually, it was my dad’s idea, if I’m being honest. I told him about what happened when that lady cop touched you, and he suggested it. I guess that’s what friends do, huh?” He shrugged and offered a grimacing smile. “Anyway, if I’m bothering you, I’ll just...” He turned to leave.
Michael let his arms fall to his sides. “No. It’s cool. Come on in.”
“You sure?” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything.”
Michael stepped out of the way and ushered Dylan in, then he closed and locked the door behind him.
“Sam was pretty pissed.” He walked around Dylan and plopped back down on the couch. “I mean, we were pretty stupid.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dylan sat beside him. “My dad was furious. I thought he was going to hit me. Anyway, I’m really sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Michael raised his thumbs to his cheeks. “This badass gets into trouble all by himself.”
“So we’re cool?”
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
Dylan let out a breath so melodramatically that he sounded as if he were deflating. He pointed at the TV. “What were you watching?”
“Some cartoon.”
“Any good?”
“Pretty stupid, but amusing. Lots of swears and bad voice-overs.”
“I like swears. Not sure about the dubbing. Play it.”
Michael gave Dylan a sideways glance, having yet to hear so much as a “shit” or “damn” out of his prim and proper friend, never mind the dreaded F-bomb. But Dylan didn’t notice, instead leaning forward on his elbows and watching the TV intently even though it remained paused.
Michael hit play, and the low-brow comedy continued. It soon had them both laughing, distracting Michael from the nagging thought forming in the back of his mind. The episode ended, and the silence allowed him time to think.
“Hey, Dylan?”
“What’s up?”
“How’d you know where I live?”
Dylan laughed. “Opposite direction of Brentworth, remember? It was easy to find it. Just look for the place with the cop car out front.”
“I could have been on the first floor.”
“Yeah, you could have, but no one answered when I knocked down there.”
“How about the cops outside?” Michael studied Dylan’s face. “How’d you get by them?”
Dylan’s smile vanished. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just walked right in. Makes you feel really safe, huh?”
Michael searched Dylan’s expression for any sort of tell despite not knowing how to read one if he saw it. When he didn’t respond, Dylan tilted his head and frowned. “I’m not sure I understand all your questions, Mike. You don’t think—”
“No!” Michael blurted, his overexuberance likely making him more suspicious. “No. I just—I’m like this magnet when it comes to attracting crazy or dangerous people.”
“You sure that’s you or the fact that you live with a homicide detective?”
A long creak came from the stairwell—on the same step Sam never asked the landlord to fix for the very reason that it told her someone was coming.
Michael put a finger over his lips. “Shhh.” He squinted at Dylan, who’d somehow managed to avoid the creak like he’d known it was there. He shook off the suspicion and focused on the immediate concern, thinking Sam’s cynicism was wearing off on him. He probably just stepped over it.
As he snuck to the door, he heard another creak. Two of them? The cops checking in? Shadows flitted under the door. He grabbed his sneakers and quickly popped them on his feet, the shoelaces tied loosely so he could slide them on and off. Then he peeked through the peephole.
He fell backward onto his butt as something solid swung toward him. The blade of an ax pierced the wood right where his face had been. Whoever held it wrestled it free from the splintering door, only to slam it down with another whack. Gasping, Michael leapt to his feet, catching a glimpse of a cigar-store Indian mask through the newly made gaps in the door. He turned to Dylan, who was already on his feet, backing away from the door.
“What do we do?” Dylan asked.
Heart racing, Michael fought to stay calm enough to think. “Fire escape! Through the middle bedroom!” The boys sprinted across the living room, Michael plowing through the cracked-open door of the unclaimed room. He skidded to a halt. A woman in a loose lumberjack shirt and baggy jeans stared in at him, a crowbar in hand and that same stupid mask on her face.
“You see them, right?” Michael shouted. “I’m not just losing it?”
“Of course I see them!” Dylan shouted, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and pulling him out of the room. “We need to get out of here!”
Glass shattered behind them. Dylan dragged Michael into his bedroom. He ran to the window. “I don’t see anyone.” Another thud and a loud crack came from the front door. “We have to jump!” Dylan struggled to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge.
“The locks!” Michael ran up beside him and flipped two levers atop the lower window. Together, they raised it as high as it would go.
“Climb out, hang, and let yourself drop,” Dylan said. “It’s not far. We should be fine.”
“Maybe you should go fir—”
“Go!”
Michael ducked under the raised window and straddled the sill. As he brought his other leg out, his lower half dangled over the ledge. His stomach pressed hard against the frame, making his already fluttering gut roil. Slowly, he slid a little farther back, the sharp pain rising to his ribs.
His feet dangling below him, toes scraping against the side of the house, Michael froze. “I don’t think I can do it.”
Dylan smiled, but his wide eyes told another story. “Sure you can, Mike. You’re a badass.”
A masked man wielding an ax and wearing a police uniform appeared at the room’s entrance.
