Live to Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  “That’s the drift. If you want the details, better ask him, not me. I’m not buying what he’s selling.”

  “Did Greg have any better luck?”

  That detective’s transition was so smooth, I almost spoke first and thought later. At the last second, I caught myself. “Greg and I are friends.”

  “Friends with privileges?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Friends who go to bars? Friends who bare their souls?”

  “Friends who share an occasional pizza. This job wears you out. Not a lot left over for post-work rendezvous.”

  “You left with Greg today,” the detective replied evenly. “Looked pretty comfortable doing it, too.”

  The statement caught me off guard. But of course the cops were interviewing everyone in the hospital, and it wasn’t like Greg and I crept away in the still of the night. Any number of people could’ve seen us leaving together and reported it.

  “Greg walked me out,” I conceded. “He’s thoughtful that way.”

  “And drove you home?”

  “He drove me to his place.”

  “That’s sounding personal again.”

  “We talked. He knows this time of year is rough for me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind crying on his shoulder,” the sergeant commented.

  I couldn’t help myself: “He’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”

  “Meee-oww,” the sergeant drawled, clearly amused by my cattiness. “Word on the street is that Greg’s been chasing you for years. He finally get to cross the finish line, Danielle?”

  I wouldn’t even dignify that with a response. Mostly because I didn’t want to think of my morning with Greg. I had been rejecting him for years. Only to finally go to his place, and have him reject me.

  “Look,” I said impatiently, “I don’t have relationships. I work with kids, and I leave the personal crap alone. End of story.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  D.D. tilted her head, regarding me curiously. “Two families connected to this unit have been murdered, almost exactly twenty-five years after your family was shot to death. And last night, the child you were working most closely with was hanged. You still don’t think that has anything to do with you?”

  I felt my heart spike, then the blood drain from my face. “But … My past is over. My family’s gone. Who’s left to hurt me?”

  “Good question,” the sergeant mused. “Who’s left to hurt you?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her. This couldn’t be about me. I didn’t have the gun this time, I wanted to blurt out. I swear, I didn’t have the gun.

  “I need to review a report,” I mumbled, then I bolted from the common area. I couldn’t be in front of the police anymore. I didn’t want them to see the horror on my face. I didn’t want them to misinterpret my regret.

  Fifteen minutes later, staff members began to assemble in the common area. It was nearly eleven-thirty, everyone running late. Given earlier events, that was hardly a surprise. The unit still felt wonky. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d had so many acute episodes back-to-back. I couldn’t remember a time when all of us felt as jittery as the kids.

  I remained in Admin, watching from the observation window. The cops had finally disappeared. I could join the MCs at the table, but suddenly I felt self-conscious. The sergeant had put thoughts in my head, like maybe this was all my fault, like maybe I was to blame for Lucy’s death.

  I was waiting for Greg, I realized. I was waiting for his presence to ground me.

  When five more minutes passed without him appearing, I went looking for him.

  I wandered down the hall, past children sleeping in various nooks and crannies, past doors of darkened rooms and past doors of hundred-watt brilliance. I didn’t see Greg, but then I heard his unmistakable baritone coming from the last room on the right.

  I peered in. Greg was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him, his attention focused away from me, on a small boy with bright blonde hair who was curled into a ball. Greg was stroking the boy’s head and talking lightly, trying to encourage the boy to uncoil. The boy wasn’t buying it.

  The new charge, I guessed. The one who’d stabbed his mother this morning. He was tucked in on himself, trying to block everything out. This couldn’t be happening to him. This strange room, this strange place, these strange people talking at him over and over again.

  “Mommy,” the boy whispered. “I want my mommy.”

  My heart contracted. First words spoken by so many children over so many years. Even from the kids whose mothers beat the shit out of them.

  “I know,” Greg replied steadily.

  “Take me home.”

  “Can’t do that, buddy.”

  “You could stay with me. Like we’ve done before.”

  I stilled. Like they’d done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

  “You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We’re going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don’t worry. This is a nice place. We’ll take good care of you.”

  “Mommy,” the boy said again.

  Greg didn’t reply.

  “I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”

  The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

  “I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”

  “You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”

  “Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”

  The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath—”

  “I ruined the sofa!”

  “Evan—”

  “I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”

  The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh …”

  Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.

  He shook his head. “Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan.”

