Running Out of Time (17 page)

The reporters looked at Jessie like they expected her to answer the questions. She couldn't think of anything to say. The lights on the cameras blinded her.

“Isn't diphtheria kind of a nothing disease?” Joe said.

“Only because of modern medicine.”

“I do think the girl believes she's telling the truth,” someone whispered.

“Look, kid,” Bob said, a bit more gently than before. “If this were true, it would be an incredible story. And we want to help you. But you can't substantiate any of your claims, or explain how this fits with Clifton Village closing down. We can't use vague allegations like this. Can't you tell us anything else?”

Sadly, Jessie shook her head.

“I don't even know why Ma thought a news conference would help.”

“The idea,” Ann said, “is that if lots of people know about the epidemic, Mr. Clifton and these other bad guys will be forced to let medical supplies in. If nobody knows about it, Mr. Clifton can get away with, well, murder.”

“What is this—Journalistic Idealism 101?” Joe scoffed. “You know all you really care about is ratings. Isn't this sweeps week?”

Jessie looked from one reporter to another.

“Please,” she said. “I know this all sounds strange. But can't you just take my word for it?”

The reporters whispered among themselves even more.

“What are you going to do?”

“I'll let my editor decide.”

“But which way are you going to try to persuade him?”

“Wait,” said the woman who had asked Jessie to tell her story. “At least we can prove if she is or isn't from Clifton. I was there not too long ago and watched the school—can you recite the presidents and the states, or something like that?”

“Of course,” Jessie said. She closed her eyes, pretending it was just Mr. Smythe ordering her to recite. “George Washington. Elected in 1789 and served two terms. Father of our country …”

When she'd finished with the presidents, she moved on to the states. For the first time in her life, she was grateful to Mr. Smythe for drilling her and her classmates so much that the words came automatically. She felt so strange she couldn't really think.

“—Michigan, the twenty-sixth state, 1837,” Jessie finished, and opened her eyes.

The reporters were staring at her. She realized she was beginning to weave. She tried to stand up straight, but it took too much effort. She collapsed on the steps. One of the women bent down and felt Jessie's forehead.

“She's on fire!”

Jessie closed her eyes, and the rest of the reporters' words seemed to come at her from a great distance.

“What should we do? Call an ambulance?”

“She's got to go to the hospital.”

“I hope you got that fall on camera.”

And the last thing she heard, before losing consciousness entirely: “Well, Bob, if that's diphtheria, you've got your proof.”

F
or a long time after that, even when Jessie was awake, everything passed in a daze. She was vaguely aware of being in a bed, but she didn't know how she had gotten there. Soft hands tended her, sponged her forehead, and turned her on her side, but they weren't Ma's. At first, Jessie had trouble breathing, but then everything was easy. She would have felt totally peaceful, except, except—

“Katie?” she managed to croak once when she was being turned. “Katie okay?”

There was no answer. Jessie fell into troubled sleep and dreamed that Mr. Neeley and Ray and Tol were chasing her, brandishing giant phones the size of clubs. She woke up confused, but asked her question again.

“Katie okay?”

“Yes,” a voice answered.

The next time Jessie woke, she remembered enough to ask more. “Others sick … Ma? Pa? Where—”

“Shh,” a voice answered. “Just sleep.”

And Jessie did sleep, for days and days, it seemed. She didn't know until later that her hospital room was filled with flowers from people who had read and heard about her—and even from some of the reporters who had been at her news conference. She didn't know until later that Katie was sleeping in a bed right next to her. She didn't know until later how many people were arrested partly because of what she said in her news conference.

But one morning, she woke up and felt almost clearheaded. She looked around the room and saw Katie grinning at her.

“Jessie?” Katie said. “Is that really you, Jessie?”

“Of course,” Jessie said. “Come and see for yourself.”

Katie shakily climbed out of her bed, wobbled toward Jessie, and crawled in with her.

“I thought you were in a box,” Katie said.

“I was?” Jessie said, confused.

Katie nodded. “The nurse called it TV.”

“Oh.” Jessie suddenly understood. “That was—like a picture. Not real.”

“But you moved,” Katie said. “You fell down. I thought you were trapped. Then they wouldn't let me watch. They took the box away.”

