The Fever (16 page)

If she was going to get the door opfen all the way, she had to move forward several inches. But Cynthia was in the way.

Cynthia's cheeks reddened with rage. "I'm not going to see anyone!" she shouted. "I don't need kelpl You're the one who needs help!" And she raised the hypodermic needle high in the air, poised just above Duffy's head.

It was now or never. Duffy's hand holding the bug spray can whipped out from behind her, her index finger on the spray button. Her arm flew up, her finger pressed down.

Cynthia screamed as the foul-smelling mist hit her eyes. Her hands, one still gripping the needle, instinctively flew to her face.

The needle's wickedly sharp point missed her left eye by a fraction of an inch, penetrating with full force the top of the cheekbone. This time Cynthia's scream was one of agony. A thin stream of blood slid down her cheek as the needle protruded from her face like a dagger.

Duffy gagged again, but she knew there was no time to waste in sympathy for Cynthia. Cynthia, her anger fueled by new fury, wouldn't give up now. This moment, with Cynthia temporarily blinded, was the only moment Duffy had.

With her empty hand, she threw open the door of the cabinet and, jumping out of the way, grabbed the edge of the slab inside the cabinet and jerked.

The slab flew out, slamming into a moaning Cynthia, her hands still covering her eyes. It kicked her in the stomach at waist-level, lifting her off her feet with a startled "Uuh!" She flew up and then forward, landing with a scream, facedown, on the slab.

She screamed again and then went limp as she lost consciousness.

The weight of her body hitting the slab sent it whizzing back into the depths of the cabinet.

Her eyes glazed with shock, Dufiy reached out automatically and gently closed the door. Then her legs gave and she sank to the cold white floor, covering her eyes with her hands.

Chapter 26

When Duffy awakened in her hospital bed the following morning, four pair of eyes regarded her with concern. Smith and Amy stood on one side of her bed, Dylan and Jane on the other. The sight of the little group jolted her out of sleep.

Then she remembered. She remembered all of it: the pillow over her face, the desperate struggle for air, the body thumping to the floor, the cold, dark journey to the basement, Cynthia's arrival at the morgue and . . . Kit . . . Kit! Kit was . . .

Uttering an agonized moan, Duffy buried her face in her hands.

Her friends moved closer. Amy hurriedly poured Duffy a glass of water, Smith took up a position as close to Duffy as he could get, while Dylan and Jane fixed worried eyes on the patient.

Smith was the first to speak. He looked tired, his dark eyes shadowed by bluish circles. "I'm sorry about your friend," he said.

Duffy Ufted her head. "You know? You know about Kit? How did you find out?"

*Tou told us. It was hard for you to say it, but you did."

Duffy's gray eyes widened in fear. She reached out in sudden panic and clutched at Smith's sweater sleeve. "Cynthia?" she asked.

"It's okay, Duffy," Jane hastened to reassure her. "They took her away. She's gone. You don't have to worry about her."

Duffy exhaled in relief.

"Your doctor was in," Smith told her. "They're going to do some tests this afternoon to make sure the digoxin didn't do any permanent damage. He's pretty sure it didn't. He feels really awful about not believing you, Duffy. The whole staff does."

"It was your fever that fooled everyone," Amy added quietly. "Nobody could be sure that you weren't delirious." She waved her hands helplessly. * We're all really sorry we didn't believe you. And," in a hushed voice laden with shame, "I'm sorry I lost my temper. You must hate me."

"No." Duffy shook her head. "It was all Cynthia's fault." Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "She killed Kit..." she stopped, unable to continue.

"They found him early this morning," Smith told her, his voice gentle as he took her hands in his and held them tightly.

Duffy sobbed. A sad, sympathetic silence fell over the group.

She wiped her eyes with a comer of the sheet and asked, *Who found me?"

*We did," Jane and Dylan said in unison. "And Smith. It was his idea to try the morgue."

