“The doctor will be the judge of that,” the nurse said sternly.
Soon Meg was on an examining table, still strapped to the shutter, waiting for the attending physician. He showed up a few minutes later — a hurried, frazzled internist with twelve hours of work to cram into an eight-hour shift. He checked her for broken bones and concussion, treated her scrapes and contusions, and gave her a shot of antibiotic to prevent infection. Ouch.
Meg didn’t argue. Health care was a rare luxury for fugitives, and God only knew she needed some. There was very little chance of the doctor recognizing her. Somehow, the man managed to examine her without ever really looking at her. He wouldn’t have known the difference if she’d been an injured baboon. He was finished and gone in a couple of minutes.
The nurse stuck her head into the room. “Be with you in a sec, hon.”
That sec, Meg realized, was her window of opportunity to get out of there. The medical part of this visit was over. When the nurse returned, she would be armed with nosy questions about parents and insurance and hospital bills.
The time to take off was now.
Meg bolted down the hall and through the doors that separated Emergency from the rest of the facility. She was in the heart of Tillamook County Medical Center. Her brother was here somewhere.
But where?
Aiden gave up struggling against the restraints after a few minutes. Harris was right. It really was like being nailed to the bed. It wasn’t a torture device — the straps were soft enough and didn’t cut into his wrists. But there was no give in them whatsoever. Here he was and here he’d stay, until somebody decided otherwise.
“I warned you,” Harris said mildly.
“You’re a real hero,” Aiden seethed. “You’re a regular Justice League when the bad guys are locked away or strapped down, and you’ve got backup guarding all the doors.”
“You’re making a mistake treating me like the enemy,” Harris informed him. “Did it ever occur to you that those cops are there for your protection?”
“Protection from what?” Aiden snorted. “They should be protecting me from you!”
“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a certain bald man with a grudge who keeps turning up in unexpected places, trying to kill you and your sister. What makes you so sure he won’t go after Margaret? What makes you think he won’t come here?”
Aiden couldn’t hide his surprise. “You know about Hairless Joe?”
Harris was amused. “We’re the FBI. It’s our business to know things.”
“Like you knew about Frank Lindenauer? He’s a terrorist, and he framed my parents!”
The agent looked him squarely in the eye. “I intend to get to the bottom of that. That’s the truth, whether you believe me or not. But a fat lot of good it’ll do your family if you and Margaret get killed. Give your parents the choice — life in prison or two dead kids. What do you think they’ll pick?”
Aiden made no reply. On that issue, J. Edgar Giraffe was exactly right.
Harris read his hesitation as secrecy. “Do you know something about that bald guy? Who is he? Why is he after you?”
“He probably hates our family,” Aiden shot back. “Because everybody hates our family — thanks to you.”
Harris sighed. “All right, don’t cooperate. I just hope you realize I’m on your side before it’s too late.”
They lapsed into a long silence. Aiden was torn. He couldn’t get over the feeling that on some level this tall rangy fed was trying to help.
Are you crazy? He’s J. Edgar Giraffe! He doesn’t care what happens to us. He just wants another promotion.
Yet everything the FBI man had told him was ringing true.
Held in place by the wrist restraints, he studied his captor’s face. Harris looked like he hadn’t slept since last Christmas. He was probably younger than Mom and Dad, but his face was lined, and the bags under his eyes were drooping toward his knees. His clothes were rumpled, and his entire posture was bone weary.
I guess this chase is almost as exhausting for him as it is for us. Aiden took some small satisfaction from that.
He watched in amazement as Harris’s eyelids began to droop. The agent slipped a few inches lower in his chair, stretching his long legs halfway to the door.
Aiden couldn’t believe it. Was he falling asleep? On the job?
It wasn’t exactly snoring, but a regular rhythmic breathing began to issue from Harris’s open mouth.
There was no question about it — he was out!
Aiden wanted to howl his agonized frustration to the four winds. J. Edgar Giraffe was dead to the world. There could never be a better chance for Aiden to recapture his freedom.
