Ambushed

by Jill Williamson

  I lifted my head and peered down at my leg. It looked okay. I didn’t see any protruding bone. My T-shirt was torn and bloody. My chest stung. No, it was throbbing. Not as bad as my leg, but those branches had sliced through my shirt like Wolverine’s claws.

  I let my head fall back and looked up the rock face. I couldn’t see Nick or Lukas. I couldn’t even see Eagle Rock through the fog. Hopefully the guys had gone for help.

  “Help,” I said to myself.

  My knee was throbbing. I could tell it was my knee now. I couldn’t bend it. Trying to move my left leg sent fire up and down my whole side. I thought about trying to stand, but I couldn’t even manage to push myself to sitting. It hurt too bad.

  Oh, the game! Tonight. Basketball. We had three games left before the Southern Section playoffs. Tonight should be an easy win. But next week we had Oaks Christian, and they were tough. Had I just ended my team’s chance at winning the playoffs? At winning state? My own career? The mere thought filled my eyes with hot tears.

  No. Please no. Please, God?

  I lay there in shock. Not quite the same kind of shock I’d experienced in Okinawa when Anya had cut me, but the shock of being here at all, of wondering what I’d just done to my chances of being recruited to play ball. Dizzying.

  I replayed every mistake I’d made. Climbing down that incline without gear, unbuttoning my shirt, trying to jump up with no foothold and a bad grip.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  I heard people calling my name. I should probably answer, but all I could do was lie there, staring at the foggy sky, scared out of my mind.

  Even after all our invent-a-stretcher training, Mr. S wouldn’t move me. He had a CB radio and used it to call Kerri back at the van. She drove to within cell phone range and called 911.

  Twenty minutes later Mr. S and I were airlifted to the Ronald Regan UCLA Medical Center, which, ironically, was only five blocks and a football field from the Pauley Pavilion where the Bruins played basketball.

  This was the worst day of my life.

  They gave me something for the pain, and I was gone.

  ● ● ●

  I woke up in a hospital bed wearing a blue paper gown, feeling groggy. My left leg was in a fat brace. What did that mean? Wouldn’t it be in a cast if it were broken?

  “Look who’s up.” Grandma’s voice.

  I turned my head and found her sitting in the chair beside my bed. “What’s wrong with my leg?”

  “They did some tests, an MRI, and something to do with a scope. The doctor says you tore your ACL.”

  “What! No, no.” I tried to sit up and my chest throbbed, felt stiff and wrong. I fell back to my pillow and caught my breath. “But torn ACLs . . . they only happen on the court or the field or the, the . . .”

  “You also got twenty stitches on your face and chest combined.”

  Stitches? I didn’t care about any stinking stitches. My hands were trembling. My chest was tight. Tears flooded my eyes. I tried and failed to fight them.

  It was over. Everything. Done. Bye-bye, basketball.

  I whispered a colorful stream of words that hadn’t come out of my mouth in a year and a half.

  “Spencer Michael Garmond, there is no cause to use that kind of language.”

  Oh, but there is, Grandma, I wanted to say. Instead I just stared at the ceiling and clamped my teeth together.

  Grandma tried to cheer me up, but when I didn’t respond to anything she said, she left on a mission to tell the doctor I was awake.

  Who cared.

  I lay there, hating everything. I felt claustrophobic. I wanted to get up, walk, at least roll on my side.

  I tried, but whatever had happened to my chest wasn’t happy about me moving. I lifted the neckline of my paper dress and peered down . . .

  And just about passed out.

  Not because of the jagged black stitches down the front of my chest that made me look like something Dr. Victor Frankenstein had put back together. That was freaky, yes, but not all that surprising after Grandma’s warning.

  But the stitches were vertical, and they passed over the horizontal scar I’d gotten in Japan when Anya cut me. If this new injury left a scar . . . Holy figs! I would have a cross on my chest, the very thing Anya had said was true about the profile match. “One of the prophecies states that the profile match will bear the mark of his faith.” Except, back then that hadn’t been true about me. And now? Uh . . .

