Nightmare City Part 7

But now-thankfully!-he saw that the scene had changed. The operating room was gone. Tom saw himself lying in a bed now. A number of tubes ran out of his body, out of his arm and out from under the blankets. Fluid dripped into him from a bag of some sort. A monitor was beeping by his head. A respirator was pumping air into him. He was lying in a hospital room now. Unconscious. Still.

The camera slowly drew back so that Tom could see more of the room. He saw a small wooden chair beside his bed. He saw a woman sitting there.

As he watched, Tom let out a soft groan of surprise and pain and longing.

The woman in the chair was his mom.

The sight of his mother sitting in the hospital room beside him made Tom's heart feel tight and small. She was sitting bent forward, her head bowed, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped in front of her as if she was in prayer. She was rocking herself back and forth, back and forth at the edge of the mattress on which Tom lay motionless. She wasn't crying, but when she raised her eyes to look at her unconscious son, the expression on her face was awful to see. It was a look of such wasted grief that Tom wanted to jam his hand through the television screen so he could touch her, comfort her. He hadn't seen his mom look so bad since . . . well, since the army officers had come to tell her that Burt had been killed in action. He wanted to call out to her, to say, I'm here, Mom. I'm not that figure on the bed. I'm right here.

But he didn't. He knew she wouldn't hear him. She was there, in that reality. And he was here, in this one.

So he just sat there, watching helplessly-which was so painful to him that he felt a powerful urge to close his eyes and turn away. But he understood that if he did that, the television would turn itself off. That's what had happened before. The scenes on TV were just projections from his own mind. The set had gone dark before because he hadn't been ready to face the whole truth. If he refused to face it now, there would be darkness again and he didn't know if the TV would ever come back on.

He had to force himself to go on watching. It was like forcing himself to ask a source difficult questions during an interview. It could be awkward, even painful, but sometimes he had to do it. The only difference now was that he was the source-the source as well as the reporter. Watching the TV was like interviewing his own brain. He had to force himself to want the truth more than he wanted to escape the pain of knowing.

Whatever happens, he thought, whatever the truth turns out to be, it's better to know than not to know. There's no other way to live.

So he leaned forward in his chair and concentrated as hard as he could. He suffered through the pain of watching his mother as she wrung her hands and rocked herself, as she stared at him where he lay on the bed motionless as a corpse.

Now a new figure entered the scene. It was a man in blue scrubs-those pajama-like outfits doctors wear. He was a man in his thirties with black hair. He had bland features and pale, almost pasty skin. He wore gla.s.ses with heavy frames and blinked rapidly behind them, which made him look very young and sort of helpless. Tom knew somehow that this was the surgeon who had cut him open: Dr. Leonard.

Tom's mother got quickly to her feet. Tom's throat grew tight as he saw the look of terror deep in her eyes. She searched the doctor's face for news, trying to guess what he was going to say before he said it.

"Mrs. Harding?" the doctor said.

"Yes," Mom answered. Her voice was hoa.r.s.e, almost a whisper. "What's happening to my son? Is he going to be all right? Is he going to . . . ?"

She couldn't say the word-the word die. But Tom knew that's what she was asking. She went on searching the doctor's face for the answer. And Tom stared at the scene on the television, waiting for the answer, too. Was he going to die? Was that what was happening to him? Was that why nothing made sense around him? Was he dying-or already dead and in some limbo waiting for G.o.d to decide whether he should go to heaven or h.e.l.l? Marie had told him no, he wasn't dead, but maybe she had gotten it wrong. Maybe . . .

"Your son is alive, but . . . ," Dr. Leonard said. He hesitated, and Tom's mother reached out convulsively and gripped his arm.

"But what? Tell me."

"He's lost a lot of blood," the doctor went on, "and I'm afraid he's fallen into a coma."

For a second, Tom's mother seemed unable to understand. She slowly shook her head, narrowing her eyes.

