Wyvern and Company (2 page)

Chapter 2
 

"He didn't do it. Mack wouldn't do that," I
repeated. I think I'd said it at least six times.

"Son, we know that," Dad said, putting an arm around
my shoulders. "We just have to convince the authorities they have the
wrong person."

The landline rang while Dad did his best to reassure me. Mom
answered.

"Hello?" she said. "Yes, this is Mrs. Griffin.
Why do you want to know whether my son is home? Of course you may question him,
but only with his father and me present." I knew then Mom was dangerously
close to letting whoever was on the other end of that conversation have it. "Yes,
that's our address," she confirmed. "We'll be waiting." She hung
up.

Dad can sound deadly, but when Mom gets that quiet and
deliberate, somebody is in real trouble for sure. "The police are on their
way," she announced. "It seems Mr. Jameson named Justin as Mack's coconspirator
in everything he does, and suspects that he was at that party last night."

"I will take that bastard apart," Dad rose, his
voice barely above a growl.

"Adam, calm down. There are other things that require our
attention first," Mom said. "Mack is in real trouble. We can't have
that."

"They won't arrest me, too, will they?" I asked.
Honestly, being implicated in multiple murders wasn't even on my radar until
that moment.

"You will not be arrested," Mom said firmly. "We
will handle this, one way or another."

Two police officers showed up twenty minutes later. Dad
frowned as both of them walked into the house. Mom politely (and stiffly)
offered coffee when they sat across from me at the kitchen island. Both
accepted a cup.

"Now," the taller of the officers, whose nametag
said Francis, turned to me and began. "We understand that you and the
suspect are inseparable."

"We don't sleep together," I snapped. Well, it just
came out of my mouth—that's the only excuse I had. "He went to the party
last night. I cleaned up a construction site for my dad, then went to a movie
with Uncle Joey."

"Do you have proof of this?" The second
officer—Barton—asked.

"I have the ticket stub," I said, slapping the tiny
square on the island. "Luis, my dad's foreman, was at the construction
site last night, too, to lock up after I got done. I called my mom on the drive
home, to ask what was for dinner. We had manicotti."

"How did you know Martin Walters, Junior, went to the
party last night?" Barton asked, saying Mack's full legal name. Mack would
have been pissed if he'd heard
that
.

"I called him before I drove home from school, yesterday.
He said he was going. I told him I didn't want to go because I promised to
clean up the construction site."

"Is that the only reason?"

"I don't like Marilee Short," I blurted. "And I
don't much like beer."

"Is that why you plotted with your friend to attack her
and the others at her party?" Officer Francis asked.

"He told you he wasn't at the party, and he provided proof
and witnesses. That should be the end of it," Dad hissed. His voice was so
compelling, it rattled both policemen, I could tell.

"Did Mr. Walters inform you of his plans, then, to attack
those at the party?" Barton tried another tack.

"Mack is five-six and weighs one-twenty. Do you think for
a minute he could take on most of the football team, half the basketball team
and the cheerleaders, too?" I huffed. "I saw the news—somebody leaked
information that the victims looked like they were attacked by wild animals.
Tell me how Mack could do that all by himself without somebody pounding him to
a pulp, first. Why don't you talk to the survivors? I hear there are eight of
them."

"They're not speaking," Francis snapped. "Too
traumatized, according to the doctors. Two are in critical condition, and may
not live."

"Then answer my son's question," Mom snapped. "Tell
us how they were attacked from close range by someone strong enough to do that
kind of damage, without anyone attempting to fight back?"

"We don't have an answer, ma'am," Officer Barton
muttered. "But the assistant principal said your son and Martin Walters,
Jr. are best friends. We're obligated to investigate."

"Where is Mack, now?" I demanded.

"In jail," Francis said. "He's eighteen—he'll
be charged as an adult."

"He's not guilty of any of that," I said. "Mack
would never do that."

"He says he tried to call for help, but we can't find any
record of the call and his cell phone is missing," Barton said.

