by Max Turner
That got his attention. His eyebrows rose on his forehead as if he were trying to force his eyelids open. “What happened?”
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. I suppose the truth would have worked, but Charlie hated Maximilian, and his feelings were well-founded. “You were shot with a tranquilizer.”
I heard footsteps outside. Then the window in the door darkened. I ducked around the curtain—the one that you see in most hospital rooms that hangs around the bed to create the illusion of privacy.
“Charlie, someone’s in the hall. We need to hide.” He seemed not to hear me.
“Whose idea was this anyway?” he asked. “Can’t you give me five more minutes? I feel like I just stepped off the Time Warp at Canada’s Wonderland.”
I heard the rattle of the door handle. It was locked, but someone clearly wanted in. We were in no condition for a confrontation. I looked for a hiding place. There was none. At least, none in the room. But the false ceiling had tiles hanging on a plastic frame so that ductwork and plumbing could easily be accessed. They had the same kind back in the ward. I’d once used it to hide. No reason it wouldn’t work again.
“Keep it down,” I whispered. I quietly hauled him up to his feet. Then I stepped up on the bed, onto the machine beside it, and slipped a ceiling tile out of place. Overhead were the heating vents, wiring, and plumbing for the hospital. I grabbed a pipe and pulled myself up, then hooked my legs over so I was hanging upside down like a three-toed sloth.
Charlie stepped up onto the bed, then took my hand so I could pull him out of sight. As soon as he had a hold on the plumbing beside me, I slid the tile back. My coordination was a bit off, so I didn’t get it set right. It left a slender crack open.
An instant later, I heard a key twist in the door lock. A man whispered, “Thank you,” and walked in. The privacy curtain slid back and he stepped into view. He was short, bald, with legs that belonged on a rhinoceros. Detective Baddon. His head was angled to the side as though expecting to find someone in the bed. When he saw no one there, he sighed, disappointed. He moved closer, checked around the bed and table, then noticed a depression in the center of the mattress. A footprint. He gazed up at the ceiling, drew a gun from a holster strapped around his shoulder, then turned and reached for a chair.
Well, I wasn’t sticking around for a shoot-out. My best projectile was a spitball. I slipped the tile down.
“We’ve got to move,” I whispered to Charlie. Using my hands, I pulled myself away. I tried to be quiet, but I think the detective must have heard us because he was looking in our direction when his head popped up above the tile. He’d used his gun to lift the near end up out of the frame. It was pitch-black. I was hoping it was too dark for him to see. We didn’t stick around to find out. I kept moving until I heard the tile drop. The faint light coming in from the room below disappeared. I stopped and listened.
“Did he see us?” I asked.
Charlie was staring back through the darkness. “Well, he didn’t shoot, that’s the main thing!”
We were above the hallway. I could hear Detective Baddon’s footsteps as he exited the room. Another set, moving faster, swishing on the floor like slippers, was coming toward him.
“Oh, hi there,” said a female voice. She sounded friendly, but surprised. “Sleepwalking again?”
I heard a gentle laugh. “No,” said Detective Baddon. “I was hoping to talk to a patient, but he appears to have checked out.”
“Did you want me to look into it for you?” I assumed the woman was a nurse.
“No. He’s definitely gone. I’m just going to check in on my son. Who’s on call tonight?”
“Dr. Bell. Do you want me to send for him?”
“If you don’t mind. I was hoping for some news, but I don’t have much time tonight. I’m not staying long.”
“Oh, of course. I read the news about the police station. I hope no one was hurt.”
“Not seriously.”
“Have you found the boy?”
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful.” The tone of the detective’s voice changed. I couldn’t see him, but it sounded as though he was looking up. I had a flash of panic, as if he knew we were here. Sweat started to break out on my hands and forehead.
“I’ll be down the hall,” he added. “I’d appreciate an update as soon as possible.”
“I’ll pull his charts,” the nurse said. “Someone will be in to see you right away.”
He said thank you, then the two headed off in opposite directions.
