Missing (6 page)

But the guy stood his ground at the doorway. Sam caught a glimpse of the suite outside his room—and just as he'd feared, it was inundated with curious sophomores, all craning their necks to see inside. Blood rushed to Sam's face.

“Arrested? You're a cop?” the stranger asked.

Bernard rolled his eyes and pulled out his badge with his free hand.

“Detective Bernard, NYPD. Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Josh Kendall,” he stated, brazenly looking Bernard in the eye. “I'm the new resident adviser on this floor. And maybe since I'm so new, maybe since I'm just sort of getting used to the way things are run . . . I'm not quite sure what's supposed to happen. But I'm pretty sure I can't have you barging in here and just
cuffing one of my guys unless you've got a warrant. Do you have a warrant?”

Sam twisted his neck back at Bernard and Reilly. They had no response.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” Bernard mumbled under his breath. “What are you, twenty, twenty-two? I got crap-stained Skivvies older than you.”

“Be that as it may,” Josh said, “you still haven't answered my question. Do you have a warrant?”

Everyone waited silently for the answer: Sam, Josh, and the pack of kids trying to catch the whole show.

“No,” Bernard finally admitted. “But the syringe was in—”

“No warrant?” Josh shouted, his disbelief laden heavily with sarcasm. He turned to Sam. “Did they touch anything in here?”

Sam could barely muster a nod. Who was this guy, anyway?
And why was he putting himself out to save Sam's ass?
He hadn't heard about any new RA. Wasn't the university supposed to notify students about developments like this? On the other hand, maybe NYU tried to notify him, but he'd been so preoccupied and paranoid and distracted that he hadn't noticed—

“I can't believe this.” Josh groaned, shaking his head. “Do the words
police misconduct
mean anything to you? I mean, didn't you learn anything from the OJ trial? Take those cuffs off him and come back here
when you've got a warrant. Unless you want some real trouble. Any first-year law student could get you guys kicked off the force for this, you know that?”

Detective Bernard looked like his blood pressure had just shot up into the danger zone. He started to lean in toward Josh.

“You little—”

“Do it,” Josh encouraged him. “That'll be the kicker in court. Police brutality. Be my guest.”

Bernard looked at Josh, then back at Sam. He cracked his neck once to the right and once to the left, obviously trying to control his temper. It was right there on his flaccid, ugly face:
He wanted nothing more than to belt Josh in the gut and haul him downtown.
But instead he pulled his key from his belt and unlocked Sam's handcuffs.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, his nose about an inch from Sam's. Then he turned to his partner. “Come on. This place stinks, anyway.”

Reilly followed him out, and in seconds—miracle of miracles—Sam Moon was a free man again. The suite hadn't cleared, though. It was still full of sophomores, including his other roommate, Brendan Moss. They were all still staring at him as if he were a criminal. But he didn't care right now. Right now, all he cared about was that those two cops were gone.

“You all right?” Josh asked.

Sam looked at him. No, he was far from all right.
He was confused, scared, shaky. He was still in utter disbelief that he could possibly be wanted for Mike's murder. But he was far too grateful to talk about any of that right now. All he wanted to do was give his new RA and new favorite human being a huge hug.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Thanks, man. I have no idea how I could possibly repay you for this.”

“It's no big deal,” Josh replied, slapping Sam's shoulder. “If I ever need a favor, I'll let you know....”He left his sentence open, clearly waiting to hear Sam's name.

“Sam. Sam Moon.”

“Josh,” he said, shaking Sam's hand firmly. “I'm staying in Mike Suarez's room. Just temporarily— until the RA single at the end of the hall is ready for me. I hope that's not weird....”

“No, no,” Sam said. “That's cool. That's great.”

Josh peered at him. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're looking very freaked out, dude.”

“I am a little, yeah,” Sam admitted, running his hands through his hair, trying in vain to shake off the last ten minutes. “I can't say I've ever been arrested before.”