  Before I could think more on that, the doctor came in with Grandma and blathered on about how I had a choice between surgery or straight physical therapy.

  “Surgery,” I said, swallowing another glob of tears that I’d managed to choke back. My emotions were out of whack. I wondered what was in my IV. “When can I get it?”

  “Well, this isn’t your hospital,” the doc said. “You’ll need to check with your insurance and set up an appointment.”

  “Can’t you do it now?”

  “No, it’s not an emergency.”

  “But it is.” It was. My team. My scholarship offers.

  “Basketball means the world to Spencer, doctor,” Grandma said. “He has some college scholarships to play for several different NCAA schools.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the doctor said, which I guess . . . What else was he going to say? Gee, let me get my magic wand and fix that up for you? I’d been around long enough to know that a torn ACL was third only to paralysis and death in the world of sports. It was a minimum year out. A year that I’d lose playing for state with my team, playing on the AAU team, doing summer camp. A year of practice gone.

  And there was no guarantee my knee would heal. No way of knowing that I’d be the same athlete.

  When word got out, my offers were going to vanish.

  REPORT NUMBER: 6

  REPORT TITLE: I Have Dinner with a Movie Director

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: I5 Northbound, Passing Through Echo Park, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Tuesday, February 7, 10:08 a.m.

  I DIDN’T GO TO SCHOOL ON MONDAY. Grandma got me in to see my primary care physician so that he could refer me to a surgeon. On Tuesday, I skipped school again, and we went to St. Vincent Medical Center to consult with the surgeon. I didn’t like all these appointments before I could get the surgery. I just wanted it done. And I wanted it done well.

  I didn’t like the surgeon at St. Vincent’s, either. The nerdly Dr. Kapitankoff acted like he had more important things to do than help me. The whole time we were there, it was like he couldn’t wait for us to leave.

  “I think I should get a second opinion,” I told Grandma on the ride home.

  “What second opinion? Two doctors have confirmed it’s a torn ACL.”

  “I don’t doubt it’s a torn ACL. I just don’t think Dr. Captain Crunch is the best guy for the job.”

  “You don’t have a choice, young man. He’s the only knee surgeon on our insurance.”

  Well, maybe our insurance wasn’t good enough for me.

  Many would say my basketball career was over because of the timing and nature of the injury. I wasn’t convinced. I had the summer to recover, and I still had my senior year. That was plenty of time to get back in shape and prove myself.

  So I was taking this surgery very seriously. I needed a surgeon who’d do the same. “Good enough” wasn’t going to cut it. And Captain Crunch struck me as a “good enough” type of guy.

  I wanted the guy Rajon Rondo had. Wonder how much he charged to fix a torn ACL? If only I knew a rich guy.

  Then it hit me. I did. My dad.

  The mere thought of contacting my dad left me a bit queasy, though that could have been Grandma’s driving. I didn’t dare bring up my idea for fear she’d say no.

  Would he help me, though? Was it worth the risk to ask?

  I’ve done a lot of dumb things for a lot of dumb reasons. But this was a dumb thing for a good reason. Right?

  There was
no one I could ask for advice. I was just going to have to decide. Arianna would likely say I should pray about it. I did have the mark of my faith scarred into my chest. That should count for something, right?

  So I gave it a whirl.

  I don’t know how people like Arianna or Gabe heard answers to their prayers. I didn’t hear anything. Just Grandma humming along to the “Sunshine on My Shoulders” song on her John Denver cassette.

  Yes, cassette. Her Lincoln was that old.

  And, no, the slow, sappy song did not make me happy. It was more like music to die by.

  As we headed home, I played with my cell phone. Sue Adams, that reporter from the Pilot Point Bulletin, had called. Like I wanted to talk to her. And Coach Van Buren had called a few times. He must know I wasn’t going to play in tomorrow’s game. It was an away game, so at least there was no temptation for me to go watch and weep from the bench.

