The Awakening (2 page)

Hanging from a noose at the end of the hallway.

Close Call

F
ootsteps sound outside Dr. Roth’s apartment door. Luka clamps his hand over my mouth to muffle my scream and wraps his arm around my waist. There’s a knock. Something like a squeak issues from the back of my throat. Luka tightens his grip around my waist and half-drags, half-carries me up the hallway, toward the still, hanging body, and into a room. The same one I woke up in not more than twelve hours ago.

Another knock at the door. “Rise and shine, Dr. Roth. It’s the police.”

The room looks untouched and unruffled. Nobody would suspect somebody had slept in the bed recently. In fact, it looks as if the guest room is perfunctory and really, the doctor hasn’t had a guest in years. Luka pulls me toward the bed and the two of us hide underneath. I cup my hand over my mouth to mask the sound of my breathing.

“All right, I’m coming in,” the voice says. There’s a pause, then a loud bang. I jump. Luka tucks me closer. Another bang, followed by a thud, as if the door has swung open and crashed into the wall. “You awake in here?”

Footsteps draw nearer, then stop. Whoever it is clucks his tongue. “Well now, Doc, why’d you go and do a thing like this?”

Luka cups his hand over mine, whether to provide an extra sound barrier or as a gesture of comfort, I’m not sure. The frayed hemp of his bracelet bites into my skin. With eyes buggy and unblinking, I stare at the police officer’s shoes in the hallway. He pivots and walks out of eyeshot.

“Hey-a Manny, it’s Jake. Patch me through to the Chief, would ya?” Officer Jake is on his phone, calling the chief of police, which happens to be Leela’s uncle. How long before this place is swarming with cops? The floor creaks. It doesn’t seem possible, but my eyes grow wider. “Yeah-a, Bill? Looks like the doc offed himself … No, he’s hanging right here in front of me. Apparently, the threat of losing his license did a number on him.”

I picture Dr. Roth’s limp body hanging from the noose, his neck bent at a weird angle. I’m not sure I will ever be able to scrub that memory from my mind. He’s dead. The man with all the answers is dead.

More floor creaking. Officer Jake’s shoes come back into view. “Suicide’s a pretty safe bet, but the medical examiner will need to verify.”

Another pause, longer this time.

My mind buzzes in the silence. It doesn’t make sense. Dr. Roth would not have hung himself. He was waiting for us to return. He told us to come back. He called himself “a believer”. He said he had been gathering evidence.

“So now what? I can’t exactly question a dead man … No, there’s no sign of the girl, but I’ll look around. See if there’s any evidence that she’s been here.”

I swallow another squeak and press back into Luka. His grip tightens.

“A national alert, huh? I don’t understand why she’s so important. Have to imagine a teenager can’t be much of a threat … Right, I understand … I have a jump drive. I can copy all the files and bring it into the station. Hold on a tick.” His shoes shuffle past the doorframe. Beneath this bed, with my hand cupped over my mouth and Luka’s cupped over my hand, sound seems to be magnified. A chair groans. Computer keys clack. He’s accessing Dr. Roth’s computer files.

Luka nudges me, then points toward the nightstand. A crate holding two thick manila folders sits on the ground, as if Dr. Roth had been preparing for our visit.

More computer clacking. “Bill, there’s nothing here. His computer’s wiped clean.”

A memory floats to the surface. It all feels like a lifetime ago, back when my biggest problems came in my sleeping hours and Dr. Roth was nobody but a psychiatrist at the Edward Brooks Facility. I had questioned his archaic record keeping.

“Pen and paper doesn’t crash. It’s not nearly as accessible, either.”

A flood of gratitude toward the man washes over me. He knew all along that something like this could happen. That digital files were not safe or indestructible. He was protecting me from the very beginning. But as soon as the relief comes, so does the panic. Because all Officer Jake has to do is walk into this room and he’ll see the files that are not more than five feet from our heads. Not only will he come into possession of extremely confidential information, he’ll see us as soon as he bends down to get it.

“Either he erased them or somebody else did … Yeah-a, I’ll look around … is the medical examiner on his way?” Something snaps shut, like a laptop. “Ten-four. I’ll be waiting here. See ya at the station.”

A chair squeaks, followed by a stretch of silence.

I feel immobilized, paralyzed. Even my thoughts are frozen. I wonder if Luka feels the same way, because he does not move behind me.

“Tut, tut, Dr. Roth. Just what were you hiding?”

My heart thuds so loud I’m terrified Officer Jake will hear it. I can cup my hand over my mouth to silence my breathing, but there’s nothing to silence my heart.

“You don’t mind if I use your bathroom, do you? I didn’t think you would.”

The man is having a conversation with a dead body. A psychiatrist, to boot. If I weren’t having a silent panic attack, if Luka and I weren’t in such horrible danger, if our only ally wasn’t the one hanging out in that hallway, the situation would be laughable.

“Now, you stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be out in five and we’ll see if I can’t find where you hide your secrets.”

Officer Jake’s shoes appear in the doorframe again.

Please don’t see the crate … please don’t see the crate …

His shoes keep going, followed by a soft click of a door latch and a tuneless whistled melody from the bathroom beside us.

Luka goes from statue-still to a flurry of silent motion. He releases my waist and my mouth, then quickly and silently shimmies out from under the bed. I want to pull him back under, because—is he nuts? We can’t be seen. If we’re seen, we’re dead. I will be locked up in Shady Wood and he will be put into prison and our keys will be thrown away. There will be no escaping this time.

