Authors: Ellen Emerson White

Long Live the Queen (15 page)

BOOK: Long Live the Queen

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She limped towards them, barely using her stick, forgetting about the pain. Lights. She was actually safe. Actually, finally safe. She limped as fast as she could, branches slapping her across the face, stumbling over uneven ground. Then, suddenly, the lights disappeared. She stopped, horrified, trying to find them. Where the hell had they gone? She turned in all directions, squinting at black empty woods, not seeing anything.

“Come back, damn you!” she shouted. “Come back!”

But, it was darkâeverywhereâand she fell down, bursting into weak tears.

She was still crying when she heard running. Crashing, racing footsteps. People coming to save her, or hurt her, orâshe sat up, trying to see who it was.

“Hey, over here!” she said. “I'm over here!”

But now, the footsteps seemed to be fading.

“Don't leave me!” she said. “I'm over here!”

The woods were silent.

“Oh, God.” She slumped down, holding her ribcage with her good hand. Yelling hurt.

She was losing it. She was very definitely losing it. Sometimes, she was sure people were talking to her; other times, she heard music. Loud, pounding music. She hated to look up at all anymore, because she knew that she was going to see things. Flowers. Lots of flowers. People, or houses, orâmostly, it was people.
Specific
people. Him. Her family. Josh. Once, it was a bunch of doctors and nurses wearing scrubs, and she would have believed it, but they looked like people she had watched on television. And even if it was them, they wouldn't be out in the woods; they lived in a
city.
Besides, she was pretty sure that they were actors, that they weren't even real.

Nothing
seemed real.

IN THE MORNING, she was too weak to stand up, so she just crawled. She would reach out with her left hand, pull, then push with her right leg. Rest. Cry. Then, reach, pull, push. Sometimes, she made it a couple of feet; more often, just inches. Christ, how long was she going to be able to go on?

Reach, pull, push. Each time, it was harderâknowing how much it was going to hurt, and how tired it was going to make her. Exhaustion and pain. She couldn't even remember the mine shaft anymore. Just these god-damn woods. Being covered with dirt and sticky perspiration, crying whether she wanted to or not. She felt soâconfused. Like her mind was completely gone. Reach, pull, push, the trees above her swirling around. Swirling, and spinning,
andâshe came upon the backyard so suddenly that it was almost an anticlimax.

There was a man, with his back to her, chopping wood. With an ax. Terrific. What if, after all this, she had found her way back to the kidnappers' house, andâmaybe she shouldâhe must have sensed something, because he turned, and she saw that it was a boy, not a man, probably about fifteen.

His eyes widened, and he took a step back, hanging onto the ax, looking as scared as she felt.

Automatically, she lifted her hand to straighten her hair. Or, rather, the thick tangled clumps that had once
been
her hair. She did her best to smile at him, not sure if she remembered how.

“Iâ” Her throat felt as if it were full of crushed glass. “Is that your house?” she asked, managing a feeble point from her position on the ground.

He nodded, his eyes huge.

“Are your parents home?” she asked.

He shook his head.

Naturally. “I, uhâ” God, she was tired. So tired, she couldn't think. “Do you have a telephone?”

“Wellâyeah,” he said, looking at her uneasily.

“Good.” She rubbed her forehead, her brain feeling as heavy and exhausted as the rest of her. “That'sâgood.”

“W-were y'lost or something?” the boy asked, still keeping his distance. He had an accent. A Southern accent.

Or something. She nodded. “Can you do me a favor and call the police? Tell themâ” Tell them what? “I don't know. Tell them someone got shot, and to send every car they can.”

“Someone
shot
you?” the boy said.

Okay, more like fourteen. “That's to make them come fast,” she said, hearing the same patient tone she used when her brothers were being particularly dense. “Ask them to send an ambulance, too.”

He nodded, not moving.

“Go on now,” she said, “okay?”

He hesitated. “Shouldn't I help youâ”

“I'll catch up,” she said.

He turned to go to the house, his eyes still wide.

“Don't run with an ax in your hand,” she said automatically.

He nodded, put the ax down, and ran to the house.

Fifty or sixty feet. She could make it fifty or sixty feet, even if it was uphill. Stick or no stick, she could damn well
hop
it. Under the circumstances.

