Part 11 (2/2)

”Um, visiting Francis Forrester,” Abbey said.

The woman typed something on the computer and then squinted at the trio. ”She's in ICU. Family only.”

Abbey smiled in her best Caleb way. ”We're her children.”

The woman scowled and glanced back at her screen. ”Mrs. Forrester is sixty-six.”

”We're adopted,” said Abbey. ”We need to see her. The nurse...” Abbey searched her mind for the name, ”Shannon Danes, called us this morning. Mom has been asking for us.”

The woman looked sternly over the rims of her gla.s.ses. ”I'll give you a pa.s.s to buzz in to that unit, but the ICU is not the place for children, so no funny business.”

”Nice work, Ab,” Caleb commented as they headed to a bank of silvery elevators following the grimy orange arrow marked ICU.

The card buzzed them in to a long room lined with beds separated by curtains. Most of the beds were occupied with p.r.o.ne forms, and the beeps of machines of all kinds echoed around the hushed room. As Abbey, Caleb, and Simon stepped into the room, a heavyset nurse with fluffy brown hair, a plain set of blue scrubs, and a nametag that read Denise blocked their path.

”Francis Forrester...” Abbey managed to mumble.

”And you are?” Denise asked.

”Her children,” Abbey said. ”We're adopted. Shannon Danes called us.”

Denise seemed to accept the fabrication, or didn't care. ”Mrs. Forrester is over there. I'm expecting another patient in from surgery shortly. And then Mrs. Forrester is going for a CT scan. You have ten minutes. She has aphasia, so she can't speak or write at this point in time. We've had some luck with drawing.”

”And where is Mark? Ah, our brother?” Abbey tacked on hastily.

”I'm afraid he was taken to the Blue Moon Halfway House a few hours ago. He was too disruptive here, and there are specific orders in Mrs. Forrester's file that in the event she's incapacitated, he's not to be sent home alone. I a.s.sume someone else is caring for you at home, then?” Denise looked at her intently, in that condescending, suspicious way some adults use to deal with young children or people with cognitive impairments. She was probably trying to figure out whether there was a reason for her to be calling Social Services.

Abbey stumbled over her answer. ”Um, oh yes. Our aunt is staying with us, but she can't handle Mark, too.”

The nurse's smile grew more forced and her eyes roved Abbey as if searching for signs of neglect. But the ICU doors swung open as a hospital bed was pushed in bearing a woman with wires attached to her everywhere, and Denise hustled away.

Abbey approached the bed the nurse had indicated, with Caleb and Simon trailing behind. A pile of hospital pillows dwarfed Mrs. Forrester, her eyes sunken shrouds, and her tiny body outlined by the folds of the gray wool blanket. Abbey sank into the chair by the bed, unsure what to do. Mrs. Forrester's weathered and spotted hand lay on the blankets beside her. Abbey had to look away from the bulging blue veins that bifurcated their way across the woman's hand. Abbey gently pressed her fingertips to Mrs. Forrester's. The woman's eyes popped open.

Abbey spoke quickly. ”Mrs. Forrester, were you asking for us?”

Mrs. Forrester shook her head violently. Abbey was about to apologize for the disturbance, when she realized Mrs. Forrester was jabbing her finger toward the bedside table, where a notepad and pencil sat. Abbey picked them up and handed them to the woman, who began to scribble. After a few seconds, she ripped a sheet off, handed it to Abbey, and immediately started to draw something on the next sheet of paper. Abbey peered at the drawing in her hands. It was of two large squares surrounded by what appeared to be waves.

Mrs. Forrester thrust another sheet of paper at Abbey. Abbey pa.s.sed the first sheet to Caleb and Simon and studied the second. It was a picture of a man with something around his neck, standing next to a bed, a truck, and a phone. Abbey scrunched up her face at Mrs. Forrester, who had already started on a third sketch. The ICU doors opened and a pair of orderlies pus.h.i.+ng a bed headed their way. Mrs. Forrester kept scribbling.

Denise appeared at the side of the bed and began disconnecting Mrs. Forrester from various machines, piling the wires on the blanket on top of Mrs. Forrester. ”Okay, finish up your drawing, time to go. They'll be waiting for you.” Mrs. Forrester swatted at the nurse, who rolled her eyes. ”She's a feisty one. That'll help in her recovery.” Then she spoke directly into Mrs. Forrester's face. ”Mrs. Forrester, you have to go now.” Mrs. Forrester ignored the order.

