Hacker: The Outlaw Chronicles (14 page)

A
S I sped
through the streets, my mind grappled with too many thoughts: Maybe Lettie wasn’t answering because she’d left her phone in her purse. Maybe it was much worse than that.
Something’s wrong . . . hurry . . .
What if Mom died without me by her side? No, I could never live with that.

The world blurred past, it seemed, in mere seconds and I was soon leaving the highway for the side streets near Cedar Ridge, expecting the black car I’d seen by Austin’s to suddenly appear. But there was no sign of it.

I turned into a shopping-center parking lot adjacent to the assisted-care campus and found an empty space on the far end, out of sight. Austin was probably right; Jill likely had surveillance on the building so I couldn’t simply waltz in the front door.

I would cross the drainage ditch that cut between the properties and circle behind the building to Mom’s apartment, which had a small patio with a sliding glass door. I’d slip in unnoticed, check on her and leave. Piece of cake.

By the time I reached the other side of the ditch I felt a knife of uneasiness in my gut. I eased forward, nearing the corner of the building. Mom’s apartment was on the back side of the complex, tenth from the end.

In and get out. No problem.

My gaze snapped toward shadows, distant headlights, trash blowing in the wind—I was that jumpy. The FBI probably had eyes on me now. What would I do if they moved in? I couldn’t run back to Austin’s. That would put not only him at jeopardy, but also everything we’d accomplished. The research was too important—not just to Austin, but to me—to put it at risk. Mom
needed
our research. I believed that more than ever with this latest scare and now that I’d experienced healing myself. It wasn’t a fantasy or pipe dream. It was real: Mom could be cured.

Seconds dragged with each step. One by one, patio lights snapped on as my passing triggering their motion sensors. I expected black vehicles to come roaring from every direction, boxing me in with men hanging out of the windows, weapons drawn. But so far, so good. In fact, the campus was strangely still.

I reached her patio without incident. I stepped up to the sliding glass door and quietly unlocked it. I tugged it open and leaned my head into the drapes. No voices, no noise, no lights, so I eased the material aside and stepped through. My pulse thumped hard as I moved deeper into the room, passing near the foot of Mom’s bed, reaching my hand down to the covers.

The bed was empty.

I followed its edge to the bedside table and felt for the lamp. My heart lurched into my throat when I found it tipped onto its side on the table. I righted it and switched it on. The top bedsheet had been stripped off and tossed in a tangled heap on the floor, partially covering the sparkling shards and slivers of a shattered drinking glass strewn across the floor. Mom’s wheelchair lay on its side, shoved against the closet door.

What had happened here? Where was everyone?

My first thought: BlakBox. What if they’d grabbed my family to get to me? The mere thought of it turned my fear into boiling anger. I had to do something. I had to find them.

A voice from the living room reached me, too softly spoken to discern male or female, but I knew it wasn’t Mom or Lettie. I tiptoed to the nearly closed bedroom door and peeked through the opening into the hallway. Light from the living room fell across the hallway floor, and the voice came again. A shadow passed through the light.

I grabbed a heavy metal statuette of the Statue of Liberty sitting on Mom’s dresser and stepped into the hallway. I raised it as I made my way toward the voice. As I drew near, I realized it was a woman, and her tone was urgent. I reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner, Lady Liberty ready to crack some skulls

Jill’s worried eyes met mine as she turned in my direction, cell phone pressed to her ear. “I have her,” she said. “She’s here.”

I lowered the statuette and glanced around the room. We were alone and the door to the hallway was half open.

“What’s going on?” I said. “Where’s my mom?”

“Bring the car around,” she said into the phone. She thumbed a button on the phone and dropped it into a pocket of her beige blazer. “Where have you been?” she asked me.

“Jill, where’s my mom?” I snapped.

She glanced at the beanie on my head. Then reached for my arm. “You should sit down.”

I jerked away. “I don’t want to sit down! What’s going on?”

“Lettie found your mother unconscious a couple hours ago. She called me when she couldn’t reach you.”

