55
Sage
I froze with my hands on the white fence, not daring to look behind me into the dark.
The words replayed in my head on a loop. “ If you stay right there, I won ’ t shoot you.”
How close behind me was Greasy Hair? His voice sounded as raggedy and tired as I felt, and his words sort of ran together.
My spy-mind whirled, telling me everything I needed to know in that split-second I hung there, frozen on the rail of the fence.
He missed you when he shot the gun before.
He ’ s farther away now than he was then.
If you can get over the fence, it ’ ll block him.
They just have to open the door fast enough before he reaches the fence and can shoot again.
I launched my body up like there were springs on my feet, scrambling and clawing as I somehow managed to throw my body over the white fence.
There was a sign near the walkway partially hidden by the bushes and flowers I ran past, but I didn ’ t stop to read it. It didn ’ t matter what this place was. It was all I had.
I heard Greasy Hair growl, then his heavy footsteps thudding on the ground, getting louder.
I ran for the porch as fast as I could, grabbing the handle—locked—with one hand, and pounding with the other. “ Help, help, help, please help me!”
Between my shrieks, I could hear faint noises from inside the building.
Like someone was watching too-loud TV inside.
I drew in a breath and heard the faint pop of gunshots, then the sound of a horse neighing. Could they hear me in there?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign on the door: WELCOME, FRIENDS . And that was what finally made me realize where I was. Mom had brought us here with her on a tour a few weeks ago. It was like a retirement home, but for people who had dementia and Alzheimer ’ s. Like Grandpa.
Greasy Hair ’ s body hit the fence, shaking it like he was going to plow it over instead of climbing over it like I had. Maybe he couldn ’ t pull himself up the way I did. He was bigger than me, and he was so out of breath—
A light flashed on overhead—brighter than the porch light, so bright it made me squint.
“ Help!” I screamed, no longer caring at all that Greasy Hair heard, waiting for him to shoot the gun again the second he saw me under the spotlight.
I cowered against the door, like if I just got close enough it would swallow me whole into the building.
The door creaked. Before I could blink, it opened all the way, sending me tumbling onto a pink tile floor.
My head spun, taking in the sound of the TV on blast and a man ’ s deep voice yelling something about a “ Wild frontier,” the smell of cookies, and a woman crouching in front of me, her hair spilling over her cheeks, her clothing smelling sort of like a hospital.
“ Oh my Lord,” she was saying. “ Child, what on earth …”
I scrambled to my feet and looked around the long, dark hallway, focusing on the flickering lights coming from the room where the TV was playing. A half-door separated it from the hallway, so you could just see over the top. There was a small group of old people wearing pajamas and robes, gathering by that half-door.
I gasped and tried to stand up, slipping on the tile. All the words I ’ d tucked away in my head that I wanted to tell the lady, were suddenly so hard to grab hold of. Like each one was attached to a helium balloon drifting out of my grasp.
I opened my mouth to tell her about Greasy Hair, about Bonnie, about Ms. Jessa and the kidnapped kids in the buried bunker and the ransom, but all that came out at first were sobs and snot and tears.
“ Hush, hush, hush, ” the woman was cooing. She had a radio in one hand, and she turned to it, “ I need security here now .” Then to me, “ You ’ re safe now, honey. It ’ s gonna be all right.”
That only made me cry harder. It felt impossible to get my words out.
“ No! ” I screamed, louder than I thought I was going to. “ They took us. They took Bonnie! The dirt, the mud, it all caved in. The—the quarry! You have to go there now, you have to come back with me, you have to help them, they don ’ t have air!”
The words were coming out now, but not like I wanted them to. I could see in her dark brown eyes and puckered lips that I sounded every bit as mixed-up as I thought I did.
“ Just calm down for a minute, and we ’ ll get this sorted—”
There was a commotion from down the hallway, louder than the TV. And then someone ’ s voice interrupted the woman kneeling over me, bellowing, “ Dammit, listen to the kid!”
The woman jerked her head up, shocked.
Everything in my mind went still.
I knew that voice.
I loved that voice.
Grandpa. He was here.
“ And somebody open this thing.” He rattled the half-door in front of him. “ That ’ s my granddaughter.”
It was impossible, it made no sense. He wasn ’ t supposed to be here yet. But there he was, with his wrinkly, freckled face and blue eyes staring at me from down the hall. There was a little white sign just beneath him on the door that read CHERISHED HEARTS STAFF AND RESIDENTS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
“ What ’ s going on, Mindy,” Grandpa said as a man wearing scrubs let him out into the hallway and he rushed toward me.
I didn ’ t even care that I had no idea who Mindy was.
Grandpa was wearing his green flannel pajamas. The ones with the worn, soft fabric that smelled like licorice and toothpaste when he hugged me and Bonnie goodnight.
He knelt beside me and squeezed my hand, even though it was dirty and bloody and shaking. And then his head jerked upright as the front door made a soft creaking sound behind us.
The door was starting to open again.
Grandpa jumped to his feet, quick as I ’ d ever seen him move. Nothing like the shuffling, soft-spoken grandpa I remembered from before he got sick.
My body froze, and I realized that I ’ d never heard the door lock after the woman pulled me inside.
Nobody knew about Greasy Hair and the gun yet. Because I hadn ’ t told them.
The world swam in slow motion as the nurse screamed something at Grandpa and he pushed past both of us to yank the door open so fast and hard it was like he wanted to pull it off its hinges.
Somebody made an “ oof ” sound from outside the door, followed by scuffling sounds and something rattling.
Boom . The gun went off, and some of the old people wearing robes screamed. I realized that I was screaming right along with them.
“ Grandpa, no!” I imagined him crumpling to the ground—and Greasy Hair forcing his way inside the building and shooting me dead.
That ’ s not what happened, though.
Instead, Grandpa pushed his way back inside, holding the gun and breathing hard. His lip was bleeding. “He got away,” he muttered as he slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, and stood in front of it. And for the first time I could imagine him as the police detective he talked about in the stories he told.
Then, just as fast, his shoulders slumped and his brow creased as he stared at the gun in his hand, then he put it carefully down on a table near the door. “ Nobody touch that. And … I think somebody should call the police,” he added hesitantly.
Grandpa stepped closer and opened his arms wide to me. And that was just the thing I needed to make the chaos swirling in my scared mind settle.
I tumbled into his arms and he held me tight. I looked between him and the scared-looking woman holding the radio and said, “ I ’ m Sage Halverson. Two men took me and my sister. And more kids on my bus. They ’ re keeping them in the quarry.”
Grandpa squeezed me again then turned to the woman with the radio. It kept beeping in her hand. “ You heard the girl. Hurry and call the police!”
Somebody finally turned the TV off in the other room, just as two men wearing tan shirts burst through the door next to the reception desk, where another woman was scrambling for the desk phone.
She dialed then held it to her ear, beckoning to me and Grandpa. My heart beat fast, the same way it had while I ’ d been running, as she told the police what I ’ d just told her.
Then she got a funny look on her face, like she couldn ’ t believe what she was hearing.
“ I don ’ t know how, but the police are already almost here,” she stuttered, holding the phone out to me. “ Here, quick, tell them everything you know.”