Using a log, she pushed herself up onto her right foot, arms and legs shaking. Safe. She was actuallyâshe wasn't safe
yet
. Now, when she thought about it, was the exact kind of moment when he would step out of the woods, give her that scary half-grin, andâshe limped over to the house, scrambling up the back steps, afraid to look behind her in case he and the others were there. Close to absolute panic, she banged on the screen door with her fist, tumbling inside as the boy opened it.

“Please lock it,” she said, out of breath. “Lock it!”

He did so, looking scared.

“Are the police coming?” she asked, her heart jumping around, closer to hysteria than she had been during this entire nightmare.

He nodded, clutching a phone. “I-is someone after you?”

Thirteen. “I think so, yeah.” She shivered, crouching down so no one would be able to see her from the yard. “I meanâI don't know. I don'tâI mean, I thinkâ” If they were that close, they would have gotten her already, not waited for her to go inside a house. Maybe she was safe. She might actually beâshe had to call her parents. And Josh. Andâbut, she needed a couple of seconds to think, first. To remember what sheâ“Where are we?” she asked.

“Wellâ” He looked at her uncertainly. “This, um, is the kitchen.”

Maybe he was a very tall and well-built
twelve
year old. Who had an accent. “Are we someplace in the South?” she asked.

He nodded, apparently too unnerved by all of this to speak.

Jesus. She reached up to grab the edge of a marble counter, trying to pull herself to her feet. But, even her good leg didn't want to work so she sank back down to the floor, very tempted to put her head on her arms, and either sobâor sleep. “
Where
in the South? What state?”

“Uh, Georgia,” he said.

Georgia. Okay. She had been to Georgia before, andâit was comforting to have been to Georgia. To know where it was. It also explained why she hadn't frozen to death. And the reddish dirt. “What day is it?” she asked.

“Tuesday,” he said, sounding very uneasy.

Tuesday. That didn't help much. Was it May? June? Did she even care? She leaned her head back against a wooden cupboard door and looked around, seeing that she was, indeed, in a kitchen. With a stove, and a refrigerator with children's drawings stuck to it, and nice clean linoleum, andâa normal, everyday kitchen.

Jesus. A kitchen. In someone's honest-to-God
house
.

“Is it okay if I use your phone?” she asked.

He nodded, holding it out, and she reached up to take it from him, shocked to see how filthy her hand was, the skin covered with deep scratches and scrapes, a couple of the nails actually
torn off
. “I, umâ” She stared at the grime, and blood, then shook her head and focused on the keypad, trying to remember her numberâand how to dial. It took her several attemptsâher fingers were clumsy, and then, she realized that she was trying to call the house in
Massachusetts
âwhich wasn't going to help much.

But, she finally managed to punch the right numbers in, and when the phone rang on the other end, and the switchboard answered, “White House,” she knew that everything really
was
going to be all right.

SHERIFFS, POLICE OFFICERS, National Guard soldiers. Cars and SUVs everywhere. The boy, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, giving her a glass of water, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The boy's
mother
âand a little sisterârushing into the house from the grocery store, alarmed by all of the cars, maybe even more startled by the reason that they were there. And Meg, feeling a strange combination of exhaustion and self-consciousness, was too shy to answer questions with more than small yes's or no's, just waiting for the ambulance and hanging on to the open line to the White House, as Prestonâwith God knew how many people listening inâsaid calming, comforting things to herâincluding telling her that her brothers and Josh were safe. Her parents had left immediately, on their way to meet her somewhere, Meg too tired to pursue the logistics.

When the ambulance came, she was bundled onto a gurney and taken outside, surrounded by one of the tightest cordons of security she had ever seen. At least the press didn't seem to have shown up yet, although she wasn't completely sure, because it was so crowded. There seemed to be both doctors, and men with guns, inside the ambulance, and being surrounded by a group of strange men in a speeding vehicle was so much like actually being kidnapped, that she couldn't help being afraid. They were all talking at once, and she knew one of them had told her where they were going, but she couldn't remember what he had said. Either way, she kept a small, vague smile on, so she wouldn't have to say anything.

Someone put something into her armâa needle?âwhich hurt, but she was too tired to protest, too tired to answer all the
voices and questions, too tired to watch the IV being set up, or the lights flashing in her eyes. They were doing something to her leg, an air splint ballooning around it, and she woke herself up to watch.

“Did they wreck it up for skiing?” she asked, her voice sounding pathetic even to her. Small, weak. Lethargic. “My knee, I mean.”

