by Ty Drago
Ramirez gaped, speechless. Tom uttered an unmistakable “I’m done with you” grunt and returned to Sharyn’s side, taking his sister’s hand. “Do we got any options, Ian?” he asked.
Haven’s medic looked pale, but he nodded. “One. Maybe. I’ve been icing her skull—at least as much as I think I can get away with without risking hypothermia.”
“What’s hypothermia?” the Burgermeister asked worriedly.
“It’s when your body gets too cold and stops functioning,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said.
Ian cleared his throat. “There’s something called a ventriculostomy,” he said. “But, Tom, it’s risky. Seriously risky. Even if we had the right equipment and a sterile place to do it, it’d be long odds.”
“And what if we leave her like this?” the Chief pressed.
Ian shrugged miserably. “She’ll die. Probably by the end of the day.”
“So…what choice we got? What…exactly…is a ventriculostomy?”
I was quietly astonished that Tom had been able to repeat the word so smoothly. I couldn’t seem to wrap my tongue around it or my mind around what was happening. True, I’d seen death since becoming an Undertaker. More than once.
But this was Sharyn.
Ian said, “Well…it’s pretty common in hospitals. Basically, you drill a hole through the skull at just the right spot. Then you stick a catheter…a plastic tube…into the brain to drain off the excess fluid.”
“Jeez…” Chuck muttered. “And that’s supposed to help?”
The medic nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.
Tom said, “I don’t gotta ask if you ever done this before. Of course you ain’t.”
From behind him, Ramirez whispered, “This is crazy.” He faced Ian. “What do you even know about surgery?”
“My dad’s a surgeon at Jefferson Hospital here in Philly,” the boy replied. “I was kind of raised with a scalpel in my hand.”
“What does that even mean?” Ramirez snapped. “The fact that your father’s a surgeon doesn’t make you one!”
“No, it don’t,” Tom said. “But this does.” He lifted his shirt, displaying a jagged scar that ran across the lower right side of his midsection, maybe six inches long. I’d seen it before but had assumed it was a battle wound.
“Ian took out my appendix,” the Chief said. “Almost a year ago now.”
Ramirez stared incredulously at the scar. “Even so, there’s a big difference between an appendectomy and brain surgery.”
“Yeah…but we don’t got no choice. Bottom line, agent, this is happening, and Ian’s gonna do the job. The only remaining issue is: are you gonna try to stop me?” There was no threat in the Chief’s words this time. Just a question from a desperate brother.
The FBI guy looked at each of in turn. I could almost read his mind.
You’re kids.
But he said nothing.
“What do you need?” Tom asked Ian.
“I think I’ve got something I can use for the shunt…the tube that actually gets stuck into her brain. And I’ve got some flexible hose to drain off the stuff that comes out. But—”
“But what, Ian?”
Haven’s medic lowered his eyes. “Tom, listen. I’m gonna need a power drill, something small but with enough kick to get through her skull. Then…I’m gonna need somebody to use it.”
We all looked at him.
Ian swallowed. “I…I don’t think my hands are steady enough. Not for this. I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool, Ian,” the Chief said. “I’m glad you told me now instead of later. You walk me through it, and I’ll handle the drill.”
Without even knowing I was going to do it, I stepped forward. “No.”
Tom faced me. “Will?”
“Not you. Not me. Not anybody else in this room,” I said. “We need somebody who’s good at this. Somebody with experience.”
The Chief frowned. “Who do we got with experience at something like this?”
“Ian,” I said. “Is there stuff you gotta to do to get ready?”
The medic nodded. “First, I’ll find the right medical book and review the procedure in detail. After that, I’ll have to shave her head and sanitize it. Then I’ll mark the right spot on her skull and lay out some clean towels. I’ll also need to boil some water to sterilize the equipment.”
“I can do some of that,” Amy said quietly.
“Thanks, Amy,” Tom told her.
“Okay,” I said. Then to Tom, “You sure you want to do this? I mean, really sure?”
“It’s a chance, bro. Leave her like this…and she’s dead.”
“Then stay with her. Keep holding her hand. Let her know you’re there. I got this.”
Tom hesitated, and then his broad shoulders slumped. He gazed down at his sister, stroking her sweaty, convulsing face. When he looked back me, it was with a truckload of gratitude.
Right now, he didn’t have to be Chief. He didn’t have to be a leader.
Just a brother.
“Thanks, Will,” he whispered.
Chapter 28
Power Drills and Olive Branches
The Monkey Barrel was as noisy as ever.
At first, no one noticed me. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed as if everyone did. The sawing and hammering stopped at once.
I pasted on what I hoped was a friendly smile. “Is Alex around?”
“What do you want?” More a snarl than a question.
Alex Bobson emerged from the shadows. He wore a heavy canvas apron, rubber gloves, and a pair of thick plastic goggles. I had no clue what he’d been doing, but from the smell, I guessed it hadn’t been the highlight of his day.
“Hi,” I said.
