She was crying. I was crying. But Spoon didn't move.
I could hear sirens approaching in the distance. I turned and looked at Scarface and Sunglasses. Part of me hoped that they would make a move, because I wanted to shoot them for what they'd done.
They must have seen my face and knew. Neither moved.
I looked over at Ema. "Is he . . . ?"
"I don't know, Mickey. I don't know."
CHAPTER 39
I don't know how many hours passed.
When the cops showed, they surrounded me and told me to put down the gun. I did. The rest was just a murky haze. Sunglasses and Scarface were cuffed. Paramedics rushed over to Spoon. Ema sat, cradling his head, trying to stop the flow of blood. I ran toward him too because for a moment, a very brief moment, I feared one of the paramedics would be the sandy-haired paramedic who took away my father. I feared that he would wheel Spoon out of there and I'd never see him again.
"Mickey, what have you done?"
That voice, I knew, came from deep inside of me. I had been warned, hadn't I? Detective Waters had told me in no uncertain terms not to get involved, but I hadn't listened. It would have been one thing to put my life at risk. But look what I had done to Spoon.
I don't think I will ever forgive myself.
I don't know how many cops showed up. I remember the flashing lights from a long line of emergency vehicles slicing through the still night air. For the next several hours--I cannot tell you how many--I answered questions. I kept asking only one in return, over and over: How is he?
But they wouldn't tell me about Spoon's condition.
For the most part, I told the truth, but when they asked, "How did you guys get into the school?" I lied and said, "I forced open the door."
"Kid," the cop said to me in a grave voice, "breaking into the school is the least of your friend's problems."
Several officers came in and out, including Chief Taylor and even Detective Waters. The mood of the officers swung between pissed and pleased--pissed because we had been foolhardy and gotten Spoon shot; pleased because we had cracked the case of who shot Mrs. Caldwell and Rachel. Two hardened criminals had been apprehended and were going to jail for a long time. The surveillance cameras would see to that, plus the guns they used were Smith & Wesson .38s--the same kind used to shoot Mrs. Caldwell and Rachel.
At some point, Uncle Myron showed up. He took on the dual roles of panicked guardian and attorney. He immediately told me to stop talking to the police. But I waved him off. They needed to know. So instead Myron sat next to me and listened too.
The last person to interrogate me was Detective Waters. When he finished, I said, "Does this help your other case?"
"What case?"
"Mr. Caldwell. He's a drug dealer, right?"
Detective Waters glanced at Myron, then back at me. "That isn't your concern."
"Are you going to arrest him?"
"On what charge?"
I stared at him. "I just told you. The stuff in that gym bag--"
"What about it?"
"It came from his house."
"Do you have any proof? How are we going to prove any of that stuff belonged to Henry Caldwell? Maybe if you'd left it there and told us about it, maybe something could have been done. But now?"
He shook his head and walked out the door.
By the time Ema and I met up in the hospital waiting room, the sun was up. Uncle Myron and Angelica Wyatt had wanted to take us home, but we were not about to abandon Spoon. We sat in the waiting room. Ema and I were in one corner. Angelica Wyatt, decked out in sunglasses and a head scarf for disguise, and Myron kept their distance.
"Wow," Ema said to me.
"Yeah."
Her eyes were tinged with red from tears and exhaustion. I imagined that I looked the same.
"He's going to be fine," I said.
"He better be," Ema said, "or I'm going to kill him."
A few minutes later, I saw a thin black woman wander into the waiting room zombielike, looking worse than we ever could. It was Spoon's mother. We had never met, but I had seen her hug her son when I dropped him at his house. The devastation was written all over her face. Her eyes had that thousand-yard stare you sometimes see in war documentaries.
I looked at Ema. Ema took a deep breath and nodded. We rose together and started toward Spoon's mother. It seemed to take forever to reach her, like the more we walked, the farther she moved away from us.
