Spliced

by Jon McGoran

  “I know.” I stepped up close and put my arms around him, as far as they would go, and I squeezed as tight as I could, giving him the hug I wanted for myself. Then I felt his big arms wrap around me.

  I still wanted to cry, but now it was because, just for a moment, I could remember that feeling that everything might turn out all right. I didn’t want to let go, but I didn’t want it to get awkward, either.

  “Sorry,” I said, stepping back.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said quietly. He opened the car door.

  “I need to start calling the hospitals. How will I let you know if I’ve found him?”

  “New Ground Coffee Shop. Leave a message there. And if I find a fixer willing to take him on, I know where to find you.”

  “Okay. Good luck with Ruth and Ryan.” I looked at my watch. It seemed a pointless gesture, considering I barely knew what day it was. But then I saw it was eleven forty-five. “Crap, I need to go,” I said. “My aunt gets home in fifteen minutes.”

  With everything that had just happened, the mountain of family trouble I’d made for myself seemed almost inconsequential. But if there was a chance to get home before things got even worse, I had to try.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The white-knuckle terror of Rex’s driving helped me keep it together on the way home. But when we pulled up at Aunt Trudy’s house and I saw that her car was still gone, the tension that had been holding me together dissipated. I felt like I would turn into a puddle on the floor. Rex was confused that after rushing to get home, I didn’t hurry inside. But I couldn’t.

  He leaned forward to look at my face. “You okay?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “We’ll find him,” he said. “And he’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  I laughed and he looked confused. Del was missing, dying, maybe dead, and here I was, momentarily paralyzed by the prospect of plunging back into the reality my family life had become in the last couple of days.

  “What is it?” Rex asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. Without thinking about it, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

  I got out and slammed the door before he could reply. As I ran up to the gate, I was grateful it opened automatically, so I could keep running all the way to the front door.

  I didn’t turn around until I got inside, but I watched through the window. Rex sat there for close to a minute before he drove off.

  Moments later another set of headlights appeared in the darkness.

  It was 11:58. Aunt Trudy was home.

  I was sitting on the sofa, pretending to be half asleep and watching an old movie when she came in, carrying a small grocery bag.

  “You’re here,” she said as she put the bag on the kitchen counter. “What did you do all day?”

  “Mostly this,” I said with a yawn. “Read for a while, did some homework. How did it go with the exhibit?”

  She sat in the armchair and studied my face. “I knew you would lie to me, but I wondered if you’d be any good at it.”

  I could feel my cheeks burning. “How’d I do?” I asked quietly.

  She plopped a hand on my knee. “Frankly, you need to work on it.”

  She took a pint of ice cream out of the bag and put it on the coffee table. “This is for me,” she said. “But if you go get some spoons, you can have some.” Then she gave me a look that was almost stern. “We need to talk.”

  “You have to promise not to tell my mom,” I said as we dug into the ice cream.

  “Fine.” We both knew it was a promise she would almost certainly break, but I was hopeful it would give me enough leverage that maybe she would tone down the most incriminating parts.

  I got the impression when I started that she was just waiting for me to finish so she could tell me how I had behaved badly, how disappointed she was, and how there were going to have to be consequences. But she was about as good at the stern look as I was at lying. By the time I got to the part about Del’s bad splice and Ruth and Ryan going missing, she was squeezing my hand in sympathy. When I told her about Stan’s reaction, and then what happened at Guzman’s place, her eyes were moist.

  When I finished, she sat there for a minute, thinking long and hard. I knew she was dying to come up with a solution to all my troubles, but I also knew there wasn’t one. She’d gotten a pretty good start with the ice cream. I think she ate more of it than she intended to. Maybe because she knew that once she stopped she’d be expected to come up with some sound, adult advice.

  Finally, she gave in. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said, putting down her spoon and looking vaguely queasy.

  “Not much to say.” I kept eating. When it comes to ice cream, I’m a pro. And I had barely eaten all day.

  “Obviously, you shouldn’t have lied to me. Things would have gone better if you had told me the truth from the beginning.”

  I kept eating, unwilling to concede the point.

  “Do you want me to call Del’s father?” she asked.

  “No!” I said sharply. “Sorry, but no. I don’t trust him. He already refused to help. He’s hurt Del before, and I don’t trust him not to do it again. Del doesn’t, either. Or didn’t.” I looked down, my eyes getting wet again.

  Trudy patted my knee. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “I need to start calling hospitals, see if Del has turned up at any of them.” I didn’t tell her that I was going to try to bust him out if I could find him.

  She nodded. “Okay, but not right now. Even if he’s at one of the hospitals, they probably wouldn’t have processed him yet. You look exhausted. Get some sleep, and we’ll get started early in the morning.”

  She looked exhausted, too, and I felt bad. She’d probably been stressed all day because of me, and she had to work on top of it all.

  I nodded and gave her a fake yawn, then we both went to bed.