  But I should call him. Tomorrow, maybe. I’d just go by his office tomorrow. Yeah.

  Though I didn’t know how I’d get there. Hobble down the sidewalk? I’d have to leave really early.

  I suddenly wanted to scream.

  Why was this happening to me? Why?

  When we got home, it wasn’t even lunchtime yet, so I told Grandma I was going to go lie down, then hop-jumped it to my room on the crutches the hospital had given me. Only I didn’t lie down. Instead I got on Facebook, found the last message my dad had sent, and replied.

  Hey. I was wondering if we could talk. I need help and don’t know who else to ask.

  Spencer

  Now what? Kip was still in school. I clicked over to the UCLA Bruins basketball Facebook page. I’d barely made it through the first post when my dad replied with a phone number.

  Okay then. I dialed him up.

  He answered after one ring. “Spencer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this about your accident? I heard what happened.”

  My chest constricted. I was actually talking to my father. How did he know everything about me so quickly, anyway? “Uh, yeah. I need surgery.”

  “Your grandma doesn’t have insurance?”

  “No, she does. But . . . it’s complicated. I need the best, and I’m not sure . . .”

  “Say no more, Son. I can help. And I’d like to see you. Can I send a car to bring you to my place?”

  Send a car? “Uh . . . I can get a ride down there. Can I bring a friend with me?”

  “Sure, sure. I understand this is a bit awkward.” His voice was calm and confident, like he was used to people asking him for favors. It wasn’t what I’d expected.

  Though I don’t know what I’d expected. An apology, maybe?

  He gave me his address, and we hung up. That was it.

  Weird.

  I was glad our team had early practice today. This was going to be tricky, and I needed Kip’s—

  A knock on the door. “Spencer?”

  “Yeah?”

  Grandma opened the door and peeked in. “I’m going to work. I left you a sandwich in the fridge. There are apples on the counter. Think you can get to the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Now was my chance. “Hey, Grandma? If Kip picks me up, can I go over to his house for a while?”

  “For dinner?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The longer she expected me gone, the better.

  “You be careful with your leg. No playing basketball. And be home by eight.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She grabbed my shoulder and kissed the top of my head, gave me her one-armed squeeze-hug. “It’s going to be okay, you’ll see.”

  I hoped she was right. I also hoped she’d understand if or when she found out what I’d done.

  ● ● ●

  After practice, Kip came and picked me up in his Bimmer. When we got to his place, I asked him to park around the side of his house, hoping that Kimball and Mr. Sloan would park out front like they usually did.

  “Why am I parking here?” Kip asked.

  To make my plan happen, I had to tell Kip the truth. Some of it, anyway.

  “Wait for it . . .” I held up a finger and watched in the rearview mirror as Kimbal’s sedan neared. It passed by, then turned the corner. I pointed. “See that car? Those guys are following me.”

  Kip shot me a disbelieving smirk. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes. It is. Look, I’m not making this up, and I really need your help.” I got out of the car and hopped on my good foot to the back door to retrieve my crutches. Easier said than done with my leg brace. Once I had them, I hop-jumped down the sidewalk.

  Kip got out too. “Where are you going?”

  “Front door. Watch and see.”

  Kip slammed his car door and followed. “You’re a freak. You know that, right?”

  I couldn’t argue, not with the two scars forming a cross on my chest and the nightmares I kept having of Grace.

  Kip caught up, and we followed the sidewalk to the corner and turned. Kimbal’s sedan was just pulling up. As always, they’d turned around to get their favorite spot. Right across the street with a perfect view of the front door.

  And no view of the back door.

  I waved at Kimbal, then crutched up the walkway to Kip’s front door.

  “Who is that?” Kip asked, glancing back at the sedan.

  “Kimbal.”

  “Officer Kimbal? I thought you were done having an SRO. What’d you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. You want the truth? I’ll tell you. But wait until we get inside.”

  “What’s with the cloak and dagger—?”

  “Dude. Please?”

  Kip rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man.”

