by Callie Hart
My curiosity gets the better of me. I get up. I don’t need to move to see what’s gone down now. On the floor, Osman is laying on his back, his hands clutching at his throat, and a fountain of blood is spraying between his fingers.
“Get up, man.” Jared kicks at Osman with his boot, but Osman isn’t going anywhere. His hands fall limp, resting on top of his chest, his body twitching and jumping as his nervous system shuts down.
Someone in the crowd hoots, splintering away, dashing across to the other side of the room, and then everyone else does, too, screaming and shouting. The doors burst open and twenty guards storm into the room, riot shields in their hands, weapons drawn. Jared rushes forward in the melee and snatches the screwdriver by the handle, ripping it free from Osman’s neck. He comes straight for me.
It’s like he’s seen his opportunity and now he plans on killing me, too. I’ve been waiting for this moment, though, I’m ready for it. I reel back, ready to go to fucking war with him. When he reaches me, he doesn’t attack, however. He thrusts the screwdriver at me, eyes narrowed into slits. “Take it, Blackheath.”
In the confusion, the guards don’t seem to know who they’re looking for. They grab the entire block one person at a time, throwing bodies down to the ground. I can hardly hear Jared over the chaos that’s unfolding around us. His intentions are obvious, though. He wants me to take the fall for him.
“You’re crazy,” I mouth.
“Take the fucking screwdriver, Blackheath. Take it.”
He really is insane. Osman probably would have taken the shiv for him. Shame he just killed him with it. A row of guards are approaching from the left. I slowly shake my head, then step backward directly into their path. Better to be bodychecked and get taken down than to be caught anywhere near Viorelli right now. As expected, the guards slam into me from all angles. I don’t fight back. My body is suddenly lit up with electricity as someone applies the prongs of a Taser to my skin.
I collapse, my back bowed, my teeth grinding together. I can still see though. I watch the guards grab hold of Viorelli. He kicks and fights, lashing out wildly with the screwdriver. No chance they won’t know he was responsible for the dead guy in the middle of the room now. I try to laugh as they take him down, too.
I try really fucking hard, but it’s impossible.
NINETEEN
THE MUSEUM
ROOKE
“Boy, I swear to god, if you do not get back, I am going to Taze you in the motherfucking face. Is that what you want?”
I slam my fist against the police barricade that’s been set up to create a perimeter around the museum, openly snarling. I’ve lost my bag somewhere along with my headphones but I don’t give a shit about that right now. I give a shit about Sasha. I give a shit about nothing else. “Do me a favor, asshole. Fucking try it. You think I haven’t been Tazed before?” The god’s honest truth is that I’ve been Tazed more times than I care to remember. The first few months in juvi were tough. It goes without saying that I was fucking furious that I was in there; every time a fight kicked off or kids started causing shit, I was right there, smack bang in the middle of it all, blowing off steam. My body is well used to the rollercoaster of a two-pronged police issue stun gun. It’s not a particularly fun ride, but I’ll line up for that shit all day long if it means they’ll give me some information about the situation inside the museum.
The cop on the other side of the barricade narrows his eyes at me. “Do not fuck with me. I’ve had a shitty morning, and this bullshit is making it even worse. I will take you into custody if that’s what you want.”
I don’t want that. If he takes me away, I won’t be able to see if it is Sasha that’s being held inside the building. I have her phone number—it was inside that book she dropped back at the museum—but she’s not picking up. Oscar had her home number but that’s ringing out, too, so I have no idea where she is. She could be at Trader Joe’s doing her weekly grocery shop. She could be at a yoga class. Or she could be kneeling on the ground with the muzzle of a gun digging into the base of her skull. The not knowing is driving me crazy.
I ran across the bridge earlier. I fucking ran through the streets of Manhattan until I arrived out front of the museum and I forced my way through the already considerable crowd, straining to see what the fuck was going on. I called Jake and told him to get his ass down here, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I feel trapped. I feel like my hands are tied behind my back, and I can’t fucking do anything. I don’t know why I’m filled with this level of panic, but it’s hard to fucking breathe around it, and I’m on the verge of losing my shit.
