“Oh, Mom!” Marissa squealed as she wrapped her in a hug. “You’re the best!”
Mikey also squeezed her tight, and as she hugged them back, Yolanda felt the weight and worry of the past months lift.
Somehow they would get through this. As humiliating and dire as things were right now, they would get better.
And as she held her kids tight, there was one clear and present thought that made every other worry seem small.
At least her daughter wasn’t in a coma.
20—THE PLEA
Wanting desperately to tell Sammy about the Maybe-Not-Moving-to-Ohio Conversation because (unconscious or not) this was something her best friend would definitely want to hear, Marissa was tempted to make excuses and bolt from the condo. But the spaghetti dinner her mom had cooked smelled so good, and (for someone who had, until recently, survived on frozen meals while her parents worked endless hours) this whole “family dinner” thing her mom had started was … nice.
Even if it wasn’t the whole family.
Even if it meant doing dishes afterward (instead of simply throwing the microwave trays away).
She and Mikey had settled on a cleanup system where Marissa washed (because Mikey was awful at it and took forever) and Mikey dried (something he did with inexplicable speed and efficiency).
It had also become a time when they talked.
Well, mostly Mikey talked, but sometimes Marissa did, too, and she’d discovered not only that her brother was hilarious, but that he had become her steadfast champion. That he was willing to do battle with whoever gave her a hard time. And somewhere in the sudsing sessions she’d also realized that, although Mikey would always be younger than she was, he wouldn’t always be smaller; one day he’d be taller and stronger, and anyone who messed with her would have him to answer to.
So Marissa loved the homemade meals and didn’t mind the dishes, but tonight she was mostly glad she’d stuck around because she didn’t miss the six o’clock news. “Look!” Mikey cried as they were clearing the table. “It’s Justice Jack!”
The TV was still on in the kitchen and Marissa unmuted it as quickly as she could, but although the screen showed an image of the self-proclaimed superhero, it was Zelda Quinn’s voice that came through the speakers, not Jack Wesley’s. “… is back in Santa Martina to help get to the bottom of this horrible crime, and, as you can see, he’s not alone in his support.” As the shot panned around the ICU waiting room, Zelda’s voice continued. “The girl who was hurled three stories and is clinging to life in Community Hospital’s intensive-care unit is no ordinary teen. According to these fans, both young and adult, she’s something of a superhero herself. One who has quietly and consistently helped her community without fanfare or even public recognition. Instead of wearing the flashy get-up of a traditional superhero, she disguises herself as an ordinary teen and keeps a low profile.”
“That’s you!” Mikey squealed, pointing at Marissa’s bowed head in the panning footage.
“Look at all those bears,” Yolanda whispered.
“What are you guys doing?” Mikey asked.
“Shhhh!” Marissa hissed.
So the kitchen fell quiet again, except for Zelda’s voice. “Her friends and even the ICU staff are writing messages to this special girl as an extension or adaptation of something her boyfriend started with her shoes.”
“They’re showing her shoes?” Marissa gasped as Sammy’s high-tops displayed on the screen. “Oh, that is creepy.”
“So who is this girl?” Zelda asked. “This surreptitious superhero in the scribed shoes? It seems only fitting that her name is also a deception—a nickname that would have you believing she is something she’s not. It also seems fitting that her father—who wears similar shoes—was, until recently, a well-kept secret himself.”
“Sammy’s going to hate this,” Marissa whispered, because Zelda Quinn was clearly winding up for the pitch.
“Was he there?” Yolanda asked, and Mikey added, “Darren Cole?” like he was totally on top of everything that was going on.
Marissa nodded, and again she said, “Sammy’s going to hate this.”
“I’d do it if I were him,” Yolanda hurried to whisper. “I’d do anything to catch who did it.”
Marissa glanced over, and sure enough, the emotion she’d heard in her mother’s voice was backed up by glassy eyes.