"A coma? I don't . . . For how long? Will he come back? Will he wake up?"

"I don't know," said Dr. Leonard. "Mrs. Harding, please sit down."

He gestured toward her chair. Mrs. Harding sank back into it. The doctor pulled up another chair and sat down beside her. Her eyes never left his face. She went on staring at him, openmouthed.

"Mrs. Harding," Dr. Leonard went on gently. "Your son was wounded very badly. The bullet nicked his superior vena cava-one of his major blood vessels-and punctured his lung . . ."

Tom's mother made an awful noise and covered her mouth with both hands.

"While he was on the operating table," Dr. Leonard said, "his heart stopped . . ."

Tom's mother lowered her hands and said, "You mean he died?"

"Well," said the doctor, "I suppose you could put it like that, yes. Yes, he did. We were able to revive him, but . . . well, until he regains consciousness, we won't know very much about how he is or how much damage he suffered."

"Damage?" Tom's mother said. "You mean . . ."

"Brain damage."

Sitting in the chair, watching the scene on the television, Tom groaned aloud. His mother began to cry.

The doctor tried to rea.s.sure her, touching her shoulder. "We just don't know. We can't tell yet. He may come out of this in an hour. And he may be totally fine. Or . . ."

"Or he may never come out of it," Mom said through her tears. "He may die."

Dr. Leonard nodded. "We can't promise you anything. We just don't know. Unless or until he comes around, there's not that much I can tell you."

Tom's mother couldn't take any more. She turned away from the doctor. She reached out and took Tom's hand where it lay limp atop the bedcover. She brought the hand to her lips and kissed it and she began to weep. "My boys," she said, her voice m.u.f.fled by tears. "Both my boys!"

The doctor stood up silently and walked out. As he did, Tom saw for the first time that there was another bed in the room. Another man was lying in the second bed, hooked up to a bunch of tubes like Tom, unconscious like Tom. As his mother sobbed beside him, Tom stared at this other man in the other bed.

"What?" he said aloud.

Shocked, he realized he recognized the man in the bed. It was the lanky young man with dirty blond hair, the man he had seen in the heavenly garden looking lost and afraid. Tom saw that both the man's wrists were bandaged.

Tom shut his eyes. It was too much. His mother in such an agony of sorrow. The man from the heavenly park in the hospital room. He couldn't understand it all. He couldn't bear to think about it anymore. He looked away-and instantly, the TV snapped off and went blank.

In the silence of the bas.e.m.e.nt room, Tom put a trembling hand to his forehead. He closed his eyes. For a long moment, he couldn't think at all. He just sat there, his mind empty of everything-everything except confusion and the image of his mom weeping over him-and the pain and sorrow he felt for her.

Then he lowered his hand and his shoulders slumped. Well, now he had what he wanted. Now he knew the truth.

He looked at the TV. At the blank screen. He thought: Help me, dude. Help me. He was trying to reach Burt somehow, trying to get Burt to come back on the screen, to talk to him, to tell him what he should do, how he could get himself out of this.

The TV remained silent, the screen blank.

Tom raised his eyes to the ceiling-to heaven. Soon, he knew, the fog would roll in again. Soon the monsters would burst through the windows again. This time there would be no escape. This time there would be no survival. He could not leave his mother in that hospital room all alone with his dead body. Her heart was already broken because of losing Burt. Losing him too would destroy her.

He had to find a way back to her, back to consciousness and life. But how? For the moment, Tom was all out of answers.

Please help me, G.o.d, he thought. I so totally don't know what to do. Please.

He lowered his eyes to the TV again. But still: nothing. Silence.

Then he nearly jumped to his feet as he heard a loud noise upstairs.

Someone-or something-was pounding on the front door.

The mist in the driveway had thickened. The figure standing in the mist looked like Death.