On this police officer.
Right now.
“Just tell me,” I grind out. “Who is inside the building?”
“I have already told you. We do not know who is inside the building. We’re trying to ascertain that information right now. But guess what? Even when we do know who’s in there, we sure as fuck aren’t gonna tell you, kid. Now clear the barricade before I lose my goddamn patience.”
Boy. Kid. If he calls me either of these things one more fucking time, I am going to destroy him. They’ll need a phenomenal set of dental records to identify him by the time I’m through. I am going to break his nose. I am going to beat him black and blue. I’m going to—
“Rooke! Rooke, man, what the fuck is going on?” A hand lands on my shoulder. The contact startles me, and I spin around, ready to start thrashing whoever is touching me. It’s Jake. He holds up his hands, reeling back from me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude. Chill.”
“Do you know this punk?” the cop asks.
Jake nods. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then do him a favor and get him out of here before he does something stupid.”
I’m about to vault over the barrier and head butt the fucker, but Jake grabs me by the back of the shirt and pulls me back. I try to fight my way free, but with so many people pressing in from all sides, pushing and shoving angrily at me, it’s impossible. I let him tug me back through the crowd, growling obscenities under my breath. Once we’re clear, Jake rounds on me, glaring with a furious intensity. “Are you fucking crazy, dude? Trying to start a fight with a cop? You have a record, or have you forgotten all about that? Mess up like that and it won’t be juvi for you. It will be big boy jail, asshole.”
“Big boy jail,” I repeat. “Yeah. Very grown up. It’s not my fault that guy was being a prick. I just asked for information. He was being a cunt.”
“He wasn’t being a cunt. He was being a cop.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Jake rolls his eyes. “It’s their job to secure the building. What do you think would happen if they just let every one of these gawking motherfuckers inside to take a look around? Do you think that would make the situation inside there better or worse?”
I stare at him for a moment then let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Okay. Sorry, you’re right. What am I supposed to do, though? She could be in there.”
“Who?”
“Sasha.” It’s infuriating that he hasn’t figured that out already. He knows she works at the museum.
“Ahh. Right. Yeah, well, do you know it’s her in there?”
“No, I don’t know for sure that it is. But it is.”
“Why don’t you just calm down? It could be some fucking dude in there for all you know. It could be—”
“There she is! Look! Over there!”
“Oh my god! She’s been shot!”
“Help! Somebody, help!”
Cries go up all around us, drowning out Jake’s voice. Adrenaline fires through my body, and my hands begin to shake. “What the fuck? What the fuck’s going on?” I scan the area; it’s only when people start rushing to the left of the museum that I see what’s happening. A figure is on their knees, on the ground, leaning against an elderly guy wearing a thick blue coat. He’s trying to prop the figure up, but he’s struggling. Another guy in a suit rushes forward, dropping his brie
fcase on the ground. It cracks open, and sheaves of paper go flying, swirling upward on the wind as he helps the figure—a woman—to her feet.
She lifts her head, her face covered in blood, and it’s her. It’s Sasha. I was right.
“Fuck.” My blood drains from my head, pooling in a sickening fashion somewhere low in the pit of my stomach.
“Is that her?” Jake asks.
I nod. “I have to get to her. Shit. She’s hurt. She’s hurt really bad.”
“She’s cool, man. Look, the EMTs have her. She’s okay. She’s okay.”
A couple of guys rush to her, jump bags in their hands, relieving the businessman and the elderly guy of their burden. At the same time, about twenty guys with cameras all surge forward, snapping off shots and shouting out questions. The flashes from their Canons and their Nikons seem to make the dull, grey day suddenly brilliant white. Sasha flinches, raising a hand, squinting, shaking her head. She’s freaking out. The police hurry in from either side. A tall blond woman goes to Sasha, talking to her as the EMTs look her over.