“You got no friends here, in case you ain’t figured that out. So if this is a social call—”
“Sharyn’s dying,” I said. “And I think you’re the only person in Haven who can save her.”
That stopped him. He stared at me. They all stared at me. I felt myself squirm. It was like being on stage during a school play and discovering you’d worn the wrong costume.
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked, still nasty but wary too.
“Sharyn’s brain is swelling from the hit she took,” I explained. “It’s gonna kill her unless we can do this procedure to relieve the pressure.”
“What procedure?”
I shrugged. “Ian said the name, but I didn’t catch it. Started with a ‘V.’ The point is that we need to drill a hole through her skull without hitting the brain and insert a tube to drain out all the extra stuff. You know, to get the swelling down.”
Alex absorbed this. “So…what do you want me for?”
“Sharyn once told me that you’re a jerk—” I replied.
“Look, Ritter—”
“—but that you get the job done. That crossbow you made her…Aunt Sally…is some serious equipment. Bottom line, you’re great with tools, the best we got. Now Ian’s a solid medic, but even he doesn’t believe he’s steady enough to drill that hole without killing Sharyn. I think maybe you are.”
Now it was Alex’s turn to squirm. Every eye in the Monkey Barrel moved from me to him. “You want me to…drill a hole in Sharyn’s head?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s nuts.”
I shrugged. “Ian’s getting her ready in the infirmary right now. You need to bring a small power drill, the smallest you got. Plus a clean bit.”
“What kind of bit?” he asked.
“Kind?”
He growled again, “Wood bit? Metal? Masonry? Ceramic? Jeez, Ritter!”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Something that’ll make a clean hole through bone, I guess.”
“Nope.”
“You’re useless,” he told me.
“Whatever.”
“Okay,” he said, thinking aloud. “I’ll bring a half dozen standard and half dozen metric…all ceramic and all different sizes. One of ’em’s bound to work. Gimme a minute.”
“Does this mean you’ll do it?”
He glared at me. “What? Did you figure I’d say no?”
Then off he went, cursing me under this breath.
Someone asked, “Is Sharyn really dying?”
I replied, “I hope not.”
I heard Alex in a corner of the room, searching through drawers, the contents of which rattled noisily.
Another Monkey asked, “And drilling a hole in her head’s gonna save her?”
I replied, “That’s what Ian says.”
A third voice added, “But Ian ain’t a doctor.”
I replied, “He’s more doctor than anybody else around here.”
Nobody had any comment to make about that.
Alex returned a minute later with a beat-up canvas backpack over one shoulder. “Let’s go. The rest of you stay on schedule!”
“Good luck, Boss!” somebody called.
“Save her!” another kid added.
Alex didn’t reply. Instead, he headed out of the Monkey Barrel at a fast trot, with me chasing after him, keeping pace.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What for?”
“For doing this.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“You’re doing it for all of us,” I said. “That includes me.”
He looked about to say something but thought better of it and increased his pace. We were nearly running now, maneuvering through Haven’s shadow-laden corridors with the ease of long practice. The crowd outside the infirmary had grown heavier, maybe sixty kids deep. Alex called, “Make a hole!” And they did, their expressions ranging from curious to terrified.
Inside the infirmary, things had been happening in my absence. An old wooden podium had been set up beside Sharyn’s gurney. A ridiculously thick book lay open atop it.
Ian was hurriedly scanning its pages.
Sharyn’s body continued to convulse against her restraints. I noticed that her head had been turned to the left and another cloth fastened across her temples to keep her still.
The girl’s eyes rolled in their sockets, unseeing.
Ramirez was shaving Sharyn’s bare skull. Her dreadlocks had already been cut off and lay like coiled black snakes on the floor. He worked with a cheap disposable razor, carefully removing the stubble left behind by what must have been the girl’s first haircut in years.
Tom stood right where I’d left him beside the gurney. Beside him was Amy, her small hand resting gently on the Chief’s forearm.
Helene looked surprised as we entered. Nearby, Chuck frowned, as though perplexed.
Dave scowled.
“Alex?” Helene asked. “What are you—”
The Monkey Boss marched right up to Tom and spoke, cutting Helene off in mid-sentence. “I’ve got a drill and every bit I even thought might work.”
The Chief didn’t reply. His face was drawn, his skin ashen. Sharyn lay on her deathbed, and he looked like he might check out right along with her.
Ian said, “Good. Thanks, Alex. I’ve got some water boiling in a pot on the hotplate. You’ll want to drop the bits into it for a few minutes.”
Wordlessly, Alex went to the counter with the hotplate and did as instructed. Then he returned and held up the power drill he’d brought. It was small, not much bigger than the water pistols we used—for detail work, I suppose.
“Might be okay,” the medic pronounced.
Ramirez looked at Alex. “You know what we’re planning to do here?”
The Monkey Boss nodded.
“And you’re okay with it?”
He nodded again.
“That drill,” the FBI guy said. “Are you any good with it?”
“Yeah,” Alex replied. No bragging. Just a statement of fact.
