“I’ll cut him, yo.”
Considering the wildness of the moment, his voice is dull and flat. Not a threat, but a statement of fact. Terence doesn’t speak, but his eyes are full of horror.
DeAndre pans the apartment, taking in Healy and Roxanne. “Who’s this, your grandpa? And your sister. Real Hallmark.”
“What do you want?” Arjay sputters.
DeAndre shuffles forward with Terence, never relaxing the deadly position of the knife. “We’re taking the yo for a little heart-to-heart. It’s got nothing to do with you, so just mind your own business while we walk out of here.”
Healy, the only adult present, can keep silent no longer. “Now, wait one minute!”
“Step off, old man!” DeAndre thunders. “I got no beef with you—yet. On the couch—everybody! It’s all over soon, so long as nobody does anything stupid.”
Arjay hesitates, but with the blade at Terence’s jugular, they have little choice. The big boy allows his captors to hustle him into the living room. Warily, Healy and Gecko follow. Terence shoots them a look of frenzied pleading.
Terence, you idiot! Gecko wails inwardly. Why’d you have to do this to yourself? To all of us!
He has never been a Florian fan—their partnership has always been a forced affair, fed by necessity, not any kind of friendship. Yet Terence’s own words resonate in an endless loop in his brain: You watch out for your dogs…
“Nice and easy,” DeAndre approves. “Relax, watch a little TV. Don’t mind us, we’re just leaving.” He continues to shove Terence in the direction of the door.
Gecko reaches for the TV remote, sitting on the set next to Healy’s old bowling award. The decision is made in a fraction of a second, the reaction time of any good getaway driver. Gecko snatches up the trophy, watching in satisfaction as the bowler breaks off yet again. Before anyone has a chance to see the exposed metal spike, the missile is airborne, flung with all his strength at the razor-cut boy.
The point buries itself in DeAndre’s forearm. A howled curse, and the knife clatters to the floor.
It’s the break Terence has been waiting for, and he doesn’t squander it. Just a blur, he’s gone—not toward the door, which is blocked by DeAndre’s henchmen, but into the large bedroom. In a flash, the window is open, and he’s scrambling onto the fire escape.
For a heartbeat the world stands still, as combatants on both sides process this latest development. Then there’s a mad stampede after Terence. DeAndre stoops to pick up his fallen knife. Healy lunges for it, sending it spinning out of reach with a desperate kick. His legs slide out from under him, and he goes down beside the wreckage of the trophy. DOUGLAS HEALY—2ND PLACE. This thing is his?
Arjay throws off his captors as easily as he might shrug out of a jacket and joins the race for the window. DeAndre gets there first, with Gecko hot on his heels. Arjay fights one against four to clamber onto the wrought-iron landing. Healy picks himself off the floor and brings up the rear.
Roxanne grabs his arm. “You’re not ready for this! You just got out of the hospital!”
Healy shoots her a helpless look and climbs over the sill. His sneakers come down on the slats of the fire escape, creating a deep percussive gonging.
He pulls up short. I’ve heard that sound before!
He takes in his surroundings, pop-eyed with discovery.
I’ve been in this place before!
Once the dam has been breached, nothing can hold back the flood of memory. It’s a deluge.
Roxanne stares in horror from the bedroom. Healy’s expression might be that of someone whose head is being crushed inside a vise. The danger forgotten, she’s out the window and at his side. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m—” He teeters on the landing, unsure of the very gravity that connects him to the planet. “I think I’m—who broke my bowling trophy?”
He’s interrupted by a cry from below as DeAndre vaults over the railing and drops onto the fleeing Terence. The two crash to the stairs, fists already flying in full-on combat. A moment later, Gecko is in the middle of it, pounding and being pounded. Arjay’s tree-trunk arms wade into the fray. It’s a full-fledged brawl, a brutal wrestling match perched thirty feet off the ground.
Punches rain on Gecko like hammer blows. They’re outnumbered five to three against tougher, street-hardened competition. DeAndre has Terence against the steps, forcing him under the rail to a devastating drop.
