Seconds Away

  "Mickey?"

  "What?"

  "Do you think the shooting is connected to what happened at the nightclub? I mean, are we in danger too?"

  "I don't know. But we should probably be more careful."

  "How?"

  She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and hope. I flashed back to Wednesday, to the knife against her throat, how close Ema came to dying. My heart crumbled anew. I was about to offer up some lame statement about not worrying, that we'd come up with some answer, but I was mercifully interrupted.

  "Hello, comrades. Even on this terrible day, it gives me great pleasure to see you."

  It was Spoon. He always held his tray close to him, afraid that someone would intentionally knock it out of his hands. This was our table in the farthest corner of the "bleachers"--Ema, Spoon, and yours truly. Spoon put down his tray and pushed up his glasses. His eyes were red, but he wasn't crying.

  "So," Spoon said, "do we take on the case?"

  Ema frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "Rachel was shot."

  "We know," Ema said.

  He looked at her, then at me, then at her again. "So it's agreed then?"

  Ema again asked, "What are you talking about?"

  "Rachel. She's part of our group."

  "No, Spoon," Ema said, pointing toward the table of varsity jackets and cheerleader sweaters. "She's part of that group."

  Spoon shook his head. "You know better."

  That silenced Ema.

  "We have to act," Spoon said.

  "Act how?" I asked.

  "What do you mean how?" He stuck out his chest. "We need to find out who shot her. This is too important. We cannot rest until we find out who committed this terrible deed. We should make a pact--we do not quit until we know the truth and Rachel is safe."

  Ema sighed. "Ready to rescue the pretty girl, I see."

  Spoon wiggled his eyebrows. "I'm a hero to all the babes." He turned to me. "What do you say, Mickey?"

  "We don't even know where she is," I said.

  Spoon smiled. "I do."

  That got our attention. Ema and I leaned forward. Spoon just smiled. We waited. Spoon smiled some more.

  Finally I said, "Talk, Spoon."

  "Right, sorry. My father. You know he's the head custodian at this school, right?"

  "Of course we know," Ema snapped. "Get on with it."

  "Ah," Spoon said, raising his namesake in the air, "but do you know about the custodial network?"

  "The what?"

  "The custodial network. It's probably too intricate to explain in detail, so let me give you the basics: Janitors talk to one another. They are the eyes and ears of any establishment. See?"

  Spoon stopped and waited for a reply.

  I said, "No."

  Spoon sighed. "Another janitor in the custodial network is friendly with my father. This particular janitor--his name is Mr. Tansmore--works at Saint Barnabas Hospital in Livingston, New Jersey. He told my dad that's where Rachel is currently residing."

  "Did he say how bad her injuries were?" I asked.

  "Negative. But he did say she had a gunshot wound. Here's what I suggest: We go to the hospital after school and visit her."

  I looked back at Troy Taylor. He was studiously ignoring me, but his best buddy, Buck, was giving me the stink-eye. Buck pounded his fist into his palm and mouthed the words Dead man in my direction.

  I reacted by yawning back at him, patting my mouth in full pantomime.

  "Tired?" Spoon asked.

  "No. That was directed at Buck."

  Spoon frowned. "Buck's tired?"

  Yep, Spoon could be maddening.

  "Just forget it, Spoon."

  "Forgotten," Spoon said. Then he leaned in and said, "Well?"

  "Well what?" Ema replied, clearly irritated.

  "Do we go to the hospital after school? Do we try to figure out what happened to our fallen comrade?"

  "Are you out of your mind?" Ema said. "You don't just waltz into a hospital and visit a shooting victim. You don't even know if she's allowed visitors or wants visitors--and if she did, she'd probably want her close friends, not us. On top of that, the police, including Troy's father, are working on the case. Real, live law enforcement officers."

  Spoon wiggled his eyebrows again. "The police weren't the ones who brought down Buddy Ray at the Plan B nightclub. We were."

  "And we were almost killed," Ema said.

  "Fear not, fair maiden." Spoon slid his chair closer to her. "I saved you once. I can do it again."

  "Don't make me punch you," Ema said.

  I said nothing.