Two orderlies moved in and hauled the older woman from the ICU bed to the one waiting for transport, and started wheeling it out of the ICU. Abbey followed the bed. Mrs. Forrester waved the notepad in the air. Abbey took the notepad and the older woman grabbed Abbey's hand and squeezed it twice. And then Mrs. Forrester let go, the ICU doors opened, and she disappeared through them. Abbey looked at the notepad. An insect and a man with slicked hair were in hand-to-hand-or hand-to-claw-combat, while maps littered the ground beneath them.

Caleb appeared at her elbow with the bus schedule in hand. ”Next bus to Granton is in eight minutes. We can figure the drawings out during the ride.” He pointed at the picture in Abbey's hand. ”That's for sure a praying mantis going after Mark. Maybe she's telling us we have to protect Mark. If we're going to stop at the Blue Moon Halfway House after we go to Granton, we'd better get going.”

Chapter 9.

Profits and Pairs of Docks

The grinding of the bus wheels felt rea.s.suring after the antiseptic hum of the hospital. The tightness in Abbey's chest eased a little. She hoped Mrs. Forrester would be okay.

They would arrive in Granton in twenty-five minutes. Abbey studied the drawing in her hands. It was the drawing of the phone, man, bed, and truck. The man had something dangling around his neck, a necktie, a noose... Abbey couldn't tell.

The bus lurched forward and Abbey and Caleb slammed against their seat. Inertia. A body in motion tends to stay in motion; a body at rest tends to stay at rest. Abbey wondered if inertia could apply to time, if she could put the brakes on the three of them hurtling into the future until they could figure this out.

Caleb leaned over. ”Do you think there are poisons that can cause a stroke?”

”I don't know. Why?”

”Because someone, probably Mantis, came and took away the gla.s.ses. Someone who clearly didn't want anyone to know there were two people there.” Caleb pointed at the drawing in Abbey's hand. ”That looks like a stethoscope.”

Abbey twisted the picture to the side. Caleb was right. The thing around the man's neck could be a stethoscope. ”Maybe the man is a doctor.”

Simon's black hoodie appeared between them from the seat behind. He held up his drawing. ”Do you think these squares are wharves?”

Abbey shrugged at the drawing Simon held. ”She must know, then,” said Abbey, ”that we've been through the stones. Why else would she give us all this?” The thought both sickened and comforted Abbey, as if having an adult know-and not think they were crazy-normalized it somehow.

Caleb flapped the bus schedule at them. ”Our stop is next. Simon, do you want to maybe tell us what Salvador Systems does?”

Simon leaned his arms on the seat. ”It's a start-up computer hardware company. Apparently they're building quantum computers, which will be way faster than current computers, because they encode information as qubits, which can exist in superposition. It's never been done before, but apparently Sylvain Salvador, the owner, has Quentin Steinam as an investor, which is a big deal.”

”Who's Quentin Steinam?” Abbey asked.

”Steinam is a well-known investor in the next biggest thing in the computer industry. Everything he's ever invested in has gone big-iTunes, Google, Facebook, Twitter, you name it. In the computer industry, if you have Steinam as an investor, you're gold. He always has his finger in the pie.”

”And he's investing in a company here in Granton, the zinc capital of the Midwest?” Caleb asked. He pulled the wire to signal the next stop.

”That's the funny thing. Apparently, Steinam has a big ranch somewhere on Circle Plateau. But he's really weird, like a recluse. n.o.body even knows what he looks like. In fact, there were no photos online of either of them, Salvador or Steinam.”

The bus rolled up to the curb and Abbey, Caleb, and Simon waited for the back doors to swing open. The sky opened at the same time as the doors, and a torrent of rain struck them in the face as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The rain struck the puddles so hard that it appeared to be raining up as well as down. Abbey's orange and pink striped sweater was soaked by the time they arrived in front of the gla.s.sy doors of Salvador Systems. A big, glossy 'S' entwined with another 'S' hung above the door. Abbey traced them in the air with her fingers. The twisty S's.

”They're the S's from the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p,” she breathed. They seemed as if they might slide off the wall and wrap themselves around her leg.

”Guess we're in the right place then,” said Caleb.

The doors opened. Three young men in jeans and hoodies sauntered out.

”Programmers,” said Simon.

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