Hush

“Mommy,” a young girl’s voice said.

“Amy?” Lake asked.

“Yes.” There was a stifled sob.

“Amy, are you all right?”

“No, Mommy. I’m not.”

26

“WHAT DO YOU mean, Amy?” Lake asked urgently. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the infirmary.”

Involuntarily, Lake let out a moan of distress.

“Mommy?”

“What happened, honey? Tell me.”

“The doctor thinks I have strep. They put this stick in my mouth and it made me gag.”

Lake almost laughed ridiculously in relief.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

“Mommy, it hurts so much. I can barely swallow.”

“Is the doctor there now-can I talk to him or her?”

“No, just the nurse is here. She’s in the other room. And I’m not supposed to be using a cell phone. It’s Lauren’s.”

“Okay, as soon as we hang up, I’m going to call the camp and see what they can do.”

“But I’ll get in trouble for using the phone.”

“Don’t worry-I won’t tell. But I’m going to find a way to help you get better, okay?”

Lake heard the sound of a sob catching in her daughter’s throat.

“Mommy, I wish you were here. I feel so sad.”

“I’m going to send you a long fax today to cheer you up. And when you start to feel better, you won’t feel so sad.”

By the time Lake hung up, her panic had quelled, but she could feel anger filling the void. Why hadn’t the camp contacted her? She hated thinking of Amy so miserable. Immediately she punched in the number for the director’s office. He had stepped away, she was told and there was no one else who could help her at the moment. Lake asked that he call her the moment he returned.

As the cab swung onto West End Avenue, she was relieved to see that there were people in front of her building-a red-haired woman with a stroller, a tall thin, black man, vaguely familiar from the building, and her neighbor, Stan, holding his jacket over his shoulder with a hooked finger. They stood in a group as if chatting. It was only as she stepped closer that Lake noticed the slack faces. Something was wrong.

“Is everything okay?” Lake asked, grabbing Stan’s eye.

“The doorman’s MIA,” he said.

“What?” Lake exclaimed.

“Bob-the one who works afternoons,” Stan said to her. “We’ve called the super and he should be here any second.”

“He never showed up for work?” Lake asked.

“Apparently he was here earlier, but now he’s nowhere to be found. He seems to have vanished into thin air,” Stan said.

“Maybe he’s just run over to buy a lotto ticket,” the tall man said.

The woman shook her head in irritation.

“This is so wrong. The door’s been left unguarded for at least half an hour-maybe longer.”

“How do you know?” Lake asked her. She could feel the familiar panic begin to balloon again.

“Because he wasn’t here when I went out to run an errand earlier. I know he was on duty earlier. I figured when I didn’t see him that he was just helping someone with a delivery, which is wrong, too, but some people in this building are just so demanding. But then he still wasn’t here when I got back.” The little boy in the stroller began to kick his legs hard in impatience. “Don’t do that, Cameron. Mommy doesn’t like it.”

Lake’s feet seemed welded to the sidewalk. She hated being out there, exposed, and yet she didn’t dare go up to her apartment. What if her assailant from last night had found his way in when Bob had disappeared? What if he had something to do with Bob being gone? She clenched her fists, trying to figure out what to do. Then something caught Stan’s attention and as he turned his head toward the intersection, she followed suit. The super was hurrying toward them, his belly jiggling as he ran.

The woman did most of the talking, rattling on to the super as her son moved on to banging his head against the back of the stroller like a ball attached to a paddle with a rubber band. Stan touched Lake’s arm.

“You going up?” he whispered. “I promise to slay any dragons that may have snuck in.”

She smiled weakly at him. “Yes, thanks.”

“Well, I’m planning to stay in for the night,” Stan said as they reached their floor. “Just give a shout if you need anything.”

There was a moment when she considered asking him to check out her apartment, despite how silly she would seem to him, but as she turned the key in the lock she found that the dead bolt was still secured, indicating that no one had entered.

She opened her door and stepped inside. It was utterly still, as if it was a house that had been empty for years.

“Smokey,” she called out, heading hesitantly down the long hallway toward her bedroom. She’d left the AC running in there for him, with the door partially closed. As she walked she looked left and right, into the living room and kitchen and then her bedroom, checking. She wished Archer were here now, helping her like he had before.

Pushing the bedroom door the rest of the way open, she glanced toward the bed, expecting to see the cat curled there. But he wasn’t.

“Smokey,” she called again. “Here, kitty.” There was no sign of him. Please, no, she prayed, don’t let this be happening again. She retraced her steps to the front of the apartment and slipped into the family room. Smokey suddenly shot from beneath an armchair. Lake jumped in surprise and followed him with her eyes. He stopped in the living room as abruptly as he’d started. Sitting back on his haunches, he licked a paw with his tongue. Lake glanced worriedly around the family room, and then, seeing nothing wrong, approached Smokey. She wondered what had made him hide like that. Was he just angry that she’d been out so much?

As soon as she began to stroke him, her mind went instantly to Amy. In her wigged-out state about the doorman, she’d completely forgotten about her daughter’s plight. She raced back to the hallway where she’d left her purse and checked her BlackBerry. No call from the director yet. She punched the camp’s number again and this time she was told he was available.

“Mrs. Warren, I was just picking up the phone to call you back,” Morrison said. “You got my message about Amy, correct?”

“Your message?”

“Yes, I left it on your home phone. I thought that was why you were calling.”

Walking as they spoke, Lake spotted the blinking light on the answering machine in the kitchen.

“Oh, right, yes. Please tell me what’s going on.”

“Amy is resting in the infirmary today,” he said. “Her throat is raw and scratchy and she’s running a slight fever. We’ve taken a culture for strep because we’ve had one other camper come down with it this summer. We should have the results later today.”

“When did this start?” Lake asked.

“She first visited the nurse today but apparently she hasn’t felt her best for a day or two. I wish she’d spoken up sooner.”

Lake remembered her own sore throat, which had blossomed Tuesday. Maybe she’d passed something to Amy