  Ema looked at me. "You're not seriously considering this, are you?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Suppose we can help."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "We may be in danger too," I said. "We can't just stay on the sidelines. You said it yourself. We're all a part of this."

  "No, I said you and I are a part of this. And I was talking about that paramedic and the Butcher of Lodz and maybe Bat Lady. I wasn't talking about Rachel Caldwell." Ema rose. "I gotta go to class."

  "What? Lunch isn't even over yet."

  "It is for me. I got things to do."

  She started to walk away.

  Spoon said, "What's up with her?"

  "Got me."

  "Women." Spoon nudged me with his elbow. "Am I right, Mickey?"

  "As rain, Spoon."

  "Right as rain," Spoon said. "While no one is sure, the expression probably derives from our days as an agrarian society. See, most agriculture relied on rain since other means of irrigation were not yet available--rain was, well, right. Others though believe it's just a good alliterative, what with the two rs . . ."

  I was no longer listening because I was watching Ema. When she walked past the "luxury box" table, Troy Taylor, who was supposedly mourning his injured girlfriend, cupped his hands around his mouth and said, "Hey, Ema. Mooo!"

  Troy started laughing. So did a couple of his buddies.

  Buck, also known as Mr. Follower, said, "Yeah, Ema. Moooooo!"

  Someone else at the table joined in as Troy accepted high fives.

  I stood up, feeling the anger rise. I started to move toward Troy and Buck. My hands clenched into fists, readying to do battle. But when Ema turned and looked back at me, I pulled up. There was something in her eyes, some sort of defiance and sadness.

  Our eyes locked. I saw something there, but I really couldn't say what exactly. It moved and confused me at the same time.

  Ema mouthed the word Don't.

  I stood there for another second, but now I knew. I had to sit back down.

  Ema turned and walked away, ignoring the cruel cackling behind her. I thought about that look in her eyes, the hurt, and something told me that it had nothing to do with Troy or his immature name-calling.

  "Mickey?"

  "Yes, Spoon."

  "Contrary to popular belief, cows do not have four stomachs. They have four digestive compartments."

  "Thanks for clearing that up for me," I said.

  CHAPTER 9

  There was still ten minutes until lunch ended. I headed outside to shoot some baskets. The same two flyers were posted everywhere. The first--the one most of the students were getting all excited about--had a surprisingly sexy photograph of Angelica Wyatt on it:

  AUDITIONS FOR EXTRAS

  TWO DAYS ONLY!

  MAYBE YOU'LL MEET ANGELICA WYATT!

  Be a Star--Even for a Few Seconds!

  Pass, I thought.

  Plus all my attention--all my focus--was locked in laserlike on the second flyer:

  BASKETBALL TRYOUTS MONDAY!

  3PM

  MEET in GYM 1

  Juniors and Seniors ONLY will try out for Varsity Freshmen and Sophomores will try out for JV

  Funny. Despite what happened the past few days, I still cared about basketball. I guessed that I would start off trying out for JV, but at the risk of sounding immodest,
I didn't plan on staying there very long.

  I took a few shots by myself. I didn't want anyone at my new high school to see me play before tryouts. Don't ask me why. I traveled almost every afternoon to play pickup games in a tough section of Newark. That was where I'd been honing my game.

  As I mentioned before, my uncle Myron was a great player--the leading scorer in this school's history, a first-team collegiate All-American, a first-round NBA draft pick by the Boston Celtics.

  But according to my father, I was better.

  We would see. That was the beauty of basketball. It wasn't about talk. It was about what happened on the court.

  I was about to head back inside when I saw the now-familiar black car with the tinted windows pull up. I stopped and waited. That car. That car with the weird license plate. The car that had been following me since this all began. The car that held that mysterious bald guy. The car that had taken me yesterday to see Bat Lady.

  It was back.

  I waited for the bald guy with the freshly shaved head to get out. He didn't. The bell would ring in another minute or two. What did they want now?

  I started toward the black car. When I got closer, the back door opened. I slid inside. The bald guy was there. The divider was up so once again I couldn't see who was driving.

  "Hello, Mickey," Shaved Head said.

  I had had enough of him and his sudden appearances. "Would you mind telling me your name?"

  "How are you feeling?" he asked me.

