Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye (12 page)

“That’s it,” the Borschman said, and in a surprisingly agile series of moves (and despite the still-present kink in
his neck) he had the Highrise manager on the floor and securely handcuffed. “Looks like this one’s going to the psych ward,” he muttered. And after he’d radioed the station and had had a moment to catch his breath, he eyed Rita’s feet and said, “I need you to go home and change your shoes.”

Rita gave him a puzzled look, but Hudson threw back his head and laughed. Then he put his arm around Rita and pulled her along, saying, “Sammy’s going to love hearing all about this.”

And that’s when the realization of the situation returned to Rita full force.

Vince Garnucci (and his bicycle-riding grandma) had been an effective distraction, but it was time to get back to the hospital.

Back to Sammy.

Back at the hospital, of all the people congregating in the ICU waiting room (or squealing behind the nurses’ station), the only one who knew Darren or Lana or Marko personally was Marissa, and she knew all three.

Casey and Heather had
met
all three.

In Las Vegas.

Briefly.

And Casey had
heard
about all three in great (sometimes disgruntled, sometimes humorous) detail from Sammy.

But Casey and Heather were not people to whom Marko would entrust seventeen teddy bears (and a rogue unicorn).

Marissa, however, was.

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” she cried when Marko had explained the plan. Then she set about passing around bears and Sharpies and instructions to all assembled, before fetching scissors from the nurses’ station so she could issue every bear a length of ribbon.

“Good choice,” Darren told Marko about Marissa, then led the drummer (and Lana) down the hallway to
Room 411, leaving starstruck hospital personnel in their wake.

Zelda Quinn had instructed her cameraman to capture some B-roll footage of Darren Cole because an interview had clearly been out of the question at that juncture. What with the bald guy and the teddy bears and all.

But after the two Troublemakers and the diva had left the waiting room, the cameraman came out from behind his equipment with wide eyes and gasped, “That was Marko Rushmore!”

“Who?” Zelda asked, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the cameraman’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

“Marko Rushmore!” he said. “The Troublemakers’ drummer?”

Now, being a front-and-center performer herself, Zelda Quinn did not know (or care) who anyone besides the lead singer in the band was. And if
she
didn’t know (or care) who the drummer was, nobody in her viewing audience would know (or care) who he was, either.

“Tell me you didn’t shoot him instead of Darren Cole,” she said.

“You’re kidding, right?” the cameraman replied. “You’d rather get footage of a guy standing by than one delivering
teddy bears
to kids?”

“When the guy standing by is Darren Cole, yes!” she seethed. “When I tell you to cover the guy standing by,
yes
.”

“But look at them!” the cameraman said, pointing to the remaining crowd. “You don’t think
that’s
a story?”

“It’s
my
job to say what’s a story,” she snapped. “It’s
your
job to shoot that story!”

But then she turned and saw the scene without the presence of Darren Cole blinding her. Those kids she’d talked to earlier and the oddball adults were huddled in waiting-room chairs or sitting cross-legged on the floor, intently writing messages on ribbons.

And teddy bears were everywhere.

It was actually a very moving scene.

“Keep in mind they’re minors,” she warned her photographer (conceding his point without actually admitting it, while simultaneously reminding him to shoot in such a way as to avoid faces). Then she wandered back out into the main room.

After observing the quiet activity for several minutes, Zelda sat (somewhat awkwardly) on the floor alongside Billy Pratt. “May I?” she asked, then eased the ribbon from him and began reading aloud. “Zombies to the Rescue! Graveyard Golf Cart! Grim and Reaper! Laddies Gone Amok! The Black Pearl! Bucket o’ Bones! Condor Rescue! Not a 5-Person Tent! Drool Monster!”

Then, as if there was a delay to her brain in registering what her mouth was saying, she suddenly backed up on the ribbon, saying, “Wait. ‘Condor Rescue’?” She looked at Billy. “Were
you
the kids who rescued that condor last summer?”

“Du-uh” might have been a suitable response, but Billy simply nodded. “Me and Sammy and him,” he said, pointing over to Casey, “and …” He looked around and called out, “Hey, Cricket should be here.”

“I have her number,” Dot volunteered, and interrupted her own ribbon writing to call her.

