The Summoning (11 page)

“I—”

“It’s cool. You treat me fine. So did Peter and—” a somber look around her new room “—Liz. Derek’s a jerk to everyone, so I don’t take it personally. If I’m only getting the cold shoulder from Simon and Tori, I can live with it. That’s why I think those two are perfect for each other, but if you like him and he likes you? None of my business. But you’re smart to run a background check.”

She headed back to her old room, me at her heels. “My friend’s mom did that with a guy she was supposed to marry. Found out he had three kids he’d never mentioned.” She grinned over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure Simon doesn’t have kids, but you never know.”

As we finished clearing out her drawers, I considered letting it go at that. But I didn’t want her thinking I was the kind of girl who gets into a new place and immediately starts scoping out the guys. If I wasn’t ready to tell the nurses about Derek, I should tell someone. That way, I’d have backup for my story if I needed it later.

“It’s not Simon,” I said as we returned to her room, clothing finished. “It’s Derek.”

She’d been in the middle of plucking a photo from the wall and fumbled it, cursing as I rescued the fallen photograph.

“Derek? You like—”

“God, no. I meant Derek’s the one I’m checking out—and not
that
way.”

She exhaled and leaned against the wall. “Thank God. I know some girls go for the jerks, but that’s just nasty.” She flushed as she took the picture from me and reached for another. “I shouldn’t say that. It’s not his fault, the whole…” She faltered for a word.

“Puberty smackdown.”

A grin. “Exactly. I should feel sorry for the guy, but it’s hard when his attitude is as ugly as his face.” She stopped, photo in hand, and glanced over her shoulder at me. “Is that it? Did he … do something?”

“Why? Does he have a history of that?”

“Depends on what
that
is. Being rude, yes. A jerk, yes. He ignores us except when he doesn’t have a choice and, believe me, no one complains. So what did he do?”

I considered my words. I didn’t want her to insist I talk to the nurses, so I left out the throwing-me-across-the-room part and just said he’d been following me, popping up when I was alone.

“Ah, he likes you.” She handed me a photo to hold.

“No, it isn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you’d probably rather it
wasn’t
like that, but it sure sounds like it. Maybe you’re his type. At my school, there’s this guy I like, on the basketball team. He’s even taller than Derek, but he always goes for tiny girls like you.

I took another photo from her. “That’s not it. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

She opened her mouth and I felt a flash of annoyance. Why is it that every time a girl says a guy is bothering her, it’s fluffed off with
oh, he just likes you
, as if that makes it okay?

Seeing my expression, Rae snapped her mouth closed and took down another picture.

I said, “He freaks me out and I want to see what his file says. Whether there’s any reason to be spooked. Whether he has, you know, a problem.”

“That’s smart. And I’m sorry. If he scares you, that’s serious. I don’t mean to make jokes. We’ll get the facts tonight.”

BEDTIME AT LYLE HOUSE was nine, with the lights out and the no-talking rule coming into effect an hour later when the nurses retired. Each side of the upper level had a bedroom for its assigned nurse. Liz had said there was no door linking the boys’ and girls’ areas, but according to Rae, there was one between the nurses’ rooms, which gave them quick access to the whole upper floor in an emergency.

So while Rae swore Mrs. Talbot was a quick and sound sleeper, we had to take Miss Van Dop into account, too. An early break-in was too risky. Rae set the alarm on her sports watch for 2:30 and we went to sleep.

***

At 2:30, the house was still and silent. Too still and too silent. Every creaking floorboard sounded like a gunshot. And in an old house,
most
boards creak.

Rae followed me into the kitchen, where we took two juice boxes from the fridge and set them on the counter. Then I opened the pantry door, turned on the light, and returned to the hall, leaving both doors half open.

Dr. Gill’s office was at the west end, near the boys’ stairs. Rae had checked out the lock a week ago. It was only a regular interior key lock, not much tougher than the kind you can pick with a coin. Or so she said. I’d never had any reason to open a household lock—probably because I didn’t have siblings. So I watched and took mental notes. All part of gaining life experience.

Rae had watched Dr. Gill get her file out once, during her session, so she knew where they were kept. The office had an all-in-one printer, which made things easy. I stood guard. The only hitch came when she copied the pages, the
swoosh-shoosh
of the scanner head loud enough to make me nervous. But the files must have been short because by the time I looked in, she was returning them to the folder, copies made.

She passed me two sheets, folded in half, then she returned the file to the drawer. We backed out of the room. As she reengaged the lock, the unmistakable sound of a creaking floorboard made us both freeze. A long moment of silence passed. Then a fresh creak. Someone was coming down the boys’ stairs.

We took off, padding barefooted down the hall. At the half-open kitchen door, we darted inside, then into the open pantry.

“Come on,” I stage-whispered. “Just pick something already.”

“I can’t find the Rice Krispie bars. I know there were some last week.”