“I think you need some coffee,” Josh suggested. “Is there a decent place around here to get coffee?”

Sam tried to force himself to breathe normally. Coffee with Josh sounded a hell of a lot better than lying back down in his bed and thinking about what had just happened. Contrary to what he'd thought just
the night before, he was nowhere
near
being out of the woods. No, if he'd thought he was out of the woods, then apparently he'd walked out of the woods
and into a goddamn Brazilian rain forest.
Yes. A good cup of coffee was exactly what Sam needed. Something to wake him up from this nightmare.

“WE'RE GONNA DO ONE MORE, ED.
Do you think you can do one more?”

 

The sweat was pouring down Ed Fargo's body, leaving a puddle of water on his wheelchair-accessible bed big enough to fill the average kiddie swimming pool. He knew his face must be beet red. Sure, it was the very first physical therapy session since his operation—but he was seriously considering making it his last. How could he be so exhausted from leg lifts when he couldn't even feel his legs?

Brian, the physical therapist (who clearly moonlighted as a WWF wrestler), was staring down at Ed with intense wide-eyed anticipation.

No way,
Ed thought.
Absolutely not. I can't take
another one. Please don't make me, scary physical therapist who may break a folding chair over me if I don't. Please don't make me do another leg lift.

But that wasn't how he answered. That wasn't how good old Shred would respond to a challenge. He'd sworn to himself that he'd work his ass off for this.
Even if he couldn't actually feel his ass.

“Uh-huh,” Ed grunted through his pain.

“Yes!” Brian growled, throwing up his arms and jerking his fists backward toward his ultrapumped chest. The guy's neck was a tree trunk. “You da man,
Eddie!
You da man!”

Ed realized something at that moment. Something pretty scary, in fact. In a totally twisted way, Brian was a lot like Shred used to be:
full of testosterone, relatively fearless, and mildly insane.
(Even scarier was that Ed thought of his former persona, “Shred,” as a different person. But that was another story—and one that would probably take years of therapy to fix.)

“Let's go, baby!” Brian hollered. “One more! One more for your grandpappy in Texas!”

“What?” Ed grunted. He had no grandpappy in Texas.

“Or whatever
,
dude,” Brian, shouted, cradling Ed's left knee in one hand and his ankle in the other. “One more for Freddy Durst, dude! Bizkit rocks!”

“What?” Ed squeaked as Brian began to lift his
creaky leg, sending lightning bolts of agony up his spine.

“Do it for Tyler and Perry, dude! Seventy-two years old and still kickin' it! Do it for Aerosmith, Eddie.
I want you to rock like freakin' thunder, baby!
”

Ed could have spent hours trying to dissect Brian's bizarre encouragement tactics, but any and all thought processes were interrupted by the agony stabbing through Ed's lower back as Brian bent his knee.

“Uuuugh,”
Ed groaned with supreme effort, trying to hold his body together.

“
And . . .
seven,” Brian announced, finally letting Ed's leg back down on his bed to rest. He and Ed both let out a long sigh.

Seven leg lifts.

That's what Ed had spent the last forty-five minutes doing? Seven measly leg lifts. Pathetic. He was sure he'd done at least twenty. It was going to be a long, long road.
A road that led quite possibly, and most likely, nowhere.

“Yes, dude,” Brian screamed with a maniacal grin, pounding Ed on the shoulder. “That was freakin' beautiful, Ed. You're Hercules, Eddie. You're the man. I'm gonna check in with your folks, and I'll catch you tomorrow. We're goin' for ten, baby. Maybe fifteen! Peace!”

Brian slammed the door, leaving Ed soaking in his own juices.

And then something very strange happened.

The pain disappeared from Ed's body. What he felt
most, lying there shirtless and dripping and staring at the ceiling, could only be described as a serious jolt of . . . well, manliness. He felt empowered.
As insane as Brian was, he was absolutely right.
Ed was a man. For the first time in years he didn't just remember what it felt like to have power; he could actually feel it. He could feel the blood rushing through every part of his body as a whole. Not just half of him. Every part of him.

