The Long Game
Page 32
CHAPTER 25
Henry didn’t say a word about the way I’d used Congressman Wilcox as leverage against his son. In exchange, I didn’t tell Henry that sometimes people like John Thomas just saw taking the high road as weakness.
If I had to dirty my hands to convince John Thomas that attacking my friends was a bad idea, then so be it. If I could have punished him for what he’d done to Emilia, what he was still doing to Emilia—if I could have made him pay without forcing her into something that she had very clearly communicated that she did not want—I would have, tenfold.
Lunchtime came, but I wasn’t hungry. I bypassed eating and ducked into the courtyard. I’d planned on grabbing a table, but my feet kept walking—past the chapel, past the Maxwell Art Center, out to the playing fields. The air was cold in DC in November, but I had Montana in my blood.
The chill didn’t bother me any more than the insults of boys like John Thomas Wilcox.
Letting the wind nip at my face, I thought over what I’d said to John Thomas—and his reaction. Ivy had told me once that being a fixer came with a cost. Given what John Thomas had done to Emilia, given what he’d said to Asher and the way he’d smugly announced that Henry’s father was an alcoholic, pretending like it grieved him to impart the news—
I wasn’t going to feel bad about pushing back.
I wasn’t going to wonder what kind of person that made me.
Eventually, my face went numb from the wind. I walked back toward the main building, sure of one thing. If John Thomas said a word about Vivvie, if he so much as breathed in her direction, if I had to follow through on my threat—
I would.
I headed back to the cafeteria but took the long way. Past the computer labs, past the library—I paused. There was a sound, a high-pitched gurgling, like muddy water through a whistling pipe.
The hallway was empty except for me, the door to the library slightly ajar.
What is that sound?
That was when I saw the liquid oozing out from underneath the door. At first I thought it was water, but then I realized. It’s red. My heart thudded in my chest. I took a step toward the door. Red—it’s red—thick—
The door creaked, and something spilled into the hallway. It took me a moment to recognize the shape as human and another to recognize it as John Thomas Wilcox. Hands. Feet. Eyes. Mouth. All the parts were there, but the whole . . .
Red. Red on his chest. Red on his hands.
The horrible gurgling sound was coming from him.
I leapt forward, jarred out of my horror by the realization that if he was gurgling, if he was wheezing—he was still alive. My brain flipped into hyper gear. His white shirt was soaked in blood beneath his Hardwicke blue blazer. I ripped the blazer open, looking for a wound.
“Help!” The word ripped its way out of my throat, savage and raw. “Somebody, help!”
John Thomas’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, that horrible gurgling sound punctuating each gasp.
I tore off my own blazer and pressed it to his chest. Stop the bleeding. Have to stop the bleeding. I yelled for help again. I screamed for it.
“Shot.” John Thomas choked out the word.
He’s been shot.
“It’s okay,” I told him, lying through my teeth. “You’re going to be okay.”
I could feel his blood on my hands. I could smell it.
“Tell.” He managed another word. The gasping increased.
I kept applying pressure with one hand and grabbed my phone out of my pocket with the other. My hand shaking, I dialed 911.
“Didn’t.” John Thomas gargled the word. He surged upward. He grabbed hold of my shirt. His eyes met mine. “Tell.”
A second later, he was sprawled back on the ground, his head lilting to one side, the floor below him soaked in blood.
“What is your emergency?”
On some level, I was aware that the 911 operator was talking on the other end of the phone line. On some level, I remembered making the call. But on another, baser level, all I could think about was the body.
The body that used to be John Thomas Wilcox but wasn’t anymore.
No more gasping. No more gurgling. His eyes were vacant.
“What is your emergency?”
“He’s dead.”
I didn’t even realize I’d spoken until the operator responded. “Who’s dead?”
“A boy at my school.” The words burned my throat. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. “Someone shot him. I . . . I tried to help . . . I yelled for help, but no one—”
Henry didn’t say a word about the way I’d used Congressman Wilcox as leverage against his son. In exchange, I didn’t tell Henry that sometimes people like John Thomas just saw taking the high road as weakness.
If I had to dirty my hands to convince John Thomas that attacking my friends was a bad idea, then so be it. If I could have punished him for what he’d done to Emilia, what he was still doing to Emilia—if I could have made him pay without forcing her into something that she had very clearly communicated that she did not want—I would have, tenfold.
Lunchtime came, but I wasn’t hungry. I bypassed eating and ducked into the courtyard. I’d planned on grabbing a table, but my feet kept walking—past the chapel, past the Maxwell Art Center, out to the playing fields. The air was cold in DC in November, but I had Montana in my blood.
The chill didn’t bother me any more than the insults of boys like John Thomas Wilcox.
Letting the wind nip at my face, I thought over what I’d said to John Thomas—and his reaction. Ivy had told me once that being a fixer came with a cost. Given what John Thomas had done to Emilia, given what he’d said to Asher and the way he’d smugly announced that Henry’s father was an alcoholic, pretending like it grieved him to impart the news—
I wasn’t going to feel bad about pushing back.
I wasn’t going to wonder what kind of person that made me.
Eventually, my face went numb from the wind. I walked back toward the main building, sure of one thing. If John Thomas said a word about Vivvie, if he so much as breathed in her direction, if I had to follow through on my threat—
I would.
I headed back to the cafeteria but took the long way. Past the computer labs, past the library—I paused. There was a sound, a high-pitched gurgling, like muddy water through a whistling pipe.
The hallway was empty except for me, the door to the library slightly ajar.
What is that sound?
That was when I saw the liquid oozing out from underneath the door. At first I thought it was water, but then I realized. It’s red. My heart thudded in my chest. I took a step toward the door. Red—it’s red—thick—
The door creaked, and something spilled into the hallway. It took me a moment to recognize the shape as human and another to recognize it as John Thomas Wilcox. Hands. Feet. Eyes. Mouth. All the parts were there, but the whole . . .
Red. Red on his chest. Red on his hands.
The horrible gurgling sound was coming from him.
I leapt forward, jarred out of my horror by the realization that if he was gurgling, if he was wheezing—he was still alive. My brain flipped into hyper gear. His white shirt was soaked in blood beneath his Hardwicke blue blazer. I ripped the blazer open, looking for a wound.
“Help!” The word ripped its way out of my throat, savage and raw. “Somebody, help!”
John Thomas’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, that horrible gurgling sound punctuating each gasp.
I tore off my own blazer and pressed it to his chest. Stop the bleeding. Have to stop the bleeding. I yelled for help again. I screamed for it.
“Shot.” John Thomas choked out the word.
He’s been shot.
“It’s okay,” I told him, lying through my teeth. “You’re going to be okay.”
I could feel his blood on my hands. I could smell it.
“Tell.” He managed another word. The gasping increased.
I kept applying pressure with one hand and grabbed my phone out of my pocket with the other. My hand shaking, I dialed 911.
“Didn’t.” John Thomas gargled the word. He surged upward. He grabbed hold of my shirt. His eyes met mine. “Tell.”
A second later, he was sprawled back on the ground, his head lilting to one side, the floor below him soaked in blood.
“What is your emergency?”
On some level, I was aware that the 911 operator was talking on the other end of the phone line. On some level, I remembered making the call. But on another, baser level, all I could think about was the body.
The body that used to be John Thomas Wilcox but wasn’t anymore.
No more gasping. No more gurgling. His eyes were vacant.
“What is your emergency?”
“He’s dead.”
I didn’t even realize I’d spoken until the operator responded. “Who’s dead?”
“A boy at my school.” The words burned my throat. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. “Someone shot him. I . . . I tried to help . . . I yelled for help, but no one—”
