Parched, the words came out a bit strangled. “They do?”
Nodding his head a few times before speaking, Blakeley smiled. “Back in my day, I would've beaten you up for it, you know, just for the hell of it,” he confessed, but then his smile faded. “But now, well, good for you for being true to yourself.”
The heat in Michael's body lingered, but now it was mixed with a burst of pride, a much more pleasant feeling. “Thank you, sir,” Michael muttered. If only his father could extend him the same encouragement, if only his father could muster up the same empathy, if only Imogene weren't standing in the middle of the road. Imogene!? “What the hell?!”
Swerving to the right, Michael careened into the field that bordered the narrow road. He punched the brakes once, twice, but there wasn't enough traction on the grass, and the car veered from side to side. “Howard! Get control of this bloody car!”
“Can't you see?!” Michael shouted back.
“See what?!” Blakeley asked, looking all around but clearly not seeing the dead student.
Michael couldn't remember what he had read in his driver's education manual about how to control a car when entering into a skid, so he was unable to keep the Honda from spinning on a hidden patch of ice. Without warning, they spun around in a complete circle. The entire time Blakeley yelled and cursed at Michael for his stupidity, but Michael didn't hear him, he was fascinated by Imogene, who was now floating in midair a foot above the hood of the car, spinning in the same direction, and wearing an expression that was so empty, so lost, that Michael took his eyes off of her only when he saw Fritz a second before the car hit him.
“Fritz!” Michael screamed, hitting the brakes even harder.
Jumping out of the car before it came to a complete stop, Blakeley raced over to where Fritz had fallen, but he couldn't immediately find him. “Ulrich! Where are you?!”
“Avalanche!”
Moving in the direction of the voice, Blakeley found Fritz lying on the ground, almost completely concealed by the tall blades of grass. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Avalanche!” Fritz cried out again.
“What the hell are you talking about?!”
“His comic book!” Blakeley whipped around to see Amir Bhatacharjee grabbing at pieces of paper that were swirling around in the wind. “ âArchangel Avalanche.” It's the latest issue!”
As the coach bent down to assess how badly Fritz was hurt, Michael scoured the area for Imogene, left, right, up, down, but she had disappeared. Was she trying to communicate with him again? Was there something else that she needed to tell him, show him? For now, any questions Michael wanted to have answered would have to wait, there were more practical matters to attend to, like getting Fritz to the infirmary.
“Howard!” Blakeley barked, his arms positioned underneath Fritz's armpits. “Grab his feet, but be careful!”
Michael did what he was told, gently taking hold of Fritz's ankles. Following Blakeley's lead, he stood up slowly and walked backward toward the car, all the while studying his friend's face to make sure he wasn't hurting him. But Fritz looked far from incapacitated, on the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying the ride. “I'm so sorry,” Michael said. “Are you all right?”
“You could've killed him!” Amir shouted as he scurried alongside them, picking up the last of the pages.
In midair being transported into the car, Fritz disagreed. “I'm fine! You only nicked me.”
Greatly relieved that Fritz was conscious and seemed to have only a few minor cuts and bruises, the color started to return to Blakeley's face. However, he wasn't willing to let Michael off the hook. “You know all those things I said about you in the car?” Michael nodded. “I take every one of them back!”
“Hey, coach,” Fritz said from the backseat of the car, his legs propped up on Amir's lap. “Seriously, I'm okay.”
Closing the driver's side door with a loud thud, Blakeley wheeled around and leaned over the seat, his hand gesticulating wildly, the color in his cheeks now a deep red. “Oh, really?” he asked. “Then do you mind telling me what the hell you two were doing out here? And if you tell me you had permission to be off school property, I'll make you swim a hundred laps every day until the end of term!”
No stranger to run-ins with authority figures, Fritz had learned long ago that it was always best to confess when backed into a corner or when trapped in the backseat of a car. He explained to Blakeley that since he knew the fence would be disengaged, he figured it would be the perfect opportunity to sneak out of school, go into town, and see if the general store would sell his comic books. “The owner let me leave a few copies in the magazine rack, you know, as an experiment to see if they generate any business,” Fritz offered.
“Really?” Michael asked. He was going to ask exactly how many issues he was able to leave, but Blakeley threw him a look that made Michael think it was better to remain silent.
“So if you wanted to,” Fritz said, “you could look at it as sort of an internship.”
“Well, I don't want to!” Blakeley shouted.
“Sorry, coach,” Fritz said sincerely. “It really was a successful outing and if you have to reprimand me, go ahead, but Amir was only along for moral support.”
He had heard enough. Blakeley turned around and started the car, revving the engine violently, and jerking the transmission stick into drive. “I'll deal with all three of you later,” he barked. “Right now I want to see what the doctor has to say about that leg of yours.” Speeding back onto the main road toward the entrance gate, Blakeley added, “And so help me God, if he says you need time off from swim practice, I'll break both your legs!”
Â
At the moment, the doctor had nothing scientific to say, nothing that had to do with medicine or logic or reason. All that was on his mind, all he ever found himself thinking about lately, was the fantastical message Alistair had left. Now standing in his office with Ronan, he felt he was finally getting nearer to the bottom of the mystery. “It took you long enough to come around,” MacCleery said, wiping his eyeglasses vigorously with his shirttail. “What finally made you realize I'm not just some crazy old man?”
“I never said I didn't think you were daft,” Ronan huffed. “I just want to know what you meant when you said there's evil here at Double A.”