“Luka,” I hiss.

But he pulls me out alongside him, grabs the two manila folders, takes my hand and leads me out into the hallway. A strip of light shines beneath the bathroom door, the man’s whistling muffled by the droning of a fan. Without hesitating, Luka pulls me toward the window. We climb out. I hold my breath while Luka shuts it as quietly as possible and we tear off down the steps.

Away, away, away … as fast as we can.

*

Not until the entire length of the alleyway is between us and Officer Jake do I dare talk. I huddle against the brick façade of a building, my words escaping in huffs and puffs. I’m not used to sprinting. “We need … to get … out of here.” And by here, I mean Thornsdale. In five minutes that apartment is going to be crawling with police, which means we need to put as much distance between us and this place as possible. Much easier said than done when all we have is our feet and our backpacks, and now, these two folders containing who knows what.

Luka swings his backpack off his shoulders, unzips the zipper, and pulls out two baseball caps and a pair of sunglasses. “Hide your hair in there and put these on.” He pulls his hat over his hair and stuffs the folders inside his bag.

I do as he says, stuffing my hair up in the hat and putting on the glasses. I try not to think about Officer Jake’s words about me and a national alert. I can’t process that right now. Or Dr. Roth’s death. All I can think about right now is making it to safety. Wherever that is.

“All we have to do is make it across this street. Walk normally. Do you see that alley over there?” Luka points to the other side of the street, toward an alleyway between an insurance building and liquor store.

I nod.

“I’m pretty sure it will lead us to some more. Once we’re out of Thornsdale, we can find a motel and figure out what to do next.”

“What if somebody recognizes us?”

“They won’t. Not if we stick to the alleyways.” He grabs my hand. “And not if we hurry.”

“Luka,” goose bumps march across my skin, “that wasn’t a suicide.”

“I know.” He squeezes my hand and we step into the hazy sunlight.

Fugitives

F
ollowing a labyrinth of alleyways and side streets, some tighter than others, we walk until the morning haze turns into afternoon storm clouds. We run across stray cats and the occasional homeless person, but neither gives us any hassle. Questions and what-ifs spin through my mind, each one worse than the one before, but I do not voice them. Luka and I journey in silence.

I am hungry and cold and filthy and then it starts to rain, so I’m wet too. If only this was the worst of it, I could deal. But it’s not. I’m not sure if I’m extra thirsty from the heavy doses of drugs that were pumped into my system or what, but the thirst is unbearable. Luka packed two water bottles, one for each of us, and he insisted on letting me have half of his. I find myself tipping my face up into the drizzle and letting the moisture fall over my tongue. Had he known we’d be on the run like fugitives, he would have packed provisions. But he didn’t. He had thought we could stay at Dr. Roth’s, where we’d not only get answers, but food and water too, and
then
be on our way—well rested and properly fed. We did not expect to be tossed into the night mere hours after my escape.

The drizzle turns into a heavy rain. In a matter of seconds, Luka and I are soaked through and my entire body has gone numb. We come to the end of another alley. He peeks out to survey our surroundings. “It’s a motel.”

My teeth chatter. “Wh-where?”

“Over there.”

Sure enough, there it is—a flashing neon sign that reads Motel California. If the owner used the name as a play on the popular oldie, Hotel California, hoping the cleverness would entice guests, it didn’t work. The place looks rundown and abandoned. The O and the T on the sign don’t work, so from afar it looks like M e l California. To my eyes though, it might as well be paradise. “Do you think it’s s-s-safe?”

“As safe as we’re going to get. You need food and water. And we need a place to rest for the night.”

“S-s-sounds good.”

“You stay here.” He looks around and spots a couple tin garbage cans. “Hide behind these. I’ll go get us a room.”

I don’t want him to leave me. I don’t want to separate. I’m convinced if we do, we won’t find our way back to each other again. But I know Luka’s plan is best. I can’t walk into the front office of that motel. Not if the police are out looking for me. So I do what Luka says. I squat behind the garbage cans and watch as he jogs across the street, dodging puddles, and disappears inside.

Come back to me, Luka … don’t get caught … don’t leave me here …

The longer he is gone, the more horrendous the what-ifs become in my mind. I imagine Luka being cuffed and dragged to some place far away. I imagine him being tortured for the location of my whereabouts. I imagine sitting out here, forever and ever and ever, never to see him again—all alone without anywhere to turn. What did Officer Jake mean by a national report? Surely he’s wrong. They only broadcast people nationally when they are sociopathic murderers or highly dangerous criminals. I’m just a girl who misses her mom and her warm bed and her best friend.

Leela.

I imagine her now, at school. Does she regret the way things ended between us? Does she miss me at all? Or is she glad I’m gone? A ball of heat gathers in my throat. I swallow it down and pin my gaze on the front doors of Motel California.

C’mon, Luka. Where are you?

As if sensing my desperation, the door opens. He steps out into the rain, looks over his shoulder, then hurries across the street and pulls me out from my hiding place. “It worked.” He holds up two plastic cards. “I got us a room.”

*

We climb the cement steps and hurry beneath the awning to the fourth door, the aqua paint peeling and chipped. Luka swipes the key card. The light flashes green and the lock clicks. He opens the door and motions for me to go first.

Inside, it’s dark and dank and smells like mothballs. Luka turns on the light. It flickers once, twice, then casts a yellowish-orange hue over the room, revealing dull, worn carpet, a rickety armoire with a boxed-set television that looks like an ancient relic, and a full-sized bed.