Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

Miss Cornwallis said, “You moved here from Baltimore. Didn’t you?”

Noah swallowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

“There are no names mentioned in this article. But there was a note attached, suggesting I talk to you about this.” She looked straight at him. “This is about you, isn’t it?”

“Who sent it?”

“That’s not important right now”

“It’s one of those reporters.” His chin suddenly jutted up in anger. “They’ve been following me around, asking questions. Now they’re trying to get back at me!”

“For what?”

“For not talking to them.”

She sighed. “Noah, three teachers had their cars broken into yesterday. Do you know anything about it?”

“You’re looking for someone to blame. Aren’t you?”

“I’m just asking if you know anything about the cars.”

He stared her straight in the eye. “No,” he said, and stood up. “Now can I go?”

She didn’t believe him; he could see it in her face. But there was nothing more she could say.

She nodded. “Go back to class.”

He walked out of her office, past the snoopy school secretary, and stormed into the hallway. Instead of returning to band class, he fled outside and sat down, shaking, on the front steps. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but he scarcely noticed the cold; he was fighting too hard not to cry.

I can’t live here any more, either, he thought. I can’t live anywhere. No matter where I go, someone will find out about me. About what I did. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, wanting desperately to go home, now, but it was too far to walk, and his mom couldn’t come and get him.

He heard the gym door slam shut, and he turned to see a woman with wild blond hair walk out of the building. He recognized her; it was that reporter, Damaris Home. She crossed the street and climbed into a car. A dark green car.

She’s the one.

He ran across the street. ‘Hey!” he yelled, and slapped her door in fury. “You stay the hell away from me!”

She rolled down her window and looked at him with almost predatory interest.

“Hello, Noah. You want to talk about something?”

“I just want you to stop trying to ruin my life!”

“How am I ruining your life?”

“Following me around! Telling people about Baltimore!”

“What does Baltimore have to do with anything?”

He stared at her, suddenly realizing she had no idea what he was talking about.

He backed away. “Forget about it.”

“Noah, I haven’t been following you around.”

“Yes you have. I’ve seen your car. You drove past my house yesterday. And the day before.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were tailing my mom and me in town!”

“Okay, that time I just happened to be behind you. So what? Do you know how many reporters are in town right now? How many green cars are cruising around?”

He backed away some more. “Just stay away from me.”

“Why don’t we talk? You can tell me what’s really going on in the school. What all the fights are about. Noah? Noah!”

He turned and fled into the building.

Two pit bulls growled and barked at Claire’s car, their claws scraping at her door. She stayed safely shut inside and stared across the front yard, at the ramshackle farmhouse. In the front yard, years of junk had accumulated. She saw a trailer propped up on bricks and three broken-down cars, in various states of being cannibalized. A cat peered fearfully through the open door of a rusting clothes dryer. In the land of Yankee thrift, it was not unusual to find front yards like this. Families who have known poverty hoard their junk like treasure.

She honked, then rolled down her window a few inches and called out through the crack: “Hello? Is anyone home?”

A tattered curtain flicked aside in the window, and a moment later, the door opened and a blond man of about forty stepped out. He crossed the yard and regarded her with unsmiling eyes as the dogs barked and jumped at his feet.

Everything about him seemed thin-his face, his receding hair, his pencil-sketch mustache. Thin and resentful.

“I’m Dr. Elliot,” she said. “Are you Mr. Reid?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to talk to your sons, if I may. It’s about Scotty Braxton.”

“What about him?”

“He’s in the hospital. I’m hoping your sons can tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“You’re the doctor. Don’t you know?”

“I believe it’s a drug psychosis, Mr. Reid. I think he and Taylor Darnell both took the same drug. Mrs. Darnell said Scotty and Taylor spent a lot of time with your sons. If I can talk to them-”

“They can’t help you,” said Jack Reid, and he stepped away from her car.

“They may all have been experimenting with the same drug.”

“My boys know better than that.” He turned back to the house, his contempt for her apparent in the angry set of his shoulders.

“I don’t want to get your sons in trouble, Mr. Reid!” she called out. “I’m just trying to get information!”

A woman stepped out onto the porch. She cast a worried look at Claire, then said something to Reid. In reply, he shoved her back into the house. The dogs trotted away from Claire now, and were watching the porch, attracted by the promise of new conflict.

Claire rolled down her window and stuck her head out. “If I can’t talk to your sons, I’ll call the police to do it for me. Would you prefer to speak to Chief Kelly?”

He turned to look at her, his face tight with anger. Now the woman cautiously poked her head out and stared at Claire as well.

“This will be strictly confidential,” said Claire. “Let me talk to them, and I’ll keep the police out of it.”

The woman said something to Reid-a plea, by the look of her body language. He gave a snort of disgust and stomped into the house.

The woman crossed to Claire’s car. Like Reid she was blond, her face washed-out and colorless, but there was no hostility in her eyes. Rather, there was a disturbing lack of any emotion, as though she had long ago buried her feelings in some deep, safe place.

“The boys just got home from school,” the woman said.

“Are you Mrs. Reid?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Grace.” She looked at the house. “Those boys’ve been in enough trouble. Chief Kelly said if it happened again..

“He doesn’t have to know about this. I’m here only because of my patient, Scotty. I need to know what drug he’s taken, and I think your boys can tell me.”

“They’re Jack’s boys, not mine.” She turned to face Claire, as though it was very important that this fact be understood. “I can’t force them to talk to you.

But you can come inside. First let me tie up these dogs?’

She grabbed both pit bulls by their collars and pulled them over to the maple tree, where she restrained them. They shot to the ends of their chains, barking wildly as Claire stepped out of the car and followed the woman up to the porch.

Stepping into the house was like entering a warren of caves, low-ceilinged and cluttered.

“I’ll get them,” said Grace, and she disappeared up a narrow stairway, leaving Claire alone in the living room. The TV was on, tuned to the shopper’s channel.

On the coffee table, someone had written on a notepad: “Chanel #5, 4 oz., $14.99.” She breathed in the air of that house, with its odors of mildew and cigarettes, and wondered if perfume alone could mask this smell of poverty.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs, and two teenage boys slouched into the room. Matching buzz cuts made their blond heads seem unnaturally small. They said nothing, but stood looking at her with incurious blue eyes. The blandness of teenagers.