The letter went on to discuss recent changes in the town—“We got a new traffic light on Main, and Dwight’s bakery shut down last week.”—and Ethan threw it away before he had finished.
His resolve to behave was now stronger than ever. To speed his release, he formally apologized to Stark as soon as their private sessions resumed.
“I appreciate that,” the doctor said, fidgeting nervously with his tie. They were sitting in a small office. Outside the door stood a stocky male nurse, ready to act if Stark shouted for him.
Ethan nodded toward the door. “Is he necessary?”
“For now.”
I could make him necessary, Ethan thought. But he had the good sense to say instead, “I suppose I understand.”
NOW
THE TUNNEL MARTIN had found wasn’t any wider or taller than a coffin. With his body flat, he dragged himself forward several inches at a time. The tunnel gently sloped down and then turned north. Martin worked his way around the bend until he could see what was ahead. And, while he couldn’t be sure, the tunnel appeared to lead to a sizable cavern some thirty feet in the distance.
He’d been on his own for about fifteen minutes, he guessed. Cynthia and Ethan would be expecting him soon. But he didn’t want to return without knowing exactly where the tunnel would take them, nor did he want to try crawling out backward, so he kept going.
Until he heard the low, deep crack of earth giving way.
He braced himself for something to fall. Where was it coming from? Was it behind him? Was his exit about to be sealed off?
His heart raced.
Was it another earthquake?
Then, one more crack and he realized what was about to happen.
He scrambled forward, but it was too late. The earth underneath him was rapidly collapsing. He fell feet first through the newly formed opening, scratching and clawing until there was nothing left to hold onto.
THEN
STARK KNEW THAT Ethan’s medication should have prevented his outburst. And he firmly believed a patient could not solve his problems without putting his rage aside. So he reserved a conference room on the second floor and called Nurse Habal up for a private meeting.
He was sitting at the head of a long mahogany table when she entered. This seat was usually reserved for the head of the hospital, but since they were alone, he took the liberty of pretending he was more important than anybody considered him to be.
“Have a seat,” he said, and she did. “Why haven’t you been giving Ethan his medication?”
“I’ve always given that boy his pills,” Habal said defensively.
“You’re sure he’s swallowing them?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Stark rubbed his temples. “I don’t understand how this could have happened, then.”
“I gave him the pills.”
“It’s okay, Habal, I believe you.” They both sat silently until Stark added, “Maybe we need to increase the dosage.”
“If you think that’s best.”
“I don’t see any other option.”
Per Stark’s instructions, Ethan’s dosage was increased that same evening. And Habal, on her own accord, advised the nursing staff to watch him.
“Open up,” she said, after he’d swallowed that night’s pills.
“What for?” Talking was difficult with the drugs still in his mouth, so Ethan had to limit his words.
“Don’t question me, just do it.”
Ethan nodded and coughed like he had to clear his throat. But the cough grew quickly into a nasty hacking sound. He doubled over with his hands in front of his mouth. He couldn’t let her find the pills, nor could he spit them into his hand. So he used the disruption to work them out of his cheeks and swallow them.
He pretended to clear his throat with a sip of water and told Habal to proceed with the investigation.
“Show me your hands first.”
“I’m startin’ to think you don’t trust me,” he said, opening his hands, palms up.
She grunted, and then thoroughly checked his mouth. Even before the fake coughing fit, she was convinced he wasn’t swallowing the pills; now she knew he wasn’t. But she also didn’t think he would vomit them up, so she sent him on his way.
NOW
MARTIN DIDN’T FALL far—not as far as Cynthia had—but he was in pain when he landed, nonetheless. His back ached. His head throbbed. Had it not been for his helmet, he suspected he would be unconscious.
He slowly got to his feet, and his headlamp flickered. Then he looked around for a way to climb back up to the tunnel above him. But with the walls of this chasm tilted inward, he could tell right away that holding on would be impossible.
Then his headlamp flickered again.
THEN
ETHAN VOMITED UP every pill he was given until his release. He hated the burning in his throat and the nausea that followed each covert trip to the bathroom, but it was better than risking another close call with Habal. Another one of those and he feared they might switch to injections. Then he would be at their mercy.
“I got a phone call from Byron last week,” Stark told Ethan at one of their private sessions. Several months had passed since the attack, and the doctor’s fear of another seemed to have subsided.
“What’d he want?”
“He wants me to let you study for your GED. . . . I think it would be good for you.”
Ethan smiled as if the idea pleased him. “I agree.” But Ethan would have agreed to anything that might mean getting out of the hospital sooner.
“It’d be unorthodox, but if you think you can handle it . . .”
“Nothing but some good food could make me happier.”
Stark knew the hospital food was bland and chuckled with Ethan at the joke.
The books were delivered to Ethan’s room the next morning, and he used his studies as an excuse to withdraw further from the hospital staff and his fellow patients.