When we finally arrived in front of her, Mrs. Spindel had her head down. We didn't know what to say, so we just stood there, waiting. A few seconds later, she looked up at me and when she saw who it was, a shadow fell across her face.
"You're Mickey," she said. "And you're Ema."
We both nodded.
"What are you doing here?"
"We just wanted to know how Spoon--I mean, Arthur--is doing."
She looked at Ema and then back to me. "He's . . . he's not good."
It was like my heart was on the top of a long staircase and someone shoved it off.
"He's out of surgery, but the doctors . . . they don't know."
"Is there anything . . . ?" I tried, but I couldn't finish. Tears started brimming in my eyes.
Spoon's mom said, "I don't understand why you were all at the school so late."
"It was my fault," I said through the tears.
Ema was about to add something, but I gave her arm a nudge.
I saw the shadow cross Mrs. Spindel's face again and then she said something I didn't expect but completely deserved. "Oh, I know it's your fault."
I squeezed my eyes shut, her words landing like punches.
"I never heard of you a week ago. Now you're all Arthur talks about. He wanted everyone to start calling him Spoon. He said his new friend gave him that nickname."
My heart crashed to the bottom step, and now a foot with a heavy boot stomped on it.
"You were Arthur's friend," she went on. "Maybe the first real one since the fourth grade. You probably don't get how much you meant to my son. He looked up to you. He worshipped you--and how did you repay him? You used him. You used him to break into some stupid locker and now look." She turned away in disgust. "I hope whatever was in there was worth it to you."
I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. But what could I say?
"I think," Mrs. Spindel said, "that you should both leave."
"No."
I turned toward the voice and recognized Mr. Spindel, Spoon's father.
She looked up at her husband and waited.
"Arthur just woke up," Mr. Spindel said, turning and meeting my eyes. "And he's insisting that he speak to Mickey."
CHAPTER 40
There were tubes and machines and beeping noises. There were curtains and antiseptic smells and monitors with green lights. I saw none of it. All I saw as I entered the room was my friend lying in the middle of all this horrible gadgetry.
Spoon looked so small in that bed. He looked small and as fragile as an injured bird.
Mrs. Spindel's voice--Oh, I know it's your fault--still echoed in my ears.
The doctor, a tall woman with her hair pulled back, put a hand on my shoulder. "Normally I would never allow it, but he's so agitated. I need you to make this short and keep him calm."
I nodded and slowly walked toward his bed. My legs felt rubbery. I stopped at one point because the tears were starting to come. I turned around, bit down hard on my lip, and gained enough composure. It wouldn't help Spoon if he saw me hysterical. To keep him calm, I knew that I needed to be calm.
When I got to the bed, I wanted to pick him up and take him home and make it somehow yesterday. It was all so wrong, my friend lying here in this hospital.
"Mickey?"
Spoon seemed suddenly to be straining to move. He looked distressed. I bent down low, close to him. "I'm right here."
He lifted his hand and I took it in mine. He was struggling to talk.
"Shh," I said. "Just get better, okay?"
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He shook his head weakly. I bent my ear to be closer to his mouth. It took him a few seconds but eventually he said, "Rachel is still in danger."
"No, Spoon. You saved us all. It's over."
Spoon's face tightened. "No, it isn't. You can't sit here doing nothing. You have to save her. You can't stop until we find the truth."
"Calm down, okay? Those two guys shot her. They're in jail."
I saw a tear escape his eye. "They didn't do it."
"Of course they did."
"No, listen to me. Get out of here and help her. Promise me."
Spoon was getting more agitated. The doctor rushed over and said to me, "I think that's enough. You should go wait in the other room."
She started to add something into his intravenous tube, a sedative, I guessed. I tried to let go of Spoon's hand, but his grip grew tighter.
"It's going to be okay, Spoon."
Nurses came to the bedside too. They tried to hold him down and pull me away.
"She was shot in her house," Spoon managed to say.
"I know, Spoon. It's okay. Calm down."