“Oh, Katie,” Jessie said. “I'm okay now.”

Katie started to cry anyway. “Where are Ma and Pa? No one will tell me.” Katie leaned against Jessie and Jessie smoothed her hair.

“I'm sure Ma and Pa will come and get us as soon as they can,” Jessie said. But she didn't know what Katie meant. Where were Ma and Pa? Why weren't they watching over Katie and Jessie?

“Who takes care of us?” Jessie asked.

“Nurses and doctors. They're nice,” Katie said. “But I want Ma.”

“I know.” Jessie wasn't sure how much else she could ask without scaring Katie. “Have you seen anyone else?”

“Hannah and Andrew and Nathan and Bartholomew and almost everyone from school,” Katie said.

So all the Clifton children were in the hospital. But where were the adults?

A few days later, when Jessie could stay awake longer, the nurses said she could see two more of her siblings. Jessie chose Hannah and Andrew.

They came into her room in strange chairs with wheels on the side. They looked odd without their usual Clifton clothes. Like Jessie and Katie, they both wore gowns that tied in the back.

“Look—I can do races in this,” Andrew bragged, spinning his wheels quickly. But Jessie saw that after only a few spins he sat back in his chair exhausted. Did Jessie look as pale and sickly as her brother and sister?

“Do you know where Ma and Pa are?” Jessie asked.

Hannah and Andrew exchanged glances.

“No,” Hannah said. “All we know is that this is really 1996, and there's something wrong with Clifton. No one will tell us anything else. They just ask us questions.”

“Tell her the bad news, too,” Andrew said gruffly.

Hannah nodded.

“Jessie—Abby and Jefferson died.”

Jessie turned away. So she had failed to get help in time, after all. She blinked back tears.

Hannah rolled her chair beside Jessie's bed.

“Jessie? I know you went and got help and you saved all the rest of us, so you shouldn't feel too bad—”

“Oh, shut up,” Andrew said roughly. He rolled his chair back. Jefferson had been one of Andrew's best friends, but Jessie knew Andrew wouldn't let his sisters see him cry. Andrew gulped and said in a forced voice, “Don't you want to hear what you missed? With the guns and sirens and all?”

It seemed that two days after Jessie got sick—“or you didn't really get sick then, did you?” Hannah said—Mr. Seward had suddenly rushed into the schoolhouse just before lunch.

“He had his big rifle, and he was waving it around saying no one would get hurt if we didn't move,” Hannah said matter-of-factly.

Jessie was amazed at how calm she sounded, considering what a coward Hannah normally was.

“Why'd he do that?” Jessie asked.

“We didn't know then,” Andrew said. “We thought he was crazy. But it was because of you.”

Andrew and Hannah took a long time to explain, but eventually Jessie understood: After the news conference, all the reporters started calling Mr. Clifton and the board of health. Then the board of health called, demanding to be let in, and Mr. Clifton's men got desperate. Mr. Seward took over the schoolhouse, hoping to keep the health officials out.

“But why?” Jessie asked. “Why didn't they want the sick children to get medicine?”

“That's one of the things no one will tell us,” Andrew said.

“Now, shut up. We're almost to the good part.”

Mr. Seward kept pointing his rifle at the children, Andrew said. Mr. Seward let Mr. Smythe leave, and the children thought he'd go for help. Instead, he came back with another gun.

“He was on the bad side all along,” Andrew said.

Jessie was glad she'd never liked Mr. Smythe.

The schoolhouse was hot, but Mr. Seward wouldn't let anyone go out to the well for a drink. He didn't let them leave for anything.

“Not even the outhouse,” Hannah said.

The children could hear shouting outside—voices they knew, like Mr. Wittingham's and Mr. Ruddle's, trying to convince Mr. Seward to give up. Then those voices stopped and there were others they didn't recognize, unnaturally loud.

“‘This is the Indiana State Police,'” Andrew imitated in a deep voice. “‘Come out immediately and you won't be harmed.' They had something called a bullhorn, Jessie. Do you know where I can get one?”

Jessie shook her head.

“Weren't you all scared?” she asked.

“Sure,” Andrew said. “The girls cried. That's all you could hear—sniff, sniff, sniff.”