And he was tied to the bed.
* * *
Meg crept down the corridor, wound hardball-tight by a mixture of fright and frustration. She’d been all over this lousy hospital, risking discovery with every step out in the open.
Think! Would the police put a captured fugitive in a ward with other patients? No, and definitely not in a pediatric ward with kids.
They’re holding Aiden alone somewhere.
That’s what she needed to find — a private room with a cop at the door.
A cop. She was going to have to get past a police officer. She knew instantly that fast-talking wouldn’t work. The CNN report had made that clear. The authorities were looking for her.
Her brow knit. She could never overpower a fully grown adult.
Ambush, then. I’ll sneak up and whack him over the head.
The thought made her nauseous. The Falconer siblings had broken the law many times to keep their quest alive. But except for self-defense against Hairless Joe, they’d never had to harm anyone before.
She ducked into a supply closet. No way was she going to knock a police officer unconscious without some kind of weapon. Her eyes fell on a portable oxygen tank. She picked up the narrow cylinder. Perfect — no sharp edges, solid, but not so heavy that it was likely to do any permanent damage.
She selected a dinner plate from a shelf of dishes and cutlery. A crude plan was taking shape in her mind. Frisbee the plate into a wall, and when the cop came to investigate — wham! Not exactly a chess-master strategy, but it just might work.
She found a posted layout of the hospital labeled EAST WING. Patient rooms were marked with small pictures of beds. The wards had six or eight each. Farther down the hall were smaller squares, with a single bed each.
Bingo.
She memorized the course — two left turns and a right. The fear was nothing short of mind-blowing. The oxygen cylinder seemed to swell in her sweaty palm until she felt like she was holding a missile.
She peered around the corner. The corridor was empty. A sign read ROOMS 101–136. This was the place. But there was no cop.
Should I throw the plate to draw him out?
No — not yet …
Her pulse a drum solo, she began that long walk. She was totally exposed now. If anyone stepped out into the hall, she’d be a sitting duck. Without the element of surprise, she wouldn’t have a prayer.
Every time she passed a doorway, she expected to be accosted, grabbed, arrested.
It can’t be this easy….
One seventeen — the first private room. Barely daring to incline her head, she peered sideways through the open door. There was a man in there — at least she thought it was a man. He was encased from head to toe in a full body cast, suspended on the bed by a system of wires and pulleys. Two haunted eyes gazed out at her from holes in the plaster.
Creepy. But at least this unfortunate wasn’t likely to come after her.
She kept going, checking doors on both sides. Patients, the occasional visitor — her heart did a genuine backflip.
In an armchair in room 109 sat the last person Meg had expected — or wanted — to see.
Agent Emmanuel Harris of the FBI.
Her high-voltage panic triggered a flight instinct as basic as anything in the animal king
dom. The reaction was instant: Danger became escape. She pounded along the hardwood, past the body-cast man, away from the private rooms.
Jazzed with adrenaline, she wheeled around the corner, brandishing the oxygen tank. Fight or flight? That was the question.
Then she noticed something. Hers were the only footsteps. Holding her breath, she doubled back and peeked down the hall. No Harris.
Had the agent simply not seen her?
Impossible! He was in a chair facing me!
Her sneakers scarcely touching the floor, she retraced her steps to room 109. The doorway beckoned like the mouth of some pharaoh’s tomb, promising untold rewards but also unspeakable danger. Trembling, she inched toward it. Maybe she’d been mistaken before. Maybe that wasn’t really Harris….
Oh, sure, like it’s possible to misidentify an eight-foot-tall cop you watched and hated through every second of Mom and Dad’s trial — and who starred in your every nightmare since.
She squinted into the tiny gap between the open door and the frame. Yes, it was him, all right. And Aiden in the bed, looking miserable, but healthy. Thank God for that, anyway.
