Point Last Seen: Blood Will Tell Part 3

And tonight hadn't helped advance his case, Nick thought sourly as he took the exit for the freeway. Not when Mitch.e.l.l had forced him to admit in front of Alexis that he had thrown up.

Yakking like that had just come out of nowhere. One moment Nick had been looking at Mariana's leg-oh my G.o.d was that white thing really a bone?-and the next his mouth had flooded with saliva. A second later a column of vomit, hot and bitter, had risen up his throat and pushed past the hand he had tried to hold it back with. It had taken all that he had not to fall to his knees.

After the paramedics had taken over and he had let go of her hand, Nick had realized that his own hand was still wet with either sweat or maybe vomit. Hopefully it had just been sweat. Dimitri had tried to make him feel better. "You did good, Nick. Immediately, you protected her spine. And do not feel bad for the vomiting. It is hard when it is all fresh like that."

Now Nick was stuck behind an old beater pickup doing about thirty-five. What was the guy even doing on the freeway? The next lane over was full of trucks, so he couldn't pa.s.s. "Come on," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it cut into his palms.

Nick's dad must have sucked it up when he was in Iraq. You could bet that he hadn't been puking on the front lines. You couldn't be a soldier if the sight of a little blood turned your stomach inside out.

His mom never even talked about his dad, who had been dead for a dozen years. But Nick had seen the medal, snug in its case, in her dresser drawer. A Bronze Star on a red, white, and blue ribbon. He had looked it up on Wikipedia. "Rewarded for bravery, acts of merit, or meritorious service."

But his mom never talked about the medal or the man. His dad had fallen in combat-that was all Nick had been able to piece together from cryptic sc.r.a.ps of overheard conversation. Sacrificed himself to save others.

Nick had been four when his dad died. Sometimes he wondered if his few memories, now worn paper thin, were even his. Maybe he had imagined them or seen them in a movie. He thought he remembered a deep, booming voice; big hands lifting him into the air; a scratchy cheek against his own.

All his mom ever said was, "The army destroyed your father. You'll join up over my dead body."

When it was the only thing Nick wanted.

In the army, he was sure he would feel like he belonged. He had this weird pale Afro. He was too light-skinned to be black, too dark-skinned to be white. Nick had grown up in a white world, but he didn't really fit there. That world didn't really want him. If he went into a store with a white friend, his friend would be left alone, while Nick would be followed.

But in the army, Nick was sure he would fit in. All the army asked was that you be fit and strong and fast. And brave. And until tonight, Nick had thought he was well on his way to getting there.

Finally, he spotted a chance to pa.s.s the pickup, and he took it, even though his mom's car shuddered, even though his exit was just ahead.

What would his dad think now if he could see Nick? Vomiting and nearly pa.s.sing out when he should have been helping a little girl? Yeah, sure, he had eventually pulled it together, but what if it kept happening every time he saw blood? If he joined up, could he even make it through basic training, let alone an actual firefight?

Nick was a failure. As a potential boyfriend and a potential soldier. With an index finger, he punched the b.u.t.ton on his mom's radio so that it switched from the golden oldies station to something a lot more angry. Something that fit his mood.

CHAPTER 10.

K.

SUNDAY.

MONSTER.

What had he done? What had he done?

In the small bathroom, he threw up and kept throwing up until all that came out were strings of yellow bile.

He was a monster.

No. What had happened was a mistake. A mistake he would never make again.

That was what he told himself. Over and over.

CHAPTER 11.

NICK.

SUNDAY.

FULL OF BLOOD AND SCREAMS.

Nick was too keyed up to sleep. Images kept flickering through his brain. Alexis hanging on to Bran. Mariana's mangled leg. Alexis brushing the hair out of Bran's eyes. The weight of Mariana's skull in Nick's hands. Interspersed with pictures of other things, darker things.

What kind of dreams would he have, full of blood and screams? He most definitely did not want to go to bed right away.

With luck, Kyle would be up, he thought as he put his key in the door. Or at least he would get up once he heard Nick. He let the front door thump closed. Their mom slept so hard that nothing could wake her, but Kyle was a light sleeper.

Nick needed to let off steam. To get out some of the energy still humming in his veins. He and Kyle could play a little Call of Duty. It would be way more fun without Mom hovering in the background, looking appalled. She claimed COD was too violent.

Violent it might be, but Nick already knew that a two-dimensional image and some shouts and sound effects weren't much like real life. It sure didn't include the coppery scent of blood, or the way a girl's face felt under your fingertips as she walked the frayed rope between life and death. The very falsity of a video game was comforting. When the game was over, you just put down your controller and went back to your real life.

And while they were shooting and stabbing and running, Nick would tell Kyle some of the truth about what had happened tonight. Not all of it, of course. He didn't want to see Kyle's disgust. But he would tell him how he had helped save Mariana's life.

Sure, Ruby had been the one trying to stop the bleeding, but in some ways stabilizing Mariana's cervical spine-or C-spine-had been even more important. Since the pickup had hit her hard enough to knock her out of one of her boots, it might have also broken something inside the slender column of her neck. And if that had happened and Mariana moved, then those shattered bits of bone could have sliced into her spinal cord. A seven-year-old permanently in a wheelchair-maybe even needing a machine to breathe for her-was even worse than a seven-year-old with a mangled leg.

