"Watching television," Mark answered, barely audible.
The man stopped smiling and began reading an article. The midnight news came on, and there was a huge story about a typhoon in Pakistan. There were live pictures of dead people and dead animals piled along the shore like driftwood. It was the kind of footage one had to watch.
"That's awful, isn't it," Jack Nance said to the TV as a helicopter hovered over a pile of human debris.
"It's gross," Mark said, careful not to get friendly. Who knows-this guy could be just another hungry lawyer waiting to pounce on wounded prey.
"Really gross," the man said, shaking his head at the suffering. "I guess we have much to be thankful for.
But it's hard to be thankful in a hospital, know what I mean?" He was suddenly sad again. He looked painfully at Mark.
"What's the matter?" Mark couldn't help but ask.
"It's my son. He's in real bad shape." The man threw the magazine on the table and rubbed his eyes.
"What happened?" Mark asked. He felt sorry for this guy.
"Car wreck. Drunk driver. My boy was thrown out of the car." "Where is he?" "ICU, first floor. I had to leave and get away. It's a zoo down there, people screaming and crying all the time." "I'm very sorry." "He's only eight years old." He appeared to be crying, but Mark couldn't tell.
"My little brother's eight. He's in a room around the corner." "What's wrong with him?" the man asked without looking.
"He's in shock." "What happened?" "It's a long story. And getting longer. He'll make it, though. I sure hope your kid pulls through." Jack Nance looked at his watch and suddenly stood. "Me too. I need to go check on him. Good luck to you, uh, what's your name?" "Mark Sway." "Good luck, Mark. I gotta run." He walked to the elevators and disappeared.
Mark took his place on the couch, and within minutes was asleep.
Chapter 14
L HE PHOTOS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF WEDNESDAY'S EDItion of the Memphis Press had been lifted from the yearbook at Willow Road Elementary School. They were a year old-Mark was in the fourth grade and Ricky the first. They were next to each other on the bottom third of the page, and under the cute, smiling faces were the names. Mark Sway. Ricky Sway. To the left was a story about Jerome Clifford's suicide and the bizarre aftermath in which the boys we're involved. It was written by Slick Moeller, and he had pieced together a suspicious little story. The FBI was involved; Ricky was in shock; Mark had called 911but hadn't given his name; the police had tried to interrogate Mark but he hadn't talked yet; the family had hired a lawyer, one Reggie Love (female); Mark's fingerprints were all over the inside of the car, including the gun. The story made Mark look like a cold-blooded killer.
Karen brought it to him around six as he sat in an empty semiprivate room directly across the hall from Ricky's. Mark was watching cartoons and trying to nap. Greenway wanted everyone out of the room except Ricky and Dianne. An hour earlier, Ricky had opened his eyes and asked to use the bathroom. He was back in the bed now, mumbling about nightmares and eating ice cream.
"You've hit the big time," Karen said as she handed him the front section and put his orange juice on the table.
"What is it?" he asked, suddenly staring at his face in black and white. "Damn!" "Just a little story. I'd like your autograph when you have time." Very funny. She left the room and he read it slowly. Reggie had told him about the fingerprints and the note. He'd dreamed about the gun, but through a legitimate lapse in memory had forgotten about touching the whiskey bottle.
There was something unfair here. He was just a kid who'd been minding his own business, and now suddenly his picture was on the front page and fingers were pointed at him. How can a newspaper dig up old yearbook photos and run them whenever it chooses? Wasn't he entitled to a little privacy?
He threw the paper to the floor and walked to the •window. It was dawn, drizzling outside, and downtown Memphis was slowly coming to life. Standing in the window of the empty room, looking at the blocks of tall buildings, he felt completely alone. Within an hour, a half million people would be awake, reading about Mark and Ricky Sway while sipping their coffee and eating their toast. The dark buildings would soon be filled with busy people gathering around desks and coffeepots, and they would gossip and speculate wildly about him and what happened with the dead lawyer. Surely the kid was in the car. There are fingerprints everywhere! How did the kid get in the car? How did he get out? They would read Slick Moeller's story as if every word were true, as if Slick had the inside dope.
It was not fair for a kid to read about himself on the front page and not have parents to hide behind. Any kid in this mess needed the protection of a father and the sole affection of a mother. He needed a shield against cops and FBI agents and reporters, and, God forbid, the mob. Here he was, eleven years old, alone, lying, then telling the truth, then lying some more, never certain what to do next. The truth can get you killed-he'd seen that in a movie one time, and always remembered it when he felt the urge to lie to someone in authority. How could he get out of this mess?
He retrieved the paper from the floor and entered the hall. Greenway had stuck a note on Ricky's door forbidding anyone from entering, including nurses. Di-anne was having back pains from sitting in his bed and rocking, and Greenway had ordered another round of pills for her discomfort.
Mark stopped at the nurses' station, and handed the paper to Karen. "Nice story, huh," she said with a smile. The romance was gone. She was still beautiful but now playing hard to get, and he just didn't have the energy.
"I'm going to get a doughnut," he said. "You want one?" "No thanks." He walked to the elevators and pushed the call button. The middle door opened and he stepped in.
At that precise second, Jack Nance turned in the darkness of the waiting room and whispered into his radio.
The elevator was empty. It was just a few minutes past six, a good half an hour before the rush hit. The elevator stopped at floor number eight. The door opened, and one man stepped in. He wore a white lab jacket, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Mark did not look at his face. He was tired of meeting new people.
The door closed, and suddenly the man grabbed Mark and pinned him in a corner. He clenched his fingers around Mark's throat. The man fell to one knee and pulled something from a pocket. His face was inches from Mark's, and it was a horrible face. He was breathing heavy. "Listen to me, Mark Sway," he growled. Something clicked in his right hand, and suddenly a shiny switchblade entered the picture. A very long switchblade. "I don't know what Jerome Clifford told you," he said urgently. The elevator was moving. "But if you repeat a single word of it to anyone, including your lawyer, I'll kill you. And I'll kill your mother and your little brother. Okay? He's in Room 943. I've seen the trailer where you live. Okay? I've seen your school at Willow Road." His breath was warm and had the smell of creamed coffee, and he aimed it directly at Mark's eyes. "Do you understand me?" he sneered with a nasty smile.
The elevator stopped, and the man was on his feet by the door with the switchblade hidden by his leg. Although Mark was paralyzed, he was able to hope and pray that someone would get on the damned elevator with him. It was obvious he was not getting off at this point. They waited ten seconds at the sixth floor, and nobody entered. The doors closed, and they were moving again.