My mind was racing. The detective had been looking for Maximilian. Why? It must have had something to do with Hyde.
“What do we do now?” Charlie asked.
The dawn was nearing. It was time to get going. “We should split,” I whispered.
Charlie nodded, but he didn’t move. “What’s he doing here?”
I didn’t know. But there was one way to find out—follow the footsteps as they faded down the hall. Common sense suggested we should leave. Ophelia would definitely want us to play the safe card and get home. But Charlie wanted to stay. What to do? Follow the Detention King of Adam Scott Collegiate, whose decisions had, arguably, driven his mother into rehab, or go with the most responsible person I’d ever met, whose levelheaded decision making had kept me safe for almost ten years?
Naturally, I went with Charlie.
— CHAPTER 23
SICKBED
Something about hanging upside down must have been beneficial because my grogginess vanished once I got moving. My head started to clear and my strength returned. I followed Charlie, hand over hand, down the hall in pursuit of the detective’s heavy footfalls. We were quiet. The only real danger seemed to be the dust. I was worried one of us might sneeze and give ourselves away. But I’d never read about a vampire being thwarted by unclean plumbing, so we slothed onward.
The detective quietly entered one of the rooms farther down the hall. We had to take a detour around a heating duct, which took an extra minute. By the time we were overhead, he’d settled himself into a chair beside the room’s only bed. I eased a tile up just a finger’s breadth and listened. A boy was asleep in the bed beside him. He might have been six or seven. Judging by his features, he must have taken after his mother—slight, with fair hair and skin. Tubes ran into his arm and nose. The detective was sifting through a stack of what looked to be magazines. Only when he took one out of the middle did I see they were children’s books. I recognized the picture on the front. It was Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak—one of my all-time favorite stories as a little kid.
Detective Baddon pushed his glasses up on his nose, turned on the bedside light, angled it away from his son’s face, and started to read out loud. I thought it was odd he would do this with his son sleeping. He was just turning a page when a knock came at the door. The detective stood. A man entered. He was wearing a collared, short-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of slacks that were pulled up too high. He looked to be a bit older, in his sixties maybe. He was flipping through pages on a clipboard. I guessed this was the boy’s doctor. After a few seconds, he peered over his glasses. “You get any sleep this week?”
“Not much. Things are a bit crazy at the moment. Any news?”
“Yes. Good news.” The doctor stared at the pages a moment longer. “The cancer’s gone.”
The detective looked down at his son. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t get it. I thought we were starting a more aggressive treatment tomorrow. You said his chances were low. That the cancer was spreading.”
“I can’t explain it, Adam. The cancer is in total remission. His blood sample came back from the lab clean. The tissue biopsies came back this afternoon. Also clean. His white blood cell count is off the charts. Given the medications he was taking, it should be low, almost nonexistent. Not high. I’ve never seen anything like it. No one around here has.”
Detective Baddon rubbed a hand over his scalp. I noticed the scar on his wrist again. A na
sty swath of pink skin, as if he’d been burned or cut open. He looked exhausted. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, with deep ditches underneath. He slipped the arms of his glasses back over his ears, then stared at his son. When he started to speak, his voice broke. It took him a few moments to pull himself together.
“Is he ever going to wake up?” he asked.
The doctor didn’t answer right away. He looked at the charts in his clipboard one last time, then slipped them into a tray at the base of the boy’s bed.
“Usually I tell people in situations like this that you can’t tell. All you can do is wait. But your son’s a fighter, Adam. He’s not a big kid, but . . .” The doctor shook his head. “Most people would have died from a head injury like that. The MRI came back and it looks like we were off with our first assessment, because his brain tissue is in better shape than we thought. His heartbeat is more regular. His breathing’s stronger. It’s all good news, Adam. The only problem is his red blood cell count. We can’t keep it elevated. I’ve sent samples to a few specialists in Toronto. We should hear back soon.”
“Do you need me to leave you with some more?”
“Give it a few days. We’ll see what happens to his hematocrit levels. If he needs more blood, I’ll let you know.”