  I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: “Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan …”

  By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy’s attention. “Evan. Evan, look at me. We’ll call your mom. We’ll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me.” Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.

  I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn’t come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy’s body, dangling from the ceiling…

  A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg’s cell phone. “Victoria Oliver,” he requested.

  Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, stai
ning his blue-striped shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”

  “Take your medicine,” Greg told Evan, just as a woman’s voice sounded in his phone. “Victoria?”

  “Hello?”

  “Meds, Evan.”

  Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg’s phone.

  “Victoria,” Greg said again, tucking the phone to his ear. “This is Greg. I’m here with Evan. I thought … He needs to hear that you’re all right. And I thought you’d like to know that he’s all right. Everything’s good here.”

  I couldn’t catch the reply. Evan was spinning around, a whirling dervish of blonde hair, blue shirt, and red blood.

  A rush of frigid air, swirling up my spine, whispering down my arms …

  “The pediatric psych ward’s on the eighth floor,” Greg was saying. “Yes, it’s a lockdown unit. Acute care. We’re a good facility, Vic; it’ll be okay.”

  Vic? How did Greg know where to call Evan’s mother? Or that she’d take his call? Trying to contact a parent whose child had stabbed her wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. Unless you knew that the parent was open to such a call, and had the mental fortitude to handle it. Unless you knew the parent …

  I was cold. Very cold. Shivering uncontrollably.

  Greg, on the phone: “Can you … are you game? Just for a second. I don’t think he can take much…. No, you need to take care of you. We’ll take care of him. Victoria … Vic … Trust me on this one. Evan needs you healthy. That’s what your son needs.”

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Evan whined, still twirling.

  Greg held out the phone. “One sentence, Evan. Listen to your Mom’s voice. Know she’s all right. Tell her you’re all right. Then we’re done.”

  Evan grabbed the phone. He pressed it to his ear. He smiled, one bright second of relief as he connected to his mother. His posture relaxed, he came down off his toes.

  Then, before I could move, before Greg could snatch the phone back:

  “I will get you next time, bitch,” Evan snarled into the receiver. “Next time I will carve out your FUCKING HEART!”

  The boy hurtled the phone to the floor, then flung himself at the wall, banging his head savagely.

  “Oh Evan,” Greg said tiredly.

  I rushed down the hall to get more Ativan.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  VICTORIA

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Evan.

  Evan who?

  Evan, the little boy who loves you.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Evan.

  Evan who?

  Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

  Knock knock. Who’s there? Michael, your husband who’s going to marry another.

  Knock knock. Who’s there? Chelsea, your daughter who thinks you don’t love her anymore.

  Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

  I lie in my hospital bed, watching the green line on my heart monitor. Sounds echo down the crowded floor. Busy nurses, grumpy patients, chirping machines. I fixate on the stark white paint on the wall nearest me. The mirror-bright silver of the bed’s guardrails. The heavy black phone, weighing down the blanket on my legs. Then I study the monitor again, amazed at how a heart can remain beating long after it’s been broken.

  My side hurts. Red blood flecks the white bandage. A deeper burn stings somewhere on the inside. Maybe an infection’s already building. It’ll taint my blood, shut down my vital organs. I’ll die in this room, and never have to go home.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Evan, the little boy who loves you.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

  Knock knock.

  Then it comes to me. Fuzzy at first, but with growing certainty. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to lead this life. I need a new approach, a new attitude. I need to move, even if it kills me, because God knows, I’m already dying on the inside.

  I think of summer sand. I remember the first time I held both of my children. And I remember the look on Michael’s face the day he left me.

  So many dreams that never came true. So much love I gave away, that never returned to me.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Victoria.

  Victoria who?

  Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question? Victoria who?

  I need to get out of here. Then, suddenly, absolutely, I know what I’m going to do.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  Meditation turned out to be a complicated matter, which must explain why D.D. never did it. There was much settling of oneself into a comfortable position, most of the staff members opting to sit on the floor, the pros in fancy lotus positions, the less converted sprawling casually, their backs against a wall.

  Space seemed to matter, people selecting spots where they could be on their own. Even Greg and Danielle, late arrivals to the party, didn’t buddy up. Greg positioned himself partway down the hall, while Danielle sat not far from where D.D. was currently standing.

  The young nurse glanced at her. Opened her mouth slightly as if to say something. Then her jaw snapped shut. She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the middle of the common area, where Lightfoot directed efforts in a low, melodic tone.