She did a cartoon double take worthy of Bugs Bunny. J. Edgar Giraffe was slumped in the chair, fast asleep!
No. The world didn’t work that way. This was too good to be true. Some kind of trap.
If the situation hadn’t been so deadly serious, she might have laughed out loud.
Silently, she stepped around the door into the room. Aiden very nearly cried out at the sight of her, gesturing frantically at the dozing Harris.
I see him, she thought irritably. Overjoyed as she was to be reunited with her brother, she couldn’t avoid a stab of annoyance. Like I could overlook a slab of meat the size of a bull moose.
She noticed the restraints that held Aiden down. The straps looked complicated. If Harris woke up while she was busy freeing Aiden …
Take care of J. Edgar Giraffe first.
Reluctantly, she reared back the oxygen cylinder, ready to slam it down on the agent’s skull. Aiden was so horrified he very nearly lifted off the bed, restraints and all. He shook his head vehemently, mouthing the word “no.”
Wasn’t that typical Aiden? To be weak at the very moment they had to be strong. This — Harris, asleep — was a gift. A stroke of luck when luck was in woefully short supply for anybody named Falconer.
Does he think I’m enjoying this? Braining a sleeping man? If I hit the creep too hard, I could fracture his skull. Maybe even kill him. It’s something I wouldn’t want to do to my worst enemy!
Of that, Meg was certain. There was no question that right now Emmanuel Harris was her worst enemy.
She swallowed hard and began to swing the instrument down. And froze.
A glint of light reflected off something metal hanging out of the agent’s blazer.
Handcuffs.
She hesitated. You could be throwing away Mom and Dad’s last chance at justice.
Safer to knock Harris out. He’d probably be fine. It was certainly no more than the big jerk deserved.
Yet a basic decency deep inside her — and Aiden’s silent pleas — prevented her from striking the blow. They were the Falconers — the good guys, no matter what people said about them.
You don’t cause injury when there might be another way.
She dropped to her knees and set the cylinder and plate gently on the floor. Meg had always been a good pickpocket. She’d once swiped her father’s wallet right out of his pants to pay the Domino’s delivery guy. Absorbed in a Mac Mulvey writing marathon, Dad had been totally clueless until a steaming slice of pizza had been waved under his nose.
With the touch of a surgeon, Meg twisted her index finger around the chain, slowly drawing the cuffs out of Harris’s jacket.
Wait. Something’s wrong. It feels too heavy….
As the steel shackles emerged from the coat, she saw that a cell phone was wrapped in the chain. Suddenly, the handset came loose. With a lightning motion, Meg caught it just before it clattered to the floor.
She caught a petrified look from Aiden, but Meg’s eyes were on Harris. The agent stirred, smacking his lips softly. She waited for the world to end.
It didn’t happen. The big man resettled himself and slumbered on.
She stuffed the phone in her jeans and turned her attention to the cuffs. Where was the key? Barely breathing, she fished around the jacket as much as she dared. She pulled out an FBI badge and set it back inside like it was coated with acid. The mere touch of it burned her fingers. That agency had destroyed her family.
Car keys. Another piece of the escape puzzle fell into place. But what about the handcuff key? None of this was going to work if Harris could unlock himself.
Wait — what was this? She probed down with two fingers and came up with a small silver key.
Bull’s-eye.
There was a radiator next to the chair. Meg took one cuff and fastened it around the heavy coil. Aiden’s eyes were like saucers, but he never uttered a peep, silenced by awe and fascination.
The opposite cuff dangled over the arm of the sleeping agent.
One, two, three …
Meg snapped the shackle around Harris’s wrist and squeezed with all the power of her anger against this man. The mechanism tightened with a series of clicks. Hard steel pressed into soft flesh, and he came awake with a cry of pain.
He leaped to his feet and was yanked back by the cuffs connecting him to the radiator. Meg retreated beyond his reach.
He gawked at her. “Margaret!” To her amazement, his first words expressed not rage but relief. “You’re okay!”