“Not all of us cried,” Hannah corrected. “And some boys did, too. The little ones.”

“That's true,” Andrew agreed, more charitable than usual.

From the shouting, and from peeking outside, the children could tell there were lots of men surrounding the school. They wore strange clothes none of the children had ever seen before: dark shirts and pants, with shiny helmets. Mr. Seward started sweating a lot, but he wouldn't answer the men outside. Then suddenly he rushed to one of the windows.

“Go away!” he screamed. “Or I'll shoot them all!”

He ducked back away from the window before they could shoot him. And that's when it happened.

“Tell her,” Andrew said to Hannah. Jessie was surprised at the note of admiration in his voice. Andrew usually didn't have much use for Hannah.

Hannah looked down demurely.

“I tripped him.”

Mr. Seward fell hard—“Because he's the fattest man in Clifton, you know,” Andrew said. The rifle clattered across the floor. Mr. Seward lunged to grab it back. For a terrible moment, it seemed he would. Several of the biggest boys tried to reach it first, and it spun crazily on the floor. Then Chester Seward emerged with the rifle firm in his grasp.

“Good, son,” Mr. Seward said. “Hand it over to Pa.”

“No,” Chester said. “You'll hurt Hannah.”

He pointed the gun at Mr. Seward, forgetting Mr. Smythe had a gun, too. But Mr. Smythe took one look at Chester, dropped his rifle, and ran out of the school. The children could hear him yelling, “It wasn't me! It wasn't me!”

Holding the rifle at Mr. Seward's back, Chester walked him out of the school.

“That was the last time we saw Mr. Seward,” Andrew said.

“Or any of the other grown-ups. The ambulances came—you
should have heard these things they have, sirens—and they brought all us children here. Even the ones who weren't sick. The nurses said we all had to be under observation.”

Jessie was still amazed by an earlier part of the story.

“So Chester liked you after all?” she asked Hannah.

“Yes,” Hannah said, smiling softly.

“Yu-uck,” Andrew said.

“And you really tripped Mr. Seward?” Jessie couldn't believe it. “You were that brave?”

Hannah shook her head.

“No. I just kept thinking that you would have been brave enough to do it, and you weren't there, so …”

Jessie started laughing, hard.

“What's so funny?” Hannah sounded hurt.

“When I was leaving Clifton, I tried to be cautious like you!”

They all laughed. Hannah looked a little proud.

“So what was that like, your trip?” Andrew asked.

Jessie wanted to brag about her own bravery, but something stopped her.

“Scary,” she said.

In fact, though she didn't tell Andrew and Hannah, she still felt scared even now.

T
hat night Jessie couldn't sleep. The nurse turned out the light right after the supper trays were taken away. Katie said, “Night, night, Jessie,” and almost instantly began the slow, even breathing of sleep. But Jessie lay awake, as wideawake as she had been many nights back in Clifton when she went to bed hoping Ma would take her on one of her secret night missions.

This time, though, it wasn't thoughts of adventure that kept her awake. It was the horde of questions buzzing in her mind. Where were Ma and Pa and the other adults from Clifton? Why wouldn't anyone answer any questions? Why had Abby and Jefferson had to die?

Jessie tried to distract herself by listening to the sounds of the hospital: nurses conferring in the halls, carts with squeaky wheels rolling down the corridor, an occasional
buzzing that Jessie thought might be a telephone. Jessie turned over. She turned over again. She still couldn't sleep. Why had Clifton's men wanted the diphtheria epidemic? How could anyone be that bad?

Jessie turned over a third time. She'd been in bed all day—all day for who knew how many days. She wasn't used to lying still so much. No wonder she couldn't stop thinking.

Jessie sat up, and felt a little better. Who said she had to stay in bed? Maybe if she got up and looked around the hospital, she'd feel even better. She'd be distracted, anyway.

Carefully, Jessie eased her legs out from under the blankets and over the side of the bed. She slipped to the floor, still holding on to the bed. Just the five steps to the door left her exhausted and dizzy. She was ready to turn back, but then she saw a wheelchair sitting empty a few feet up the hall. It seemed to be waiting for her. And anyhow—she'd return it when she was done.