  "Fantastic. Who are you?"

  "We understand Rachel was shot."

  I waited for him to say more. He didn't. I studied his face. He was younger than I'd first thought. Thirty, thirty-five at the most. He had strong hands and sharp cheekbones, and he spoke with an accent I usually associated with snooty prep schools.

  "Wait a second," I said. "Is Rachel getting shot related to you guys?"

  "You guys?" he said.

  "The Abeona Shelter."

  I had recently learned that my parents were not merely fun-loving nomads who traveled the world and did the occasional good deed. They ran covert operations to rescue children in danger as members of a clandestine organization called the Abeona Shelter.

  Abeona was the Roman goddess who protected children. The organization's secret symbol was the Tisiphone Abeona--a rather exotic butterfly with what looked like eyes on both wings.

  I found the butterfly in that photograph of the hippies at Bat Lady's house. I found another in one of Ema's tattoos. And I found yet another at my father's gravesite.

  Bat Lady seemed to be the leader. Shaved Head worked for the organization too. And now, it seemed, the Abeona Shelter had recruited my friends and me. Two days ago, we rescued a girl from a terrible fate. But it hadn't been easy.

  "It seems apparent," Shaved Head said, "that you've become very fond of Rachel Caldwell."

  "So?"

  "So how fond?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Has she given you anything?"

  I made a face. "Like what?"

  "A gift. A package. Anything."

  "No. Why would she do that?"

  Shaved Head said nothing.

  "What's going on here?" I asked. "Why was Rachel shot?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't believe you," I said.

  "Believe what you will. These are the risks we all take."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You take risks. She warned you about that." She. He meant the Bat Lady. "But you can walk at any time."

  "I don't understand. Why were we chosen to join you?"

  He shrugged and looked out the window past me. "Why are any of us chosen?"

  "That's deep, really, but you're avoiding the question. Spoon, Ema, Rachel, me--why us?"

  "Why you?" He continued to look out the window. His jaw clenched and for a moment, he looked totally lost. Then he added something that surprised me: "Why me?"

  The bell rang. He opened the door.

  "Hurry back to class," he said. "You don't want to be late. And, Mickey?"

  "What?"

  "Whatever you do, don't talk to your uncle about us."

  CHAPTER 10

  Giggles from random classmates accompanied Spoon as he approached my locker at the end of the school day.

  I just stared at him for a moment. Then I said, "What are you wearing?"

  Spoon frowned. "What does it look like?"

  "It looks like surgical scrubs."

  "Exactly," Spoon said. He smiled widely. "It's the perfect disguise to get us into the hospital. I can pretend to be a doctor, see?"

  I'm tall--six-four--and I weigh about two hundred pounds. Spoon was small in pretty much every way. He was the kind of thin that looked too fragile, like a strong wind might snap a bone. His glasses were never quite on straight and looked too big for his face.

  I can easily pass for older than sixteen. Spoon could still buy movie tickets as a "child under twelve" without making the cashier bat an eye.

  "So are we going to see Rachel?" Spoon asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  He grinned. "You can call me Dr. Spoon. You know, to keep us in character." He glanced left and then right. "Where's Ema?"

  I'd been wondering the same thing. I scanned the corridor in search of her. Nope. I had sent her a text to meet up here so we could all take the bus together, but she hadn't replied.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "So it's just you and me?"

  "I guess. Wait, I thought you were grounded."

  "Yes, but today I have a meeting of the MILF club."

  I stopped. "Uh, excuse me?"

  "Musicals I Love Foundation. I don't like to brag, but I'm founder and president of the club."

  Oh boy. "You might want to change the name."

  "Why?"

  "Forget it."

  He rubbed his chin. "I guess I can raise it at the next meeting."

  "How many other members are there?" I asked.

  Spoon looked confused. "There's supposed to be other members?"

  I closed my locker.

  "You want to join?" Spoon asked. "You can run for vice president. I love musicals, don't you? Next week, Dad's taking the whole club to see the new Frank Wildhorn musical. Do you know who he is? Jekyll and Hyde? The Scarlet Pimpernel? I love the song 'This Is the Moment,' don't you?"

  He actually started singing it.

