He looked around to stare at him. “Jack! How long have you been standing
there?”
Jack dodged the question by saying, “I think there’s something wrong with
Steve.”
Mr. B straightened and stepped closer, his expression concerned. “What do you
mean?”
“I can’t wake him up.”
In a flash, he was pushing past Jack. He almost knocked over Mrs. B as she
stepped from the stairs into the hal way.
“Gordon, what’s wrong?”
“Steve! Downstairs!”
She blanched. “What—?”
But her husband was already to the basement steps. As he pounded down she
hurried after him. Chal is fol owed, though not as hurriedly.
Jack stayed behind and picked up the phone. He dialed 911 and reported an
unconscious person at the Brussard address. Then he headed
downstairs.
When Jack arrived, Steve’s folks were shaking him, yel ing at him to wake up.
His eyes fluttered open and gave them a dazed look.
“Wha? Wha?”
His father spotted the Pepsi can next to the couch and sniffed it. His face turned
red.
“You’re drunk!” he cried and grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt. “You’ve been
pilfering from my—!”
Something rattled in Steve’s breast pocket. Mr. Brussard pul ed out the pil vial
and stared at it.
“It’s your Valium!” he said, turning to his wife. “He’s—!”
And then he froze. Jack fol owed his gaze to the little red box on the cushion
next to Steve.
“What’s—?”
He snatched it up and yanked off the top. His red face turned ashen when he
looked inside.
“Oh, no!” He turned to Steve and shook him. “Did you take this?” Steve gave him another glassy stare. “No. It’s right there.”
“I mean the pil , damn it! Did you take the pil that was in here?” Steve shrugged and slurred, “Dunno … maybe … coulda.”
Mr. Brussard tossed the box aside and started lifting Steve under the arms. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital!”
Just then someone knocked on the wal of the stairwel and cal ed down. “Hel o? Is there a problem here?” A sheriff’s deputy came down the stairs. Not
Tim, but Jack had seen him at the car lot when the first aid was trying to revive Mr. Sumter.
He’d been counting on a deputy’s arrival—the cops always responded to a 911. “I heard the first-aid cal and came over to see if I could help.” “First-aid cal ?” Mr. Brussard looked around. “Who—? Never mind. My son took
pil s and liquor! He needs to get his stomach pumped!”
“The ambulance is on its way.” The deputy leaned closer to Steve. “He’s stil
conscious. Maybe he won’t need that.”
“He wil ! He’l die!”
The deputy wasn’t looking where Jack wanted him to, so he picked up the little
red box and pretended to examine it. When the deputy saw it he
reached toward Jack.
“May I?”
As Jack handed it over, Mr. Brussard said, “Never mind that! We’ve got to get
