Hero Complex

by Margaux Froley

  “The chair, please, Priscilla. I have company,” Reed said with a kind smile. “Bill, I expect I’ll hear from you tomorrow.”

  Bill grunted and turned to leave. He glared at Devon—definitely at her this time—as he crossed the room to the front door. Moments later, the door slammed behind him, followed by the purr of his Audi’s engine.

  “We’re not interrupting, right?” Bodhi asked. He sat at the foot of Reed’s bed. “Priscilla said you wanted to see Devon.”

  “Of course I do. Devon, welcome to the Hospital Hutchins.” Reed’s arm flailed in small circles as he tried to look behind him. Priscilla was returning with a wheelchair. “Bodhi, maybe you could help us here.”

  Bodhi patted Reed’s leg and used the remote control attached to the metal handrail to move the bed into a more upright position. Reed smiled at Devon and rolled his eyes. “I spend most of my day just waiting around on this bed.” Gripping Bodhi’s arm with one hand and firmly wrapping the other around the handrail, he hoisted himself into the wheelchair. He trembled with the effort.

  Priscilla dropped the foot pedals and tucked a blanket across his lap. “Now you’re off to the races, Mr. Hutchins.”

  “Devon, will you push me to my office?” Reed wheezed.

  She hesitated; she’d never pushed anyone in a wheelchair before. Bodhi nodded, giving her the okay.

  “If you want, yeah—I mean, yes, of course.” Priscilla turned the wheelchair around for her and stepped aside for Devon to take the handles. “This way?” she asked as she started pushing Reed down the hall.

  “Onward, ho!” Reed clucked, like he was spurring a horse. Devon had to give him credit; the guy never lost his sense of humor.

  The inside of his office was exactly what Devon imagined it would be: softly lit, wood-paneled like everything else in the cabin, a wall of bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The other wall was a patchwork of cupboards and shelves.

  “Sorry about Bill,” Reed said as Devon pushed him deeper into the office. He pointed a skeletal finger at the cupboard across the room. Devon wheeled him in that direction. “Still hasn’t come to terms with death, I suppose. Mine or Jason’s. That’s the problem with scientists today. Instead of learning from death, they want to cheat it. Usually not for anyone’s good but their own.” He drew a deep gasping breath and opened a lower door.

  Devon took a seat on a nearby chair to face him. “You sound pretty Zen about everything,” she murmured, unable to keep the awe from her voice. His eyes were rheumy and seemed to have shrunken in their sockets.

  He pulled a cracked leather-bound book from the cupboard and placed it on the nearby desk. His gnarled fingers remained draped over the cover. “I think it’s because this isn’t about me anymore. After all these years, I’m ready to stop fighting. My body wants to give up; who am I to fight it? But Devon, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. What happens after I’m gone is what concerns me most.” He slid the book toward her. “You’ll need this to get up to speed on everything.”

  She picked it up, the leather brittle in her hands, the pages yellowed with who-knew-how-many years. Clearly this book was much older than she was, probably older than Reed himself. Which begged the question: why would she need it to get up to speed?

  “For the land,” he wheezed, reading the confusion on her face.

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand …”

  “You’ll need to know how all of this began, how it involves me and Francis Keaton and Edward Dover. The three trees of this mountain. Once I’m gone, you’ll need to know what we’re protecting and what you’re going to have to fight for.”

  Devon flipped through the first few pages. It was mostly handwriting, like a diary, mixed with pages and pages of formulas and diagrams. “Are you sure you didn’t mean for Raven or Bodhi to read this?” she asked, baffled. “They probably understand the science better than I do.”

  “No,” Reed said. He slapped a hand on top of the desk and leaned forward in his chair. His eyes focused intensely on Devon’s. The red-tinged whites threatened to overtake his sky-blue pupils. “This is for you. You need to know what they’ll want from you.” His breathing caught, and he broke into a coughing fit. He gasped for air while Devon watched, too panicked to move. Reed’s eyes fluttered. Oh, God, please don’t die right here. She reached for the door as Priscilla burst inside with an oxygen tank apparatus, complete with a mask and plastic hoses.