  "Yeah," I said, so he'd stop. "I love it."

  I quickly sent Ema another text--PLEASE COME WITH US.

  No response.

  I took another look down the corridor and sighed. "I guess it's just you and me."

  "Shrek and Donkey!" Spoon shouted.

  "Uh, yeah."

  "Better yet"--Spoon snapped his fingers--"Don Quixote and Sancho Panza! Do you know who they are? Forget the book, I'm talking about the musical. Man of La Mancha? You're the brave Don Quixote and I'm his squire sidekick, Sancho. By the way, the play won the Tony for Best Musical in 1966, but you probably knew that, right?"

  I didn't know about the Tony Award in 1966--who did?--but weirdly enough, I did know the musical and the story. For once, a Spoon analogy made perfect sense: Don Quixote had been delusional and, well, insane.

  I took one more look down the hall for Ema. Nothing.

  "Come on," I said.

  Dr. Spoon and I walked toward the bus stop at Northfield Avenue. When we made the turn, I almost cried out in relief. There, waiting at the stop with an impatient frown, was Ema.

  I ran up to her and gave her a hug. "Ema!" She seemed surprised by the hug. Then again, so was I.

  "You came!" I said.

  "Of course I came. If you two do this yourself, you'll just mess it up."

  Spoon came over and became the third guy in the hug. When we all let go, Ema looked at Spoon's outfit, then looked at me. I just shrugged.

  Spoon spread his arms. "You like it? Sexy, right? Like that TV character."

  "Dr. McNightmare," Ema said.


  While we rode the bus, I filled Ema and Spoon in on my meeting with Shaved Head in the black car. They listened in silence. When we got to Saint Barnabas Medical Center, we tried the direct route: just walk in. That, not surprisingly, did not work. There was a front desk that demanded both a picture ID and a reason for being there, several security guards, and even a metal detector.

  Ema frowned. "Who wants to sneak into a hospital anyway?"

  "People steal medical supplies," Spoon said. "They try to steal computers or medications or records--"

  "I was asking a rhetorical question, Spoon."

  "Oh."

  She looked at him again. "Wait, is that a stethoscope around your neck?"

  "Why, yes," Spoon said, rather pleased with himself. "Part of my disguise."

  "Where did you get . . . ?" Ema looked over at me. I just shook my head as if to say, It's not worth it. She stopped.

  "So now what?" I asked.

  Spoon said, "Follow me."

  So we did. We walked back outside and around the back. There was a big metal door that only opened from the inside. Spoon knocked on it three times, stopped, knocked two more times. We waited. Spoon raised his eyebrows, then gave the door two more knocks.

  A man wearing a green janitorial jumpsuit opened the door. He looked out at us with a scowl. "What do you want?"

  "Mr. Tansmore? It's me. Arthur." Then Spoon actually took the stethoscope off his neck, like maybe Mr. Tansmore wasn't able to see him through this clever disguise. "Arthur Spindel."

  I'd forgotten that Spoon's real name was Arthur, even though I'd only given him that nickname a few days ago.

  "Oh, hello, Arthur," Mr. Tansmore said. He looked out to make sure no one else was in the area. Then he said, "Come on in. Quickly."

  We did.

  "See?" Spoon whispered to me. "The custodial network."

  Mr. Tansmore led us down into the basement. When we reached the bottom step, he turned and said, "You're not up to no good, are you, Arthur?"

  "No, sir."

  Tansmore didn't like it, but he didn't seem all that interested either. "If you get caught--"

  "We never heard of you," Spoon said. "Don't worry."

  "Okay. Wait here five minutes, then do whatever it is you need to do."

  "Thank you," Spoon said.

  "Right. Make sure your dad knows--"

  "It's already taken care of," Spoon said.

  I looked at Ema. She shrugged. We do that a lot around Spoon.

  Spoon asked, "Do you know anything new about Rachel Caldwell's condition?"

  Tansmore just shook his head.

  "How about what room she's in?"

  "I don't know." Mr. Tansmore had a deep voice. "She's under eighteen, right?"

  "Right."

  "So she'll be in the pediatric wing. Probably on the fifth or sixth floor. I got to get back to work."