12
Noah shoved two slices of bread in the toaster and jammed down the lever. “He stayed all night, didn’t he?”
“It was too cold for him to sleep in the cottage. He’ll be going back today.”
“So are we taking in every strange guy who doesn’t know how to keep his woodstove lit?”
“Please keep your voice down. He’s still sleeping.”
“It’s my home too! Why should I have to whisper?”
Claire sat at the breakfast table, staring at her son’s back. Noah refused to look at her and stood hulking by the kitchen counter, as though the toaster required all his concentration.
“You’re mad because I had a houseguest? Is that it?”
“You don’t even know him, and you invite some strange guy to spend the night.”
“He’s not a strange guy, Noah. He’s a scientist.”
“Like scientists aren’t strange?”
“Your father was a scientist.”
“Is that supposed to make me like this guy?”
The toast popped up. Noah threw the slices onto a plate and sat down at the table. She watched in puzzlement as he picked up a knife and began to slash the toast into smaller and smaller squares. It was bizarre, and she’d never seen him do this before. He’s transferring his rage, she thought. Taking it out on the bread.
“I guess my mother isn’t so perfect after all,” he said, and she flushed, stung by the cruel comment. “You’re always telling me to keep my nose clean. I’m not the one having sleepovers.”
“He’s just a friend, Noah. I have a right to have friends, don’t I?” She added, recklessly, “I even have a right to boyfriends.”
“Go ahead!”
“In four years, you’ll be in college. You’ll have your own life. Why can’t I have mine?”
Noah crossed back to the sink. “You think I have a life?” He laughed. “I’m on permanent probation. Being watched all the time. By everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“My teachers all look at me like I’m some kind of criminal. Like it’s just a matter of time before I screw up.”
“Did you do something to draw their attention?”
In fury he whirled around to face her. “Yeah, it’s my fault! It’s always my fault!”
“Noah, is there something you aren’t telling me?”
With an angry sweep of his hand, he knocked two coffee cups off the counter and into the dishwater. “You already think I’m a screw-up! You’re never happy with me. No matter how perfect I try to be.”
“Don’t whine to me about having to be perfect. I’m not allowed to screw up either. Not as a mother, not as a doctor, and I’m getting pretty sick of it.
Especially when no matter how hard I try, you always blame me for something.”
“What I blame you for,” he shot back, “is dragging me to this dump of a town.”
He stalked out of the house, and the slam of the front door seemed to echo forever.
She reached for her coffee, which by now was lukewarm, and sipped it fiercely, hands shaking around the cup. What had just happened? Where did all that rage come from? They’d argued in the past, but never had he tried so hard to hurt her. Never had he cut so close to the bone.
She heard the rumble of the school bus as it drove away She looked down at his plate, at the uneaten toast. It had been slashed to crumbs.
“This isn’t the right place for him, Dr. Effiot,” said the nursing supervisor.
Eileen Culkin was short but powerfully built for a woman, and with her booming voice and background as an army nurse, she commanded instant respect. When Eileen spoke, the doctors listened.
Though Claire was in the middle of reviewing Scotty Braxton’s chart, she set it aside and turned to face Eileen. “I haven’t seen Scotty yet this morning,” she said. “Have there been more problems?”
“Even after you ordered that extra sedation at midnight, he didn’t sleep. He’s quiet now, but last night, he was awake the entire shift, screaming at the guard to unlock his handcuffs. Disturbing all the other patients. Dr. Elliot, that boy needs to be in juvenile lockup, or a psychiatric unit. Not a medical ward.”
“I haven’t finished the evaluation. There are labs still pending.”
“If he’s stable, couldn’t you move him? The nurses are afraid to go in the room.
They can’t even change his sheets without three people restraining him. We’d like him moved, the sooner the better.”
Time to make a decision, thought Claire as she walked down the hall to Scotty’s room. Unless she could diagnose a life-threatening illness, she couldn’t keep him in the hospital any longer.
The state trooper stationed outside Scotty Braxton’s hospital room gave Claire a nod of greeting. “Morning, doc.”
“Good morning. I understand he’s been quite a handful.”
“He’s been better the last hour. Not a peep out of him.”
“I need to examine him again. Could you stand by, just in case?”
“Sure thing?’ He pushed open the door and managed to take one step into the room before he froze. “Jesus Christ.”
At first all Claire registered was the horror in his voice. Then she pushed past him, into the room. She felt the rush of cold air coming through the open window, and saw the blood. It was spattered across the empty bed, a shocking spray of it staining the pillow and the sheets, thickly smearing the empty handcuff dangling from the side rail. On the floor just below the handcuff, a pool of red had gathered. The human tissue lying at the edge of that pooi would have been unrecognizable, save for the fingernail and the white nubbin of bone protruding from one end of the torn flesh. It was the boy’s thumb; he had chewed it off.
Groaning, the trooper sank to the floor and dropped his head into his lap.
“Jesus,” he kept murmuring. “Jesus..
Claire saw the prints of bare feet tracking across the room. She ran to the open window and stared down at the ground one story below.
There was blood mixed with the churned-up snow. Footprints, and more blood, trailed away from the building, toward the forested perimeter of the hospital grounds.
“He’s gone into the woods!” she said, and ran out of the room to the stairwell.
She dashed down to the first floor, and pushed out through the fire exit, sinking at once into ankle-deep wet snow. By the time she’d circled around the building to Scotty’s window, icy water had seeped into her shoes. She picked up the trail of Scotty’s blood and followed it across the wide expanse of snow.
At the edge of the woods she halted, trying to see what lay in the shadow of the evergreens. She could make out the boy’s footprints, trailing into the underbrush, and here and there a bright splash of blood.
Heart thudding, she eased into the woods. The most dangerous animal is the one in pain.
Her ungloved hands were numb from cold, from fear, as she moved aside a branch and peered deeper into the woods. Behind her, a twig snapped sharply. She spun around and almost cried out with relief when she saw it was the trooper, who’d followed her out of the building.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“No. His footprints lead into the woods.”
He waded toward her through the snow. “Security’s on the way. So’s the emergency room staff.”
She turned to face the trees. “Do you hear that?”
“What?”
“Water. I hear water.” She began to run, ducking under low branches, stumbling through underbrush. The boy’s footprints were weaving back and forth now, as though he had been staggering. Here was churned-up snow, where he’d fallen. Too much blood loss, she thought. He’s stumbling and on the verge of collapse.
The sound of rushing water grew louder.