  Once she was snoring, I took the phone into the breakfast room and started making calls.

  THIRTY-THREE

  My first call was to the police station nearest to Guzman’s clinic. I’d been trying not to think about it, because the idea freaked me out, but it was possible that they had Del and they hadn’t taken him to get medical treatment.

  “Montgomery County Police Department,” said a bored and official-sounding woman. “What’s your emergency?”

  “It’s not an emergency,” I said, my voice cracking midsentence. I told myself to calm down and lowered my voice, more like an adult. “I believe my son may have been arrested.”

  “Is he a minor?”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about at first. “Is he . . . Oh yes, he is. Seventeen years old.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we cannot give out information about minors over the phone. You’ll need to come in to the station with valid identification before we can release any information about him.”

  “Really?” I said, the word coming out almost like a sob.

  There was a sigh on the other end. “When do you think your son might have been arrested?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two hours ago?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you about any individuals, but I can tell you it’s been a slow night. We haven’t brought in any minors tonight. He might have gotten off with a warning.”

  “Thank you,” I said, for some reason adding, “He’s . . . He’s a chimera.” Maybe I just wanted to tell someone, and here was a faceless, anonymous stranger.

  She let out a different sigh, a combination of sympathy and revulsion. “Well, we didn’t bring in any of them, either.”

  “You didn’t?” I said, but she was gone.

  I thought that was odd—I saw the bust. But like she said, maybe they let everyone go with a warning. It didn’t seem like they’d been doing anything worth arresting them for, anyway.

  After speaking with the police, calling the hospitals seemed less intimidating. But it still wasn’t easy. There were dozens of them in and around the city, and
even more when you added the urgent care facilities and trauma centers.

  It took a while, but after half a dozen calls, I got my spiel down: “Hello, I’m trying to locate my nephew, a seventeen-year-old male named Del Grainger, five-foot-eleven, with dark hair. He went missing yesterday after a chimera splice that went . . . wrong . . . and I’m helping my sister try to find him. Can you tell me if you’ve admitted any unidentified patients who might fit that description?”

  A couple of hospitals had possible matches, but each time it turned out they had already been identified, and their families located.

  I was halfway through the list when I was put on hold for a particularly long time. I woke up forty minutes later, startled and confused, the call long since ended. Furious with myself for nodding off, I hit redial, and this time managed to stay awake while they made sure they didn’t have anyone who might be Del.

  The same thing happened an hour later, but I slept a lot longer. When I woke up, it was starting to get light out. My eyes were crusty and my sinuses felt raw, like I was getting sick.

  I had five numbers left and the sun had fully risen when a woman at the Wayne Medical Center responded, “Actually, yes, we did admit a young man last night who fits that description, the poor thing. Acute chimeric maladjustment syndrome.”

  The persona I had adopted for the calls crumbled, my throat constricted, my eyes welled up. Images flooded my brain, Del swollen and misshapen, his breathing even worse, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines trying futilely to keep him alive. Or hooked up to nothing, just lying there dying.

  “Let me just double-check that we don’t have an ID on him,” the woman said, putting me on hold. This time, I stayed very much awake.

  I allowed myself a minute to cry. I knew what I had to do. It might already be too late to get Del fixed. But if I could get to Wayne, at least he wouldn’t have to be alone. And maybe I could shame them into doing whatever it took to keep him alive, liability insurance be damned. I wiped my eyes and shook my head, trying to reassume my fake, businesslike demeanor.

  After several minutes the woman came back on. “Ma’am? We definitely don’t have an ID on him.” Through the ringing in my ears, I heard myself asking what room he was in, the pen in my hand hovering over the pad next to the words Wayne Medical Center and acute chimeric maladjustment syndrome.

  “I’m afraid I can’t give that information out over the phone,” the woman said.

  My polite voice thanked her for her help, and said I would just come in.

  Then I ended the call.

  That’s when the police arrived.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I didn’t recognize the sound when the door buzzed, otherwise I might have answered it myself. Instead I just sat there in a daze as Trudy walked by on her way to the intercom panel by the front door.

  She did a double take, frowning at me. “Have you been up all night?” she asked, but without waiting for an answer, she pressed a button on the intercom and said, “Hello?” She released it and held up a finger, telling me to wait, as she listened for a response.

  I heard a voice with the unmistakable tone of officialdom saying something about just asking a few questions, and Trudy pointing out that it was Sunday morning. The voice said it was important and it would just take a moment.

  After having spent two hours in an interrogation room, the thought of “a few questions” filled me with dread. I wondered if this had anything to do with what I had done to that guy Dietrich, and I seriously considered making a break for it, getting the hell out of there and making my way to the Wayne Medical Center. But if the police had information about Del, I needed to know it.

  Trudy looked at me, her “wait a moment” finger still raised, as she buzzed the gate open and went out onto the porch. When I got to the front door, she was explaining to two men in suits that, no, she was not my mother, she was my aunt, and that she didn’t feel comfortable letting them talk to me without my mother present.

