Bloodstream. Tess Gerritsen
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a quick breath. ‘I’m Dr Elliot,’ she said, her voice steadier. ‘I’m a physician from Tranquility.’
He let her pass.
She pushed through the front door into the high school. The building was nearly a century old, and inside hung the musty odors of teenage sweat and dust stirred up by thousands of feet trudging up and down the staircase. She ran up the steps to the second floor.
The doorway to the biology classroom was crisscrossed by strands of police tape. Beyond the tape were overturned chairs, broken glass, and scattered papers. Frogs hopped through the debris.
There was blood – pools of it congealing in gelatinous lakes on the floor.
‘Mom?’
Her heart leaped at the voice. She whirled to see her son standing at the far end of the hall. In the dim light of that long corridor, he seemed frighteningly small to her, his blood-streaked face pale and thin.
She ran to him and threw her arms around his rigid body, pulling him, forcing him, into an embrace. She felt his shoulders melt first, then his head drooped against her and he was crying. No sound came out; there was just the shuddering of his chest and warm tears sliding onto her neck. At last she felt his arms come around her, circle her waist. His shoulders might be as broad as a man’s, but it was a child who clung to her now, a child’s grief that spilled out in tears.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked. ‘Noah, you’re bleeding. Are you hurt?’
‘He’s fine, Claire. The blood isn’t his. It’s the teacher’s.’
She looked up and saw Lincoln Kelly standing in the hall, his grim expression reflecting the day’s terrible events. ‘Noah and I just finished going over what happened. I was about to call you, Claire.’
‘I was at the hospital. I heard there was a shooting.’
‘Your son grabbed the gun away from the boy,’ said Lincoln. ‘It was a crazy thing to do. A brave thing to do. He probably saved a few lives.’ Lincoln’s gaze dropped to Noah, and he added softly: ‘You should be proud of him.’
‘I wasn’t brave,’ blurted out Noah. He pulled away from Claire, ashamedly wiping his eyes. ‘I was scared. I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t know what I was doing…’
‘But you did it, Noah.’ Lincoln lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was a man’s blessing, brusque and matter-of-fact. Noah seemed to draw sustenance from that simple touch. A mother, thought Claire, cannot knight her own son. It must be done by another man.
Slowly Noah straightened, his tears at last under control. ‘Is Amelia okay?’ he asked her. ‘They took her in the ambulance.’
‘She’s fine. Just a scratch on her face. I think the boy will be fine as well.’
‘And…Mrs Horatio?’
She shook her head. And said, gently, ‘I don’t know.’
He took a deep breath and wiped an unsteady hand across his eyes. ‘I – I have to go wash my face…’
‘You do that,’ said Lincoln gently. ‘Take your time, Noah. Your mom will be waiting for you.’
Claire watched her son walk away down the hall. As he passed the biology classroom he slowed down, his gaze drawn, against his will, to the open doorway. For a few seconds he stood hypnotized by the terrible view beyond that police tape. Then, abruptly, he pushed into the boys’ restroom.
‘Who was it?’ said Claire, turning to Lincoln. ‘Who brought the gun to school?’
‘It was Taylor Darnell.’
She stared at him. ‘Oh god. He’s my patient.’
‘That’s what his father told us. Paul Darnell says the boy can’t be held responsible. That he has attention deficit disorder and can’t control his impulses. Is that true?’
‘ADD doesn’t cause violent behavior. And Taylor doesn’t have it, anyway. But I can’t comment on this case, Lincoln. I’m betraying confidentiality.’
‘Well, something’s wrong with the kid. If you’re his doctor, maybe you should take a look at him before he’s moved to the Youth Center.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘We’re holding him in the principal’s office.’ Lincoln paused. ‘Just a word of warning, Claire. Don’t get too close.’
Taylor Darnell sat handcuffed to a chair, swinging his foot, bam, bam, bam! against the principal’s desk. He didn’t look up when Claire and Lincoln walked into the room, didn’t even seem to notice they were there. Two Maine state cops were in the room with him. They looked at Lincoln and shook their heads, their thoughts transparent: This one is totally bonkers.
‘We just got a call from the hospital,’ one of the state cops said to Lincoln. ‘The teacher’s dead.’
No one spoke for a moment; both Claire and Lincoln absorbed the terrible news in silence.
Then Claire asked, softly: ‘Where is Taylor’s mother?’
‘She’s still on her way back from Portland. She drove down there on business.’
‘And Mr Darnell?’
‘I think he’s rounding up a lawyer. They’re going to need one.’
Taylor was kicking his foot against the desk again in a ceaseless, accelerating beat.
Claire set her medical bag down on a chair and approached the boy. ‘You remember me, Taylor, don’t you? I’m Dr Elliot.’ He didn’t answer, just kept up that angry banging. Something was very wrong. This was more than adolescent rage she was looking at. It appeared to be some sort of drug-induced psychosis.
Without warning, Taylor’s gaze rose and locked on hers, focusing with predatory intensity. His pupils dilated, irises darkening to ebony pools. His lips curled up, canines gleaming, and from his throat escaped an animal sound, half hiss, half growl.
It happened so fast she had no time to react. He sprang to his feet, dragging the chair up with him, and lunged at her.
The impact of his body slamming into hers sent her toppling backwards to the floor. His teeth sank into her jacket, ripping the fabric, sending goose down and feathers flying in a white cloud. She caught a glimpse of three frantic faces as the cops struggled to separate them. They wrenched Taylor away, dragging him backwards even as he continued to thrash.
Lincoln grasped her arm and lifted her back to her feet. ‘Claire – Jesus –’
‘I’m okay,’ she said, coughing on goose down. ‘Really, I’m fine.’
One of the state cops yelped. ‘He just bit me! Look, I’m bleeding!’
Even cuffed to the chair, the boy was fighting, bucking against his restraints. ‘Let me go!’ he shrieked. ‘I’ll kill you all if you don’t let me go!’
‘He should be locked up in a freaking kennel!’
‘No. No, there’s something seriously wrong here,’ said Claire. ‘It looks like a drug psychosis to me. PCP or amphetamines.’ She turned to Lincoln. ‘I want this boy moved to the hospital. Now.’
‘Too much movement,’ said Dr Chapman, the radiologist. ‘We’re not going to get very clear definition here.’
Claire leaned forward, watching intently as the first cross-section of Taylor Darnell’s brain appeared on the computer screen. Each image was a compilation of pixels formed by thousands of tiny X-ray beams. Aimed at different angles along one plane, the beams distinguished