Lost Boy (29 page)

“Well.” Ashleigh shook her head and started down the stairs. “He's on the computer now. Wouldn't listen to me when I said he needs some sleep. If you can get him to do that, he might not end up in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Ryder said.

“His fever is a hundred and one.” She spoke up at them from the landing below. “Any higher and that's where he'll be, even if I have to get an elephant gun to sedate him.”

Ryder and Doyle looked at each other and started to climb without saying anything. When they got to the top, Ryder saw light bleeding underneath Mr. Starr's door.

Ryder didn't say anything, he just walked past his own apartment door and knocked at Mr. Starr's.

“Leave me alone!” Mr. Starr's shout echoed down the empty stairwell.

“Mr. Starr?” Ryder shouted through the door. “Are you okay? It's me, Ryder! And Doyle!”

“I'm working! Go!”

Doyle's mouth twisted into a look of disgust. “Everything
sounds
normal anyway, the old grump.”

“She said ‘hospital.'” Ryder frowned.

“That's if the fever keeps going up,” Doyle said. “He'll be fine. He's on medicine now. That'll fix him up.”

Ryder nodded, but left reluctantly. When he swung open the door to his apartment he was again moved by the smells that made it seem like his mother would be walking out of the bedroom any second to greet them. He turned on the lights,
but everything was quiet and the shattered pieces of the blue-and-white porcelain lamp still lay on the floor.

“Yeah.” Doyle looked at the mess too. “Got a dustpan? I can help you clean that up.”

There was a broom and dustpan in the narrow closet next to the fridge and Ryder took them out. Together, he and Doyle cleaned up the lamp.

“How about something to eat?” Doyle clapped his hands, his voice upbeat. “Can I help you put something together? You want to maybe grab something at a diner?”

Ryder looked around at the empty apartment. “What's going to happen to me?”

“Well . . . uh . . . Let's not go negative, right?” Doyle took out his phone and began tapping its face. “We got . . . look, another nine hundred and eighty-seven dollars in just this past hour.”

“He said
two days, Doyle
!” Ryder was furious. “Don't you
get
it!”

“I know, but things could happen . . . like I said, a retweet could—”

“Get out!”

In the silence that followed, Ryder heard ringing in his ears from his own scream.

“Leave me alone, Doyle.” Ryder's voice was lifeless.

“Yeah, well, you need some sleep, bud. I get it. You get some rest. I'll stop back and check on you tomorrow. You got my number.”

“I got your number.”

“Okay, well . . .” Doyle started for the door.

“Doyle? I'm sorry,” Ryder said. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You got it, kid.” Doyle stroked his mustache and closed the door behind him.

Ryder stumbled to the bedroom, lay down on his mother's bed with the smell of her all around him, and plunged into a dark sleep.

Ryder woke with a bowling ball in his stomach. The hurt made him heavy and dull. He had no idea what his life was about to become. In a strange way, he didn't care. In a life without his mom, nothing would matter.

He got up and wandered into the tiny kitchen to sit on the floor.

Ryder didn't know how long he sat, but when Doyle knocked on the door it was ten thirty. Ryder let him in, but Doyle was there to take him to the hospital. Ryder nodded and quickly changed and got his coat.

Out in the hallway, Doyle nodded toward Mr. Starr's door. “We should probably check in on him, no?”

Ryder nodded, shuffled down the hall, and knocked.

“Working!” Mr. Starr cried out from inside. He didn't sound angry anymore, but Ryder wondered if that was because he was sick.

“Do you need anything?” Ryder hollered.

“Working!”

Doyle sighed and shook his head. “The morning nurse probably came. He sounds fine, Ryder.”

“What work?” Ryder shook his head too. He supposed this was the end of Mr. Starr. He was obviously washing his hands of the situation. He'd done his best, Ryder had to admit that, but now it was over. Mr. Starr was going back to his life, whatever life that was. Ryder thought it strange how the whole thing with Thomas Trent didn't even seem real. It was like the accident itself, or the shark dream with him and his mom on top of the skyscraper in the ocean. Crazy. Impossible.

“Come on.” Doyle led the way down the stairs.

They went to the hospital and sat with his mom. She didn't move. Her skin was losing its color and Ryder imagined he heard the beeps of the machines slowing down, their rhythm off, although he wasn't sure. Doyle had serious conversations with the staff about Ryder outside in the hallway. Ryder heard him invoking FDNY over and over again, but Ryder's sense was that the time for him to be plugged into the system was coming soon. They'd get him.

He considered that in a distant way, as if it were happening to a character in a movie. The boy would go through the courts. The fireman would watch over him, but despite the best of intentions, the system would win. The boy would end up in a detention center, or maybe a foster home, both grim places to be. The boy would grow up, empty and cold, alone and lost.

Ryder shrugged and sighed and touched his mother's face.

The tears were gone, anyway. He was empty. It was evening already, the sun setting somewhere beyond the buildings
outside the hospital window, and it was time to go.

Doyle had a night shift to get to, but he insisted they stop at a diner because Ryder had to eat. Doyle actually got him to swallow three spoonfuls of tomato soup along with two bites of a grilled cheese before depositing him in the apartment. Ryder lay down on his mother's bed and slept.

Ryder slept a long time and woke to the sound of screaming and pounding.

“Ryder! Ryder!”