“Unconscious? What . . . what . . . ? Where is she?”

Something’s wrong . . . hurry . . .

She needs you now. Save her, Nyah. Save your mother.

“She’s in good hands. The ambulance got here within minutes and took her to General Hospital. She’s in the emergency room right now.”

My heart felt like it was in free fall. “How is she?”

“She’s alive. They’re running tests now to figure out what’s wrong. I’m sorry.”

“I have to get there,” I said and started toward the front door. She caught me by the arm.

“Not by yourself you’re not,” she said. “Not after your disappearing act.”

“Are you serious?” I tried to tug my arm free, but her grip was too tight. “My Mom’s
dying
.”

“You don’t know that.”

I was breathing hard now. “Yes, I do.”

A beat.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she brushed past me and began pulling me toward the door. “Come on. I’ll take you to the hospital myself.” I stumbled behind her, feeling like a child caught doing something really awful. “Have you noticed anyone following you?” she asked.

“Yeah, but I think I’m just being paranoid.”

“Maybe not,” she said.

Before we reached it, the front door opened and a man stepped into the opening. He wore jeans, a white shirt, and Kevlar vest emblazoned with “FBI” over the chest. “Car’s out front,” he said.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Get used to it,” Jill said. “I
might
let you go once we’re in the car, I haven’t decided. But one thing’s certain: I’m not letting you out of my sight until this thing’s over.”

J
ILL PEPPERED
me with questions during the ride: Where had I gone? Who had I seen? What had I been doing? I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I made up a story about staying mobile and out of sight, crashing at bus stations and eating stale vending-machine food.

We found Lettie in a small waiting room on the hospital’s main floor. There was nothing to do but wait. So I sat there, chewing my fingernails, waiting. After the accident, I spent way too much time in the hospital, which is why I hate them so much. They smell like death and loss; their lights are too bright and too white, like an autopsy room; and if you’re not on a gurney, people want to know why. And now here I was in one again, just as powerless and nauseated and scared as I was the last time.

Dr. Benton appeared fifteen minutes later. Lettie and I stood. She patted my hand and whispered, “It’s going to be all right.”

As he approached, Dr. Benton lifted his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. A heavy stone settled in my gut. Everyone has a tell, a nervous tic that gives away the truth no matter how much they try to conceal it. I’d gotten enough bad news from him to know his—and that was it, his tell: clearing his throat.

“No,” I whispered back. “Nothing’s going to be all right.”

“How is she?” Lettie asked the doctor.

“Resting comfortably. We just moved her to a private room.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She suffered an ischemic stroke caused by a blood clot in her brain.”

“Her brain?” Lettie said, a tremor in her voice. “But the clot you found was in her leg, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, it was. It seems likely that the medication used to treat the clot caused it to break loose. It passed through her bloodstream and, eventually, lodged in her brain tissue. I’m afraid the neurological damage she suffered is severe.”

“What does that mean, severe?” I said.

“There are portions of her brain that were significantly starved of oxygen when the clot constricted her blood supply. These parts of her brain have lost all function.”

“She’s brain dead?” I said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not entirely,” he said. “She’s lost her ability to speak and respond to simple commands. She’s unresponsive to every test that we use to gauge cognitive awareness. Her condition is fragile; however, at the moment she’s breathing on her own, which is an encouraging sign. I think our best course of action now is to ensure that she’s comfortable while we wait and let things run their course.”

“You mean wait for her to die,” I said.

“Nyah . . .” Lettie said, gripping my arm.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “There’s little we can do. Surgery is too risky and I’m not sure any treatment would be beneficial at this point. She’s remarkably stable for now, which is a miracle in itself. We’ll have to do some more tests and wait it out.”

“But she’ll never speak again or wake up?” I said.
Or laugh or hug me or . . . or . . .
I couldn’t handle this. Instead of breaking down, my mind went into proactive mode:
I won’t let this happen to her! I won’t!

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” Dr. Benton said, “but you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that she may not recover.”