But he suddenly had new strength in his arm. He pulled me close, desperate. "You said they asked you which house was Rachel's. Remember? When you saw them that first time on the street?"
"Right, so?"
The doctor finished injecting the medication. The effect was immediate. Spoon's grip grew slack. I was about to pull away but now--
That the Caldwell house?
--Scarface's voice came back to me. Spoon looked up at me and managed to ask me the same question I was suddenly asking myself:
"So if those two guys had already been at the house, why would they ask you where it was?"
CHAPTER 41
Spoon was right.
I was hustled out of the room. Mr. and Mrs. Spindel were in the corridor. They rushed past me into the room. It took a few minutes, but Spoon was stable again. I thought I heard one of the nurses say something about his legs not moving, but I immediately shut that out. I couldn't deal with that. Not now.
When I got back to the waiting room, I grabbed Ema and pulled her to the side. We found a quiet corner away from the television.
"What happened?" Ema asked. "Is he okay?"
I quickly explained about what Spoon had said--if Sunglasses and Scarface had already been at Rachel's house when they killed her mother, why would they ask me which house it was?
"Maybe they were just, I don't know, playing with you," Ema said.
I frowned. "Playing with me?"
"Like a prank."
"'That the Caldwell house?'" I said, mimicking Scarface. "Does that sound like a prank?"
"I don't know. Maybe when they came the first time, it was dark."
"So?"
"So maybe they weren't sure where the house was during the day."
I frowned even harder.
"Lame, right?" she said.
"Very," I said. "There's a gate around that house. If you had managed to break in and shoot two people earlier, don't you think you'd remember where the house was?"
Ema nodded slowly, seeing it now. "And come to think of it, why would you break in and shoot them in the first place? Let's assume these two guys wanted the gym bag back. Wouldn't they, I don't know, try to beat the information out of them? What good would just shooting them do?"
"Exactly," I added, "and if you went there to get the package back, wouldn't you toss the place? They clearly wanted their money and drugs back. Why not search for it? Why just shoot the two people who could tell you?"
The official conclusion wasn't making sense anymore.
"There's more," I said.
"Like?"
"Like how come Mr. Caldwell was all chummy with them when I saw them at the house? I mean, he'd have to know they just shot his ex-wife and daughter, right?"
"Right." She shook her head. "We have to consider another possibility."
"What?"
"Let's just go back over this, okay? Rachel's father is a drug dealer. He was willing to keep his ex-wife locked up for years to protect himself. Now she comes back. Rachel gives her mom the benefit of the doubt and steals his cash and drugs."
Ema stopped. I stopped. It was right there in front of us, but neither one of us wanted to say it.
"He wouldn't shoot his own daughter," I said.
"Are you sure?"
"I just don't believe it."
"The man drew a gun on you."
"To protect her. Because he was worried about her."
We pondered that for a few moments.
"It could have been an accident," Ema said.
"How so?"
"Think about the whole scenario. Rachel's dad finds out his money and drugs are missing. He comes home and finds, to his surprise, that his ex-wife is there. They argue. He pulls out a gun, maybe they struggle. Rachel surprises them. Maybe he shoots Rachel accidentally."
It added up. And yet . . . "There's one more thing," I said.
"What?"
"What's up with Chief Taylor?" I asked. "Why has he been hanging around Henry Caldwell? Why does he keep worrying about what Rachel will say about the shooting? Is it just a coincidence he was first on the scene?"
"Wait," Ema said, showing me her palms in a double stop. "I mean, okay, I know we have our problems with him and Troy, but you're not suggesting . . . ?"
"I don't know what I'm suggesting. But Spoon is right. We have to get out of here. We are all in danger until we figure out who shot Rachel."
CHAPTER 42
Uncle Myron was quiet during the ride home. I expected a lot of questions and a long lecture, but because he sat with me throughout the interrogations, maybe he'd concluded that there was little more to ask.