POUND. POUND. POUND.

“Ryder!”

Ryder jumped up, his heart strangling him because he somehow knew it was news that his mother had passed. What else could it be?

He dashed past the living room widow, which was letting in the morning sun, and to their apartment door and flung it open.

Mr. Starr sat crookedly in his chair; the silver travel coffee mug
he'd used to bang the door hung loose from one twisted hand.

“Ryder!” Mr. Starr looked horrible, pale and drooping, but his eyes glowed. “We might have it! We just might
have
it!”

“Mr. Starr? Have what?”

“The way to
save her.
”

Mr. Starr tightened his lips when Ryder asked him to explain. “No. I don't want to jinx it. Get your coat. You're going with me. I need you there.”

Ryder grabbed his coat. The spark of hope glowed faint in the cold ashes of his heart, too weak to really stir him. Still, he knew how to obey his elders. Ryder pocketed his keys and the TracFone and began to close the door behind him.

“Wait,” Mr. Starr said. “The ball. Do you have the ball?”

“Mr. Starr, that ball isn't worth anything. There's no luck in that ball.”

“Get the ball.” Mr. Starr's voice didn't allow any argument.

Ryder went back inside, fished the wrecked baseball out of the duffel bag he'd yet to unpack, stuffed it into his coat pocket, and left.

Ryder wheeled Mr. Starr to the service elevator and down
the wobbly ramp in the back, then out onto the street.

“Subway. B train. Downtown. Let's go.” Mr. Starr's voice quavered with excitement, even through his grumpy tone.

They took the B to Rockefeller Center, got on the elevator, went up, and came out on Sixth Avenue.

“Fifth and Fifty-Seventh,” Mr. Starr said.

Ryder crossed Sixth Avenue and headed down Forty-Ninth Street. He couldn't even imagine where they were headed. When they got to Fifth Avenue, Ryder couldn't help looking up at the majestic buildings, home to the fanciest stores, banks, and offices in the world. This was the center of the city, where the elite, rich, and famous came to work and play. He couldn't help thinking of Thomas and Brooke Trent. This was their kind of territory.

His throat grew tight.

They came to a gold-gilt entrance with twisty columns, lanterns, and three alcoves above the doorway with golden statues of ladies from three hundred years ago. The gold letters said it was
THE CROWN BUILDING
. Next to the fancy entrance stood stores with signs that said
PIAGET
and
BULGARI
. Ryder looked up and saw that the buildings here disappeared into the blue and cloudy sky.

“Mr. Starr? Here?”

“Yes. Go in.”

There were men in black-and-gold livery uniforms at the desk just inside the brass-framed glass doors.

“Esther Newberg.” Mr. Starr spoke with authority.

The man's eyes widened at the sight of Mr. Starr, but he looked away and said, “ICM, third floor.”

“I know it's ICM, you twit.”

Ryder gave the man an apologetic look and wheeled Mr. Starr to the elevators. When the doors closed, Ryder whispered, “Who's Esther Newberg? What's ICM?”

“She's a literary agent. It's a talent agency, although with some of the clients they represent I find the word to have very little meaning.”

“Mr. Starr, why are we here? I really just want to go back to the hospital to see my mom.”

“You'll know why.” The doors opened and Ryder wheeled him off.

They passed through the wide opening in a smoky glass wall that enclosed a waiting area, reception desk, and a chrome set of stairs leading up to the next floor.

“Esther Newberg,” Mr. Starr barked at the receptionist.

She didn't flinch. “Are you Mr. Starr?”

“No, I'm the other twisted wreck of a man on her schedule this morning.”

The woman smiled, and it was genuine. “I'll tell her you're here.”

An assistant named Zoe came down the stairs and took them up the elevator, using a card to access the fourth floor. It was quiet and uncomfortable in the elevator. Ryder wasn't excited, only confused and annoyed.

“Esther says you used to write for the
Post.
” Zoe wore a short purple dress and had her long hair pulled back.

“And, considering her love affair with the
Times
, I suppose I should be grateful for the audience.” Mr. Starr just couldn't help being a grouch.

“She says you're very talented, that's all.” Zoe smiled.

“We were just talking about the dubious use of that word,” Mr. Starr said.

The doors opened and Zoe led them to a large corner office. Behind a massive desk that faced out from two walls of windows looking out onto the park as well as the Hudson River sat a tiny woman with short reddish hair and dark blazing eyes that seemed like they could mean life or death, depending on her mood. She was made up with a bit of lipstick and mascara and wore a single strand of pearls against an elegant black dress.

“Well,” Esther said, not affected in the least by Mr. Starr's appearance, or the presence of a twelve-year-old boy. “You've grown older, Stephen.”

Mr. Starr snorted. “And crooked.”

Esther huffed impatiently and puckered her lips. “You were never straight, Stephen; it's what I liked about you.”

Esther's mouth curled into a small smile. Her eyes glimmered with mischief and shifted to Ryder. “And this is
him
?”

“It is. Show her the ball, Ryder.”

Ryder was totally confused. He'd forgotten about the ball, but as he reached into his coat pocket, he realized that besides having shelves and counters covered with books he guessed had been written by her clients, Esther Newberg had signed baseballs and photos of players and managers all over the place. Most of them looked like they had something to do with the Red Sox.

He handed her the ball across the wide desk.