My eyes blurred. “I want to see her.”

“Of course. I’ll take you upstairs.”

He held the door open and we stepped into the hall, Lettie gripping my arm, Jill practically glued to my back. The moment we emerged I saw a man waiting by the nurse’s station. It was the agent who’d driven Jill and me to the hospital. He stepped toward us.

“Dr. Benton’s taking us to see her mother,” Jill said to him. “Keep your eyes open.” Then to Dr. Benton: “Where’s her room?”

“Twelfth floor,” he said.

“I’m stay with them,” Jill said to the agent. “If anything seems out of place, call me.”

The agent nodded.

“Follow me,” Dr. Benton said and led us to the elevator.

My thoughts spiraled as the elevator climbed upward. I held tight to Lettie’s hand. It was all happening so fast. It probably was the last time I’d ever see my mom, but how do you say good-bye when all you want to do is hold on?

Outside the elevator on the twelfth floor, Jill touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but we can’t stay long,” she said. “Just a few minutes is all I can give you. After we know you’re safe and the dust settles, you can come back, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling numb.

Unlike the main floor, there was no nurse’s station here, just an alcove from which four hallways branched like tunnels into the unknown.

“This way,” Dr. Benton said and led us down the rightmost hallway. The lighting was softer here than on the main floor, almost tranquil; it was as quiet as a library and we saw no one else.

“So peaceful.” Lettie said, trying to find something comforting to say; that was Lettie. Mom’s room was at the end, on the left. The door was open and a bulging yellow folder sat in a basket by the door. Dr. Benton grabbed it as we entered and flipped it open.

I didn’t want to go in. Not really. But I did.

Except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, the room was still. Lettie stifled a cry as she approached the bed where Mom lay corpse still, her head propped up by a pillow.

I struggled to catch my breath when I saw her. I’d last felt this way at my brother’s and father’s funerals—the feeling that I was looking at an empty shell that was once brimming with life and personality and potential, with whatever it was that made them
them
. I was staring at a husk, a puppet that my mom had once brought to life. A costume that didn’t fit her anymore.

A knot formed in my throat and I choked it down.

Dr. Benton moved a wheelchair out of the way and leaned over the bed. Carefully, he lifted her right eyelid with his thumb and waved a penlight in front of it. We stood at the foot of the bed and watched. An IV ran into her arm and a cell-phone-sized device on her forearm monitored her heart rate.

Her chest rose and fell as she drew shallow breaths.

“She’s not on a respirator?” Lettie said.

“We’re not authorized,” he said. “Elizabeth’s medical file indicated that she doesn’t wish for any extraordinary measures to prolong her life. That includes respiration.”

I stepped closer and laid my hand on hers. Her face was so peaceful. Her hair spread across the pillow neatly. Someone had taken the time to brush it.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Dr. Benton said and looked at Jill. It was a subtle hint, but she caught it.

She stepped up behind me and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going to step out too. If you need anything, I’ll be close.”

“There’s a private waiting room down the other hall,” Dr. Benton said. “I’ll take you there. It’s quiet and you can make phone calls or do whatever you need to do.”

“Thanks, Jill,” I said. “For everything.”

She nodded and followed Dr. Benton into the hallway.

Lettie laid her purse at the foot of the bed, stepped to the far side, and took Mom’s other hand. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

We stood there, sniffing and wiping at our tears.

“This is my fault,” I finally said.

“Why would you say such a thing, sweetheart? How could this be your fault?”

“You heard what Dr. Benton said. The medication they gave her for the clot in her leg likely caused this. It’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“The vision I had was real. It was
real
. I thought it was a warning, something that we had time to change. You did too. Instead, it made things worse. If I hadn’t had the vision then Dr. Benton would’ve never prescribed the medication and this wouldn’t have happened.”

“She’s still alive. That’s a gift.”

“You call this alive?”

Lettie said nothing.

I stared down at Mom and ran my hand under my nose. “It’d have been better if you hadn’t found her.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. Look at her. This is no way to live. She probably doesn’t know we’re even here.”

