“But not impossible,” Healy argues. “What then?”
Dr. Peterson has no answer, just like Dr. Radnor before him. At a certain point there’s nothing left to say. Bronx Psych may be awful, but if these people discharge Healy tomorrow, where could he go? A homeless shelter? Doesn’t he have a better chance of building some sort of life for himself if he stays put and waits it out?
So he’s stuck here. But for how long? The total absence of any answer looms like an endless black void. Hugo and his concert tickets are the least of it. Some of these people are seriously nuts—like Stefan, whose facial tick is so severe that he’s a human bobble-head, nodding and shaking until he finally makes himself seasick and throws up.
My God, I feel for him—it’s not his fault, but where do I fit in with a guy like that?
Or Con Ed, who refuses to go to bed because he’s convinced that, at midnight, the power company drains all the energy from his body. Besides Healy, the sanest person in the building is the mob guy who was found not guilty by reason of insanity. Even in his case, it’s impossible to tell if he’s a gangster pretending to be a mental patient, or a mental patient who’s delusional about being a gangster. All Healy has to go on are his stories of contract hits and truck hijackings and his colorful threats of what he’ll do to anybody who squeals on him.
The staff is nice enough, but they’re harassed and busy. No one has the inclination for a normal conversation. At any moment an attendant might have to run off and prevent someone from painting the walls with tomato juice or attacking Wolf Blitzer on a TV screen.
Besides, they’re strangers. What a stupid thing to say. In his condition, who isn’t a stranger? Yet that might be the hardest part of this. Thanks to his amnesia, the people at Yorkville make up everybody he knows in the world. The only person he recognizes here is Roxanne. When he first saw her in the common room, he actually ran over and hugged her—that’s how much emotion is generated by a familiar face.
“What are you doing here?”
“My volunteer assignment got changed,” she explains. “Small world, huh?”
“Yeah, but a nice kid like you in a place like this?”
She smiles. “This is where I’m needed. You see a bad place; I see somewhere I can do the most good.”
What a sweetheart. The fact that she’s going to be around makes the future a tiny bit less bleak. But even she has little time for him now. She’s busy with orientation, learning about the facility, and her new responsibilities.
He doesn’t ask her about Gecko, because he knows the two are on the outs. Too bad. That’s another quality teenager. A little odd, to be sure, with his quiet intensity. But a great kid, nonetheless.
It doesn’t matter. Chances are, he’s never going to lay eyes on the boy again.
He sighs glumly. How many people have I let go of already—without even knowing it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The meeting is set for Sal’s Famous—Healy’s favorite pizza place. Even in his absence, the group leader’s influence hangs over them.
“Hope your girl likes pepperoni,” Terence mumbles, tying into his second slice.
“I have no idea what food she likes or doesn’t like,” Gecko says honestly. “I never took her out to eat. How could I? We had next to no cash and no idea how long we had to make it last.”
Arjay wraps his mouth around a king-size bite. “Well, we don’t have to worry about that anymore. One way or another, we know exactly how long our money has to last. Till Wednesday. After that, we’ll either have Healy paying our bills again, or we’ll be accepting the hospitality of the Department of Corrections.”
Terence glances nervously at the clock on the wall. “Where’s your chick, Gecko? Think she might stiff us?”
“She has to make sure she’s not followed,” Gecko explains. “If her old man’s crazy enough to send the deputy chief of police to scare me away, who’s to say he wouldn’t keep an eye on her too?”
As he speaks, Roxanne appears in the fly-specked glass of the front door and enters the pizzeria. He can actually feel himself flush. He’s embarrassed by how happy he is to see her. The rush even wipes out for a moment the all-pervading dread of what they have to do, and the fate that awaits them if they can’t make it work.
“Man, she looks good,” comments Terence in a low voice. “Still can’t figure out what she’s doing with you.”
Arjay is sober. “Let’s just concentrate on what she has to say.”