Then Zelda threw her curveball, starting with a shot of Darren’s shoes. “Maybe you know him as the man who sang ‘Dusk Before Dawn’ or ‘Watertower’ or any of the hits that have been a soundtrack in so many of our lives”—the camera panned up to a full shot of Darren’s face as the voice-over continued—“but today Darren Cole says he’s not a rock star or a Troublemaker. He’s just a dad. A man who needs your help.”
And then Darren’s voice was in. “I can’t even begin to explain how special Sammy is,” he said. “But if you’re a parent, just imagine it’s your kid that’s hurt. Please help. Think back to last night. Talk to your friends. If you know anything, saw anything, have heard anything, speak up. I’m begging you, please speak up.”
“That’s it?” Marissa whispered when the shot cut away.
“That’s enough,” Yolanda sniffed.
Contact numbers appeared on-screen as Zelda Quinn made a final in-studio plea to help “break the case wide open,” and then a commercial for Mattress Mania’s big-big-big weekend sale began blaring.
Marissa zapped off the TV. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital,” she said softly.
“I’m going with you,” Mikey said.
Yolanda nodded. “So am I.”
Then Mikey added, “And not ’cause of Justice Jack, either.”
Marissa studied her brother. “No?”
He gave a little shrug. “Sammy’s my friend, too. And all the stuff she’s done?” He shook his head. “She never even wore a cape.”
Mikey McKenze wasn’t the only one who did a double take at the sight of Justice Jack on TV. “Hey, Sarge!” a young officer called from the police station’s break room. “You’re gonna want to see this!”
Gil Borsch hurried to join the cluster of officers gathered around the television, and immediately cringed at the sight of the flamboyant (and unauthorized) crime fighter. “You gotta be kidding me!” he groaned. “Like I haven’t got enough to deal with?”
And when the plea from Darren ran, the Borschman (already choked up from seeing Sammy’s shoes) quickly exited the break room with a gruff “Great, just great. Now the phone’ll be ringin’ off the hook with leads to nowhere,” and returned to his desk to continue with his dissection of Marissa’s list.
To his disgust he’d already learned that most of the perps Sammy had been instrumental in catching were (incredibly) flying free. Or, at least, out on parole. And the ones who weren’t … Well, gangsters had a reputation for ordering hits from behind bars.
As did mobsters.
So the task of analyzing and researching the List had been alternately sobering and horrifying. Especially with the breadth and magnitude of the crimes Sammy had managed to solve consolidated onto one sheet. While individually her involvement in each case had been impressive (albeit terrifying for the dangers she’d faced), collectively it was mind-boggling.
How had she managed to get tangled up in all of these cases?
How had she figured them out?
How had she survived?
And with the chilling thought that perhaps she would not survive after all, Gil Borsch redoubled his efforts, certain that the teens were right.
Somewhere on the List was the key to who had done this to Sammy.
Aside from those attending the box-wine party on the fifth floor of the Highrise (where the wrinkled residents were completely oblivious to the removal of their besieged manager), and aside from the mob of teens (which had grown in size and relocated to Cheezers Pizza, where overhead televisions conveyed what they’d missed at the hospital), there was a young girl on Cypress Street and an
old woman in Sisquane who also saw the broadcast.
The young girl (recognizing Sammy’s shoes) informed her mother that she wanted to go see Sammy immediately, and that she wanted to bring her sheepdog.
The old woman (recognizing Sammy’s friends and the style of the shoes) didn’t need parental permission. She simply set off to the hospital on foot, with her two-hundred-pound pet pig, Penny, walking along beside her.
Now, Mr. Jan DeVries had been in regular contact with his daughter Dot (or, really, Margaret, as he used her real name, not her nickname). And having learned from his daughter that she would not be coming home for dinner, he decided to deliver some goodies to the group of teens to sustain them during their vigil.
He also hoped to obtain some more definitive information regarding Sammy’s condition from adults who were sure to be hanging around, but that was secondary to wanting to support his daughter and her friends.
Friends who’d shown themselves to be true-blue.
If not a little wild.
But that was okay.
Fourteen wasn’t so long ago that he couldn’t remember what it was like, or how good friends at that age made all the difference in the world.