Lochlan felt tremendous relief. Ronan was trying to be evasive, but the doctor could tell he believed him. Finally he could unburden himself, he couldn't keep the secret any longer; he had spent too many sleepless nights, spent too many days paranoid that he was being watched, scrutinized, singled out. He was desperate for an opportunity to share his information with someone and here it was, it didn't matter that he didn't trust Ronan, it didn't matter that Ronan was a student and one of the people Alistair wanted to protect. He was someone who wanted to know the truth and even if he wasn't the perfect confidant, he would do. “Here,” MacCleery said, shoving the crumpled note in his face. Intently he watched Ronan read the words and he could see their effect in his eyes. He believed them, he understood they were real. Whatever secrets this kid was hiding, he knew that evil exists. “Do you still think I'm crazy?”
If I told you everything I know,
Ronan thought,
you'd think I was the one who should be put in the loony bin.
“You found this in Hawksbry's office?”
“Yes, after he disappeared.”
Killed, you mean, but why quibble over semantics?
“And you haven't shown this note to anyone else?” Ronan asked.
“You're the first.”
Enough questions,
MacCleery thought,
I need answers.
“Do you think Alistair was talking about Zachary?”
Staring at the doctor, Ronan truly didn't know what to do. He didn't even know why he was here. Joining forces with this man whom he didn't completely trust, who he knew disliked him, might not be a wise move, but he knew what havoc David was capable of creating, and if Michael's father was on David's side, the threat was closer than ever before. He couldn't ignore the issue any longer. He had to take action. He just wasn't sure he should act with MacCleery. Until the doctor convinced him.
“I wish I had never read that blasted note,” MacCleery admitted. “But I did and I can't forget Alistair's words. I'm a doctor, and doctors make wrong things right again. That's what I'm trying to do here, but I need your help, Ronan. I can't fight this . . . this
evil
if I don't know where it's coming from.” Suddenly the doctor was very tired. Awkwardly he reached behind him to find his chair and slumped into it. “I'm not the type of man to ask for help, but that's what I'm doing now.” He struggled to say the words, words he couldn't remember the last time he spoke, but he had no choice. He couldn't continue alone. “Help me.”
Ronan felt something for the doctor he never thought he would feel. Respect. “Yes.”
Startled, Lochlan wasn't sure he heard him correctly. “Yes . . . yes what?”
“Yes, I think Hawksbry was talking about David Zachary in this note.”
Fighting the fatigue that clutched at his body, Lochlan stood up, weary but hopeful. Now maybe he could make sense of Alistair's gibberish, now maybe he could protect the children like he wanted him to. But he couldn't do anything until he first took care of his patient.
Before MacCleery knew who had burst into his office, he ripped the note out of Ronan's hand and shoved it into his pants pocket. He thought that his movement was swift and unseen, but he was wrong. Amir saw his quick action and the wave of fear crest over the doctor's face. Whatever was on that paper was a secret and worthy of protection and definitely something worth mentioning to the headmaster.
“He got hit by a car,” Blakeley announced as he and Michael placed Fritz on the examining table.
“It scraped me,” Fritz clarified. “I don't even think it broke any skin.”
Rushing to Michael's side, Ronan thought he should be the one on the doctor's table. He looked a little pale, weak, guilty. “Were you driving, Michael?”
Nodding his head, Michael wanted to explain what had happened, but this was definitely not the time or the place to discuss surprise visits from the dead. “I'll explain what happened later, but it really wasn't my fault and nobody was seriously hurt.” Then Michael realized he wasn't the only one who needed to offer up an explanation. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
Lie, tell the truth, Ronan didn't know what to do. However, when he looked around the room and saw Amir staring at him, he knew he shouldn't say anything that he wouldn't want to have repeated. “I'm fine,” Ronan replied. “I'll tell you the rest later.”
“There's nothing wrong with the patient,” MacCleery announced.
“Thank God!” When Phaedra ran into the room and saw Fritz lying on his back, the doctor leaning over him, her heart did something strange, it tightened and along with that came a rush of emotion that she was only beginning to understand. These feelings she was having for Fritz were growing stronger every day, and when she got Michael's text telling her that Fritz was being rushed to the infirmary, her mind immediately filled with despair. She couldn't help but think the worst, and she dropped everything to rush to his side. So this was what it's like to be in love? It might prove to be her most difficult task yet.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? How is he, doctor? He's going to be fine, isn't he?”
When MacCleery didn't respond, Phaedra started to panic. “Are you going to answer me?!”
“I wasn't sure if you were done asking questions,” the doctor replied calmly.
“I'm sorry,” Phaedra blushed. “I'm just a little scared, I guess.”
Softening at Pheadra's obvious concern, MacCleery told her there was nothing to be worried about. “Your boyfriend's going to be just fine.”
Unable to control herself despite the crowd, Phaedra threw her arms around Fritz and kissed him several times, the last one more tender than the others and right on his lips. Fritz was definitely embarrassed, especially when he saw Blakeley fold his arms and scowl, but he was also ecstatic, he finally found a girl who actually made him get embarrassed. Reaching out to grab Phaedra's hand and make sure everyone saw him do it, Fritz smiled proudly. “Not that I'm complaining,” he said, “but how'd you know that I was here?”
“Michael sent me a text.”
“Thanks, Nebraska,” Fritz said. “I owe you another one.”
Smiling sheepishly, Michael stole a glance at Ronan.
No need to thank me, Fritz,
he thought
. Just make her as happy as Ronan has made me.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for how Michael was about to make Ronan feel.
“Oh, Ronan,” Phaedra said, not letting go of Fritz's hand, “Saoirse told me to tell you happy birthday.”