Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

Instead of taking the other bureau off the bed, which would wake everyone, I carefully lift the bottom of the bed frame and shift it to the side.

I wish that I had a pencil so I could scribble a note on the wall, or something to leave for Lori, to say that I am sorry—some gift that would make her understand that I do care for them, and that it is my caring for them that forces me to leave them.

They have a chance, without me.

Mario will recover and come back to protect them, I pray. But even if he doesn’t, with the goodness of the skinny mom—and the other people who had come to our aid at Plaza 900—the kids will be okay.

Lori is tough enough to keep them safe.

Even if she has to bargain her body for their safety, they will be okay.

There is only one thing that I know to be true—if I am near them, I will bring danger.

So I will escape now. Or I will be killed while trying to escape.

And, dear God, wouldn’t that be a relief to everyone?

It would be to me.

I grant myself one last request: I want to say good-bye to Mario.

The door to the stairwell is unlocked. Of course it is—the Union Men bribed Venger to leave it that way.

I slip down the stairs, the only sound the worn-out treads of my orthopedic shoes on the steps.

God bless Mario’s wife, who had the same size feet as me.

I have to go through the Men’s hall to get to the front door. It is dank in the hall. Most of the doors are closed, and the few that are open give glimpses of heavy bodies asleep on the floor or beds.

In only one room is a man awake.

A light-skinned man sitting on the floor, playing solitaire.

He looks up as I pass, startled.

Then sees who I am.

“Good luck, girl,” he croaks, and waves me on.

I stick close to the buildings as I cross the courtyard.

We aren’t allowed out of our rooms until six, breakfast time.

I have to skirt Gillett and Plaza 900 to get to Rollins, and the clinic.

I see a guard leaning against a building. He has a thermos of something hot and steamy and doesn’t notice me.

I enter Rollins and walk down the long hallway outside the clinic. It is odd to see it empty of the sick and injured. There are stains on the floor in intervals. I don’t stop to ponder what from.

The door is shut and locked, of course, but someone has to be in there taking care of the patients.

I knock on the glass.

After a moment, Dr. Neman, the woman from the courtyard, comes to the door. “We open at nine,” she says and then she squints through the glass at me.

She opens the door.

“You’re the girl Venger was punishing, right?” she says.

I nod.

She runs her hand through her hair. I guess she thinks I’m there about my stupid knuckles.

“Come in,” she tells me.

It is warmer in the clinic than in the rest of the building.

“What are they feeding you all? You’re skin and bones,” she says. “Sit down and I’ll take a look at your hands. Isn’t it a little risky to be out before the morning bell? I mean, do you really want to give Venger another reason to discipline you?”

“My knuckles are okay, actually. Dr. Quarropas saw me yesterday.”

“Well then, what on earth—” She seems tired and pissed.

“I had to come because you have my friend here,” I say. “I’m here to talk to my friend, Mr. Scietto.”

Dr. Neman gets a look of clenched-jaw irritation.

“You’re here for a visit ?”

“Please,” I beg. “The Union Men are angry with me, and if I’m going to see Mario, it has to be now, before they can find me—”

She throws up her hands, doesn’t want to hear any more about it.

She picks up a minitab and it glows under her touch.

“He’s not here,” she tells me, reading it.

“What do you mean?”

“Mario Scietto? He was released last night,” she says.

“But…”

I push past her. Maybe she is thinking of the wrong guy.

“He’s not here,” she calls after me.

I peer into the room, to the side, where I had set Mario myself.

It is true.

He is not there.

In his cot is the pug-faced Union Man. The one I beat.

His face is black and blue, swollen. His eye crusted shut.

The gash on his nose is bandaged with a folded paper towel and masking tape.

I look down and retreat, backing up into the entrance room.

“But why did you release him? He might have had fractured ribs. When did you release him?”

“I’m sorry that your friend is gone,” she tells me brusquely. “But I am busy.”

“Can you please check his file?”

With irritation, she brings up Mario’s file on the screen again.

“Dr. Quarropas discharged. There’s a note.” She moves her fingers on the screen, bringing up the note. “’Mr. Venger brought in the boy in there and suggested strongly that Mr. Scietto be discharged.’”

I whirl away from her.

“You’re welcome,” she snaps.

I turn back. “What time was he discharged?”

“Oh, for Christ sake,” she snipes.

“He didn’t come back to the room and that means he spent the night somewhere on campus!” I shout. “You killed him when you turned him out. You killed him.”

“He was released at eight-ten p.m.”

That would have been during Group 3 dinner.

Dr. Neman looks up at me, her mouth set in a bitter frown. “We’re not killing people,” she says, her voice steely and angry. “We’re trying to save you and you all are making it IMPOSSIBLE!”

I back away.

She is right, of course.

Now I was following a trail of blood. It was easy and it was horrible.

I tracked the red-brown swath over the gravel of the neighbor’s driveway to the front stoop. There was blood on the handle and around the doorframe.

I pushed it open. Somehow I didn’t think to announce myself.

I went in gun first, like some TV cop. My heart was hammering hard and I saw my gun hand was shaking again.

Kind of modern-styled, the house. The blood trail went straight down the hall into the kitchen.

There were no bodies there, either, but the kitchen was spattered with blood everywhere, sprayed over the counters and floors.

Bile flooded up. My stomach heaved. I went out the back door and puked off the stoop, down onto the trash cans.

It was the smell. Meaty, metallic, thickening into a rotting sweetness.