Tom had come running up from the bas.e.m.e.nt as soon as he'd heard the pounding on the door. But even as he crested the stairs, before he even started down the hallway to the foyer, the pounding stopped. Now he was standing at the front door, peering out through the sidelight. He saw the figure who had been knocking. It was retreating, moving slowly down the front path, deeper into the thickening mist.

The figure wore a black raincoat, a black hood. It was a grim and ominous sight that made Tom's stomach go sour with fear.

Like Death.

The ghostly figure glided slowly away from him, toward the deeper mist already gathering at the bottom of the driveway. Soon, Tom knew, the figure would vanish into the marine layer, the same way the woman in the white blouse had vanished the last time.

And yet Tom did not move from where he was. He did not open the door. He didn't call out. He wasn't sure whether he should. The cowled figure was so frightening to look at that he was afraid if he called to it-if it turned-it might actually present the skeletal face of the Grim Reaper. Would it come to him then and claim him and carry him away to his own grave?

Tom thought about it one more second while the cowled figure continued to move down the walk, growing hazier and dimmer as the mist collected around it.

Then he made up his mind. He had come back to this house to find the truth. He would find it, even if it wore the face of Death itself.

He pulled the door open. He stepped out across the threshold.

"Wait!" he called, his voice trembling.

The hooded figure stopped, stood still. The mist on the front lawn blew and swirled and grew denser and the figure grew more vague, more ghostly. A shiver of cold and fear went through Tom as he felt the damp of the mist touch his skin. He suddenly felt very vulnerable. He knew the malevolents were out here, moving in the fog, not far away, getting closer every moment.

He forced himself to speak. "Who are you?"

Slowly, the figure began to turn around. It faced him. Its features were obscured in the shadow of the hood.

Tom held his breath. He thought: Is this it? Is this Death? Is this the end?

Then the figure lifted a hand-a small white hand. It pushed the hood back. A ma.s.s of red hair tumbled free, framing a pug-nosed, freckled face. Green eyes blinked at him from behind the round lenses of a pair of gla.s.ses.

It was Lisa McKay.

Tom let out a breath of sweet relief as Lisa broke out into a tremulous smile.

"Thank heavens!" she said. "I was afraid you were already gone!"

INTERLUDE TWO.

"Sources: Tiger Champs Used Drugs."

In the days after the story broke, Tom's life was like a thunderstorm: long periods of gloom and turmoil and darkness punctuated by sudden shafts of dazzling light. There were the glowering looks in the school halls every day; black, angry looks in cla.s.s even from his friends, even from some of his teachers. There were whispers as he walked the halls: "Traitor." "Creep." "Liar." There were hard shots from the shoulders of some of the bigger guys as they pa.s.sed him. Every morning he awoke with dread, walked to school with dread, knowing he was going to face it all again. Long, gloomy, stormy hours. And then suddenly . . .

Suddenly, Marie. Marie's eyes; Marie's lips; Marie's voice, a gentle whisper. Her golden hair spilling around a face like a porcelain doll's. She sought him out on the playing field after lunch. She sat with him under the oak tree during study period. She let him drive her home. She sat in the car with him and put her hand in his.

He could not believe it was happening. It was as if his daydreams had sprung to life.

"Won't everyone hate you?" he asked her. They were sitting together on a windowsill early one morning, just before the homeroom bell rang. "For hanging out with me, I mean."

"I don't care what everyone thinks," she told him. "And neither should you."

"What about . . . ?" He didn't want to ask, but he couldn't help himself. "What about Gordon? I always thought . . . Well, everyone always thought you were with Gordon."

"Like I said," she answered softly, leaning toward him. "I don't care what everyone thinks. I want you to come to my house next week, Tom. Daddy wants to meet you."

Her face was so close to his just then that he felt breathless. "Really?" he said.

But before Marie could answer, the moment was shattered.

"Tom."

Tom blinked. Looked up from Marie as if coming awake. Miss Dunphy, the princ.i.p.al's a.s.sistant, was standing over them. "Mr. Kramer would like to see you in his office," she said. "Right now."