If he needs more blood? I looked at Charlie. He looked at me. Was he thinking what I was thinking? I examined the boy more carefully. He was emaciated, his features well-defined for a child so young—just as mine were when I was that age. Was he was one of us? A vampire? His blood was our first clue. He’d obviously had cancer, then it had gone away. Could he be carrying the pathogen? That would get rid of his cancer. It would also heal a damaged brain, which wasn’t always possible for a normal person.
“You need to get some rest,” the doctor said. “When did you eat last?”
The detective looked as if he was about to respond, but was interrupted by the old theme song from Hockey Night in Canada. He frowned and reached to his belt, then unclipped a cell phone and read the display.
“I have to take this. Who’s in tomorrow?”
“Dr. Spink.”
The detective nodded, then pulled the cell phone away from his ear to hear the last thing the doctor said.
“You should take a day off, Adam. You look like the walking dead.”
The doctor turned and left the room. Detective Baddon waited until the door was closed before he answered the phone.
“Baddon here. What’s up, Matt?” There was a pause. “Good.” He tipped his wrist to check his watch. “Can you give me half an hour? . . . Perfect.” He snapped the phone closed and clipped it back to his belt. A lock of his son’s hair had fallen over his eyes. The detective brushed it away with a thick finger, then bent and kissed the boy’s forehead. A few seconds later, the book was in his hand and he was reading again.
I started backing away. This was a private moment between a man and his son. It didn’t feel right to hang around. The sun would soon be up. Charlie took one last look, then followed. I turned my head to see the best route out, then reached over to a neighboring pipe. It must have been all the dust in the air because I didn’t see the jagged end of the bracket holding the pipe in place until I scraped my wrist against it, cutting my skin. It caught me by surprise. I pressed my teeth together to smother a snarl. I didn’t want to give myself away. Because I was hanging upside down, I couldn’t use my other hand to cover the gash, so I pressed it against my mouth instead in hopes that it would quickly clot. It was little more than a scratch. The taste of my blood got me thinking about the detective’s son. If he was one of us, the scent of his blood would give him away. I could probably have picked it up from his arm, where the needle was inserted under his skin. But there wasn’t enough time to wait for Detective Baddon to leave.
“Why are you waiting?” Charlie asked.
“I cut myself.”
“Yeah, I can smell it.”
I gave the cut a few seconds to start drying, then I began crawling, hand over hand back to my uncle’s room. Once there, I exited the ceiling the same way I came in, by stepping off the machine and onto the bed. Through the window, I could see the dark night sky growing lighter at the horizon. Sunrise was about a half hour away.
“What do you make of that?” Charlie asked, dropping quietly beside me.
“What? The boy?”
“No—the plastic flowers by his bed. Of course the boy, you dough head!”
“I think he must be one of us.”
Charlie crept to the door. “Exactly what I was thinking.” He glanced up and down the hallway, then nodded. “The coast is clear. Let’s go.”
We slipped out without a sound and headed for the elevators.
“What was he doing in the room?” Charlie asked.
“What?”
“That bald dude. How did he know to look for us there?”
He hadn’t been looking for us, he’d been looking for my uncle. “He must have been looking for Agent X.”
Charlie hit the button for the elevator. “Well, this was a wasted trip.”
A bell dinged and the door in front of us slid open. Charlie stepped in and I followed. He hit L for “lobby.”
“What is it?” Charlie said. “You look like you lost your brain.”
My brain was actually right where it belonged. It just wasn’t working particularly well. I couldn’t decide if I should tell Charlie that Agent X was really my uncle. And I was worried about Mr. Entwistle. Why wasn’t he here? At the same time, a vague uneasiness had settled over me, as if I’d forgotten something important. Did it have to do with my uncle? Our conversation was difficult to recall. Like remembering an old dream. I reached back to scratch behind my shoulder. It was sore for some reason. Itchy. The skin raised like a blister. The doors closed, and the floor indicator started dropping from 4 to 3. Had I missed something?
“Speak up,” said Charlie. “You’re worse than a rock sometimes.”