"Dylan called me," Jane explained. She smiled at him before returning her attention to Duffy. "He asked me about the lab test Dean had done on the pills."

Duffy fixed her eyes on Dylan. So he had taken her seriously, after all. But too late. He probably had meant well when he brought the nurse to her in the hall. But she would never feel the same about him again, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he understood that.

Jane didn't need to know about that part of it. The way she was looking up at him, her eyes so full of admiration, she'd never blame Dylan, anyway.

"I told Dylan," Jane went on, "that it had all been a gag, but he wouldn't drop it. So finally I told him what Dean had found out and Dylan screamed, 'Duffy was right!' and hung up. That's when I knew it hadn't been a joke, after all. And I knew you were in trouble, Duffy." Her violet eyes reflected hurt. "Why didn't you tell me the truth? I could have helped."

"Then you would have been a target, too." Duffy forced a weak smile.

Jane's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Oh, Duffy," she said, "I'm so glad you're okay."

And Smith smiled and said, "I wouldn't mind having you in my comer, Quinn."

Duffy turned to Jane. "You came to the hospital last night?"

Jane nodded. "I really was feeling crummy . . . bad headache. But when Dylan hung up like that, I knew something was wrong. So I threw on some

clothes and raced over here. When I got to the fourth floor, I found Dylan and Smith and Amy hunting all over for you."

^We could tell you'd been in a battle with someone," Dylan said. **Your room was a mess. So we started searching. It was Smith's idea to try the basement."

'*We found you on the floor, crying for your friend," Smith told Duffy. "You were really out of it, and at first, you couldn't tell us what happened."

"But you finally did," Amy said. "It was all very disjointed and it took us a while, but we finally figured out that Cynthia was behind one of the doors." Her face was very white. With gratitude in her voice, she added, "It was Smith who found her, and he wouldn't let Jane and me see."

"She tried to kill me," Duffy said. "Like she . . . like she killed Kit." Kit . . . she would never see him again, never talk to him, could never visit him in California.

"When I told you what Cynthia had done," she asked slowly, thoughtfully, "why did you believe me? You could have thought I was the one who did the attacking, that I finally flipped out totally and went after her with the hypodermic needle. Why didn't you?"

''Because we know you'd never do that," Jane said quickly. "And anyway, I knew about the di-goxin. And we all knew Cynthia had access to your medication."

**We called the police," Dylan added, "and they sent divers out to the quarry." He hesitated, and

his voice was low and reluctant as he added, "They found Kit right away. He was still in his car."

Duffy gasped in pain. She began crying again, quietly, unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I can't beheve he's dead," she whispered. *What am I going to do without him?"

There was a sad, awkward silence, and then Dylan and Jane said, in one voice, 'We'll be here, Duffy." And Amy added in her soft, sweet voice, "Me, too."

And Smith gripped Duffy's hands more tightly in his own and fixed his dark eyes on hers and said solemnly, "I can't take your friend's place. I didn't even know him. I wish I had. But maybe, after a while, I can make a place of my own."

Duffy was too tired to answer. But maybe, after a while, he could . . .

Smith stood up. *This girl needs rest," he said sternly. "I want this room emptied pronto.**

Nodding obediently, Dylan and Jane and Amy turned to leave. Smith leaned down close to Duffy and said, "It's okay now. You can sleep. You can start putting all of this nasty business behind you and close your eyes. It's over. It's really over."

Feehng safe, surrounded by people who cared about her and wanted her to get well, Duffy closed her eyes.

And slept peacefully.

About the Author

Diane Hoh is the author of The Invitation^ The Ac-cidentf Funhouse, and Slow Dance. She grew up in Warren, Pennsylvania, "a lovely small town on the Allegheny River." Since then, she has Uved in New York State, Colorado, and North Carolina. She and her family finally settled in Austin, Texas, where they plan to stay. "Reading and writing take up most of my life," says Ms. Hoh, "along with family, music, and gardening."

Y