“You're going to be fine,” one of the men said, his voice a little bit too soothing.

She nodded, too shy to ask where they were going again, letting her eyes close. Then, they did something to her hand which hurt so much that she had to cry, trying to turn her face away, so they wouldn't see. Voices apologized, and she felt a hand on her forehead, brushing her hair back. She managed another little smile, acutely embarrassed by all of this.

She happened to meet eyes with a soldier to her rightâa
young
man, not much older than she wasâand he smiled the same sort of scared smile at her. She smiled back, relieved to see that someone else was feeling almost as shaky and nervous as she was.

“IâI look so terrible,” she said.

“You look
great
,” he said, everyone else seeming to agree with him.

Nice to be humored. She had a pretty good idea of how disgusting she looked. How filthy. “So, what do you think?” she said to the same man. “Am I going to get out of finals?”

He nodded, very seriously, but she heard a couple of the other men laugh. Making a joke, however minor, was exhausting, and she blinked a few times, trying to stay awake. It would be too vulnerable to fall asleep in front of all of them. All these men. But, it would be nice toâshe felt her sweatshirt being lifted, a hand touching her stomach, and had to fight off a scream, doing her best to sit up.

The hand had already left her stomach. “I'm sorry,” one of the doctors said. “I was justâ”

“Well, you can't!” She shoved the sweatshirt down, clamping her left forearm across it.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to take a look at your ribs. I'm worried about the way you're breathing.”

She looked at him suspiciously, tightening her arm. “I'm fine.”

He nodded, lifting his hands as though showing her that he wasn't going to do anything, and she eased the pressure of her arm slightlyâsince it was killing her ribs, but still kept her eyes on him.

“Do you think you can answer some questions?” he asked.

She noddedâcarefully, watching him.

“Where are you having the most pain?” he asked.

“I don't know, Iâ” Her tongue felt thick, and she looked at the IV again, afraid. “Are you giving me drugs?”

“That's glucose,” he said. “And we've given you a mild tranquilizer.”

She frowned, not sure if she should believe him. “I don't want to fall asleep.”

“It's just to help you with the pain,” he said.

She looked around at the other men, checking to see where they were. What they were doing. Theoretically, these were the good guys, and they weren't going to hurt herâbut, then again, how could she be
sure?
She looked back at the doctor. “I don't mean to be rude to you,” she said. “I justâI don't know you.”

He nodded. “I'm Doctor Amesley. I live up here in Gilmer County.”

Which meant absolutely nothing to her. She studied his face. He
looked
nice enough. Normal enough. Not that
that
meant anything. “I don't remember where you're taking me,” she said, very quietly, so that the others might not hear.

“To a helicopter,” he said, without hesitating. “Which will transport you to an Army base, where you'll meet your parents.”

She tried, her mind sluggish, to think of military bases in this part of the country. “Bragg?”

He nodded.

Since there wasn't much she could do
but
trust him, she forced herself to relax. Somewhat.

“Is your hand the worst?” he asked.

Tough call, butâshe nodded.

“What about your head?” he asked.

Her
head
? She looked at him blankly. “You mean, my nose?”

He frowned. “Is that all that hurts?”

“Wellâwhere they got the teeth, too.” She shifted a little, not sure why he looked so worried. “Do you think it's broken? My nose?”

The men all seemed to exchange glances, which made her nervous.

“Yes,” Dr. Amesley said. “I think it's broken.” He started to raise his hands, then hesitated. “I'm just going to feel your skull for other injuries, okay?”

She nodded.

His hands went right to the side of her forehead whereâChrist, it seemed like
centuries
agoâthe man in the van had hit her with the gun. Then his hands, very gently, moved around to the back of her head.

“Phrenology,” she said, and blinked. Where the hell had
that
come from?

The doctor blinked, too. “I guess your memory isn't impaired,” he said, sounding less worried.

“I guess not.” But, there had been some word she'd been trying to think of recently. In the cave? Her shoelace. The stupid thing on the end of her shoelace. It wasâzygote. Or, noâ
argot
. Exceptâthat wasn't it, either. What the hell was it? “
Ag
let,” she said aloud, remembering suddenly.

They were all looking at her.

“On your shoelace,” she said, too tired to elaborate.

The doctor kept examining her, asking permission before he
did anything, Meg only scared when he felt her ribs, his hands up under her sweatshirt.

“Do you think they're broken?” she asked, struggling not to panic again.