Now, Zelda Quinn’s interest in the condor story had nothing whatsoever to do with condors. Zelda Quinn’s interest in the condor story had to do with how it had gotten her rival, Grayson Mann, fired.

And these kids had been the ones who had brought him down?

She stared at Billy as the full weight of his words landed. “So … you and him,” she said, pointing to Casey, “and your friend who’s in a coma … you’re the ones who put Grayson Mann in jail?”

“Well, mostly Sammy did,” Billy said, taking the ribbon back. “Sammy and Cricket and Casey.”

The gratitude she felt made Zelda oddly uncomfortable. Almost vulnerable. And not knowing how to handle these emotions, she turned to Dot (who had left Cricket a message and was sitting nearby) and said, “So what have you written?”

Dot held up her ribbon and read, “Fire! Fire!” and “The Monster from the Marsh!” but was interrupted by an excited Marissa, who exclaimed, “That was Halloween! Seventh grade! The Bush House!” (She was not, as you might reasonably conclude, reading from her own ribbon, but rather reacting to Dot’s.)

“Right!” Dot laughed. “Remember your mummy costume?”

“Don’t remind me!” Marissa laughed. Then she pointed at Dot’s ribbon and said, “What else do you have?”

So Dot continued reading. “Nibbles Swallowed the Key!”

“Who’s Nibbles?” Zelda asked.

“Dot’s crazy dog!” cried a chorus of teen voices.

Dot laughed and went on. “Ghosts in the Carriage House! Penny the Pig!”

“That was New Year’s of seventh grade!” Marissa cried. “When we found that meth lab!”

“A meth lab?” Zelda asked, her head whipping back and forth between Dot and Marissa. “Are you talking about that one out in Sisquane? That was
you
?”

“It was
gnarly
,” Marissa said, but Dot was already back to the ribbon. “Lucky Thirteen! Kickstart Her Broom!”

“Hey!” Heather snapped (because this was a reference to her, and she remembered the sting of the quip when Sammy had originally delivered it). “Not nice!”

Dot blushed but went on. “Water Hoops! Pepernoten! Land of Blue Invasion!” She looked up and smiled. “That’s it.”

So Marissa took over, reading her ribbon. “I’ve got … Double Dynamos! Elvis! Timber! Hollywood! Renaissance Faire! Loopy Noogies! Deli-Mustard Car!”

“The deli-mustard car!” Billy and Casey and Holly all cried, remembering how they’d narrowly escaped being trapped in the graveyard on Halloween.

“Paper Trail!” Marissa continued. “Employees Only Doors! Roof of the Mall! Awesome Dome of Dryness!”

Marissa looked up, so Holly took over, calling out, “Psycho Kitties! Canine Calendar Float! Catcher’s Mitt! Smackdown at the Mall!”

“HEY!” Heather shouted. “That’s … not … nice!” (Because she had, in fact, been the one smacked down.)

But over her shoulder, Holly snarled, “Like you’ve
ever
been nice to me?”

“What have I done to you?”

The waiting room fell quiet as Holly’s head turned like the turret of a tank to face her. And as Heather gulped, Holly fired. “Do the names Trash Digger and Homeless Hag and Ugly Orphan ring any bells?”

Heather gave a little cringe, then tried, “Sticks and stones …?” But then she remembered something that revived her. “And speaking of stones … you
slugged
me in the stomach, remember that?”

“Because you ambushed Sammy!” Holly snapped. “Remember
that
?”

“Stop it!” Casey said. “This isn’t helping anything. We’re supposed to be doing something positive here, not beating each other up. Heather’s trying to be a better person. So help her out instead of sniping at her.”

Holly heaved a sigh and turned her back on Heather again, but Heather (who’d only managed to come up with Backstage Passes! and House of Blues! for her ribbon) said, “Doesn’t anyone want to come up with a list of people who Sammy’s gotten arrested? People who might want revenge?”

“That,” Justice Jack announced from where he was hanging with the other oddball adults, “is a brilliant idea!” He stepped forward with the index finger of a Golden Glove of Justice raised. “I
told
her she should wear a mask!”

“A
mask
?” Heather said with a nasty squint, but then immediately dialed back the attitude. “Look, can we just
deal with the here and now? Who could have done this to her?”

