Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [121]
“Mommy,” the boy said again.
Greg didn’t reply.
“I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”
The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.
“I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”
“You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”
“Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”
The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath—”
“I ruined the sofa!”
“Evan—”
“I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”
The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh …”
Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.
He shook his head. “Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan.”
I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: “Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan …”
By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy’s attention. “Evan. Evan, look at me. We’ll call your mom. We’ll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me.” Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.
I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn’t come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy’s body, dangling from the ceiling…
A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg’s cell phone. “Victoria Oliver,” he requested.
Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, staining his blue-striped shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”
“Take your medicine,” Greg told Evan, just as a woman’s voice sounded in his phone. “Victoria?”
“Hello?”
“Meds, Evan.”
Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg’s phone.
“Victoria,” Greg said again, tucking the phone to his ear. “This is Greg. I’m here with Evan. I thought … He needs to hear that you’re all right. And I thought you’d like to know that he’s all right. Everything’s good here.”
I couldn’t catch the reply. Evan was spinning around, a whirling dervish of blonde hair, blue shirt, and red blood.
A rush of frigid air, swirling up my spine, whispering down my arms …
“The pediatric psych ward’s on the eighth floor,” Greg was saying. “Yes, it’s a lockdown unit. Acute care. We’re a good facility, Vic; it’ll be okay.”
Vic? How did Greg know where to call Evan’s mother? Or that she’d take his call? Trying to contact a parent whose child had stabbed her wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. Unless you knew that the parent was open to such a call, and had the mental fortitude to handle it. Unless you knew the parent …
I was cold. Very cold. Shivering uncontrollably.