Images started racing through his head—images of him and Heather Gannis doing anything and everything they wanted. Yes, they were already back together, but they still hadn't really gotten very far in this new incarnation of their relationship.

Of course, Ed still hadn't told Heather about the surgery. He'd made up a lame excuse about being at his aunt's house. But now that it was done, telling her was the only thing on his mind. The possibilities . . . the numerous possibilities . . .

Physical memories were running through him, starting at his hands and moving through the rest of his body . . . memories of what it felt like to be with Heather.
Memories of being tangled up and pressed against her on the beach in the middle of the night, when all they could hear were their own quick breathing and the steady rhythm of the waves.
Nothing had ever felt so good in his life.

Then he flashed forward to the present—struck by
a vivid image of himself, lifting Heather off his lap and carrying her to the bed....

Suddenly he realized that he couldn't even remember if he was taller than Heather. Well . . . of course he was. But what about other people? Was he taller than Gaia Moore? He'd been in the chair long before the first time he and Gaia had met. He wondered . . . if they were standing close to each other, face-to-face, would they look straight into each other's eyes . . . or would she have to tilt her head upward to see his face?
Or if he held her, where would his hands press against her?
Would she wrap her arms around his waist or behind his neck? If she were lying on top of him right now in bed, their legs entangled, would her head fall on his chest or—

“Whoa,” Ed mumbled out loud. What was he thinking? Obviously testosterone, as it has been known to do, had seized Ed's brain for a moment. But he quickly regained his senses. It was just a momentary brain lapse, that was all.

He was completely over Gaia ...in
that way.

I just need to see Heather,
he told himself.
Even a few days is way too long.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Re:
Return of the Mack
Time:
12:32
P.M.

Heather,

I am
back
from my aunt's house. And I am
stoked
. I'm taking you to dinner at a trendy, totally overpriced spot of your choosing, and I'm telling you some unbelievable news. News that is not to be believed.

I mean, it actually would be wiser not to believe it, but . . .

I'll explain later.

Can't wait to see you.

—Shred

 

“CAN WE NOT TALK ABOUT THIS
now, please?” Heather's father grumbled. He stabbed his plastic fork into a white cardboard container of beef lomein. The carton seemed to be the only place he was comfortable focusing his gaze.

“When exactly do you want to talk about it?” her mother snapped, throwing her chopsticks down on her soggy container of mu shu vegetables. “You never want to talk about it!”

Heather tried to tune them out. Unfortunately, given the volume of their voices, it was impossible.

“Oh, for chrissake.” Her father groaned. “It's Phoebe's one night home for the week. I want us to have a nice family dinner. And I want to talk about nice things. Happy things.”

“And which things would they be?” her mother replied, glaring at him. “That you have no job and no apparent prospects? Or that we're flat broke?”

Nice. Really nice. Well, that confirmed it: The dining room had become the most depressing room in the house by far. It was the weekly site of “family time,” when her sister—still looking extremely pale and sickly from her bout with anorexia—would visit home from her recovery center and eat an “inexpensive dinner.”
That was the new favorite word
around the house, the catchphrase: “inexpensive.”
In order for anyone to do anything, it had to be “inexpensive.” Of course it did. Her father had lost his job, and Phoebe's care had drained her family's savings. No . . . the dining room was beyond depressing. It was mortifying.

Heather had to keep reminding herself that this was, in fact,
her
life and not the life of some fictional movie character. Her eyes floated over to a family picture from just a year ago that sat in a bright silver frame on the mantel of the dining-room fireplace. It was a shot of the four of them from when they'd gone skiing in Aspen just last year. Each of them was grinning joyfully, all swaddled in their red or blue down coats, with their thick white scarves and their flushed red cheeks.