“What about those counterfeiters?” Marissa said. “What happened to them?”

Billy nodded. “Or what about that crazy lady who buried her husband in the backyard?”

“Or that creep with the meth lab?” Casey said. “Whatever happened to him?”

“Or that gang guy?” Marissa said with a shudder. “I know he got locked up, but is he still locked up?”

Madame Nashira stepped forward. “She also busted that crook who broke into my room and stole from me.”

“I remember him,” André growled through his cigar stub. “And what about Shovel Man?” He looked at Holly. “What was his real name?”

Holly shook her head. “He wasn’t—”

But her answer was cut short by Slammin’ Dave, who threw in, “What about those guys with the cat-fighting ring? Are they serving time?”

“Or the world’s worst teacher!” Billy cried. “The whole ‘Die, dude!’ thing?”

“But he didn’t go to jail,” Casey said.

“Still, he hates Sammy. She got him fired!”

Casey nodded. “So true.”

“Or …,” Holly said, “how about that lady who was blackmailing everyone in town? What happened to her?”

“Or the guy who almost murdered the Bush Man?” Dot cried. “Where’s he?”

Zelda Quinn shook her head as if trying to clear her
hearing. “Are you saying Sammy was involved in
all
of those?”

“Yes!” came a collective cry.

“Which is why we should stop waiting for Sergeant Borsch and write them down ourselves!” Heather said. “We need to be systematic! Eliminate possibilities! Figure out who had motive and who had opportunity!”

The rest of the teens stared at her.

“Motive and opportunity?” Marissa asked with a little squint.

“Yes!”

Marissa’s squint grew deeper. “Who
are
you?”

Everyone stared until Billy Pratt broke the silence. “Heather’s right. We should get on it.”

So after everyone agreed (some more grudgingly than others), Zelda turned to her phone and started making calls. She had no idea whether Grayson Mann was still serving time for his role in the condor caper, but if he was out, she’d be sure to have the kids put his name at the top of their list.

Inside Room 411, Marko was dominating the conversation. (Or, more precisely, the monologue.) “You’re the Samminator!” he was saying. “You can’t take this lying down! You need to fight back! Rumor is you’ve got a smashin’ right hook, so come on! I want to see it in action!” Then, like a trucker grinding into a downshift, he switched gears. “Besides, you’ve got to get up and give your uncle Marko a hug! And you’ve got to see what’s going on in the waiting room. The place is full of people! And teddy bears!” Then, in a very mysterious tone, he started singing a song his mother had sung to him as a child:

While Marko talked and sang, and Lana silently held her daughter’s hand, Darren sat in the far corner, first rubbing the little horseshoe that was laced onto one of Sammy’s shoes, then slowly turning the high-top in his hands, trying to commit to memory all the words and sketches Casey had inked into the fabric. He had missed out big-time, but holding the shoes, reading the shoes, somehow made him feel better. He could almost imagine the adventures Sammy had been on. All the excitement.

Maybe it was the exclamation points.

He turned the shoe some more, mentally erasing the punctuation. He’d been instructed as a student to avoid excessive or superfluous punctuation. Especially exclamation points. But now he wondered why that was. Was it so wrong to be excited? Was it wrong to be joyful? Was it wrong to feel
alive
?

Lost in thought, Darren hadn’t noticed that Marko had gone silent. Or that his best friend was fighting back tears of his own. But now that he
did
notice, he realized that he had never seen the drummer cry before. Well, there was the time when they were eight and Marko had totaled his new bicycle in one wicked miscalculation of speed and distance, but Marko’s tears then had been more for the destruction of the bike than the blood and skin he’d left smeared along the asphalt. No, Marko had always been … rugged. Even when skinned to a bloody pulp.

So Darren was trying to figure out what to say when someone from the medical staff entered the room.

“Oh!” the man said, and seemed taken aback by all the visitors in the room. He glanced over his shoulder, then
said, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave until after we run a few tests.”

Darren stood, carefully putting the shoes aside. “Let’s go,” he told the others.

But Lana turned to the med guy and said, “Are you running the tests in here?”

The man nodded.

“What sort of tests?” she asked.