“Okay?” In an instant, Meg had amassed enough rage for the two of them. “Is that what you think I am? Let me tell you something, mister. I am pretty far from being okay, and it’s all thanks to you!”
Harris rattled the cuffs against the radiator. They held fast.
Meg was warming to her topic. “Our poor parents are rotting in jail; we almost got killed, like, fifty times — ”
“Meg!” Aiden interrupted. “Undo these restraints so we can get out of here!”
“I can help you!” Harris pleaded, struggling against the shackles. “I believe you!”
She removed the strap from Aiden’s left arm. “Then why are Mom and Dad still in prison?”
“It isn’t that simple. I’m not the whole government — ”
She pulled off the other restraint, and Aiden sat up. “Your face — ” he began in concern.
Meg shrugged. “You can’t hitch an ambulance ride without bleeding a little.” She turned back to Harris, who had given up battling the cuffs and was riffling through his pockets with his free hand. She held out the silver key. “Looking for this?”
“I can protect you,” the agent persisted. “You’re not safe on your own!”
“I’m not the one with the radiator charm bracelet,” Meg retorted. “I am clumsy, though.” She stepped into the tiny bathroom, tossed the key into the toilet bowl, and flushed. “Oops.”
That was enough for Emmanuel Harris. “Emergency!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Cop in trouble! Room one-oh-nine!”
The Falconers exchanged dismayed glances. As long as Harris could yell for help, he was not yet defeated.
“Let’s fly!” Aiden hissed.
They barreled into the hall, slamming the door urgently behind them.
“Stop them!”
The hospital was insulated for sound, so the foghorn voice was muffled.
But nobody can ignore that kind of hollering forever, thought Aiden, taking his sister’s arm and dragging her away from the scene of the crime.
A nurse appeared in a doorway. She looked at them and then glanced farther down the hall in the direction of the ruckus. Aiden could see the uncertainty in her eyes. Should she detain the kids or see to the patient?
The caregiver in her sent her scurrying toward room 109.
The fugitives took off. A couple of quick turns and they
were pounding toward the main lobby and freedom.
“Hold it!” Aiden wrestled Meg into a cleaning closet just before the reception area.
“What’s the holdup, bro?” Meg rounded on her brother amid the mops and buckets. “I’ve got his car keys!”
“There’s a cop outside the entrance,” Aiden explained breathlessly. “He’s already nailed me once.”
“What about a different door?”
“They’re at every exit — Harris’s orders.” Aiden could have kicked himself. If I hadn’t made that lame escape attempt, J. Edgar Giraffe never would have posted guards, and we’d be home free right now.
“Climb out a window?” Meg suggested.
“They don’t open wide enough.” Aiden racked his brain. How could two kids get past cops who were there for one purpose — to stop two kids?
“Have you still got Harris’s cell phone?”
She stared at him. “You want to call somebody now?”
Aiden took the handset, flipped it open, and accessed the call log. Sure enough, the display identified the last number dialed as TILLAMOOK CO. SHERIFF. He keyed it in quickly.
“Sheriff’s office.”
“This is the medical center,” Aiden said in his deepest voice. “We’ve got your FBI agent handcuffed to a radiator in one-oh-nine.” He broke the connection.
Meg was appalled. “Why are you helping Harris? We need all the head start we can get.”
“Watch.” Aiden opened the closet door a crack, and they waited. Less than a minute later, the uniformed officer from the front door rushed by, heading for room 109. The coast was clear.
The Falconers were out the door and into the parking lot in a heartbeat. Meg was already poking at the door opener button on the keyless remote. There, by the driveway, stood a white Buick Century with rental car stickers, flashing its lights at them.
Meg tossed her brother the keys. “Still remember how to drive?”
He had only driven once before in his life — a stolen Chevy Tahoe from New Jersey to Vermont. Back then, he’d believed that his first experience behind the wheel would be his most desperate.
The Stowaway Solution Page 8