  Once we were inside, seated in the living room, and I was certain Kip’s dad wasn’t home, I was ready to spill a few beans. Not all of them, mind you, but enough to get Kip’s help.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” I said. “Not even Megan.”

  “Just spit it out, already.”

  I sighed and hoped I wasn’t making a mistake. “Okay, so, my name is not Spencer Garmond. I’m in a witness protection thing and those guys are keeping me safe.”

  Kip blew a raspberry. “Since when?”

  “Since I was two.”

  “No way.”

  “There’s some people after me because they think . . . We’ll it doesn’t matter what they think. Point is, the good guys, they don’t know where my dad is. They think he might be involved with the bad guys, and they probably wouldn’t be happy that I was talking to him.”

  Kip narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you talking to him? That sounds dumb.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not so sure my dad did the things they think he did. And he lives in Pacific Palisades, so I figure he’s got the dough to help me with my knee.”

  “Oh-kay, but what if he’s the bad guy those good guys think he is?”

  “That’s why I need you to come with me. I figured they wouldn’t do anything to you. And I also thought you could text Megan the address and tell her to send it to your dad and Mr. S if we’re not back by eight.”

  Kip folded his arms. “Just what kind of bad guys are we talking about here?”

  “I don’t know. Spy stuff.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Kip, please. I’m not making this up.”

  “You think your dad was a spy that went rogue, like Jason Bourne or something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” But I liked the sound of it. Maybe my dad wasn’t the traitor. Maybe someone in the Mission League was.

  “I still don’t believe you,” Kip said, “but I’ll drive you down there. It’s just too crazy to pass up.”

  And with that vote of confidence, we snuck out the back door and into Kip’s Bimmer.

  He backed into his neighbor’s driveway, then turned out to the left. I watched over my shoulder until we passed through Pilot Point into Burbank and got on the 134 headed west. We’d done it. Kimball and Mr. Sloan weren’t behind
us.

  If only I could be certain that was a good thing.

  We made excellent time until we reached the 405. Traffic inched along that freeway no matter the time of day, but it was five o’clock, which was the middle of rush hour, so it was extra bad. By the time we reached the Getty Museum, we’d come to a complete stop. I pulled out My Precious II to find an alternative route and saw that Sue Adams had left me another message.

  “That reporter woman will not give up. I don’t know what she wants me to say. I’m out for the season? I’m sure Coach told her that.”

  “She just wants to be the one to chronicle your rise to fame and fortune,” Kip said.

  “Maybe she should wait until I get there.” I typed in the address my dad had given me. “Take Sunset. We’ll drive over the mountain.”

  The exit lane moved faster than the freeway and curved west onto North Church Lane. My gaze snagged on the sign pointing toward UCLA. I swear that place was haunting me. But at the next intersection, we turned west on Sunset, leaving my dream school behind us.

  This section of Sunset was two lanes of traffic each way that cut through a residential neighborhood with lots of palm trees on both sides of the roads. We passed through Brentwood Village. When we rounded some of the corners, the setting sun was blinding. We eventually entered Pacific Palisades. Houses got fewer and farther between. The road got curvier, the hills steeper. Large homes rose up on cliffs to my right, down the cliff to my left. I kept looking for Evans Road, but didn’t see the sign.

  My phone said we’d gone too far. “We passed it.”

  “Where?” Kip said. “There were no roads.”

  He swung onto Will Rogers State Park Road and turned around. We headed back up the hill on Sunset. On a big curve, I spotted a turn lane. “There.” I pointed. “Get in the turn lane.”

  “It doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere.” But Kip pulled into it and flipped on his blinker. On the other side of the road, what looked like a narrow, unmarked driveway slipped into the forest. Kip caught a break in traffic and turned. The road was barely wide enough for two cars. It was smooth asphalt, no lines. At first it ran through nothing but forest, then we passed a huge gate on our left. Another hundred yards and a gate on the right. Then the road bubbled out around a mansion sitting in a curve of the road like it was on an island.