Any interaction he had with them increased the likelihood of another outburst. Just the simple request for his Jell-O at lunch would cause his eyelid to twitch, anything more and he would hear the flap of wings in the back of his head.
Keep it under control, he reminded himself. These people are just fools—dumb as swamp critters. Save the vengeance for those who deserve it.
And that he did. By discretely grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, he kept control. He passed his GED. Shortly afterward, Stark told him it was time to go home.
NOW
MARTIN’S HEADLAMP CONTINUED to flicker. Something had been knocked loose in the fall.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted upward until his voice was sore. If he wanted to continue on his own, he could choose either of the wide tunnels that exited the chasm from opposite ends. But then he might never find his friends again. He decided instead to wait.
He took off the backpack and sat down. Somebody would come soon, he told himself. It was better to keep the group together. For now, at least. Then his headlamp flickered off for the last time.
THEN
BYRON WAS WAITING for Ethan in the lobby of the hospital when they released him. The reunion was awkward—Byron stood frozen, unsure of whether to hug his son or just shake his hand.
“Hi, Pop,” Ethan said, equally still and too far away to touch.
“How are you feeling?”
Ethan almost answered with a joke about his sanity, but he noticed the nurse at the front desk watching him and reconsidered. “Better.”
Byron nodded. He was wearing a gray suit and looked like he was contemplating something important. “Did you get the letters I sent you?”
“Yeah.”
“All of them?”
“I got a lot of letters.”
“Because I numbered them, just to make sure.”
“I think I got all of them.”
Then Byron crossed the room before he knew what he was doing and wrapped his arms tightly around his son. All the guilt
for sending him away, for not calling when he wanted to, welled up into a single tear that he didn’t bother to wipe away. “I missed you so much.”
“I can’t move my arms.”
Byron let go and grabbed the suitcase Ethan had brought out with him. It was filled with clothes and books that his father had mailed to him over the months. He nodded toward the doors and said, “Come on.”
Neither of them spoke again until they were in the car. Byron turned over the ignition, and Ethan asked, “How’s Norma?” Byron hadn’t mentioned her in any of his recent letters, and Ethan was hoping for news of a debilitating illness or something equally tragic.
“She’s getting on all right. She’s taken up working at the frame shop on Barber Road to fill her days. Seems to make her happy. She smiles more, at any rate.”
“How’s she feel about me coming home?”
Byron took a deep breath—the car idling and the parking brake up—and said, “That’s the thing, son. Truth is she wasn’t happy about it all. She’s . . . well, she’s scared.”
She should be.
“There’s nothing I could do to talk her down, either. She said she can’t trust you anymore and that we were going to have to make—” Byron searched for the word. “—arrangements.”
“Arrangements? What’s that mean?”
“I made some calls, son. I got you set up with an apartment. I also got you a job as a teller at National Bank in Atlanta. The apartment’s already furnished and the job will give you some experience in the industry.”
“But why Atlanta? Why not somewhere closer?”
“I know the branch manager there. He used to work for me.”
“You know bankers all over the Southeast, what’s so special about this one?”
“Don’t argue with me,” Byron snapped. “I thought this might make you happy.”
“Why would this make me happy, Pop?”
“Because you’d be out on your own. I know you and Norma don’t get along, and I thought it might be better for you if you kept some distance from her.”
Ethan leaned his head against the passenger window. “Fine. I’ll go to Atlanta.”
He knew the only reason Byron would have found him a job so far away was that Norma had insisted on it. However, if she thought the distance would keep her safe, she was mistaken.
“Also, I want you to know that I’ve already paid for an apartment for the first six months. And there’s a checking account in your name at the bank with five hundred dollars in it. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it should be enough to get you started.”
“How am I supposed to get to this marvelous apartment?”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Well, how am I supposed to get to and from work?”
“The apartment’s only a block away. You can walk.”
Ethan sighed. “Let’s go.” The surprise, as gentle as Byron had tried to make it, still stung of Norma’s cruelty. But he knew there was nothing he could do to change his father’s mind.
Byron pulled off the parking brake, backed out of the spot, and, without another word, they were on their way to Atlanta.
NOW
“GET BACK HERE!” Ethan demanded.
Cynthia had bitten down with enough force to draw blood, and the blood was now sticking to his jeans. His groin still ached.
Between the two wounds, every step forward was painful.
THEN
THE APARTMENT WAS small but sufficient. Ethan could tell Byron had worked hard to make it feel like home. The bedroom looked identical to the one he’d grown up in—the walls painted a forest green, the framed Monet prints and posters hung in all the same places, even the alarm clock was positioned just as it had been the last time Ethan remembered seeing it.
In the living room and dining room, Byron had placed furniture similar to that in his own house.