  The nurse gave Devon a polite yet stern push against the wall. Without hesitation, she strapped a plastic mouthpiece onto Reed’s face. His breath fogged up the clear plastic in alternating breaths. Priscilla studied him as she hooked the tank to the back of his chair. His eyes seemed to regain their focus; they sought out Devon across the room. He pulled the mask low and croaked, “Take the diary. You’ll need it to follow our footsteps. Follow our footsteps, Devon. Follow them.”

  Devon’s eyes flitted to Priscilla. Reed subtly shook his head as if to say, Don’t worry about her. Her legs shaky, Devon crossed the room. How could she be so afraid in the face of such bravery? But she knew it was more than fear of losing yet another Hutchins; it was fear of what she didn’t understand. Something about Reed’s instructions felt so final.

  Priscilla gripped the handles on the wheelchair and started to push Reed out of the office. His breath still fogged up the oxygen mask, but his eyes never left Devon.

  Before she had time to wonder if it was a good idea or even safe, she took Reed’s hand in between hers and knelt down, eye level with the ailing old man. “Thank you. For trusting me with this.”

  Reed’s eyes blinked slowly, his silent acknowledgment. She kissed his cheek, his onion-paper skin soft against her lips. He pulled his mask down one more time. “I’m trusting you with a lot more than just the book,” he whispered. “It’s your turn now, Devon. I’ll tell Hutch everything’s in good hands.” He winked at her as Priscilla wheeled him out of the office.

  “Mr. Hutchins needs his rest now,” Priscilla said to Devon over her shoulder.

  Devon watched Reed roll down the dark hallway. She’d never believed in premonition; it defied everything she believed about the realities of human nature, not to mention reality itself. Yet she knew for certain that this would be the last time she saw him. It had been written in his eyes.

  SKIMMING THROUGH REED’S DIARY while eating pizza with Raven and Bodhi in the guesthouse somehow felt wrong. The diary deserved Devon’s full attention; it was a part of Reed, something sacred. But of course Raven wouldn’t let Devon return to school without finishing their interrupted microwave feast, so Devon quietly tucked the book into her backpack. Bodhi stayed glued to his computer, looking into Isaac Green and the mysterious Eli.

  “He lives in the Mission District in the city. Takes a few classes at SFCC. And according to his Facebook page, he’s currently single.”

  Devon felt his eyes on her across the room. Suddenly self-conscious, she chose to stay focused on Raven.

  “Well, that answers everything, then,” Raven said with a wink. She took another bite of her mini-pizza and stretched a piece of cheese as long as it could go between her mouth and the pizza slice.

  “So we just track down this Isaac Green in the Mission District?” Devon asked. Even as she posed the question, she thought of what Presley said at the beach. Did Devon really go out of her way to find trouble? Could she choose not to dig deeper? It would be so easy to let this go and move on, wouldn’t it? Unless, of course, her attacker meant to kill her and wanted to finish a botched job …

  “522 Dolores Street. Apartment 4A to be specific,” Bodhi added.

  “So we just go pay a visit to our good friend Isaac, ask him why someone else showed up to work with his ID that night?” Devon added. “That’s it, right?”

  Raven tossed her pizza crust onto her plate. “Have we ruled out the possibility that our friend Isaac—which, by the way, I totally think we should call him from now on—maybe didn’t know about his ID being used? He could act
ually have no idea what happened.”

  “But his ID was scanned at the yacht,” Devon said. Raven and Bodhi looked at each other and shrugged. “What? You think someone made that ID?”

  “It wouldn’t be that hard to do.” Bodhi grinned slyly. “I mean, we could do it.”

  “Yeah, but you guys are … you,” Devon said. “As hard to believe as it may be, not everyone has your superpowers.”

  “Don’t they?” Raven asked with a raised eyebrow and a certain smirk reserved for her especially clever moments. “Okay, so there is still the possibility that our friend Isaac had no involvement with said yacht incident. You know we’re gonna have to actually get an answer now—for Isaac’s sake, too.”