Roxanne slides into the booth beside Gecko. “Sorry I’m late, you guys. The whole hospital was in lockdown because they couldn’t find one of the patients on the eighth floor.”
Gecko is instantly alert. “He escaped?”
“No, he tried to put all his clothes on at the same time and wedged himself in the closet. But they weren’t letting anybody in or out until they found him.” Her face darkens. “They’re very serious about security up there. It would have been a lot easier to get your friend Healy out of Yorkville.”
“No point in moaning about that now,” Arjay puts in. “How much of the hospital have you had the chance to see?”
“Most of it, I think—wow, pepperoni! My favorite.” She picks up a slice. “The orientation is a huge deal. They run the hospital like a jail, and keeping the patients inside is Job One. That’s the first thing the head nurse told me.”
Terence is not a believer. “These places—they talk big security, but it’s hot air. You can get into anywhere. Something—a skylight, a window—”
She shakes her head. “The windows are barred, and there are no skylights. I thought about the roof, but the access is locked and chained. Besides, you’d have to be Spider-Man to get in that way. We’re the tallest building for three blocks.”
“What about fire exits?” Arjay suggests.
“They’re all outside main security,” she tells him. “And there’s no way to pull the fire alarm and disappear in the confusion. Each patient is assigned to a fire marshal, and there’s a disaster plan they practice every month. Not to mention the police station around the corner. During lockdown today, the cops were there in, like, thirty seconds. It’s a lost cause, guys. Maybe you should just confess.”
Terence is scornful. “Confess, nothing! A building like that doesn’t run by itself. They need deliveries—food, toilet paper, those gowns that don’t cover your butt, whatever! Where do they take out the garbage? Not through the metal detector at the front door, that’s for sure!”
She looks thoughtful. “There’s a lane in the back of the building, leading up to the loading docks. All deliveries come in there, and that’s where they put out the garbage. But there’s a guard post blocking the alley. Everybody going in or out has to be authorized by the desk.”
Terence is concentrating hard. “Twenty-four hours a day?”
“I don’t think so,” she replies. “Last night when I left, the guard hut was empty. But the gate was padlocked shut.”
A big grin splits Terence’s face. “The lock doesn’t exist that can keep me out.”
Arjay speaks up. “Maybe Rox could go to the loading dock and let us inside.”
She shakes her head. “That’s all closed up at night. Terence can pick a lock, but I can’t.”
Their faces fall. Just when it seems like they’ve found a way in, there’s another dead end.
Then Roxanne says, “Unless…” Their eyes are on her again, wide and pleading. “…There’s a small door off the kitchen, leading to the Dumpsters. It’s locked to the outside. But someone on the inside could open it for you.”
Never before have Gecko and Arjay seen Terence so businesslike. For the next twenty minutes he questions Roxanne on the minutest details of the alley, the kitchen, the layout of that part of the hospital, and the people who work there. If the kid would devote this kind of energy and drive to schoolwork, he’d be a Presidential Scholar.
As the plan crystallizes, Gecko’s heart begins to pound. Calm down, he cautions himself. The od
ds against us are a million to one.
Pull the breakout, bring back Healy’s memory, convince him to cover for them with Ms. Vaughn. A long shot? Try no shot! And yet when the whole scheme is broken down into single steps, not one of them is impossible.
Gecko asks the practical question. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” Terence replies matter-of-factly. “How many days do you think we’ve got?”
“That’s perfect,” Roxanne puts in. “I work till eight, and I can tell my parents I’m sleeping at a friend’s house. Then, when I do get home, I’ll just say there was a change of plan.”
Gecko feels a pang of remorse. “No wonder your dad doesn’t want you to have anything to do with me. Look at what I’ve got you mixed up in.”
She slips her hand into his and shrugs, smiling. “Get a grip.”
How he’s missed those three words.
Terence puts his two cents in. “You want Arjay and me to scram so you guys can make all these people lose their appetites?”
Gecko and Roxanne move apart self-consciously.