“Hey! No!” Terence cries in terror, his torso twisting in midair, his arms flailing for something to hold on to.
“Hang on!” Arjay gets a massive hand around Terence’s ankle and pulls back with his considerable brawn.
“Oof!”
A knee connects with Arjay’s groin, and he’s writhing in agony. Two pairs of arms take control of Gecko from behind. As quickly as that, the battle is lost. Healy’s trio is at the mercy of the crew from New York.
The razor-cut boy’s voice is liquid nitrogen. “Throw them off.”
Sudden blinding light turns the night into day as the drama on the fire escape is caught in the nexus of two powerful flashlight beams.
“NYPD—freeze!”
Deputy Chief Delancey and his driver, a uniformed patrolman, peer up at them from street level.
DeAndre’s assessment of the situation is quick and decisive. “Only two cops!” Releasing Terence, he vaults to the next landing, the rest of the crew hot on his heels. The five leap from the second floor, kicking over trash cans to create a buffer between themselves and capture. One twists his ankle and sprawls on the pavement. The others hurdle the debris and sprint for freedom.
They have just pounded onto the sidewalk when two squad cars screech to a stop directly in front of them. Their only move is to jump backward to keep from being run down. Four officers appear, guns drawn. It’s the work of only a few seconds before DeAndre and company are up against the wall in handcuffs.
Delancey trains his flashlight on the figures on the fire escape. “All right, the rest of you come down. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Roxanne peers over the rail. “Uncle Mike—it’s me!”
The deputy chief lets out a sharp exhalation of relief. “Roxie—thank God! Did anybody hurt you?”
“I’m fine!” she calls back. “These are the good guys!”
Delancey is not convinced. “According to the staff at Bronx County Psychiatric, not even you’re the good guys. Where’s Douglas Healy?”
Healy stands up. “Right here. These boys are in my charge. I remember everything now.”
“Sounds pretty convenient. Who was in charge of them while you were John Doe?”
The uncomfortable silence is punctuated by slamming of car doors as DeAndre and his crew are locked in the cruisers.
“It isn’t as bad as it sounds,” Roxanne ventures finally.
The deputy chief shakes his head grimly. “Let me be the judge of that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
After the counting of heads and checking of IDs, at last Delancey is satisfied that everyone is who they claim to be. He releases the cruisers with their collars, and instructs his driver to wait in the car.
The officer is dubious. “You sure about that, chief?”
“Not really,” he admits. “But I can’t resist a good story, and I have a feeling I’m about to hear an epic.”
Upstairs in the apartment, the celebration over the return of Healy’s memory is tempered by the fact that they’ve been caught. And that can mean only one thing.
“I don’t care,” Gecko says bravely. “Everything that happened was our fault, and now you’re okay. Going back to jail is a small price to pay.”
“We’re so sorry,” Arjay adds. “Can you ever forgive us?”
The group leader looks unhappy. “God, you guys—I know what it’s like to be in your spot. Everything I did was because I was there once myself. But I don’t know if I can help you out of this one.”
Terence can barely lift his gaze
off the floor. “It’s all on me, Mr. Healy. These guys—they tried to do the right thing. I’m the one who kept screwing up. It’s like I can’t handle the fact that somebody’s trying to give me a break.”
“Then you’re in luck,” Arjay tells him bitterly. “I don’t think any more breaks will be coming our way from here on in.”
“I’ll talk to Uncle Mike,” Roxanne promises. “I can make him understand.”
“He seemed real understanding when he was warning me to stay away from you,” Gecko reminds her. “And I’m sure he’s thrilled that I did such a great job of it.”
On that note, the door swings open, and Deputy Chief Delancey is upon them, glaring as only an angry policeman can. And they are indeed quite a sight—battle-scarred, bruised, and bloody from the struggle on the fire escape. Even Healy and Roxanne, though unmarked, are wild-eyed and disheveled from their frenetic escape and the altercation with DeAndre and his crew.
