Rotten to the Core (32 page)

“I don’t know where it is.”

“I do.” He drove fast on the empty roads, one turn, two, then pulled up in front of a small colonial. It looked as though every light in the house had been turned on: every window glowed brightly. “Well, at least he’s awake.”

Art was out of the car almost before it stopped moving, leaving the engine running. He went to the back door and pounded on it. “Seth, you in there? Seth?”

Nothing. Alarmed, Meg struggled out of the car and shuffled her way to the door. Art was still pounding. Finally, there was an answering bellow from inside. “What the hell you want?”

Seth lurched into view and glared at Art through the glass panel of the door, but he didn’t open it. Art said, “Let us in, Seth. We’ve got a problem.”

“No. I don’t want you here. Leave me alone, will you?”

Seth seemed to be acting very oddly, Meg thought dimly. He looked angry. Why would he be angry? She pushed past Art. “Seth, can we come in, please?”

Seth struggled to focus on her. “What do you want? Why can’t you leave me alone?” He turned away and disappeared into the house, out of sight.

Meg tugged on Art’s arm. “Break in.”

Art turned to her. “He says he doesn’t want help.”

“Art, this pesticide can make you act weird. Do you think he’s acting normally?”

Art shook his head. “All right. But if you’re wrong, you can pay for the broken window.” He pulled his coat sleeve taut, smashed the glass pane nearest the door handle with his elbow, then reached in and turned the dead bolt. “Meg, you wait here. I’ll talk to him.”

Meg had no desire to argue with him. She wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would hold her up. She leaned against the doorjamb, listening as Art made his way through the house, calling Seth’s name.
Fine way to see the house for the first time
, she thought irreverently. She’d never been invited, and now she was breaking in. Seth would not be happy about that.

Seth was apparently well beyond unhappy, if the angry shouts coming from the other end of the house were any indication. Without thinking, Meg pushed off the doorframe and lurched from room to room, following the voices. She finally found the two men facing off in a room at the far corner, glaring at each other.

Art was pleading, “Seth, you’re sick. You’ve been poisoned. You’ve got to come with us, to the hospital.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Seth rubbed his sleeve across his dripping nose. “Dammit, go away! Just leave me alone.”

“Seth,” Meg broke in, “you’ve got to come. This thing could kill you.” She stumbled her way toward him, laid a hand on his chest, trying to make him look at her. He shoved her away roughly, and she fell against Art, who caught her.

Reason wasn’t working. But as Meg watched, Seth’s chest began to heave, and he struggled for breath. He tried to yell something, but he lacked the air to get out more than a few jumbled words. Then he crumpled to his knees on the floor, panting heavily.

Meg grabbed Art’s sleeve. “Oh, God, Art—respiratory failure’s the worst problem with this stuff. We’ve got to get him to the hospital, fast.”

“I hear you.” Art grabbed one of Seth’s arms. Seth put up a weak struggle, then finally slumped against Art. “Can you give me a hand?”

Meg wasn’t sure she would be much help in her current state, but she had to try. Somehow they managed to drag Seth out the back door to the car. Art dumped him unceremoniously in the front seat. Meg climbed in the back. Bree looked at her vaguely and curled up in the corner.

Art drove fast, but Meg quickly lost track of time. The motion of the car set off another round of nausea, and she rolled down the window and leaned out in time to avoid vomiting in the car, not that there was much left in her stomach. Dimly she heard Bree doing the same on the opposite side. The chill air washed through the car and aggravated her trembling. She reached up to wipe the saliva off her face and stopped briefly, fascinated by the shaking of her hand. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this lousy.

Hospital. Lights. People hurrying. Gurney. She didn’t resist, because she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t work, and she couldn’t stop shaking. There was something important . . . but what? Finally she remembered. “Art, on the paper?” He turned his head to look at her. “The one I gave you. There’s an antidote. Tell them.”

“Right.” He disappeared. So did everything else.

Meg peeled her eyes open and looked around her, trying to piece together where she was. What had happened the night before? Her jumbled memories didn’t make much sense. She was in a hospital room—that much was clear. Sunlight coming through windows, so it had to be morning. Or afternoon—she wasn’t about to guess. Bree was in the room, draped over the stiff-looking plastic chair, wearing a set of mismatched scrubs two sizes too big for her, leafing through a dog-eared magazine. That was good news. “You look perky. What time is it?” Meg managed to croak.

Bree dropped the magazine and pulled the chair closer. “Good, you’re awake. I was beginning to worry. It’s about eight, so you’ve been out of it for maybe four hours. The jerks around here wouldn’t tell me anything about how you were doing because I’m not related to you, or something like that. They didn’t want me to wait in here either, but I just ignored them until they found something else to do. Once they got you stabilized they weren’t so worried. How’re you feeling?”

Meg tested various body parts. Nothing hurt, although her stomach muscles were sore—all that retching, no doubt. But it took tremendous effort to move anything: she felt as though she had been beaten with baseball bats. “Check with me in an hour or so, when the rest of me wakes up. Maybe you can tell me what happened when we got here? I kind of blacked out.”

Bree settled back in the unyielding chair. “Sure, what I remember. We barfed our way into the place, and then they found a couple of doctors who were willing to take a look at us. Since I was the only one still conscious, I had to explain what had happened, about the pesticide and all. And nobody wanted to believe me. Thank goodness that cop buddy of yours was there. He threw his weight around and they had to listen, and then he gave them that paper you handed him. I swear, if they’d had to figure things out for themselves they’d still be scratching their heads and giving us aspirin and ginger ale. So they all argued some more, and then they had to call some bigwig somewhere else to see if they could do what they were supposed to, and then they had to hunt around and see where they’d put the antidote stuff. But they finally got it together. Seems to be working—I feel okay.”