So down the road he went in his bright green DeVries Nursery delivery truck with a bag of Dutch treats in a sack at his side. And as he tooled down the road that led from Sisquane to Santa Martina, he spied something up ahead.
Something that did not belong in his lane.
“No,” he said, leaning forward for a better look. “Not again!”
But a better look was really not necessary. Quite simply, there was only one hunched-over old lady who would walk a monstrous pig down the highway.
“Lucinda,” Jan DeVries called after he’d pulled over ahead of her and was heading toward her.
The old woman stopped short and held on to her black velvet hat as she straightened enough to look at him. “You again?” she asked, then continued on her way. “Still haven’t found your manners, I see.”
“I’m sorry … Mrs. Huntley,” the Dutchman said as she moseyed past him. And then, certain that her age or the heat or simply her visual focus had disoriented her, he told her, “You’ve taken a wrong turn, ja?”
“They’ve moved the road to Santa Martina?” she asked. “Since when?”
“You can’t possibly be walking to Santa Martina!” Jan DeVries exclaimed.
“Oh, can’t I?” the old woman said, turning a blue eye up to challenge him. Then she spoke to her pig (who’d been distracted by the earthy aroma of the Dutchman’s jeans). “Come along, Penny.”
Now, Jan DeVries was familiar with stubborn.
After all, he came from hardy Dutch stock.
But this was something else entirely. Something even he, with all his vast experience in stubborn, didn’t know how to handle.
“Mrs. Huntley!” he called (as she’d continued her trek and was already past the truck).
When she didn’t respond, he shook his head and muttered, “Why in the world …,” but then it clicked. The last time he’d been in this situation, Sammy had been inside the truck.
As the recollection flooded back to him, he remembered how much Sammy had done for the old woman.
How she had saved Mrs. Huntley’s property.
And her pig.
And if there’s one thing Jan DeVries knew for sure, it was that, good or bad, the stubborn never forget.
“You’re going to the hospital, ja?” he asked when he caught up to her.
She eyed him again. “If that’s where you’re headed, you could offer a lady a lift, you know.”
“But … they won’t let a pig inside the hospital!”
“Oh, won’t they now?”
“No! They won’t!”
“Penny has special powers, you know. Healing powers.”
Jan DeVries weighed his options and concluded that he couldn’t in good conscience just leave Lucinda Huntley to walk into town. It was miles and miles away. Even he wouldn’t walk it.
(He would bike it, sure, but what self-respecting Dutchman wouldn’t?)
So his choice was clear, and at last he caved.
“Let me give you a lift,” he sighed.
“Why, thank you, young man,” she said (with questionable sincerity). “I’ll ride in back with Penny.” She gave him a coy little smile as she adjusted her hat. “Like I did before.”
And rather than worry about transport laws or potential consequences, Jan DeVries simply lowered the truck’s lift gate and powered the woman and her pig up, up, up, and inside.
Then he closed them in tight, climbed into the cab, and headed for town.
In addition to Sammy’s friends, there was one other significant person who had seen the six o’clock news.
He had changed his hair and glasses, was wearing newly swiped blue scrubs, and was just biding his time in the hospital cafeteria when the famous rock star made his plea.
As soon as it was over, he stood and quickly bussed his tray.
He needed to end this.
End this now.
21—DUSTY MIKE
While Jan DeVries was dealing with Lucinda Huntley and her pet pig, Janet Keltner was also trying to convince someone not to bring her pet to the hospital. “Elyssa. Honey,” she said to her young daughter, “they won’t let you bring a sheepdog inside.”
But like Lucinda Huntley, Elyssa Keltner was not so easily dissuaded. “But Sammy loves Winnie! And Winnie wakes me up every morning with kisses! I’m sure she can wake Sammy up, too!”
Janet Keltner cringed at the thought of Winnie’s monstrous tongue lapping at poor Sammy’s face. “They won’t let Winnie in, sweetheart. Winnie stays home.”
“Mo-om,” Elyssa said (with a distinct whinny), but then a rat-a-tat-tat … tat-tat at the door completely redirected the young girl’s focus. “It’s Dusty Mike!” she cried, and raced to open the door.