“All right,” the deputy chief growls. “Start talking. And remember, I’ve been a cop for thirty-five years. The CIA wishes they had a BS-meter as good as mine.”
Healy speaks up. “None of us are angels here, but they’re not bad kids. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“That’s one vote of confidence from the escaped mental patient. Now, how about a little explanation?”
“What would you have done in their place?” the group leader persists. “I was the only thing standing between these boys and hell, and when I got hurt—”
“Interesting topic,” approves the deputy chief. “Your injury. How did it happen?”
“It was my bad—” Terence begins.
Arjay cuts him off. “We’re all in the same boat. Whatever we did, we’ll take the blame together.” He looks at Gecko, who nods.
“I think there’s plenty of blame to go around,” Delancey offers, losing patience.
Arjay shrugs. “We just wanted to look around a little. We were out of jail, but our lives were programmed twenty-five hours a day. So we tried to sneak out. Mr. Healy came after us and he fell.”
The deputy chief’s eyes shoot sparks. “And nobody helped him over the rail?”
“It really was an accident,” Healy assures him. The fine points of the actual event are still vague in his mind as his returning memory fills in the details. But he believes it with all his heart.
Delancey grunts noncommittally. “Go on.”
His rumbling voice grave, Arjay recounts the trio’s decision to carry on their halfway-house routine while praying for Healy’s recovery.
The veteran cop is skeptical. “I wasn’t born yesterday, kid. Social Services—they’ve got checks and balances for this kind of thing. Reports not filed, absences from school, no-shows in therapy and community service.”
“But we did all that,” Gecko insists. “We filed the reports by computer and kept going to group and the B.I.D. And at school, we made sure we had perfect attendance and good grades.”
Delancey regards them in amazement. “Are you telling me that you were scot-free—for all these weeks, you could have bought a bus ticket and disappeared off the face of the earth! And you chose to stay here and stick with a group leader who couldn’t have told you from Adam, doing everything you were supposed to, including homework?”
Terence indicates Arjay. “Trust me, the teacher isn’t born who’s more of a hard-ass than the big dog.”
“In the meantime,” Gecko takes up the tale, “I visited the hospital to keep an eye on Mr. Healy, and that’s where I met Rox.”
“The doctors kept saying the amnesia would go away, Uncle Mike,” Roxanne pleads. “You can’t blame the guys for waiting till they had their group leader back. Otherwise, the halfway house would have been closed up.”
“Who could have predicted that they’d take someone who isn’t nuts and stick him in a nuthouse?” Arjay continues.
“I could have predicted it,” Delancey offers. “I’ve worked for the city for thirty-five years. The genius of bureaucracy can’t amaze me anymore.”
“Well, we couldn’t let that happen to him,” Gecko concludes. “So we broke him out, and you caught us. End of story.”
“Except for the five gang members we arrested on your fire escape,” the deputy chief reminds them.
“They go to our school,” Arjay explains. “We’ve been trying to stay away from them, but they’re pretty persistent.”
Delancey nods. “They were no strangers to the cops who collared them. Good people to stay away from.”
Healy turns to the deputy chief. “I’m back. I’m fine. It’s not like you’d be turning them loose. With me, they’re still in the custody of the Department of Juvenile Corrections. Everything they did—even when it was wrong—they did it for all the right reasons. And surely they get some brownie points for sticking with the program even when there was no one around to make them do it.”
“You’re asking me to make an awful lot go away,” Delancey grunts.
“It’s for me too,” Roxanne reminds him. “And my family.”
He frowns. “Is there a stolen laundry truck I need to know about?”
“No, sir,” Gecko says stoutly. “We put it back exactly where we found it.”
There’s a long pause. The cop lets out a heavy sigh. “All right. But there’s one thing you have to do for me, and this one’s not negotiable.”
“Anything,” Healy promises.
“You two—” Delancey indicates Gecko and Roxanne. “You’re through. You’re not sweethearts, you’re not friends; I don’t even want you on the same buddy list on MySpace.”
