The Twelve-Fingered Boy (25 page)

This guy. Coming here. To threaten. To deal. For Jack.

Suddenly I'm furious, more furious than I ever thought I could be. I feel like burning embers have been placed in my chest, on my tongue.

I won't let him. I'll kick his ass out.

“No.” I hit him with everything I've got. A full mental barrage. “No deal.”

He sticks for a moment, but I rip at him, at the invisible tissues, the mental barbs and defenses. And he gives way before me. He gives way to my wrath.

I feel Biblical, casting out devils. I don't know. I feel beyond myself.

But I get a twinge that Quincrux is laughing, that he's amused. He knew I'd do it. And he let me. He goaded me into it.

The orderly shudders, blinks, and then looks like he's going to fall. I step forward, grab his arm, and ease him back into the guest chair.

“Where am I?” he says in a voice that's hopeless and utterly lost.

Life in the hospital is far worse than life at Casimir.

The food sucks. I mean, how can you mess up pudding? Or popsicles?

The empty-headed police officer infuriates me. He won't let me out of this room. I could force him, get inside that gigantic echoing cranium and pull some levers, but … I'd rather not. I'll have to do it eventually, to somebody. But I can't bolt until I make contact with Jack.

The nurses bug. Seriously. You can hear their thighs rubbing when they walk around in their squishy, lumbar-supporting shoes. They're always checking bandages or removing stitches. Sticking needles in my ass.

They released Jerry this morning. They forced him into a wheelchair and trucked him out, but not before he grabbed my hand.

“Shreve, you'll be a good boy, won't you?”

“Sure.”

“They can't keep you in here forever. Someone will be here to get you soon, I'm sure. It won't be long now.”

Understatement of the year. I think he meant it in a different way than it sounded to me.

I nodded.

“So, here.” He pressed something in my hand. A business card. It read
Jerry Aaronson, Asset Consulting
, with a phone number, e-mail, and website.

“What's asset consulting?”

“Eh. Just like it sounds. But don't worry about that.” He covered my hand with both of his. “If you ever need anything. Anything. You'll give me a call, right?”

“Sure. Can you take me with you?”

He laughed. You can see gold fillings and bridgework in the back of his mouth when he laughs. He's got a big laugh. To match his heart, I guess.

“If only I could. I need someone to beat at Double Shutter.” At that, Nurse Larsson cleared her throat, indicating it was time for him to leave. “Be good.”

I can't trust anyone. And I'm alone. No Jack, no Vig. No Coco. Not even Booth or Moms. I've always had someone to look after, or someone to rebel against. I don't know what to do with myself.

So now I'm back to watching the window.

On the inside, back in Casimir, you're never alone. There's always someone near, some kid pestering you, some bull eying you, your cellmate snoring—or going explodey, or getting interrogated by mind-jumping lunatics.

In the hospital there's even more noise and more commotion. But somehow it seems emptier. Lonelier.

That might have to do with all the antiseptics.

I'm not much for waiting. For watching.

But I don't have long.

I'm counting the birds and clouds when he lands on the opposite roof and starts looking around. He's got on a new jacket, puffier than the last, and a knit woolen hat pulled down around his ears. It looks cold out there.

I'm ready for him.

The nurses were kind enough to provide me with paper and markers during my convalescence. You know, because I'm just a poor little kid and of course I'd want to doodle and maybe turn over the drawings to the state-appointed head-shrinker. I dash to my bedside table, grab some of the paper, and write a big Q in black ink on one page. At the window, I slap it against the glass, Q facing out, and wait.

After a moment, Jack waves.

I write on another sheet IS HERE. Big capital letters.

Jack nods and points down.

I write YES and slap it on the window.

He makes the OK sign and then pantomimes riding a horse. No, not a horse. A broom.

I write NOT HERE. Then on another sheet, SHE LIVED.

I guess I've just discovered what newsmen and politicians have known for decades: lying is easier in print.

NORMAN DID TOO.

It's hard to tell across the thirty or forty yards that separate us, but I think Jack looks relieved.

He holds up his hands and makes a gesture. He's too far away for me to make it out.

WHAT?

He points to me, then himself, then fake runs.

YES. HOW?

He points up. At the roof of my building.

Oh. I don't know if I'm ready for this, but the point is irrelevant since I hear someone behind me clear her throat.

“Shreve? What are you doing?”

It's Nurse Larsson. For once her thighs remained quiet. Perfect timing for them to hush their whisking.

“Uh. Nothing.” I scoop up all the papers and crumple them up. “Just doodling.”

Behind Larsson stands the state shrink, come to talk, again. Helen Kristeva. She's good-looking, but she doesn't wear any makeup and she asks more questions than Jerome Aaronson.

She steps forward and says, “May I see?”

I ball up the paper, tight.

“Just doodling.”

“I'd like to see.”

“Maybe later.” You can't say no to these people. You have to make small compromises so their radar doesn't go up.

She smiles. It's a patient, I'm-here-to-listen smile. She pads over—wool socks with sandals—and plants herself in the guest chair where Quincrux questioned me.

This could be him. I have to check.