“Anyway,” Arjay concludes, “tonight’s not the time for celebrating. Tomorrow night.”
Maybe.
Nobody speaks it, but the word hangs there as clearly as if it’s been broadcast in the pizzeria.
They say good-bye to Roxanne and trudge back down Third Avenue toward Ninety-seventh Street. They make a very quiet procession, each one anticipating a sleepless night and a tortured day. Gecko suffers doubly, knowing that he has just passed up what might well be his last chance to kiss Roxanne. Tomorrow night, in the heat of the breakout, there will be no time for that. And afterward, it’s more than likely he’ll never see her again.
“What’s up, yo?”
Arjay already has his key in the lock when the shadowy figures appear behind them. Four hang back. When the fifth steps forward, the razor-cut dollar sign gleams in the lamplight.
Arjay moves away from the door and regards DeAndre. “Something I can do for you, pal?”
DeAndre looks the massive Arjay up and down. “This is between me and the yo, here.”
“I’m not doing it,” Terence says firmly. “It doesn’t make me feel like a gangster to dump an old lady into a frozen puddle. Guess I haven’t got what it takes to be with your crew.”
DeAndre shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. You’re on the hook for this. No backing out.”
Terence sighs. “No disrespect—I don’t have time for this, man.”
The snake eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask for it. You did.”
Terence tries to be reasonable. “Things change, DeAndre.”
“Not this thing! I’m not your hobby. What you start with me, you finish. Or there’s payback.” His four crew members step into the light.
Arjay and Gecko move forward to flank Terence. With all that they have on their plate, a brawl is the last thing they need. But they can’t leave Terence to face them alone.
Out of the darkness above, a cascade of water splatters on the sidewalk, drenching DeAndre and his crew. Shocked, the razor-cut teen stares at Terence, searching for the weapon his adversary used to call down a deluge from the heavens. When he finally looks up, he spies Mrs. Liebowitz leaning out her window, an empty saucepan in one hand, her cell phone in the other.
“I’ve dialed nine-one-one and I’m about to push the send button! You get out of here and leave my boys alone!”
DeAndre glares at Terence. “Twenty-four hours, yo. Get it done or you get done!” He and his crew storm off down the street, shoes squishing on the pavement.
Arjay looks up to thank Mrs. Liebowitz, but the window is already shut.
“They’ll be back,” Terence predicts bleakly. “Count on it.”
Arjay takes a deep breath. “We’ve got bigger problems than those guys.”
“Maybe so,” says Gecko with a shiver. “But now they know where we live.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Roxanne Fitzner signs her duty chart, shrugs out of her hospital lab coat, and tosses it into the laundry bin in the staff lounge.
She draws an anxious breath. Her shift is over, but her night is just beginning. Brushing aside the fear that she might be too scared to do what she has to do, she steps out into the corridor.
“Hi, Roxanne. How are you fitting in?”
One of the orderlies, Gerard Somebody.
“Loving it,” she replies sweetly, looking up at him. He’s very tall and well muscled. So is most of the male staff. They’re not technically security, but they might as well be. How are she and the guys ever going to make this work?
Bronx County Psychiatric is divided by wing. There are several lockdown wards, where the patients—prisoners, really—never leave their rooms, not even for mealtime. Thankfully, John Doe—Mr. Healy—is on the fourth floor, where the patients enjoy a degree of freedom.
The elevator door opens, and there he is in the common area, listlessly watching television. The man beside him is carrying on a whispered conversation with the characters on the screen, but Healy doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he particularly seem to be paying attention to the program. His mind is exactly where his life is—in limbo. He’s obviously depressed, and no wonder.
She’s almost flattened by an attack of conscience. How could she be conspiring with the people who let this wonderful man rot in his confused solitude for weeks? She takes Gecko and his friends at their word when they say that Healy’s injury was an accident. But how could they wait until now before taking action to save him?
Why am I helping these guys? Is it just because I like Gecko? Am I that shallow?