“It's hard to say.” He took his hands and the stethoscope out. “From the way you're breathing, I'd guess that a couple are at least cracked.”

All
of her bones felt cracked. She nodded, feeling a great wave of sleepiness, fighting it off.

“When did you eat last?” he asked.

“Breakfast,” she said, more and more tired, rubbing her face with her shoulder.

He stared at her. “You had
breakfast
today?”

She shook her head, the motion of the ambulance making her even sleepier. “Before school.”

“The day you were kidnapped?” he asked.

She nodded, hearing more than one gasp, someone saying, “Jesus
Christ
” in a low voice. The doctor was asking another question, but she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, falling into a confused sort of daze.

It seemed as if they drove for hours, and as if they drove for seconds, because then, she was being carried out of the ambulance, into what had to be the helicopter. People were talking at her, but she was too tired to pay attention, feeling the helicopter lift off the ground. She hated helicopters.

After a long time, the motion stopped and, hearing many more voices, she forced her eyes open. It was bright outside, and there were soldiers everywhere. She heard the word “President” and tried to get off the gurney, so eager that she forgot how much everything hurt.

Then, her parents were there, and she was hugging them with her good arm, trying not to cry. But they were, so maybe it was okay.

“I'm sorry,” she said weakly. “I'm really sorry.”

They were both talking, which was too confusing to follow, and she felt her eyes closing, letting herself slump against them. They wouldn't mind if sheâjust for a minuteâif sheâshe was aware of being movedâinto another helicopter? Air Force One? Aware of new voices, and questions, and her parents hugging her, but mostly, she just slept, feeling safe, and protected, and
extremely
happy.

SHE WOKE UP to feel the gurney moving again and opened her eyes, seeing fluorescent lights overhead. A hospital. Maybe they were at the hospital. Her parents were right next to her, holding on to her good hand, and she tried to smile at them. They were saying nice, soft things to her, their faces pale and worried.

“Are Neal and Steven okay?” she asked, and saw them nodding. “Are we at the hospital?”

They seemed to be saying yes, and she nodded, too, about to close her eyes again. Josh. Preston had saidâ“Is Josh going to be here?” she asked.

“I'll have someone get him,” her mother said, motioning behind them.

There was a lot of dirt all over the front of her mother's dressâwhich was really strange to see, and Meg was going to say something about it, but instead, let her head fall back on the pillow, seeing a blur of people standing against the walls as they passed. Blue and olive drab uniforms, mostly. Grey suits, too. Then, they were in a very bright room, and the people were wearing white coats, or surgical scrubs.

“I'm pretty drugged out, hunh?” she said, her voice feeling distorted. She closed her eyes, too tired to wait for a response.

The doctors were doing stuff to her, poking and probing, and flashing more lights at her eyes.

“âgoing to hurt a little,” a voice was saying.

She opened her eyes. If they were
warning
her, it was going to be something bad.

“I'm just going to numb your arm, so it won't hurt when we take the X-rays,” a man said.

She nodded dully, then recognized him. Dr. Brooks, the White House physician. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.” He smiled at her. “I'm very glad that you're here.”

She smiled back, sleepily, and let her eyes close again. The needle
did
hurt, and she gripped her mother's hand, her father's hand squeezing her shoulder.

“Okay?” Dr. Brooks asked.

She nodded, although it hurt
a lot
. Much worse than novocaine.

“Okay, all finished,” he said. “In a few minutes, it'll be numb, and then we're going to take you down to radiology.”

She laughed a little. “What are you doing to doâa full body shot?”

He smiled, and touched the split in her eyebrow. “How did this happen?”

“I don't know.” She tried to remember, and shook her head. It was hard to remember
anything
.

There was a small sound, like a gasp, and she saw Josh standing by the bed, tears running down his cheeks. Seeing him there, looking the way he always did, she had to cry, too, so happy to see him safe that she was close to losing the little bit of control she had left.

“He told me they killed you,” she said weakly. “He told meâI thoughtâ”

He was bending over the bed, kissing her cheek, and she got her arm around his neck, hugging him as hard as she could.

“I,” she hugged more tightly, “I'm sorry I look so ugly, Iâ”

“You look
beautiful
, Meg,” he said, and she could hear his voice shake. “I-I can't believe you're here.”

She hung on to him, her eyes closed, the last major worry leaving, now that she had actually
seen
him.

BOOK: Long Live the Queen

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