Ethan was overwhelmed by his father’s generosity. He knew Byron loved him, but not until now did he know how much.
“Thank you.”
“You like it, then?”
“As much as a pig likes mud.”
Byron chuckled at the colorful expression—one of many Ethan had unconsciously picked up from Norma. “I’m glad.” He looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, and I need to get home.”
“I understand.” Norma had him on a tight leash.
“I’ll call you soon.”
“And visit?”
“As soon as I can.”
Ethan hugged his father and said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Byron waited for Ethan to let go, and then added, “I wish I could stay longer, but I really have to get back. Oh, but don’t forget to check your closet for a couple of suits I left you. I had to guess the size. If they don’t fit, get them hemmed. You start work on Monday.”
After Byron was gone, Ethan explored the drawers and cabinets in the apartment to see what else his father had left him. He found dishes and silverware, all of his old clothes, a small assortment of tools, spare light bulbs, his favorite books and CDs (stacked and alphabetized), and other practical and personal items. Then he tried on the suits—they were slightly big—and walked the Midtown streets until he found an alteration shop that could fix them.
He was trying to stay busy—primarily to keep his mind off killing Norma. He had just been released from the hospital and, even from as far away as Georgia, he would be a prime suspect if anything happened to her just yet.
But as the weekend began, questions like Why is Pop still married to that woman? and Why does she have to be such a bitch? spun in his head until he could no longer make sense of his thoughts.
“You must be Ethan Lancaster,” said the bank manager when Ethan arrived Monday morning. Once Ethan got out a “Yeah,” the manager turned and led Ethan toward a private office.
The bank was vast and open, with high, vaulted ceilings and ornate columns carefully spaced so as not to crowd the lobby.
The manager had sallow skin and baggy eyes that suggested he didn’t sleep enough. His hairline had receded to his ears, and he carried far too much weight at his belly, Ethan thought. He turned halfway to the office and shook Ethan’s hand without stopping. “I’m Mr. McDonald.” Ethan assumed that Mr. McDonald was rushing because he had something important to do soon. Later, he would discover that Mr. McDonald was always rushing—it was one of the things Ethan would come to hate about him. Another was that he wouldn’t tell anybody his first name; he insisted all the employees call him “Mr. McDonald.”
That was fine with the staff when he was in the room. But the rest of the time they called him Ronald McDonald, or “the clown” when they were particularly irritated with him.
“And what should I call you?” McDonald asked, already at his office door. “Ethan? Mr. Lancaster?”
“Ethan’s fine.”
“Please, have a seat.” McDonald gestured toward the two plush leather chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
Ethan did as the bank manager suggested.
“Your father’s a good man. Good man, indeed. That’s why I hired you.”
“Because my father’s a good man?”
“Exactly. Only we need to go over a few things before we go any further, okay?”
“Like what?”
McDonald sat down behind the large marble desk. He carefully but quickly explained the pay scale and the benefits, and Ethan agreed that it all sounded fine. “When do I start?”
“Hold your horses. We got to get you trained first.”
“When do I do that?”
“Today,” he said, and handed Ethan a memo with an address and driving directions on it. “Training starts in thirty minutes.”
Ethan glanced over the directions. “I don’t have a car. How am I supposed to get there?”
McDonald shook his head with frustration. “You got a license?”
“Yeah.”
McDonald reached into
his pocket to remove a key ring. He worked the car key off it. “Just for today,” he said, sliding the key across the table. “But don’t go thinking I’m soft. If you weren’t a Lancaster kid, I wouldn’t even consider it. But tomorrow you’ll have to find your own way there.”
NOW
GINA WAS ASLEEP when Paul died. So was he. His head was resting in her lap, and her arms were folded over his chest. She had stayed awake as long as she could. Hours had passed since he last lost consciousness before her bobbing head dropped, and her heavy eyelids closed.
When it happened, he was dreaming about being at home, in bed. His covers felt like lead. The room was cold. He opened his eyes to see the wall clock. Everything was blurry. He couldn’t tell what time it was or see the model soldiers he had spent years collecting and painting.
Worse than that, though, he couldn’t move his legs. He pulled back the covers to find his ankles handcuffed to the bed frame.
He yanked his knees toward his chest in hopes of breaking the frame and escaping. But he couldn’t get the leverage he needed.
Then the dream crumbled, and nothingness was all that remained.
THEN
THERE WERE SUPPOSED to be eight students in the class. But by 9:45 a.m., only seven had arrived. Martin took roll and identified Ethan Lancaster as the missing student. He wasn’t surprised that one hadn’t arrived yet. Since he had started training new tellers two years ago, he had learned that stragglers were to be expected. He had also learned that stragglers rarely made it through the training; if they did, they usually quit within the first year.
“Let’s go ahead and get started,” Martin said, and then passed around a stack of documents on credits and debits.
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 50
