“How's the boy?” Sampson asked. He knew about Marcus already.
Somehow, he always knew. The rain was running down his black poncho in little streams, but he didn't seem to care.
I sadly shook my head. I was still feeling wasted. 'Don't know yet.
They won't tell me anything. Doctor wanted to know if I was next of kin. They took him to Trauma. He cut himself real bad. So what brings you to happy hour?'
Sampson shrugged his way out of his poncho, and flopped down beside me on the straining gurney. Under the poncho, he had on one of his typical street-detective outfits: silver-and- red Nike sweatsuit, matching high-topped sneakers, thin gold bracelets, signet rings. His street look was intact.
“Where's your gold tooth?” I managed a smile. 'You need a gold tooth to complete your fly ensemble. At least a gold star on one tooth.
Maybe some corn braids?'
Sampson snorted out a laugh. “I heard. I came,” he said offhandedly about his appearance at St. Anthony's. “You okay? You look like the last of the big, bad bull elephants.” 'Little boy tried to kill himself. Sweet little boy, like Da-mon.
Eleven years old.'
“Want me to run over to their crack crib? Shoot the boy's parents?” Sampson asked. His eyes were obsidian-hard.
“We'll do it later,” I said.
I was probably in the mood. The positive news was that the parents of Marcus Daniels lived together; the bad part was that they kept the boy and his four sisters in the crack house they ran near the Langley Terrace projects. The ages of the children ranged from five to twelve, and all the kids worked in the business. They were “runners.” “What are you doing here?” I asked him for the second time. “You didn't just happen to show up here at St. A's. What's up?” Sampson tapped out a cigarette from a pack of Camels. He used only one hand. Very cool. He lit up. Doctors and nurses were everywhere.
I snatched the cigarette away and crushed it under my black Converse sneaker sole, near the hole in the big toe.
“Feel better now?” Sampson eyed me. Then he gave me a broad grin showing his large white teeth. The skit was over. Sampson had worked his magic on me, and it was magic, including the cigarette trick. was feeling better. Skits work. Actually, I felt as if I'd just been hugged by about a half-dozen close relatives and both my kids. Sampson is my best friend for a reason. He can push my buttons better than anybody.
“Here comes the angel of mercy,” he said, pointing down the long, chaotic corridor.
Annie Waters was walking toward us with her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her hospital coat. She had a tight look on her face, but she always does.
“I'm real sorry, Alex. The boy didn't make it. I think he was nearly gone when you got him here. Probably living on all that hope you carry bottled up inside you.”
Powerful images and visceral sensations of carrying Marcus along Fifth and L streets flashed before me. I imagined the hospital death sheet covering Marcus. It's such a small sheet that they use for children.
“The boy was my patient. He adopted me this spring.” I told the two of them what had me so wild and crazed and suddenly depressed.
“Can I get you something, Alex?” said Annie Waters. She had a concerned look on her face.
I shook my head. I had to talk, had to get this out right now.
'Marcus found out I gave help at St. As, talked to people sometimes.
He started coming by the trailer afternoons. Once I passed his tests, he talked about his life at the crack house. Everybody he knew in his life was a junkie. Junkie came by my house today ... Rita Washington.
Not Marcus's mother, not his father. The boy tried to slit his own throat, slit his wrists.
Just eleven years old.'
My eyes were wet. A little boy dies, somebody should cry. The psychologist for an eleven-year- old suicide victim ought to mourn. I thought so, anyway.
Sampson finally stood up and put his long arm gently on my shoulder. He was six feet nine again. “Let's head on home, Alex,” he said. “C'mon, my man. Time to go.” I went in and looked at Marcus for the last time.
I held his lifeless little hand and thought about the talks the two of us had, the ineffable sadness always in his brown eyes. I remembered a wise, beautiful African proverb: “It takes a whole village to raise a good child.”
Finally, Sampson came and took me away from the boy, took me home.
Where it got much worse.
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
