by Meg Cabot
"Are you crazy?" one nurse in blue scrubs was yelling, as I lifted my head from the steering wheel.
That made me mad. I mean, all I'd done is gotten a little glass on the floor. It wasn't like I'd run over anybody.
"Hey," I said. "There's a guy in the back of this truck with a head injury, and this guy next to me is about to lose a leg. Get a couple gurneys, then get off my back."
That shut her up, let me tell you. In seconds, it seemed, they'd gotten Dr. Krantz out of the cab, then helped me back the truck up so they could get outside, and help move Rob. Seth was able to climb down from the cab bed unaided, but Chigger didn't seem too pleased to see his rescuers. He did a lot of growling and snapping until I told him to knock it off. Then, ever hopeful of more mashed potatoes, he leapt from the back of the truck and followed me inside, as I trailed after the gurney Rob was on.
"Is he going to be all right?" I kept asking all the people who were working on him. But they wouldn't say. They were too busy barking off his vital signs and writing them down on charts. The weirdest part was when they unwrapped him, and I saw what the yellow thing that had been around him the whole time was.
Oh, just the "Don't Tread On Me" flag from the True Americans' meeting house.
The one with the giant hole in it, from where I'd accidentally blasted it with a shotgun.
It was as I was standing there staring at this that I heard a voice call my name. I looked around, and saw that Dr. Krantz, who was being worked on over on the next gurney, had regained consciousness. He gestured for me to come close. I edged in between all the doctors and nurses who were hovering around him and leaned down so that he could whisper to me.
"Jessica," he hissed. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, sure," I said, surprised. "I'm fine."
"And Mr. Wilkins?"
"I don't know," I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder. I couldn't see Rob, for all the doctors and nurses crowded around him. "I think he's going to be okay."
"And Seth?"
"He's fine," I said. "Really, Dr. Krantz, we're okay. You just concentrate on getting better, okay?"
But Dr. Krantz wasn't through. He had something else to say to me, something that seemed of vital importance for him to get off his chest. He reached out and grabbed the front of my coat, and pulled me closer.
"Jessica," he rasped, close to my ear.
I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say, so I tried to head him off at the pass.
"Dr. Krantz," I said. "Don't worry about thanking me. Really, it's all right. I'd have done the same for anybody. I was happy to do it."
But Dr. Krantz still wouldn't let me go. If anything, his grip on the front of my coat tightened.
"Jessica," he breathed, again. I leaned even closer, since he seemed to be having trouble making himself heard.
"Yes, Dr. Krantz?" I said.
"You," he rasped, "are the worst driver I have ever seen."
C H A P T E R
18
The county hospital saw a lot of action that night. And that's not even counting having a pickup ram through its ambulance-bay doors.
It also admitted forty-eight new patients, seven of them in critical condition. Fortunately none of the people listed as critical were friends of mine. No, it looked as if most of the damage that was done that night was done to the True Americans. As I sat in the waiting room—they wouldn't let me in to see Rob once he'd been admitted, because I wasn't family—I saw each person as they were wheeled in.
Of course, that didn't start happening for a while, because it took a pretty long time for the fire engines and ambulances and police to get out to Jim Henderson's place. In fact, merely my explanation of how to get out there took a while. The police interviewed me for about forty minutes before the first squad car even started off in the direction of the True Americans' compound.
And I'm not too sure they believed what I told them. That might be one of the reasons they didn't go tearing off right away. I mean, a militia group, under attack by a ragtag band of bikers and truck drivers? Fortunately at some point, Dr. Krantz regained consciousness, and they were able to go in and confirm everything I'd said. He must have been pretty persuasive, too, because when I saw the sheriff leaving the examination room Dr. Krantz had been shoved into while the hospital staff scrambled to find a surgeon skilled enough to sew his leg back together, he looked pretty grim.
For a short while, the only person in the emergency waiting room with me was Seth. Well, Seth and Chigger. The hospital people weren't too happy about having a dog in their waiting room, but when I explained that I couldn't leave Chigger outside in the truck, as he would freeze, seeing as how the truck had no heat—nor much of a windshield left—they relented. And really, once I'd gotten him a few packs of peanut-butter Ritz crackers from the snack machine, Chigger was fine. He curled up on two of the plastic chairs and went right to sleep, worn out from his long ride and all that barking.
Seth's reunion with his parents, which came about ten minutes after our arrival, was touching in the extreme. The Blumenthals wept with happiness over seeing their son alive and in one piece. When they heard about my part in bringing Seth home, they pulled me into their group hug, which was fun, even though I assured them that I had, in fact, played only a very small role in the liberation of their son from the militia group that had kidnaped him.
But when Seth, while explaining precisely what the True Americans were all about, showed his parents the burn on his hand, which I had sort of forgotten about, they freaked out, and Seth got whisked off to the burn unit to have the wound treated.
So then it was just Chigger and me in the waiting room.
Finally, though, my parents, along with Douglas and Mike and Claire (because the two of them are attached at the hip) showed up, and we had our own tearful reunion. Well, at least, my mom cried. No one else did, really. And my mom only cried because she was so relieved that Great-aunt Rose had been wrong: Apparently the whole time I'd been gone, she'd been telling everyone that I had probably run off to Vegas to find work as a blackjack dealer. She had seen a show about teenage runaway blackjack dealers on Oprah.
Great-aunt Rose, my dad said, was leaving on the first bus out of town in the morning, whether or not she was ready to go.
It was a little while after this that Mrs. Wilkins showed up. I had called her right after I called my parents. But Mrs. Wilkins, being family, was let into the room where they were keeping Rob, so it wasn't like we had a chance to visit or anything. She only came out once, and that was to tell me that the doctor had said Rob was going to be all right. He had a concussion, but the doctor didn't think he'd have to stay in the hospital for more than a day or two, so long as he regained consciousness by morning. My dad told Mrs. Wilkins not to worry about her shifts at the restaurant while Rob was convalescing, so that was all right.
One thing my dad didn't ask—no one in my family did—was what Rob and I had been doing, saving Seth Blumenthal and battling the True Americans together. Mike and Claire and Douglas already knew, of course, but it didn't seem to occur to my parents to ask. Thank God.
All they wanted to know was was I all right, and would I come home now.
I said I was fine. Only I couldn't come home. Not, I told them, until I'd heard that Dr. Krantz was safely out of surgery.
If they thought this was weird, they didn't say so. They just nodded and went to get coffee from the machine over by the cafeteria, which, this late at night, was unfortunately closed. I was famished on account of having had nothing to eat since lunch, so we raided the snack machines some more. I had a pretty good dinner of Hostess apple pie and Fritos, some of which Chigger helped me eat. Much to my surprise, no one in my family seemed really to like Chigger, who was quite charming to all of them, sniffing each one carefully in case he or she had food hidden somewhere. My mom looked a little taken aback when I asked if I could keep Chigger. But she softened when I explained that the police had told me any pets found on seized property
would be impounded and probably put down.
Besides, no one could deny Chigger made a very good guard dog. Even the cops had given him a pretty wide berth while they were questioning me.
And then, just as I'd suspected, about an hour after this, the first of the casualties from the battle of the Grits versus the True Americans began to flood the ER. I'm not sure, but I think it was around then that my parents began to suspect that my real motivation for staying at the hospital wasn't to find out whether or not Dr. Krantz's surgery had been successful. No, it was because I wanted to be there when they brought in Jim Henderson. I wanted to be there really, really bad.
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