  “Wait, what time is it?” Devon checked her phone. 9:50. “Damn, curfew is in ten minutes.”

  Bodhi stood up. “Maybe there’s another soccer game in the city? Or next week, you take a weekend away over here?”

  Raven began lacing up her high-tops. “Yeah, we can totally forge Reed’s signature to get you over here.”

  “I’ll take her,” Bodhi said.

  Devon threw her bag over a shoulder. The diary dug into her back, reminding her that it wanted to be read. She turned to Raven. “No one else thinks this is weird or stalker-y of me, right? I mean, you guys don’t have to get involved in all this. I know you’ve got enough going on with Reed being sick and all.”

  Raven rolled her eyes. “Hey, you’re not crazy. Don’t let your cohorts in the bubble on the hill let you think otherwise. We’ll keep looking into this thing until we find the answers we want.”

  “Besides, there’s nothing we can do for Reed now except to live in this house,” Bodhi said quietly. He jangled the car keys in his hands. “Come on, you don’t want to get in trouble.”

  Devon dashed forward and hugged Raven. “Thanks. The bubble can make you forget what’s real sometimes.”

  “No shit,” Raven murmured, squeezing back. “Night, Dev.”

  BODHI WAS QUIET ON the bumpy car ride back over the hill. The moon was so bright he didn’t need to turn the lights on—not that he would have risked getting spotted, anyway. She knew that he wanted to keep this road off anyone else’s radar as much as she did.

  “Doesn’t Reed actually own this hill?” Devon asked, watching the lights from the Keaton dorms grow closer, a deceptive warm campfire-like glow that promised comfort before the whole place went into full lockdown mode.

  Bodhi considered the question for a moment. “I think there’s a line here that divides the property. Hutchins and Keaton. Like an actual line. But Keaton and Reed were buddies all those years, so who knows? Maybe it was just a gentleman’s handshake about the whole thing.” Bodhi downshifted as the car crept up the slope below Bay House. The clock on the dashboard read 9:56. Devon would have to run to slip inside before curfew. Or sprint, more like it. Ms. Hadden was on dorm duty, and she purposely locked all the side doors in the building so there was only one way to get inside. She would be firmly parked at the main entrance with her clipboard in hand, checking each girl off her list as they filed in for the night. A faux-blonde jail warden in a Lacoste sweater.

  The car lurched to a stop.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Devon said. She opened the door.

  “I really don’t think you’re crazy,” Bodhi said. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. You should know that. I mean … it means a lot to us that you’re so concerned about Reed. But this research stuff, I want to—we want to do it.”

  “Um, thanks. That’s good to know.” Her voice sounded funny in her ears. Bodhi was staring at her with a strange intensity.

  Before Devon understood what was happening, he had leaned across the center console and reached for her. With a hand on the back of her neck, he pulled Devon toward him and kissed her. A soft kiss at first, as if testing the waters. His dreadlocks brushed her cheeks; she was conscious of how they felt so much softer than how they looked. Then another, longer kiss, his fingers threaded through her hair, giving it a slow tug. He pulled away.

  “I’ve thought about doing that for weeks,” he whispered.

  Devon glanced at the dashboard: 9:58.

  Her heart thumped. “Shit, I gotta go.” She grabbed her backpack and jumped out of the car. Her lips were still warm and tingling from the kiss. She took a few steps but caught herself before going further. “Bodhi?”

  He leaned out his window. His eyes glittered in the moonlight. He was smiling, but there was sadness there.

  “I’m glad you did,” she said.

  His smile brightened. “Night, Devon.”

  “You, too.” Devon turned and dashed up the hillside, her own smile as wide as the distance to her waiting dorm.

  CHAPTER 6

  The phone woke Devon the next morning. She had been dreaming about surfing … or rather, sitting on a surfboard in the ocean while the waves bobbed around her. The metal spyglass from the yacht floated nearby, but no matter how hard she paddled and kicked, she couldn’t reach it. The ringing merged with the purr and snarl of the waves, growing louder and louder until it finally pulled her out of sleep.

  “Hi, Mom.” She groaned and slumped back into her pillow.