"Wait," I said, standing. "Let me get my phone
to see if he tried to call me. I turned the ringer off last night for the movie
and forgot to turn it on again."

"I'll come with you," Barton stood and nodded to me.

"We don't have any guns in this house," Dad said,
his voice soft and deadly.

"How did you know?" Barton's voice wobbled as he
blinked at Dad in confusion.

"I know a damn sight more than you," Dad said. "We'll
both go with Justin to his bedroom. He's seventeen and is not considered an
adult yet. At least in the eyes of the law."

"All right," Barton held up a hand, as if he were
attempting to fend off my dad. "We'll all go."

My hand shook when I lifted my phone and entered the security
code. I had three voice messages from Mack. All three were practically the
same, except the last one, at the end.

"Dude," Mack shouted into the phone, his fear-filled
voice creating the crackle of a bad connection. "I can't get through to
nine-one-one. Those things are eating people. Send help. Please!" A growl
sounded shortly after, and the message cut off.

I wanted to shout at Mack to run.

It was much too late for that.

Somehow, he'd gotten away when most of the others hadn't, and
the police arrested him for it. Guilt ate at me, too. If I hadn't gone to a
worthless movie the night before, I'd have heard Mack's call for help. Surely,
somebody could have helped him.

I just didn't know who.

"This puts a new spin on things," Officer Barton
sighed after listening to the message a second time. I slumped on the side of
my freshly made bed and covered my face with my hands.

Officer Barton's radio blurted a message.

"Inmate attacked at county jail," the woman's voice
said. "All available officers respond."

"I have to go," Officer Barton said and ran from the
room, taking my cell phone with him.

"Adam?" Mom appeared in my doorway. I looked up—the
sound of her voice was strange. Like she was terrified. She was as pale as
paper, too, and I had no idea why.

"What is it?" Dad asked, his voice betraying
concern.

"We have to get to the hospital. Mack's on the way. Adam,
they tried to kill him."

* * *

I'll never forget the next three hours as long as I live. Mom
and Dad ran out of the house, leaving me behind. Joey showed up ten minutes
later, offering me a ride to the hospital.

I couldn't ask if Joey knew anything. At that moment, I fully
understood Schrödinger in a way I never had before.

If I didn't ask, then Mack was alive.

If I asked, he could be dead.

I hung in limbo, too afraid to know the truth.

* * *

Adam's Journal

We had to leave Justin behind. Kiarra folded space to the
hospital—there wasn't much time left for Mack.

I managed to clear the room where they'd taken him—whoever had
beaten him didn't intend for the boy to live.

"I don't think I can save him—his injuries are too
extensive," Kiarra wiped tears away. "I can't let this happen,"
she added, before saying a name that sent a chill down my spine.

"Pheligar."

He appeared without bothering to disguise himself. My wife is
the only one who can call the tall, blue Larentii Liaison without raising his
ire.

"Kiarra?" he asked, meeting her eyes briefly before
going to the boy. Mack's bloodied and broken body lay on the gurney—there wasn't
anything the doctors could do except watch him die.

Kiarra was extremely talented as a healer, but even she couldn't
reverse the damage done to Mack's body.

"Will you help me?" Kiarra begged Pheligar, her blue
eyes filling with fresh tears.

All of our race know that Larentii are the finest healers—if
they choose to heal, that is. Generally, they do not interfere, preferring to observe
only. The boy wasn't connected to our race, therefore the Larentii wasn't
obligated to do anything for him.

Pheligar gazed steadily at Kiarra for only a moment. "I
will," he said, his voice deep, his words measured, "if you will
return the favor, someday. I will not ask you for anything you cannot give, and
my request will not break the rules or any laws. You must promise to do this."

"I will do what you ask," she replied with a brief
nod. "My word is law."

I stiffened. For her to say those last four words meant she
was committed, no matter what Pheligar asked. I knew she loved Mack as if he
were her own, but this—I had no idea what a Larentii might ask in return for a healing.

"Good," Pheligar said. "I will begin."