“Sorry, I’m just thinking.”
“Well, I know that, Brainiac. When are you not thinking?”
Never was the correct answer, but I didn’t get a chance to say so, because the top of the elevator exploded. The overhead lights burst and an alarm started to ring. The wall behind Charlie folded inward, knocking him against the door. The elevator jerked to an instant stop, buckling me at the knees. Then Mr. Entwistle’s words came back. “Just make certain when you boys leave, that you take the stairs. Got it?” Not the best thing to forget, apparently, because the elevator was flying apart. A corner of the roof above me disintegrated, creating a hole that brought the elevator shaft into view. Hairy fingers, half again as long as mine, reached down through the opening and tore it wider. Through the smoke and spark of burning wires I glimpsed an enormous, man-shaped shadow. It snarled, then dropped down beside me.
— CHAPTER 24
THE BEAST THAT NONE CAN WAR AGAINST
From a distance, you might have mistaken him for the world’s largest vampire. His shape was human. And he was clothed. Tattered leather jacket. Harley-Davidson belt buckle. Jeans that were way too short, like Hulk pants. But the odor was wrong. Even with the elevator wires sparking, and the stink of burning plastic everywhere, I could tell he wasn’t one of us. He smelled musty—like an animal. And he was huge. Seven feet at least, and so wide at the shoulders he filled the elevator. Something about his shape was off. His arms were heavily muscled, but just a bit too long. His fingers, too. The nails of each were black and tapered to a sharp point. So were his toenails, which clacked on the elevator tiles when he landed. The floor lurched and my knees gave way. It gave me a good view of his feet. His arches were all stretched up so that he seemed to be perched on the balls of his feet, his ankle a foot above the floor. It made me think of the paw of a dog, or a wolf.
He bent down and glared at me with his large, yellow eyes. They were set wide apart on his face, and the irises were covered with flecks of red, like tiny drops of blood. The rest of his face was only vaguel
y human. The skin, where it wasn’t covered in hair, looked as if it had been pulled back, so his nose was broad and flat against his skull. His nostrils flared with each breath. His forehead sloped backward, as did his ears, which were long and pointed. The top of his head was covered with coarse, black hair. It ran down each jaw, and even down his neck, but the whiskers didn’t stretch across his chin, so they looked more like long sideburns. His thin lips pulled back and a low rumble leaked from his mouth. I could see a row of teeth not unlike my own. Incisors, long and pointed. They would have been right at home in a dinosaur exhibit. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Then he growled. The sound was like electricity. It rippled through the bones of my chest. I glanced at Charlie. He’d been knocked flat and was crouched behind Hyde’s feet. He looked as if he’d been hit by lightning.
I had one chance—the knife my uncle had given me. It was still in the back pocket of my jeans. I reached for it, but before I could get it free, Hyde snapped out his hand and took hold of me around the throat. He was so fast, I’m not even sure I saw it. It was more like my mind took its best guess from the blur of movement and then, afterward, tried to patch together what had happened. I felt myself rise, then the air flew from my chest as he pushed me up against the elevator wall. Charlie got to his feet. I have to give him credit. He wasn’t looking for the exit. He balled a fist and swung. Like his dancing, it was smooth. But Hyde reacted as if his eyes were on the back of his head. He quickly shifted his body. Charlie missed. I saw a blur of movement, followed by a dull thud, and Charlie collapsed.
Hyde turned back to me. He leaned closer, so his teeth were a few inches from my face. A hoarse, guttural sound crackled up from his throat. He might have been speaking, but I couldn’t make sense of the words. Then he hissed and slammed me up against the elevator wall a second time. I couldn’t breathe. Or cry for help. I glanced down toward Charlie to see if he was all right, if he could do something to help me, but I couldn’t angle my head properly. The Beast tightened his grip and my eyes started to go spotty. He started to speak to me again, but I still couldn’t tell what he was saying. His teeth gnashed together and his head turned sideways so I could see straight into one of his yellow eyes. He loosened his grip and tried to speak a third time.