I want to hit pause. I want to stop everything so I can go to her myself, to push everyone out of the way, scoop her up into my arms and carry her away. She looks terrified and stunned, like she’s just not able to comprehend what’s happening.
“Do not do anything dumb right now,” Jake warns. His fingers dig into my arm again. Now that we’re clear of the crowd, it would be easy enough to shrug him off and go charging over there, but he’s right.
What use am I to Sasha right now? I’m not a medical professional, so I can’t take care of her injuries. I’m not a cop, so I can’t question her about what’s happened. Or I could, but then what? I don’t have my gun. I can’t storm the museum and go find the motherfuckers that have done this to her. I can’t go in there and arrest them.
I am no good to her right now.
“What’s the closest hospital to here?” Jake asks.
“The closest hospital?”
“Yeah, man. Think. They’re not gonna keep her out here any longer than they need to, are they? They’re going to take her to get checked out. If we head to the hospital, you’ll be able to talk to her there.”
Damn it. He’s right. I wrack my brain, thinking.
“It’s Mount Sinai, right?” he asks.
“No. Lenox Hill. They have an emergency department there. That’s where they’ll take her. Greenwich Village, just across the park.” Of course, nothing is “just across the park” in New York. Central Park is massive. We’ll never beat an ambulance to the hospital on foot, never in a million years. “We need a cab.”
Jake’s already come to that conclusion. He gestures up the street. “Traffic won’t be moving here any time soon. Let’s get over to Amsterdam.”
******
It takes twenty-five minutes to get to the hospital. When we arrive, it’s to find that the ambulance has indeed already beaten us, and that no, we aren’t going to be permitted to see the patient. The nurse on the front desk says “the patient” as if Sasha is some sort of alien, some freak of nature that’s under investigation by local authorities, and that we’re mad for even thinking we might be able to share the same breathing space as her. We’re told we can’t even wait in the waiting room for her. A pair of thuggish security guards appear, hands on a pair of Glocks, and we’re ushered outside the building where a crowd of news reporters are already setting up their equipment, bright LED lights shining down over the parking lot, making the grim, oppressively cold day look like it’s actually seventy degrees and sunny out.
“Fuck this. There has to be another way in.” I scan the perimeter of the ground floor, looking for another entrance that we might have overlooked. There doesn’t appear to be one, though. Jake blows out a sharp breath down his nose, his eyes glittering with frustration.
“Dude. Do not go back into that building. It’s asking for trouble. Why don’t you just come home with me now? We can see what happened on the news? She looked fine.”
“She did not look fine. She was covered in blood. Jesus Christ, man—”
“All right, all right. Fuck. Don’t lay me out. I’m just trying to keep you out of jail here.”
I scrub my hands over my face, nodding. “Sorry. I don’t fucking like this, though. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”
Jake gives me a long, hard look, sizing me up. Figuring me out. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he says. “You’re freaking me out. Just take a deep breath, okay? There’s nothing we can do right now. We have to be patient, and—”
I hear a burst of static behind me—the sound of a police issue radio. In juvi I learned quickly that you stopped and listened whenever you heard that sound. Frequently, it meant the guards were being informed that the governor was coming by to toss the cells. Sometimes it meant that a friend was being returned to general population. Other times, it meant a hailstorm of fire and shit was about to rain down on us and we were about to get our asses beaten.
“…seems disoriented. Couldn’t really give us a clear description. Either way, there’s no one there. The place was empty. We’ve gutted the place from top to bottom.”
I turn around, searching for the source of the tinny voice coming out of the radio. A few feet away, a couple of cops are standing with their backs to us, talking quietly to each other, coffee cups in one hand, Philly cheese steaks in the other. They don’t even seem to notice that they’re broadcasting for everyone to hear.
“You think she’s making it up?”