Bree obviously felt a lot better than Meg did. It must be nice to be so young and resilient—Meg felt about ninety at the moment. “Did anybody say anything about afteref fects?”

“Nah. They think we got the antidote fast enough.”

Meg wasn’t sure she was ready to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Seth?”

Bree’s expression darkened. “Man, he was acting wild! I figure he got more than we did ’cause he ate a lot, and it seems to affect different people in different ways. He was having trouble breathing, so they clamped some kind of mask on him and took him somewhere else. Like I said, they wouldn’t tell me anything. But the chief said to call him when you were awake, because he has lots of questions and he’s going to have to call that detective.”

“I’ll bet he does. Did someone track down Michael and Daphne?”

Bree nodded. “Michael, yes. He said he was already feeling really bad by the time he got back to Amherst, so after he dropped Daphne off at her place, he took himself straight to the free clinic, and they sent him to the hospital because they didn’t know what the heck to do with him. He was pissed, because he really doesn’t have much money. And I ragged on the chief to keep looking until they tracked him down, or else they wouldn’t have known what to give him. But he got off easy, apparently.”

Meg hoisted herself up and propped the flimsy pillow behind her. “How do you know all this?”

“Like I said, I just kept pushing. And Michael called me on my cell when he could and gave me his side.”

“You brought your cell? Wait—they let you use it here, in the hospital?”

“Grabbed my bag on the way out the door. And yours. Hospitals always worry about all that ID and insurance crap, so I figured we’d need them. And I forgot the phone was on until Michael called.”

Meg’s estimation of Bree went up a notch. Even sick, she’d kept her head. “And Daphne?”

Bree looked concerned. “Nobody’s seen her. Michael says he took her home, but she wasn’t there when the cops checked. They broke in the door and all, just to be sure. No sign of her.”

“Oh no.” Meg tried to find a more comfortable position. “Where on earth could she have gone in the middle of the night? She doesn’t have a car. Did the police check the clinics and the hospitals? Student health? They have to find her before it’s too late for the antidote.”

Bree nodded, her eyes grave. Meg wrestled with a mixture of guilt and frustration: just because she didn’t particularly
like
Daphne didn’t mean that she wished her harm—but why had she managed to disappear just when the police went looking for her? And Meg didn’t want to think about what it would mean if Daphne died after eating Meg’s food . . .

She pushed the dark thoughts away; she had to know if Seth was all right. “Listen, Bree, can you do me a favor? Find out where Seth is? Oh, and maybe find me some clothes?”

“I’m on it. I’ll bring you some scrubs or something and snoop around till I find Seth. Give me five.”

Bree bounded out into the hallway, leaving Meg feeling ridiculously old. There were only ten years between them, but at the moment it felt more like fifty.

From the flashes she remembered, Seth had been ranting, out of his head. And then gasping for breath. That was bad. But they’d gotten here quickly, hadn’t they? He had to be all right. As soon as Bree found out where he was, she’d go make sure. A fine plan, except that she wasn’t even sure she could stand.

Better find out.
She threw off the thin blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. So far, so good. She slid down until her feet touched the cold linoleum floor—and almost kept sliding. She waited until she steadied, then took a few tentative steps toward the bathroom. Okay, the parts seemed to be working. She was almost sorry when she reached the bathroom and saw herself in the mirror: pale, bags under her eyes, hair lank and stringy.
What did you expect, Meg? You were poisoned. Bet that never happened at your dinner parties, Mom.

Meg splashed water on her face, ran her fingers through her sweat-matted hair, and rinsed out her mouth. She wished she could remember more specifics about the pesticide. She did remember that the pesticide was extremely toxic—and obviously, it had killed Jason. How long had it taken him to die?

Not Seth. No, please, not Seth.
He didn’t deserve to die just because he was a nice guy who had helped her out. Or because he’d liked her spaghetti sauce. That would be so wrong.

Meg walked back to her bed, feeling steadier, and sank back onto the mattress, exhausted by her efforts. Still no sign of Bree.
All right, Meg, think!
She had tasted the sauce throughout the afternoon and had suffered no ill effects. Then the others had arrived: Seth, Bree, then Michael and Daphne together. One of them must have added pesticide to the sauce. But who? Not Seth: he had no reason to poison anyone. Which left Bree, Michael, and Daphne, any one of whom could have brought the pesticide and known how to use it.

But had that person meant to kill or only to make them sick? Obviously someone knew what a fatal dose would be, because that person had killed Jason. But why would anyone want to make them sick? Who stood to gain by poisoning, or even killing, any of the others? It made no sense.

Bree reappeared and tossed a sweatshirt, some scrub pants, and a pair of disposable booties onto the bed. “There you go. Best I could do, but you’ll be covered. Seth’s one floor down, room 217, but that’s all I could find out. They wouldn’t tell me about his condition.”

“Thanks, Bree.” Meg stripped off the gown, thankful that at least the hospital had left her her underwear, and pulled on the clothes—too large, but clean. “I’m going to go find him. Can you call Art and tell him what’s going on? And wait for me here—I’ll be back as soon as I know that Seth is all right.”

“I hear you. No problem. If you’re not back, I’ll tell him where to look. And take the stairs—that way you don’t have to go past the nurses’ station and they won’t hassle you. Stairs are on the left, down the hall.”

“Got it.” Meg looked up and down the hall. There was no one in sight, so she left the room, trying to act normal, and found the door to the stairwell and slid through it. Down one flight, she opened the door and peered out. Same layout. She scanned the numbers on the doors. Room 217 should be at the opposite end of the corridor. She strode down the hall, pretending she belonged there. Pretending she wasn’t terrified about what she might find when she reached Seth’s room.