Entering her head is as painless as entering the bathroom and almost as clean. In this hospital, that's saying something.

Is it weird that someone who wants to get into my skull is so easy to penetrate?

“Let me guess. You've never been to Maryland?”

She looks puzzled. “No. Now that you mention it, I haven't. Is it nice?”

“No clue. I haven't been there either.”

She pulls out a notepad and scribbles something on it. Through her eyes I read what she wrote:
Conversation— Defense tactics
.

“It's not defense tactics.”

She looks surprised, cranes her head to peer behind her, checking for a mirror.

“So, how are you doing, Shreve?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah.” No reason to lie here. She's as clear as a glass of water. “Maybe a little bored.”

“I'd think you'd want your life a little calmer. You've been on your own for what? Three months now?”

“On my own? More like fifteen years. Or do you mean escaped?”

“Okay. Escaped, then. It must be a relief to be somewhere safe and secure.”

I'm about to ask her where that is but stop myself.

She scribbles
Paranoia
on her pad.

Am I that shifty? Is everything out there for display on my face?

I need to get back on script. I need to answer the way she expects me to answer. So she'll go away.

I'm itching to turn and look out the window, to see if Jack's still there. But if I do, she might see him. Or Larsson might see him while she's stripping the sheets on my bed. Anything they see here, Quincrux will pluck from their heads, as sure as sin.

“So, how are your wounds? Do they pain you?”

“My side hurts a little. I'm still numb in my hand.”

“You'll be starting physical therapy soon.”

“Yeah. That's what they tell me.”

Underneath
Paranoia
, she writes
Extremely wary— understandable—history of abuse
.

Jesus. This woman. I should make her stand up and dance a jig or something. Maybe start talking only in gibberish and have a seizure so she can get a taste of her own medicine.

Ah.

I can't do that.

Damn.

“You don't seem to want to talk about your wounds. Is the memory too painful?”

“What memory?”

“The Dubrovniks' house? When they wounded you.”

“No. That memory isn't painful at all. The girl is safe now, and the woman got what she deserved. And he'll get what he deserves soon.”

“Surely you must still have strong emotions regarding their capture of you.”

“They didn't capture me. I told this to the police. We…” Ooops. Almost let it slip. “I went there to save the girl. I broke in.”

More notes:
Persists in delusion.

“Where did you get your degree, lady? I am not persisting in my delusion. What exactly do you think happened there?”

“What I think isn't the point of this conversation.”

Responds to memory of incidence with aggression.

I throw up my hands. Either they're trying to keep me here, or they're trying to get me out of here as fast as possible and into the psych ward. I'm not an idiot. I read books. I watch the Discovery Channel. No one keeps a kid without health insurance in the hospital for this long unless there's something to gain. But what's being gained, I don't think I'll ever know. I don't even have the energy to dig around in her skull to find out.

Something's going on behind the scenes. And the fact that my face is on CNN every fifteen minutes isn't helping. Lucky for me, I'll be gone before it all plays out.

I shouldn't do it. I really shouldn't do it. But I do. I make her add a little something at the bottom of her notebook page.

I am a stupid cow.

She's not. But damn, she sure doesn't listen for a shrink.

By the time Larsson and Kristeva leave, it's night and I can't see if Jack's out there anymore. I have to assume he's squatting in the hospital complex, probably on a roof, but I'll have to wait before I know for sure.

The orderly brings a tray with stuff that looks like food but doesn't taste like it. I leave it on the rolling table, untouched.

I'm lying in bed when the meaty officer goes on break and is replaced by the skinny, weasel-faced policeman. He comes into the room, makes sure I'm here.

“Hey, sport. How ya feeling?”

“Fine. When are they sending me back to Arkansas?”

“No idea, kid. The news says you might stay here.”

“In the hospital?”

“Nah. North Carolina.”

“Why?”

“Trial.”

Like hell. I'll never get to the trial. Quincrux will stop me before I have a chance. Spirit me away or wipe my brain.

All signs point to get-the-hell-outta-here.

I let the weasel get his coffee and read the paper, kick back in his chair in front of my door. I'll let him have his nap and chat with the nurse whose thighs don't whisk. She's got nice legs for a nurse. I can give him that much at least. Because, after I use him, he probably won't be trusted to be a policeman anymore.

It sucks, but that's the way it's got to be.

The sun hasn't come up yet. It's lighter in the east, above the winking, electric glow of the hospital complex. There's a forest of buildings out there, and Jack could be watching from the roof of any of them.

A nurse comes in to peek on me, and I have to take her over. I have to, if I want to escape. To survive. I don't have time to pick and choose.

It's not an easy thing, possessing a person. I don't mean simply skimming the surface, reading her thoughts. I mean really getting in there and using her body, looking through her eyes, speaking with her mouth. Walking. Turning doorknobs. Even the simplest action produces so much sensory input, it's hard to retain control. Sometimes I find it hard to believe Quincrux could ever have controlled the whole yard at Casimir, but other times … That's like—I don't know—godlike power if he can do it. The witch's number of five seems more realistic, though still a bit out there. I'm so new to all of this. Maybe the trick is to enjoy it.