“You need a very steady hand,” Ramirez pressed. “Steadier than I’ve got. Otherwise, you’ll kill her.”
Alex raised his right hand, palm down. He had long fingers, calloused from the work.
It was also absolutely motionless.
Ramirez nodded slowly. “Looks good. But this isn’t a two-by-four you’re drilling into. It’s a person’s skull. There’s going to be blood. Can you handle that?”
Alex glared at him. The infirmary was cemetery quiet.
“I watched both my parents get killed in front of me,” he said, his tone stone-cold. “My mother was bitten to death. My father was ripped limb from limb. Then the Corpses blew up my house to cover their tracks, faking a gas leak. But before that, one of them came at me, and I took my dad’s chainsaw to him. We were in the garage when it happened, and I painted the walls with that Deader’s guts. When I ran out of my house that night…just seconds before it went up in flames…my family was dead, and I was soaked in the blood of at least one of their killers.
“So,” he added into the awkward silence that followed. “I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever stuff comes out of Sharyn’s head.”
Ramirez blanched—seeming, if possible, even more shaken than he’d been after the demo.
“We got a saying around here,” Tom muttered without looking up from Sharyn’s face. “There are children in the Undertakers but not a lot of childhood.”
Chuck added, his stitched-up tongue garbling the words but not much, “What the Chief means is that this isn’t the yearbook committee, and we don’t need a ‘faculty advisor.’ For two years now, we’ve been fighting this war and looking after ourselves. We’re good at it.”
“Yeah,” Dave Burger piled on. “So back off, man.”
Ramirez looked utterly defeated.
“Why don’t you go sit down?” Ian suggested. “We can handle this.”
“Yeah,” Ramirez—the only adult in the room; the only adult in Haven—replied quietly. “I suppose you can.”
Then he went and sat down, dropping into one of the folding chairs lined up against a nearby wall.
Ian said, “You too, Tom.”
“I’m staying here,” the Chief replied.
Ian looked at me for help.
I went to Tom’s side. “Come on,” I told him. Then I put my arm around his shoulder—a gesture he’d done to me about a hundred times. For a second or two, he resisted, but then he let go of Sharyn and let me lead him away from the gurney. Amy went with us, holding the Chief’s big hand in her small one.
Helene, Dave, and Chuck followed us.
Agent Ramirez sat hunched over, his eyes focused on Sharyn’s gurney. He looked miserable but resigned.
I motioned Tom into a chair beside him. Helene took the next seat over. “She’s gonna be okay,” she told him, pasting on a smile.
“Sure she is,” said Dave.
Well-meaning words. But empty.
Then Amy whispered, “She’d want you to stay strong.”
Tom looked at the little girl. There were tears in his eyes. “Yeah…she would.”
“Amy,” Ian called. “Why don’t you stay with him? Will, I could use another set of hands, if that’s okay.”
I nodded and turned away.
Tom caught my wrist. “She’s all I got, bro,” he whispered. The expression on his face was like an open wound.
Four months ago, such a display of raw emotion—especially coming from another guy—would have thrown me for a loop. Back in Towers Middle School, you didn’t open yourself up like this, no matter what was happening. You just didn’t.
“No, she’s not,” I told him. “But I hear you.”
Tom nodded, let go of my wrist, and buried his face in his hands. Helene and I swapped a look that had about a hundred things behind it. Then I went to stand at Ian’s left shoulder. Alex, I saw, had positioned himself on the medic’s right.
“Okay,” Ian said. He sounded scared, but his voice was steady. “Let’s do this.”
Chapter 29
The Mom Trap
Susan Ritter’s first thought as she stepped into Lilith Cavanaugh’s office at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon was that it didn’t look all that “hopeful.”
There were a half-dozen people waiting for her and all of them, except for Ms. Cavanaugh herself, were uniformed police officers. They studied her, stone faced, as Lilith made the introductions. One of them, Susan was astonished to discover, was none other than Martin D’Angelo, Philly’s chief of police. She’d never met the man, but she knew what the media said about him—that he was a hard cop, difficult to work for, but competent.
If anyone can find Will, he can.
Except that there was something about D’Angelo’s expression, the way he regarded her.
Something almost, well, predatory.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ritter,” Chief D’Angelo said, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. “I never had the…pleasure…of knowing Detective Ritter personally, but I knew him by reputation.”
“Thank you,” Susan replied, shaking the big man’s hand. Except she wasn’t sure exactly what she was thanking him for. What he’d said about Karl hadn’t been a compliment—not quite.
“Have a seat, Susan,” Lilith purred. Susan sat and watched with growing apprehension as Lilith settled into her own desk chair and the men, D’Angelo included, positioned themselves behind her. It was odd. The way they stood made them seem somehow subordinate, as if Cavanaugh were their boss.
But Lilith was the city’s community affairs director, and Susan felt pretty sure the chief of police didn’t report to the Community Affairs Office!
Then she noticed that one of the uniformed policemen had stayed behind and now stood with his back to the closed office door, his expression stony.