“She knows,” she whispered. “The real her knows.”

“Maybe.” I smeared the tears with the heel of my hand.

“God wasn’t caught by surprise with this,” Lettie said. “He knew this would happen and how it will turn out. It will turn out for good. Somehow. We just don’t see the whole picture.”

“Just a pathetic little corner,” I said under my breath.

“I want to tell you something,” she continued. “Hear me, okay?”

I nodded.

“One morning a few months after the accident I found your mom painting by her bedroom window. She’d pulled herself from bed and somehow gotten into that wheelchair. Well, I can’t tell you how worried I was. What if she’d hit her head or something worse? I was beside myself, but your mother just chuckled at me and had that look in her eye. Know what she said?”

I shook my head.

“She looked at me and I knew it was a moment of clarity. Somehow she was there that morning. The spark that always lit your mother was there. She said, ‘Life’s kicked my ass, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay down. As long as there’s something I can do, I’m going to do it.’ Then she went back to painting.”

I smiled.

“That was the last time she remembered me,” she said. “And you’re right, it seems so unfair.”

“She looks beautiful,” I said and brushed my finger through her hair. She looked so peaceful. “Mind if I have a few minutes alone? I’d like to say good . . .” I choked back fresh tears. “I want to say good-bye.”

“Sure. I’ll be down the hall with Jill, okay? Take your time.” Lettie came around the bed and gave me a hug from behind before leaving the room.

Everything was quiet. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t expect her to answer me or move. I knew there was no hope of that, but that she simply lay there, as though already in her coffin, made my heart ache. I took a deep breath.
This will not do
, I thought. My entire life had been pulverized and there was nothing left, no pieces to scrape up and nowhere to go. Everything was gone.

Still, walking away from Mom now felt like giving up. She was clinging to life, what little of it she had to hold on to. And maybe that was enough—just enough of an ember for our consciousness hacking to rekindle her fire. If my scar could be healed, if all those case studies Austin had told me about were true, then why couldn’t Mom?

But if I left now, Jill would stash me away in some safe house with bars on the windows and agents watching me 24/7. No way I’d be able to return to Austin’s apartment to continue unlocking the secrets of the universe. Sounds corny, I know, or melodramatic, but that’s exactly what we were doing. How else can you describe changing reality?

Changing reality. Changing the inevitable. Changing Mom. Healing her.

Save her . . .

I leaned close and kissed her on the cheek. She still smelled like roses. I whispered, “I’m going to save you. I promise.”

Saving her meant getting her out of there. That was the only way. I had to get her into the hack and to the girl who’d healed me. The only way to do that was by taking Mom to Austin’s apartment.

My eyes drifted to the foot of her bed and the red purse sitting there. Lettie’s purse. I grabbed it and pulled it open. It was crammed with more things than anyone would ever need, but I only needed one thing: her van keys. They were right there on top and then they were in my hand.

I had to tell Austin. He needed to prepare the tanks. Time was of the essence. I reached to my back pocket, but the disposable cell phone Austin had given me wasn’t there. I’d left it in my backpack, which was still at Cedar Ridge. I’d set it down before leaving with Jill.

Lettie’s phone. I overturned her purse, dumping the contents onto the bed and retrieved her phone. I pictured Austin’s landline number as I had jotted it on the back of a prescription order two years before and thumbed the buttons.

Austin’s phone rang . . . rang . . . rang . . .

“Come on. Where are you?”

I only had minutes before Lettie returned. Minutes before Jill took me with her.

A click sounded on the other end. “Hello?” I said.

“The person at 415-327 . . .”

“No, no, no. Answer your phone, Austin.”

“. . . isn’t available to take your call . . .”

“Crap.”

“Please leave your message at the tone.”

A beep.

“It’s me. Call me when you get this.” I left Lettie’s number. I pocketed the phone and stood motionless, staring at my mom.

Move
, I told myself.
No time to think . . . just move! Now!

And I did.