  “How did you get this address?” she demanded.

  “A neighbor of the Corcorans in Oakton directed us here, ma’am.” I felt a stab of fear that Stan knew where I was, then let out a sigh of relief when he said, “A Mrs. Edwards?”

  “Well, I’m going to have to talk to Jimi’s mother before I let you ask her—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, peeking out from behind her. She paused and turned to look back at me, vaguely annoyed that I was undermining her efforts to protect me.

  “You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to,” she said.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  Trudy leaned close and whispered, “If they ask you about anything that could get you into trouble, say you need to talk to me in private, and you tell me before you tell them.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” she told them, stepping back so they could come in. “But I’m going to be right here the whole time. And if I don’t like where this is going, I’m putting a stop to it.”

  The detectives were young. One of them was handsome, with light brown skin, a scattering of dark freckles, and a playful smile. The other one had hooded eyes and what looked like a permanent scowl. I wondered if they’d decided who was going to play good cop or bad cop based on how they looked, or if over time they just started to look like the roles they played.

  “It’s really just a few simple questions,” the mean-looking one said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Corcoran,” said the handsome one. He turned the smile up a notch, and I wondered how much mileage he usually got out of that. “I’m Detective Washington of the Pennsylvania Bureau of Criminal Investigation. This is Detective Salvatore.” They both held up badges. “We’d just like to ask you a couple questions, if that’s okay.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  He smiled again. I was starting to think I liked the mean-looking one better. “Not at all. Our questions concern a friend of yours.”

  I nodded, trying to decide how much I should tell them about what Del had been up to over the last few days. I wondered how much worse trouble he could possibly be in, and whether any of it would help them find him. Or if they already had him in custody and were just building a case against him.

  “But first, how old are you, Ms. Corcoran?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And where do you go to school?”

  Trudy let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re using up your questions awful quick.”

  Washington gave her his charming smile. “We just need some background info.”

  I told him.

  “And when was the last time you saw Leo Byron?”

  “What?” I was stunned by the question. I hadn’t seen Leo since I was a kid.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about Del Grainger?”

  The detectives looked at each other. “Who’s Del Grainger?” Salvatore asked.

  “Leo Byron?” Trudy cut in. “Isn’t that your friend, the boy who had a crush on you when you were little?”

  “What? No . . . I mean, yes. But he didn’t have a crush on me. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You haven’t seen him in years?”

  “Not since he moved away.”

  “So, you haven’t—”

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Trudy said, clapping her hands. “It’s obvious that was the question you wanted to ask. You’ve asked it twice. You have your answer. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  I was still shocked. I totally hadn’t expected a question about Leo.

  The detectives stiffly thanked us for our help and Salvatore gave Trudy a business card.

  “If you see or hear from Leo, it’s important that you give us a call,” he said.

  Trudy gave him a big fake smile. “We surely will.”

  She had them halfway out the door by the time I snapped out of it enough to call out, “Is Leo okay?”

  Washington stopped, one hand on the door frame. “Actually, he could be in seri
ous trouble. If you see him, you’d be doing him a favor by letting us know.”

  “You didn’t need to talk to them,” Trudy said when she came back inside. “In fact, I wish you hadn’t. Here I am supposed to be taking care of you, and I let you speak to the police like that, after what happened with that chimera house the other day and without a lawyer present or your mom or anything.”

  “Sorry, I just wanted to know if they knew anything about Del.”

  She let out a deep sigh and eyed the breakfast nook. “Have you been calling hospitals all night?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I have to go into work, but I’ll be back in a few hours. If you get any leads, I can drive you wherever you want when I’m done.” I was about to tell her that I needed to go now, as soon as possible, that we were running out of time. But then she added, “After we call Del’s dad, of course.”

  “His dad?”

  “Absolutely. I know you’re not crazy about him, but if we find Del in a hospital somewhere, we have to let his father know.”

  It was as if she hadn’t been listening to half of what I told her the night before. I was speechless.

  “So, did you have any luck with the phone calls?” she asked. “Is there anybody out there who could be Del?”

  I knew Trudy was trying hard to be a good temporary parent, to figure out the right thing to do. But she was getting it wrong on this one.

  “No,” I said. “Not one.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Wayne was on the other side of the city, ten miles outside it, but it had a Levline stop and the medical center wasn’t far from it. Trudy had taken so long getting ready for work, I started to suspect she’d caught me in another lie and was messing with me. By the time she finally left, I had fifteen minutes before the next train. I watched her drive away, waited five minutes, then ran to the station. I got there with time to spare.

  The train took me past the Oakton stop, then the one I’d be getting off for school. Two stops after that was Silver Garden, where New Ground Coffee Shop was. It was a neighborhood of industrial buildings and row homes—one of the few neighborhoods in the city where artists and chimeras could still afford to live.