Yet, all the evidence to the contrary, she’s positive that, at his core, Gecko is a good person.
Surely I can’t be wrong about something that important, that basic!
Besides, how can a spoiled rich girl judge kids like Gecko, Arjay, and Terence? They’ve known nothing but hardship, while she’s known only private schools, private clubs, private yachts, and doors that are always open because of who her father is.
“Hi, John.”
Healy looks up and beams at her. His smile seems all the brighter for how rarely it appears these days. “Hey, stranger. How’s the orientation coming along?”
“Done. I’m chief psychiatrist now.”
“Don’t I wish!” he exclaims. “Then you could check me out of here.”
“Well, maybe not all the way out,” she says lightly. “But how about I drag you down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee?”
He makes a face. “The inmates are only allowed decaf here. It tastes like raw sewage.”
“Hot chocolate, then,” she coaxes. “And I’ll throw in my brilliant conversation.”
He stands. “You’re a lifesaver. I need to get off the planet Krypton for a while.”
The cafeteria is on the main floor at the rear of the building. Its walls are painted a deep pink.
“Research shows that this is the most restful color,” she says, plunking two steaming cups onto the table in front of them. “At least, that’s what the head nurse said at orientation.”
“It looks like someone blew up a flamingo farm,” he comments cheerfully.
Roxanne notes the difference in Healy when he’s removed from the atmosphere of the ward. His mood is lighter—he’s almost relaxed. You can actually see his shoulders descending from up around his ears as his tension eases.
She’s tense enough for the two of them. But she can’t let Healy notice that. Everything has to seem normal. She sips at her drink and tries not to stare at the doorway leading into the kitchen. Behind that wall, she knows, lies another door, the one that leads to the alley—where Gecko and his friends will be waiting very soon now.
The sign on the small panel truck reads: AJAX LINEN SERVICE.
“It’s a tight ride,” Gecko confirms as he tools the vehicle onto the uptown FDR. All rides are tight when the opportunity to drive is as rare as a Fourth of July blizzard.
“I still
say we should have jacked something with a little more style,” Terence grumbles.
“We’ve got all the style we need,” Arjay insists. “If anybody spots us behind the hospital, we look like we’re making a delivery. Let’s keep our heads in the game. This is for all the marbles.”
“And for Mr. Healy,” Gecko adds, his knuckles white on the wheel.
Terence grunts, but he can’t deny the truth of it. Up until now, his life has been mostly about image—acting tough, looking cool, coming off gangster. But tonight he sees that image is worth squat. When you’re playing for stakes this high, only results count. If they can’t make this happen, nothing else matters.
They fly up the FDR and hit the Willis Avenue Bridge doing seventy. The red brake lights come out of nowhere. Gecko stomps on the pedal and pumps the truck to a lurching stop.
Arjay is alarmed. “What’s all this traffic?”
Gecko throws the gears into reverse in an attempt to back them out. Too late. A crush of vehicles has filled in the roadway behind them. They’re locked into the snarl.
Crouched in the payload behind the front seat, Terence straightens up and peers over the stopped cars. Lights flash in the distance. “Accident up ahead. How long till we get through?”
“How should I know?” snaps Gecko.
“Calm down,” soothes Arjay.
But there’s nothing to be calm about. They have scripted every minute detail of this operation. Except one: what if they’re late for their own breakout?
“Rox!” Gecko moans in agony. According to their timetable, at exactly 9:20 she’s going to bring Healy to the kitchen exit. “If she opens that door and we’re not there—”
“You’re the hotshot driver,” Terence exclaims. “Get us there!”
“We’ll get there! We’ll get there!” Arjay insists, trying to convince himself as much as the others.
“What if we can’t?” Gecko demands, his voice rising.
Fifteen minutes go by. They have not moved a single inch.
“This better not be some little fender bender!” Terence seethes. “If we’re going back to jail over this, I want somebody’s spleen lying on the road!”
The Juvie Three Page 14