Until the paramedics arrived with a cervical collar, Nick's job had been to be the human version. He had laid on the damp ground behind her, propped on his elbows, his thumbs above her ears, his fingers cradling the bones at the back of her skull. Just as they had been taught, he didn't try to move Mariana's head, or carry the entire weight of it. He simply held it in place.

Under his thumbs, Mariana's face had been cool and clammy, which meant she was already going into shock. He and Ruby had told her over and over not to turn her head, that everything was okay, that she needed to lie still, that help was on the way.

When the paramedics showed up, it took them only a few seconds to wrap a real cervical collar around her neck, bandage her leg, and thank all of them for what they had done. He had held her hand until the last possible moment, been rewarded by a squeeze when he told her he had to let go. Then they had put her on a backboard and loaded her into the ambulance.

Nick's stomach had calmed down since it first rebelled. Now he rummaged through the refrigerator, letting the jars and bottles clank together, listening for the sound of Kyle's bedroom door opening.

Silence.

He allowed the fridge door to thump into place. No answering sound of Kyle's bedroom door opening. After pulling a box of cereal off the shelf, he let the cupboard door slam closed.

Nothing.

Finally, he went to his brother's bedroom door. Nick listened, holding his breath, then turned the handle and nudged it open.

Kyle's bed was empty.

CHAPTER 12.

K.

SUNDAY.

BEADED WITH BLOOD.

He showered until all traces of her were gone. Scrubbed with a loofah until every inch of his body was pink and tender. Every bit of skin was new now. Beaded with blood here and there.

Blood. He couldn't think about blood, or he would get sick again.

He couldn't believe he had done it.

Done that thing.

But he hadn't meant to.

Had he?

And now he might go to jail for the rest of his life.

For a one-minute mistake.

For a mistake he would take back if he only could.

CHAPTER 13.

THAD.

MONDAY.

ONCE YOU KNEW THE TRICK.

Thad Westmoreland rode with his head down. Bad enough that it was icy this morning. There was also a wind that seemed to be funneling right down the collar of his jacket.

Riding a bike to work had been great when it had been warm. Now, even dressed in a waterproof jacket and pants, there were many days it was a wet slog. Today it was simply bone-chillingly cold. But on minimum wage and working part-time, who could afford a car? The irony was that his job was at the car wash, where he spent all day telling people, "Neutral, no brakes, hands off the wheel."

This time of year, most Portlanders didn't bother to wash their cars. Not when the rain did most of the work for them and there wasn't any sun to show the remaining dirt. When the weather turned in late October, Thad's hours had been cut back, but at least his job hadn't completely disappeared.

He pedaled on, already sweating through the white polyester shirt and the clip-on tie they all had to wear, as if they worked in an office.

If only he'd wrapped a scarf around his neck this morning. He lifted one hand from the handlebars to see if he could pull the zipper on his jacket any higher. As he did, his messenger bag slid around his torso. When he tried to push it back, he started to lose his balance. Just before he tipped over, he managed to get his foot down.

As he readjusted his bag, Thad looked out across the empty patch of land. Years ago, he thought, there had been an apartment building here. Now there was nothing. Part of it was level and part of it sloped. During the wet part of the year, which was about eight months, there was a tiny creek down there, winding between blackberry bushes.

But today the s.p.a.ce held something more than just iced-over water and weeds. He squinted. It was a boot. A woman's black boot.

It was more than just a boot, he realized. There was a leg in that boot. He traced it back. It was like one of those puzzles, the ones with the captions that asked, "What do you see?" When he was a kid, Thad had always liked those puzzles. Where things suddenly fell into place if you stepped back or let your eyes go blurry or even looked away. Once you knew the trick, it was easy to see the truth.

And the truth was that he was pretty sure there was a body lying down there.

He got off his bike, leaned it against a telephone pole, and ventured closer. Ice-rimmed weeds brushed against his legs, and he was glad of his waterproof pants. As he got closer, his footsteps slowed down. Finally, he was close enough to peer over a patch of blackberry canes that hid the top part of the body from view.

Arms and a face. A young woman's face.

So, so white that Thad let out the breath he had been subconsciously holding. It couldn't be a person. It had to be a mannequin. Human beings did not come in that weird waxy shade, a skim-milk white verging on blue. Besides, bodies didn't just appear in vacant lots in Southwest Portland.

Then he realized that mannequins didn't, either.

And now he saw where all the color had gone. The ground under her held a dark red pool.

"Lady!" he said. For some reason he found himself whispering, as if she were asleep. "Lady!"

She lay on her back, a small woman, no more than five two or three. She looked about his age, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. A fan of wet, dark hair surrounded her face. One corner of her forehead looked abraded. Her arms were outstretched. A yellow purse was looped around her left elbow. Her lips were purple, and not from lipstick. Her eyes were half open.

"Lady!" Thad made his whisper louder.

The eyes didn't blink. She didn't move at all.

He had to get closer. Had to see if she was alive. He climbed down the slope, but after his first step, he started to slide. His Converses found no purchase on the frosted weeds. He pinwheeled his arms as he began to lose his balance.

Thad would later tell the police he wasn't sure why he had decided to check out the body before calling 9-1-1. Was it because he thought she might still be alive? Was it because he still wasn't sure she was really a person?

Whatever the reason, at 6:51 that morning, Thad Westmoreland landed with a thud a foot away from a body. He levered himself up onto his elbows, his face just inches from a dead girl's.

And then she gasped.

CHAPTER 14.

NICK.