I hadn't slept now in more than twenty-four hours. Fatigue was setting in, making my bones feel heavy. Uncle Myron pulled the car to a stop and said, "You were trying to help a friend."
It seemed more a statement than a question, so I didn't say anything.
"I get it," Myron continued. "The need to rescue people. I guess it's genetic."
I didn't know if he meant it came from him or my father. Or both.
"You think you're doing good. I get that too. But when you upset the balance . . ."
I waited. Then I said, "So you think, what, people should step back and just let things take their course?"
"No."
"So what's your point?"
"Maybe nothing," Uncle Myron said. "Or maybe I need you to understand that what you're trying to do isn't easy. It isn't black and white." He shifted in his seat. "Pretend there are a bunch of figurines on a shaky shelf."
I arched an eyebrow. "Figurines?"
"Just go with me, okay? If one of the figurines tips over and starts to fall, you should reach for it and try to catch it. But if you try too hard or dive after it too clumsily, you might knock down more figurines. You may save the first figurine but ultimately break more."
He looked at me. I looked at him. Then I said, "I have a question, though."
Myron grew serious. "Yes?"
"When you say figurines, do you mean like bobble-heads or those weird little Hummel kids that Grandma loves so much?"
He sighed. "I guess I was asking for that, wasn't I?"
"Because I don't think I'd want to save any of those," I said. "They creep me out."
Myron laughed. "All right, all right."
"Don't tell Grandma, okay?"
"Wise guy."
We got out of the car and went inside. I started heading down to the basement when Myron asked me one last question. "Does all this have something to do with Bat Lady or your wanting to exhume your dad's grave?"
It was a good question, and he had earned a truthful answer. "I don't know."
Down in the basement, I collapsed onto the bed. I had to block out Spoon. If I kept thinking about him lying in the hospital, I'd freeze up. Spoon had pushed through the pain and asked to see me for one reason. He didn't want us to quit. H
e wanted us to find out who shot Rachel. Much as I wanted right now to just curl up in a ball and give up, I had to honor that request.
So what was the next step?
My cell phone rang. When I saw on the caller ID that it was Rachel, I sat up, hit the green answer button, and put the phone to my ear. Her voice was distraught and angry. "How could you do that to me?"
"Rachel?"
"There are cops all over my house."
"Are they asking you questions about the gym bag?"
"They tried to, but my father won't let them talk to me. Why did you do this, Mickey? Why couldn't you just leave it alone?"
"We were trying to help. We were trying to--"
"You know what?" she snapped. "I don't want to hear it. I just called because I wanted to know how Spoon was."
I thought again about the look on Spoon's mom's face. Would I ever forget that? "I don't know. He's in critical condition."
"That poor kid."
"We were just trying to help find the shooters."
"Who asked you to do that?"
But I'd had enough of being on the defensive. "You know the answer to that, Rachel."
She did. The Abeona Shelter.
"We are all linked in this together. You could have trusted us. You could have told us about believing your mom and hiding that gym bag."
"I was trying to protect you," she said.
"And I was trying to protect you," I said, remembering Myron's dumb figurine metaphor. "Look where that got us."
Silence.
"You went to Abeona for help, didn't you?" I said.
"Yes. But Bat Lady told me to leave it alone," Rachel replied. "Like I could. Like I could just forget what my father had done to my mother--locking her away in a loony bin for all those years. So I hid the gym bag in the locker. Just until I could convince them that this was important to me or, I don't know, to buy some time. But I messed up, Mickey. I messed up and those two men came after my mother."
"No," I said.
"No what?"
"They didn't kill your mother."
"What are you talking about? Chief Taylor is here. He says the case against them is open and shut."
Chief Taylor again.
"What else did he say?"
"He told us they had the murder weapon. He said the ballistics test will show a match."
"Will show?" I said.
"Yes."
"How does he know what a test will show?"
"Because it's obvious?"
"They didn't do it, Rachel. Spoon figured it out. Whoever killed your mother is still free."
"That's impossible."