“But, Uncle Mike—” she protests.
“No buts, Roxie. Think about Gecko. He doesn’t have the kind of safety net you do. If he screws up, it’s all the way.”
Gecko and Roxanne exchange a sad look. Gecko knows the break he’s being offered is nothing short of colossal, but right now the price seems very high.
Terence awards him a slap in the back of the head. “What are you even thinking about, dog? Take the deal. No offense,” he adds to Roxanne. “If I ever need an undercover agent at the freaky farm, you’re number one on my list.”
“Shut up, Terence,” Arjay orders firmly.
“Well?” Delancey prompts. “Do I have your word?”
Gecko takes in Roxanne’s crestfallen expression. She isn’t happy, but she’s smart enough to recognize that they really have no choice.
“We’ll do it,” he promises unhappily.
“And this time make it stick. Or else.” The deputy chief stands up. “I hope the fact that none of you are crawling on the floor kissing my feet doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate this second chance. God, more like fifteenth chance.” He turns to Roxanne. “Need a ride home?”
It isn’t an offer.
Gecko watches them go. Roxanne holds his gaze through the very last sliver of doorway.
Get a grip, Rox.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ms. Debra Vaughn rings the buzzer of the apartment on Ninety-seventh Street at exactly nine a.m. on Wednesday morning.
Upstairs, she is greeted by group leader Douglas Healy and his three charges. Graham Fosse, Arjay Moran, and Terence Florian are neatly dressed and on their best behavior, but nothing can hide the cuts and bruises on their faces.
“Lacrosse tryouts,” Healy explains. “They take it very seriously at that school.”
“You should see the other guys,” adds Terence.
The look he gets from Arjay would take the paint off the front door.
“No sports,” Ms. Vaughn orders. “No extracurricular activities of any sort. Maintaining their grades is their only priority.”
The group leader brightens. “Well, there we’ve got some really good news—”
“I’ve seen the reports,” the social worker interrupts coldly. “Let’s move on to the visual inspection of the apartment.”
All the attention Ms. Vaughn has never been able to give them because of her heavy caseload is now foc
used on these eight hundred square feet of living space. Every finger mark and dust bunny is brought under her microscope. She has no way of knowing that the four of them have spent the last twenty-four hours cleaning the place and restocking the refrigerator with healthy food. And still she’s able to find several examples of “unspeakable filth.”
Healy tries to make light of it. “I guess we’re not going to make the front cover of Good Housekeeping.”
“This may seem like a joke to you, Mr. Healy, but dust and dirt are more than just a hygiene problem. Slovenly habits spill over into poor discipline. Remember—a failure in discipline is what put them into the juvenile corrections system to begin with. And a failure in discipline is what’s likely to send them back.”
Gecko, Arjay, and Terence exchange looks of dismay. They have gotten away with putting their group leader in the hospital, weeks unsupervised, countless deceptions, and engineering a breakout from a mental institution. After surviving all that, surely they can’t be shipped off to juvie because there are too many crumbs in the toaster.
All at once, Ms. Vaughn draws in a horrified breath. “What is that weapon doing in this house?”
“What?” Healy is close to the edge. “There’s no weapon here!”
Blazing with indignation, she marches straight to the TV. Atop it sit the two pieces of the broken bowling trophy.
Overcome with relief, the group leader laughs out loud. “That’s just my old bowling prize. It got knocked over a few weeks ago, and no matter what kind of glue I use, it just keeps falling apart on me.”
“Article two, subsection four of the Uniform Code of Alternative Living Arrangements for Youth Offenders clearly bans all sharp objects.”
Healy is astonished. “It’s a bowling trophy, not a samurai sword!”
“A glass bottle is not a weapon either,” the social worker lectures. “But when you break it, producing a jagged edge, it becomes a lethal one. This exposed spike is a material breach of the code—which means that this place can be shut down on the spot, and the boys returned to juvenile detention for completion of sentence—”