“Behind you!” Michael gasped before slipping. He fell then hit the ground feetfirst, jarring his already sprained ankle as he toppled onto his butt. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet, looking up in time to see Dylan swinging his leg over the window sill. On the fire escape, the woman with the crowbar was staring down at him. She ran for the ladder.
“Run!” Dylan yelled. He tried to say more, but a hand covered his mouth as he was dragged back into the apartment.
Michael hesitated, wanting to help his friend but helpless to do so. This momentary lapse was all the time the woman with the crowbar needed to descend the fire escape. They locked eyes. Michael held his arms out, awaiting her next move.
As she turned her head to the side, dark, matted bangs flopped over her mask, revealing a bald spot with a purple scar that looked like a varicose vein. “Eight little Indians gayest under heaven. One went to sleep, and then there were seven.”
“Seven little Indians cutting up their tricks,” the man in the cop costume said from the fire escape. He tapped the ax handle against his palm. “One broke his neck, and then there were six.”
The woman giggled and charged. Michael ran. Around the front of the apartment complex, he spotted the police car. Even as he raced to it, he knew something was wrong. The officer in the front seat was slumped over the steering wheel. Glass lay shattered on the cement by his door.
Still, he ran toward it. He’d seen Sam use her radio a hundred times. If I can just get to it...
Footsteps clomped on the road behind him as he tried to yank the door open. His sweaty fingers slid off the handle. He spun to see a crowbar plummeting toward him, then he dropped into a crouch. The swing was high and wild. It smashed the light on top of the car. Michael rolled forward onto his feet. He took off down the street, his ankle screaming in pain while he did all he could not to listen. As he started to cross the road, a car slammed on its brakes, stopping just in time before it collided with him. The driver yelled some curse words, but Michael pushed off the hood and kept running. When he made it to the other side, a horn blared behind him, followed by a loud thud. He turned to see the woman with the scar hit the ground and roll onto the sidewalk.
With a shaking hand, she removed her mask. Michael stared at his attacker, a young woman with long bangs, bloodshot eyes, and trembling bluish lips.
She looked around then down at herself in confusion. “What happened?” She reached out a hand to the driver of the van that had hit her, a middle-aged man in an electrician’s uniform. “Please... help me. I’m hurt.”
At the same time, the masked man wearing the police uniform approached his fallen partner. Her eyes pleaded for help. They widened as if realizing her peril when the man lifted his weapon.
“Seven little Indians cutting up their tricks”—the man drove his ax down with a sickening squelch— “One broke his neck, and then there were six.”
The nearby electrician threw his hands up and tried to back toward his van. As the ax-wielding maniac shifted his attention to him, the man turned to run. Michael watched in horror as an ax came down on the bystander’s spine. The car that had almost struck Michael sped away. The ax wielder pulled his blade free and turned to face Michael. His weapon dripping blood, he chanted, “Seven little Indians cutting up their tricks. One broke his neck, and then there were six.”
Body racked with fear, Michael ran for his life.
CHAPTER 16
The crowd in the rec room was light. The Bandage Man sat by himself, arms folded over his chest, a perpetual scowl on his face. As instructed, Jimmy tried not to even look in his direction but found himself giving the man an almost imperceptible nod. Almost. Not that there was anyone else around to notice.
Link was absent. Nurse Francine was nowhere to be seen. Not a single staff member was present. But there were cameras, and according to the Bandage Man, they were always watching. Jimmy was careful not to look in their direction either.
The bridge club was short a member—a woman in her fifties, the youngest of their ilk—and looked as if they’d opted to play some form of rummy. Dizmo, the guy with multiple personality disorder, and Monica, who was always scribbling away on her sketch pad, were also noticeably missing, and poor Harriet sat at her chessboard, silently waiting for Jordan to arrive.
Of course, Dirty Terry was there, hand down the front of his pants as he read another sleazy romance novel. So was Manny. And Tessa, who sat working through a crossword puzzle. Jimmy might have dismissed the Bandage Man’s story as pure lunacy had he not seen Tessa’s transformation with his own eyes.
The Bandage Man. Jimmy scoffed. He didn’t even know the man’s real name. The undercover agent thought it would be better if Jimmy didn’t know, to help keep his cover, as if Jimmy was dumb enough to let the name slip. The agent claimed to be investigating a criminal organization akin to the mob but much worse—evil for the sake of evil. He’d been trying to worm his way into the fold but hadn’t been enlisted or taken at night like so many others.
Like Tessa.
Nurse Francine and Link were part of it, as was a female doctor who Jimmy had not met. He didn’t know who else, but they were recruiting from the patient population. What for, the Bandage Man wouldn’t say, though Jimmy got the impression he knew a lot more than he was letting on. He couldn’t even explain why the recruits were being taken from prerelease and not the violent and already criminally insane inmates of Ward D.