  “Morning, sunshine. Sorry to wake you.” Devon could hear her mom rustling through the kitchen at home. A cupboard slammed; the coffee machine beeped.

  “Extra-strong brew?” Devon asked.

  “Mmmm, you know the morning drill. Gotta fuel up for those fourteen-hour shifts.” More cupboards slamming, plastic rustling. “Listen, hon. Sorry I didn’t call you back until now. You said something in your text about your scholarship?”

  “Yeah, ummm.” Devon took a deep breath. She needed some oxygen to get her brain running at capacity. And this was a tricky situation. She obviously couldn’t tell her mom that she’d visited Hutch’s murderer brother. But what was the best way to clue in her mom on the cryptic information Eric had divulged?

  “I wanted to write a thank-you note or something to the people that help with my scholarship. You don’t know anything about them, do you?”

  “I know about as much as you do, hon,” her mom said matter-of-factly. “It’s a trust or something set up by the alumni association.”

  “Just one alum? Or a bunch? Wouldn’t their names be listed somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s one of the truly generous people left in the world, someone who doesn’t need to be recognized for their generosity. Why the sudden interest now? You never mentioned this before.”

  “So it’s one alum who’s responsible for the scholarship,” Devon pressed.

  “Honey, what’s this about?” her mother asked. The puttering around the kitchen had stopped. There was dead silence on the other end.

  Devon swallowed. “I don’t know. I guess it’s like how adopted kids suddenly decide they want to find their real parents, you know? Thinking about college and knowing I’ll be leaving eventually, and that my whole Keaton experience is due to someone else’s generosity and stuff.” She closed her mouth. She was babbling.

  Her mom sighed. “Hmm, I never thought of it that way.” She took a sip of coffee, apparently placated. “I’m sure if you wrote a note to the administration, the school would make sure it went to the right person.”

  “Yeah, I could do that.” Devon closed her eyes. If her worst fear was true, that her scholarship was paid for by the Hutchins family, then writing a letter of thanks to them wouldn’t just be offensive, it would be plain stupid. Thanks for my education. Oh, and sorry about exposing that your son murdered your other son over money. Cheers! No way.

  “Hey, you ever hear of the Hutchins family?” she heard herself ask. “I mean, before everything happened with Hutch?”

  The movement on the other end came to another standstill. Devon’s mom’s voice was quieter now, more measured. “I feel so horrible for those poor parents. No parent should have to go through that.”

  “So you don’t think they could secretly be super generous?”r />
  “Why would you ask that? You think they’re connected to your scholarship? Devon, I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this—”

  “I only want to find out if they’re really generous,” Devon said defensively, and mostly to herself. “I don’t think that’s a terrible thing to be accused of.”

  A long sigh, and longer silence on the other end. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her mother’s voice was sharp now, tired. “Whoever provided your scholarship chose to remain anonymous, and we have to respect that choice. So please, let’s just be grateful for someone’s generosity and drop it. If you want to write a letter for the school, I’m sure they’ll get it to the right person.”

  “Or people. Like you said, you don’t know it’s just one person—”

  “It’s not our business, Devon.”

  “This is my forty-thousand-dollar-a-year education. How is that not my business? Why are you being so weird about this?”

  There was a sharp rattle; her mother must have put down her mug extra hard on the counter. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. I can hear you getting worked up. That’s not what we need.”

  “We? Are we speaking in the royal ‘we’ now?”

  “Devon, I have to go. Enjoy your Sunday. I love you, sunshine.”

  “We love you, too, Mom. Bye.” She hung up and closed her eyes again.

  Was her mom mad at her? She seemed touchy about the questions, or could Devon have been imagining that? No, her mom had definitely seemed off. Better question: Was her own mother sick of Devon’s questions? Or worse, was her mom keeping a secret from her, too? No, Mom was just playing the role of the grown-up. Respect the benefactor’s wishes, no questions asked.

  Maybe Dr. Hsu was right. Maybe Devon was starting to get paranoid. But, could anxiety be considered paranoia if there were really good reasons for it? Or is that what paranoid people told themselves to justify further paranoia?