“Dusty Mike” Poe stood on the Keltners’ porch with a heavy heart and an ancient hoe. “Evenin’, Lyssie,” he rasped, and then over the young girl’s head he asked Janet Keltner, “Have you heard?”
A gravedigger by trade, Dusty Mike worked as a groundskeeper at the cemetery. His vocal cords had been permanently damaged while he was trapped (and left to die) inside a crypt. And with his voice, his odd manner, his uneven gait, and his raven-like appearance, Mike Poe often unintentionally frightened people.
But Janet Keltner knew him to be a kind, gentle soul. She called him the graveyard’s guardian angel, as he was someone who watched over (and cared very much for) the dead.
She also knew exactly why he was now asking what he was asking.
“We’re on our way over to the hospital now,” she told him. “Do you want to come with us?”
Dusty Mike nodded.
So Janet put the dog out, locked the house, and hurried toward the driveway. “The hoe stays here, Mike,” she instructed, after which he grudgingly hid the ancient tool behind shrubbery for safekeeping.
At the hospital, the threesome found the ICU waiting room to be strangely quiet. “I can’t believe nobody’s here,” Janet whispered. “On the news it looked like the place was packed!”
Nurse Scrabble (who was on her way out for a quick smoke) happened to overhear the comment. “It’s the first time all day,” she said, then stopped short. “Are you here to see Sammy Keyes?”
Janet Keltner smiled. “Yes, we are.”
“No one under twelve permitted,” the nurse said, eyeing Elyssa. Then she raised an eyebrow at Janet. “And don’t try to tell me she’s twelve.” And before Janet could utter a word, Nurse Scrabble called, “Age alert!” toward the nurses’ station and went on her way.
“Darn,” Janet Keltner whispered. “I knew that, too. I’m just not thinking straight!”
“I’ll watch Lyssie if you want to go,” Dusty Mike offered.
Janet thought a moment, then asked her daughter, “Is there something you want me to tell Sammy?”
“Tell her
to wake up!” Elyssa said.
“Okay,” her mother laughed. “I will.” And after stopping by the nurses’ station (where she learned Sammy was “stable” and that “the family” was consulting with doctors), she headed down to Room 411, where Marko was sitting, alone.
“Hi,” Janet said, and after the two had introduced themselves and exchanged their connection to Sammy, Marko said, “Hey, I need to go find some coffee. It’s been a long day. If Darren and Lana show up while I’m gone, could you tell them I’ll be right back?”
“Sure,” Janet said, and then was suddenly alone in the room.
Now, Janet Keltner worked in a nursing home, so seeing people dying (or dead) was nothing new to her. And although a person who is exposed to it day in and day out develops a certain tolerance to the end-of-life experience, all her years at the nursing home did nothing to prepare her for the slug of emotions that hit when she turned her focus on Sammy.
She had no idea Sammy would be so covered in gauze.
Or seem so helpless.
So … small.
Maybe it was all the teddy bears arranged around her, but suddenly Sammy didn’t seem that much older than her own daughter.
“Elyssa is right outside,” she whispered, trying to sound upbeat. “They won’t let her in because she’s too young, but she’s here and she says to tell you to wake up. Actually,” she said, fighting through the growing lump in her throat, “she wanted to bring Winnie to lick you awake. Funny, huh?”
But to Janet it wasn’t funny at all.
This was … tragic.
And although she wanted to say more, the lump was now extreme and there were tears forming, so she simply kissed Sammy on the forehead and escaped the room, grateful that the rules had prevented Elyssa from coming inside.
On the way back to the ICU waiting room, Janet Keltner took a few minutes to compose herself, then sat with her daughter while Dusty Mike checked in at the nurses’ station and took his turn.
And the gravedigger might have had the same reaction to Sammy’s state as Janet had, but what helped him transition from the Sammy he knew to the one dwarfed by gauze and tubes and teddy bears was the distraction of another person in the room. A man in blue scrubs, rearranging Sammy’s pillow.