Bloodstream (21 page)

“And his mother isn’t?” Max’s glass of brandy was almost empty and he seemed flushed in the firelight. “Because you are?’

She smiled. “I think you’re drunk.”

“No, what I’m feeling right now is.
. .
comfortable.” He set his glass on the table. “It was Noah who wanted to move?”

“Oh, no. He had to be dragged, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want to leave his old school or his friends. But that’s exactly why we
had
to leave.”

“The wrong crowd?”

She nodded. “He got into trouble. The whole group of them did. I was taken completely by surprise when it happened. I couldn’t control him, couldn’t discipline him. Sometimes She sighed. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost him entirely”

The birch log slid, sizzling into the embers. Sparks leaped up and drifted gently down into the ashes.

“I had to take some sort of drastic action,” she said. “It was my last chance to exert control. In another year or two, he would have been too old. Too strong.”

“Did it work?”

“You mean, did all our troubles go away? Of course not. Instead, I’ve taken on a whole new slew of troubles. This creaky old house. A medical practice that I seem to be slowly killing.”

“Don’t they need a doctor here?”

“They had a town doctor. Old Dr. Pomeroy, who died last winter. They can’t seem to accept me as even a pale substitute.”

“It takes time, Claire.”

“It’s been eight months, and I can’t even turn a profit. Someone with a grudge has been sending anonymous letters to my patients. Warning them off.” She looked at the bottle of brandy, thought:
What the hell,
and poured herself another glass. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“Because I keep hoping it’ll get better. That winter will pass, it’ll be summer again, and we’ll both be happy. That’s the dream, anyway. It’s the dreams that keep us going.” She sipped her brandy noticing that the flames were now pleasantly out of focus.

“And what is your dream?”

“That my son will love me the way he used to.”

“You sound as if you have doubts.”

She sighed, and raised the glass to her lips. “Parenthood,” she said, “is nothing but doubts.”

Lying in bed, Amelia could hear the sound of slapping in her mother’s room, could hear the stifled sobs and whimpers and the angry grunts that punctuated each blow.

Dumb bitch. Don’t you ever go against me. You bear? You hear?

Amelia thought of all the things she could do about it—all the things she’d already done in the past. None of them had worked. Twice she’d called the police; twice they’d taken Jack away to jail, but within days he’d returned, welcomed back by her mother. It was no use. Grace was weak. Grace was afraid of being alone.

I will never, ever, let a man hurt me and get away with it.

She covered her ears and buried her head under the sheets.

J.D. listened to the sound of blows and could feel himself getting excited. Yeah, that’s the way to treat ‘em, Dad. It’s what you always told me. A firm hand keeps ‘em in line. He rolled up close to the wall, placing his ear against the plaster. His dad’s bed was right on the other side. As he had on so many other nights, J.D. would press up close, listening to the rhythmic squeak of his father’s bed, knowing exactly what was going on in the next room. His dad was something else, a man like no other, and although J.D. was a little afraid of him, he also admired him. He admired the way ol’ Jack took control of his household and never let the females get high and mighty. It’s the way the Good Book meant it to be, Jack always said, the man as master and protector of his house. It made sense. The man was larger, stronger; of course he was meant to be in charge.

The slapping had stopped, and now it was just the bed squeaking up and down. That’s how it always ended. A little discipline and then some good old-fashioned making up. J.D. was getting more and more excited, and the ache down there got to be unbearable.

He got up and felt his way past Eddie’s bed, toward the door. Eddie was sound asleep, the dumb cluck. It was embarrassing to have such a weak wuss for a brother. He went into the hall and headed toward the bathroom.

Halfway there, he paused outside his stepsister’s closed door. He pressed his ear to it, wondering if Amelia was awake, if she too was listening to the squeaking of their parents’ bed. Juicy little Amelia, the untouchable. Right under the same roof. So close he could almost hear the sound of her breathing, could smell her girl-scent wafting out from under the door. He tried the knob and found it was locked. She always kept it locked, ever since that night he’d sneaked into her room

to watch her sleep, and she’d awakened to find him unbuttoning her pajama top. The little tease had screamed, and his dad had come tearing into the room with a loaded shotgun, eager to blow away some intruder.

When all the female caterwauling had died down, and J.D. had slunk back to his own room, he’d heard his dad say “The boy’s always been a sleepwalker. Didn’t know what he was doing.” J.D. had thought he was off the hook. Then his dad had come into J.D.’s room and whacked him so hard across the face, he’d seen exploding lights.

Amelia got a lock put in her door the next day.

J.D. closed his eyes and felt sweat dampen his upper lip as he pictured his luscious stepsister lying in her bed, slender arms flung out. He thought of her legs as he’d seen them this summer, long and tan in her white shorts, just the softest hint of golden down on her thighs. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead now, and on his palms. He felt his heart beat hard. His senses had sharpened to such acuteness, he could hear the night humming around him, fields of energy looping and swirling in electric flashes.

He had never felt so powerful.

Again he gripped the doorknob, and its resistance suddenly enraged him.
She
enraged him, with her superior ways and her disapproval. He reached down and touched himself, but really, he was touching
her,
taking command of
her.
Making her do what he wanted. And even though sex was what his body craved, when he finally released himself, the image that came unbidden into his mind was of his own fingers, like thick ropes, wrapped around Amelia’s slender neck.

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.

She broke through a tangle of evergreens and emerged on the bank of a creek. Rain and melting snow had swollen it to a torrent. Frantically she scanned the snow for the boy’s prints and spotted them moving parallel to the creek for several yards.