If I hadn't placed a shield about us, the brightness of the
light might have blinded everyone in nearby rooms. Nearly an hour it took,
too—Pheligar placed the body in stasis so it wouldn't die before he could make
necessary repairs.

I knew my son sat in the waiting room with Joey, terrified for
his friend. I cared for Mack—almost as much as Kiarra and Justin did. I wasn't
about to argue with her decision, although I worried for her. I knew, too, when
Martin Walters arrived at the hospital, ready to explode. That's when I left my
shield in place and went to him.

I knew what he was.

He knew what I was—or as much as he was allowed to know. He
never worried if Mack spent time at our home, because he knew his son would be
protected.

My shoes squeaked as I ran down tiled floors, bent on stopping
Martin before he stormed into Mack's emergency room cubicle. He didn't need to
see what was going on there. I caught him before he entered the hall leading to
the room.

"Martin, I think he'll be all right," I gripped his
arms to keep him from tearing into the doctors and nurses following him. They
hadn't caused the damage to his child—careless and vindictive employees at the
county jail had done that. We also didn't need hospital security to
intervene—Martin was angry enough to take someone down after his son was
injured.

That, of course, would have to be dealt with and Martin needed
to stay out of it. If he didn't, he could also be arrested.

"But the detective said," Martin growled.

"Look, he's receiving the best care anyone can hope for.
Give it a few minutes, all right? I think you can see him after that."

"Dad?" Justin's voice wavered as he appeared behind
Martin Walters.

"Son, Mack will be all right, I think. We just have to
wait a little longer."

"He is fine."

I knew the physician who'd walked up to us was the Larentii in
disguise, but I wasn't about to let anyone else know. "You may see him,
now." Pheligar, wearing a human disguise as well as unneeded spectacles,
nodded to Martin and me before walking away.

"Come on," Justin grabbed my arm and pulled me after
Martin, who'd taken off in a near-run.

* * *

Justin's Journal

"Mack?" I said his name tentatively, still worried
that he might not be awake, much less whole.

"Dude?" His voice croaked, like it was hard to talk.

"He needs some water."

How did Mom get here ahead of us? It didn't matter; she held a
glass to Mack's lips and helped him drink. I couldn't figure out why she looked
exhausted; Uncle Joey led her out of the room after Mack got his water.

"Thanks, that's better," Mack sighed. "Man, I'm
tired," he added.

"Son, you're covered in blood," Martin said,
stepping toward the bed and taking Mack's hand.

"Yeah. Most of it's mine. That wasn't fun," he said.

"You'll need an attorney, Martin," Dad said, giving
Mack's dad a nod. "I believe you'll find that Mack was placed in a cell
with that evil bastard on purpose."

"What?" Mack and I said at the same time.

* * *

I'd have stayed with Mack at the hospital if they'd let me.
Instead, his dad, his sister and a couple of his dad's friends intended to take
shifts. The funny thing? The emergency room doctors were calling Mack's
recovery a miracle.

Yeah, he still had a bunch of bruises and some cuts, but no
broken bones. That was sort of weird, too, because at least two doctors swore
he had multiple fractures when he was brought in. At least one of them mentioned
massive internal injuries, too. I guess they were wrong.

Didn't matter; Mack was alive and that's all I cared about.

We watched the late news together, that night—Mom, Dad and I.
The reporters were now saying it looked as if those kids at the party had been
attacked by wild animals of some sort, but couldn't say for sure what sort of
animals.

I also learned that four students who'd attended the party
were missing, although there was evidence at the scene that indicated their
bodies had been dragged away—toward the north. Mack had run south—in the
opposite direction.

Mack's messages from my cell phone were played, too, on both
local and national news. I got sick of hearing them after a while. At least
Mack was no longer considered a suspect. The other thing that happened was this—a
police officer was suspended for putting Mack in the wrong cell with a violent
offender—nobody was supposed to be locked up with that guy.

The trouble was—I recognized the officer's name. Mack and I
went to school with his son—Randall Pierce. If Officer Pierce were anything
like Randall, it didn't surprise me that he'd deliberately put Mack where he
had.