What does he expect me to do now? Jimmy clenched his jaw and grabbed a magazine from the shelf. Just sit here and wait for them to take me? He didn’t like that option but could see no others open to him.
So sit and wait he did. He sat down across from Tessa.
The Bandage Man cleared his throat, which Jimmy took as a warning not to go near her. He ignored the man. Federal agent or not, he didn’t owe the Bandage Man squat.
Tessa didn’t look up from her puzzle, but he felt a curious tingle on his skin as each time she nibbled her cheek, considering the page. A strand of her strawberry-blond hair hung over one of her eyes.
I promised to help you, Tessa. He flexed his fingers. I remember that, even if you don’t.
Tessa’s lips started to move, forming words too soft for Jimmy to hear. He leaned closer.
“Two little Indians fooling with a gun. One shot the other, and then there was one.”
“What’s that?” Jimmy smiled and rested his arms on the table. “Is that a nursery rhyme or something?”
Tessa looked up and blinked four times as if she’d just awoken from a trance and finally noticed him sitting there. “Huh? What’s what?”
“Nothing.” He put out his hand. “Hi, I’m—”
“I know who you are.” Tessa slapped his hand playfully, none of the distress she’d shown earlier at being touched detectable. “We met yesterday, remember?”
“Oh yeah, yesterday.” Jimmy slid back into his seat. “Sorry about that. I was confused.”
“You sure were.” She tittered and returned to her crossword puzzle, disappearing into it as if she’d forgotten he was sitting in front of her.
After searching for something to say, he blurted, “Do you like it here?”
Tessa beamed as if she’d been waiting for him to ask that very question. “I love it! I can’t remember ever feeling this good before.” She put down her crayon then grabbed Jimmy’s arm, rubbing it with her thumb. “You know, Dr. Horvat has really turned me around. I feel like I’m ready to face the world again. I really hope you get the chance to see what she can do. It’s like... magic!” She balled up her fists under her chin and smiled big. Then as if a switch had been flipped, she picked up her crayon and concentrated again on her puzzle.
Nurse Francine came crashing through the double doors, her brow sweaty and her clothes disheveled. She beelined to the table where he and Tessa were sitting. The nurse smoothed out her dress and took deep breaths. “Good morning, Tessa,” she said, failing to suppress the edge in her voice. “It’s time for your next session with the doctor.”
“Oh?” Tessa stood.
“If you’ll just follow me.” Nurse Francine glowered at Jimmy then forced a smile as ambiguous as the Mona Lisa’s.
Tessa waved at Jimmy. “Well, it was nice meeting you... again.” She laughed and turned to follow Nurse Francine back out the way she’d come.
Jimmy watched her go, determined to help her but not knowing how. The Bandage Man had told him to be patient, that help would come. But Jimmy didn’t know the federal agent and had no reason to trust the man. With the population of the ward apparently dwindling, he didn’t know how long he could wait.
With or without the Bandage Man’s help, he was getting out of that place. And somehow, someway, he was getting Tessa out with him.
CHAPTER 17
Frank wasn’t at her office when Sam arrived that day. She had no messages from him and made no effort to call him. Whatever Frank’s game was, he was on his own until he started treating her like an equal. She had her own investigation to run.
Still, she wanted to ask him what he thought about the boy’s last name. The man
who’d terrorized Fall River all those years ago as Carter Wainwright was born “Darius Jefferson.” And lo and behold, a new friend popped up in Michael’s life with the same last name after—at least according to Frank—Wainwright had returned to the area. Right or wrong, she was suspicious of anyone befriending Michael, his track record enough cause for concern. Tag had had the presence of mind to take a picture of the kid and had texted it to her that morning. The fair, almost effeminate features of Dylan Jefferson bore no resemblance to Wainwright’s original appearance or subsequent transformations, nor did it appear as though the boy had had any work done.
And Jefferson is a common name. Sam didn’t know of any personally, but that didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of Jeffersons out there. In any event, Michael was staying home from school that day. He wouldn’t be seeing Dylan Jefferson. She rubbed her temples, thinking for the umpteenth time that perhaps she should be home with him. Sam thought the best thing she could do for Michael was to find their attacker or attackers as soon as possible, and as narcissistic as it might sound, she didn’t trust anyone else well enough to leave that solely to them.
She walked out to the bullpen and found Tag sipping coffee with Officer Paltrow. His feet were up on his desk while she batted her lashes at him like some floozy.
Sam frowned. “Who’s watching Michael today?”
Tag pulled his feet under him and sat up straight. “Lennox and Dubront. They had the early shift. We’re due to replace them this afternoon.”
Sam nodded. “Dylan Jefferson—you said his background checks out?”
Officer Paltrow stood. “He spent time in private schools all over the South before moving out of the country. His transcripts from his previous schools were necessary to determine his placement at Carnegie High. They appear legitimate, though I’m admittedly no expert in South American school documents.” She chuckled. “And they all coincided with employment records for his father, Walter Jefferson.”