  The shaman sat on top of a table, a bottle of iced green tea positioned within easy reach, a wrist resting on each knee and his fingers pointing up.

  He spoke firmly, with a strong cadence. D.D. still thought he looked tired. Then again, it was after midnight now. She and her crew were equally beat, which made this a fun diversion for the evening.

  Karen, the nurse manager, sat closest to the Admin offices. She’d removed her glasses for the occasion. A large bear of a man—Ed, D.D. thought was his name—sat not far from her. The younger MC with the short black hair—Sissy? Cecille?—sat to the left of him. Then came three more MCs and another nurse, Janet. The only person who didn’t participate was Tyrone, who had checks duty: Every five minutes, he recorded the location of each child and staff member. Given the kids and staff were currently quiet, the duty had him standing in the middle of the hallway, across from D.D. She felt like they were bookends—the only two vertical people at a horizontal party.

  Gang’s all here, she thought, and was very curious about what would happen next.

  “Slowly inhale,” Lightfoot intoned. “Feel yourself drawing the breath deep into your lungs, pulling in the air from your toes, bringing it up your entire body, every cell contracting, every pore of your body inhaling a slow rush of fresh oxygen. Still inhaling, for a long count of one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Now exhale. Push the air out for a shorter count of one, two, three, four, five …”

  D.D., leaning against the wall with her arms across her chest, found her breathing pattern falling into Lightfoot’s hypnotic rhythm. She caught herself, forced a short exhale, and felt light-headed.

  Alex had gone to fetch pizza. The taskforce members still had a long night ahead of them; given the earlier disruption with the kids, and now the “debriefing,” the detectives hadn’t had a chance to interview the staff yet. Karen had promised to start sending them MCs, one by one, the moment Lightfoot’s session was over. Assuming of course the unit remained under control. Given the fresh rounds of screaming and banging D.D. had heard just ten minutes ago, she wasn’t overly optimistic.

  Lightfoot needed to live up to his hype or she didn’t see how the kids or the staff were getting through the night.

  Lightfoot was sweating. D.D. could see beads of moisture forming on his upper lip. Despite his instructions for slow and steady breathing, his own chest moved shallowly, and one hand trembled on top of his knee.

  The force of his efforts
to stave off so much negative energy? To find the light amidst the dark?

  Good Lord, now she was starting to sound like him.

  “I want you to release your tension,” Lightfoot instructed, his voice strained. Across from him, Karen opened one eye, frowning at the healer.

  “Focus on your toes. Feel the tension in the bottom of each foot. The tight little muscles along the arch of your foot, the tendons moving up your heel. The tiny muscles clenching each toe, digging them into the carpet. Now catch that tension. Relax it, push it out. Feel your toes uncurl, your feet relax comfortably against the carpet. Your heels are soft and pliant, each foot relaxed. You can feel the light, your foot warming, a white glow spreading across the bottom of your heel. Focus on it. Feel it expand, climbing to your ankles, your calves, the bend of your knees.”

  The white light had a ways to go. Many muscles had to relax. Many body parts needed to glow. Around the room D.D. could see various staff members giving themselves over to the exercise. Even Danielle appeared fresher, the lines in her forehead smoothing out, her slender wrists resting loosely on her knees.

  Lightfoot, on the other hand, looked like hell. He was sweating profusely, his pale yellow Armani shirt blossoming with dark stains. He used the small break between glowing muscle groups to take discreet swigs of iced tea. He had the group relaxing their stomachs now, and the iced tea bottle was nearly empty. D.D. didn’t think the healer was going to make it. Did one call for a time-out, a brief intermission, in the midst of meditation? Or did that ruin the moment, like checking your police pager in the middle of sex?

  Now, as she watched, he grimaced. Rubbed his chest. Grimaced again. A muscle in his left shoulder did a funny little dance, then relaxed again. Lightfoot took another drink, squeezed his eyes shut, and seemed to settle in.

  “Focus on the light,” he intoned. “The warm glow of light, of love. Feel it expand your rib cage, filling your lungs. Then push it up. Push it into the chambers of your heart. Love is in your heart. Love is pulsing through your veins, pushing out the negativity, filling your limbs with a great weightlessness. Light is love. Love is light. You are flooded with it. You feel it beating in your chest. You feel it pulsing beneath your skin. Your arms want to rise on their own. They are alight with love, weightless with joy.”