“Nah. Captain said she was hysterical. Said she killed the guy and his body was out the back of the building. Eight guys searched the area, though. There was blood there for sure, but it could have been hers. They’re testing it now.”
“All right. Let me know when they’re taking her home. In the meantime, alert every single hospital in the city. If she thinks she hurt this guy, he might go looking for medical assistance.”
My mind is spinning uncontrollably. They’re talking about Sasha, of course. They have to be. And she thinks she killed someone? Fuck me. I’m gutted. The thought of her having to defend herself to that extent? It makes me feel like I’m about to throw up. I’m shaking, filled with an instant boost of adrenaline. I’m about to say something to Jake, but he shakes his head, a firm, immoveable look on his face. “We’re not starting our own fucking manhunt, Rooke. No fucking way. We are going home. Now.”
I clench my teeth, hissing under my breath. The guy knows me. The guy knows me far too well.
No way I’m going home, though. No. Fucking. Way.
TWENTY
JACOBI
SASHA
“Cosmetic? It doesn’t feel cosmetic. It doesn’t look cosmetic, either.” What a strange way to describe the injuries I’ve sustained. Looking at myself in the small compact mirror the nurse is holding up in front of my face, I can’t seem to recognize the face staring back at me in the reflective surface. Swollen eye. Swollen nose. Split lip. Cuts on both cheekbones. The eyes are the same, though, those are definitely mine. They’re filled with fury and tears, stinging every time I blink.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Connor. You’ll heal up nicely in a week or two. After that, no one will ever know you were hurt.”
But I will. I look away from the compact, and she clips it shut, sliding it into the pocket of her scrubs. “Your ribs on the other hand? They’re going to take a little while longer to heal. You’re lucky. Nothing was broken, but you’re incredibly bruised. Moving around is going to be pretty painful for a while now. So no driving, no running, or anything like that. The meds you’ve been prescribed are strong as all hell. Don’t operate any heavy machinery, light aircraft, power tools—”
I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “I won’t be doing any of that. I don’t need the drugs.”
The nurse arches a skeptical eyebrow, pursing her lips. “Mmhmm. We’ll just see about that now. You’re feeling okay right now because you’re already doped up to the eyeballs. As soon as you g
et home and that morphine starts to wear off, you’re gonna be in a world of hurt.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’ll take your meds home with you and take them when you need to. And when you do—”
“No operating any space craft, school buses or forklifts. Got it.”
The nurse nods, placing an orange bottle of pills down on the small table beside my bed. “Good girl.”
“Are you done, nurse? We really need to finish our conversation with Ms. Connor.” A middle aged, grizzly detective stands in the doorway of the hospital room—Detective Jacobi. He was the one to question me when I first arrived at the hospital. They let him talk to me as I was being assessed, but when he got pushy they made him leave the room. He looks frustrated, like I’m purposefully avoiding answering his questions and he’s about ready to arrest me and take me down to the station. The nurse glances at me—a questioning look.
“You feel up to talking to these fools now? They aren’t gonna stop coming in here ‘til you’ve told them whatever you know, honey.”
“Yes, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Truth is, I want to explain what happened to the detective. I’ve been itching to finish answering his questions for the past three hours, but instead I’ve been poked and prodded, examined and re-examined, and I’m beginning to feel a little violated. Or more violated, should I say. The nurse gestures the cop inside, and leaves, closing the door behind her.
Detective Jacobi’s face is marked with a thousand lines. I get the feeling he earned each one of them working stressful, thankless cases that have soured him against the general public as a whole. He looks at me with suspicion, if not open hostility. “Where were we, Ms. Connor?” he asks, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“You were in the middle of accusing me of slitting Amanda’s throat. You were implying that the death of my son might have finally caused me to have a nervous breakdown.” I say this calmly, though my veins are filled with fire. He blinks, then takes a small notebook from the pocket of his damp-looking jacket; it must be raining outside.