Mr. Kramer, the princ.i.p.al, was waiting for him in the conference room. And not just Mr. Kramer. Coach Petrie was there, too-the Tigers' coach and the head of the Physical Education Department-and so was Mrs. Rafferty, the English teacher who was supposed to supervise the publication of the Sentinel but never really did. They were all sitting around the long table, looking at Tom as he entered the room. And the minute Tom saw the expressions on their faces, he knew he was in for big-time trouble.

Mr. Kramer sat at the table's head. He was a young-looking man, in his early forties. He had short white hair, and his eyes were such a pale gray as to be almost colorless. Usually he was a pretty friendly guy, but when the smile disappeared from his face, there was something almost chilling about those transparent eyes of his. There was nothing like a smile on his face now.

He indicated an empty chair and Tom sat down, feeling his stomach jump with anxiety.

Mr. Kramer cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "We want to talk to you about this story you wrote in the newspaper," he said. "To publicly accuse our football team of taking drugs three years ago-our championship team-that's a very serious charge, you know. We're very proud of our team in this school, Tom."

Tom opened his mouth to answer, but then he jumped in his chair as-wham!-Coach Petrie slapped the table loudly. The coach was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, and the muscles in his arms tensed and bulged. "It's a lie, that's what it is!" he growled. "You asked me about it and I told you myself it was a lie, didn't I? Didn't I tell you that?"

Mr. Kramer made a calming gesture at him. "Hold on, Coach," he said. Then he went on to Tom, "I think what Coach is trying to say is that we're disappointed you went ahead and wrote the story even after he explained to you that there was no truth in it. That's irresponsible, Tom."

Tom drew a breath, hoping he could keep his voice steady. "I quoted Coach in the story," he said. "I gave him a chance to tell his side of it."

"Yeah, and then you made me sound like some kind of liar," Coach Petrie snapped back.

Tom felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. This was bad, really bad. Three adults-three powerful adults-angry at him. No, furious. Coach Petrie looked like he wanted to wring his neck.

He forced himself to return their glares with a steady gaze. "The story wasn't irresponsible," he said. "My sources gave me proof of everything they told me. Cell phone pictures. E-mails. Personal testimonies from players who took the steroids. It's all in the paper and I checked it all myself. The story was solid. The players took drugs. We won the championship unfairly. Those are the facts."

Tom recoiled-he couldn't help it-as Coach pointed a finger right in his face. "You are calling me a liar, aren't you? How dare you disrespect me? Who do you think you are?"

"I'm just saying it's the truth," said Tom as steadily as he could. He wished he were somewhere else right now. Somewhere like Mars.

"You're supposed to run all stories by me for approval," Mrs. Rafferty broke in, her voice clipped and hard. She was a large, pasty-faced woman with short red hair that curled up out of her head like fire. "I would never have approved the newspaper running a story like this."

Tom knew that Lisa always e-mailed the paper to Mrs. Rafferty for approval-and that Mrs. Rafferty never read it and never responded. But he hadn't personally seen Lisa send the e-mail this time, and he didn't want to sound like he was blaming Lisa for anything, so he kept his mouth shut.

"All right," said Mr. Kramer, making another conciliatory gesture at the others. "Let's not waste time with anger and recriminations. Let's see if we can make this right. Tom, if we let this story stand, it's going to have serious repercussions. The school board is going to ask questions, the interscholastic sports governors, maybe even the state Board of Ed. I'm going to need to have as much information as I can in order to answer them and explain how this rumor got started and how it got out of hand like this. To begin with, I need to know who told you these tales about the team."

The sweat gathering on Tom's neck rolled down his back, making his shirt damp. "I can't tell you that," he said. "My sources gave me this information on the condition I keep their names secret. I promised them I would."

Tom started as Coach Petrie slapped the table again. "Well, you are going to break that promise, son, believe you me," he said.