“The guys probably—” I stopped, then hissed. “Someone’s coming. Get the light!”

She flipped the switch as I closed the door all but a crack. As I peered through the gap, Derek stopped inside the kitchen door. He left the light off as he looked around, moonbeams from the window casting a glow on his face. His gaze swept the kitchen and came to rest on the pantry door.

I pushed it open and stepped out.

“Cracker?” I said, holding up a box.

He looked at me and, in a flash, I was back in the basement, sailing through the air. My smile fell away and I shoved the box into his hands.

“We were getting a snack,” Rae said.

He kept watching me, eyes narrowing.

“I’ll get the juice,” Rae said, squeezing past.

Derek looked over at the boxes we’d left on the counter. Proof that we’d only been raiding the kitchen. It had been my plan, and I thought it was so clever, but as his gaze swung back my way, the hairs on my neck rose and I knew he didn’t buy it.

I stepped forward. For a second, he didn’t move and all. I could hear was his breathing, feel the sheer size of him, looming there.

He stepped aside.

As I passed, he took a cracker sleeve from the box and held it out. “Forgot these.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I took one and fled into the hall, Rae behind me. Derek followed us out but headed the other way, toward the boys’ side. When I turned to go up the stairs, I glanced down the hall. He’d stopped outside Dr. Gill’s office and stood looking at the door.

***

We lay in bed with the lights out for fifteen minutes, long enough for Derek to either tell the nurses on us or just go back to bed. My fingers kept brushing the pages I’d stuffed in my pajama waistband. Finally, Rae scooted over to my bed, flashlight in hand.

“That was a close call,” she said.

“Do you think he’ll tell the nurses?”

“Nah. He was getting a snack himself. He wouldn’t dare tattle.”

So Derek had just happened to get up for a snack while we were breaking into Dr. Gill’s office? I hated coincidence, but surely the printer hadn’t made enough noise for him to hear it upstairs.

I pulled the sheets out and smoothed them on the mattress.

“That’s Derek’s,” Rae whispered as she turned on the flashlight.

I tugged the second page free and held it out. “You want Simon’s?”

She shook her head. “That’s Derek’s second page. There wasn’t one for Simon.”

“You couldn’t find it?”

“No, there
wasn’t
one. The dividers in the drawer are marked with our names, then the file folders are marked again. There wasn’t a divider or a file for Simon.”

“That’s—”

“Weird, I know. Maybe they keep it someplace else. Anyway, you wanted Derek’s, so I figured I shouldn’t waste time searching for Simon’s. Now, let’s see what Frankenstein is in for.” She moved the beam to the top of the page. “Derek Souza. Birth date, blah, blah, blah.”

She shifted the light to the next section. “Huh. He was brought to Lyle House by a children’s services agency. No mention of that father they’re always talking about. If child services is involved, then you can bet he’s no dad of the year. Oh, here it is. Diagnosis … antisocial personality disorder.” She snorted a laugh. “Yeah? Tell me something I didn’t know. Is that really an illness? Being rude? What kind of meds do they give you for that?”

“Whatever it is, they aren’t working.”

She grinned. “Got that right. No wonder he’s been stuck here so long—”

The hall light clicked on. Rae dove for her bed, leaving the flashlight behind. I turned it off as the bathroom door closed. When I made a motion to toss it to her, she shook her head, then leaned out and whispered, “You finish up. Find anything interesting? Tell me in the morning.”

Whoever was in the bathroom—Tori or Mrs. Talbot—seemed to take forever. By the time the toilet flushed, Rae was asleep. I waited a few minutes, then turned on the flashlight and read.

With each sentence, the ball of dread in my stomach grew. Antisocial personality disorder had nothing to do with being rude. It meant someone who showed a complete disregard for others, who lacked the ability to empathize—to put himself in another person’s shoes. The disorder was characterized by a violent temper and fits of rage, which only made it worse. If you didn’t understand that you were hurting someone, what would make you stop?

I flipped to the second page, labeled “background.”

Performing a standard background check on DS has proved difficult. No birth certificate or other identifying records could be found. They likely exist, but the lack of concrete information on his early life makes a proper search impossible. According to DS and his foster brother, SB, Derek came to live with them at approximately five years of age. DS does not recall—or refused to share—the details of his life before this, though his responses suggest he may have been raised in an institutional setting.

Simon’s father, Christopher Bae, appears to have taken de facto custody of DS, with no record of a formal adoption or fostering arrangement. The boys were enrolled in school as “Simon Kim” and “Derek Brown.” The reason for the false names is not known.

School records suggest DS’s behavioral problems began in seventh grade. Never an outgoing or cheerful child, he became increasingly sullen, his withdrawal punctuated by bouts of misplaced anger, often culminating in violent outbursts.

Violent outbursts …

The bruises on my arms throbbed and I absently rubbed them, wincing.

No incidents have been properly documented, making a complete forensic study of the disorder’s progression impossible. DS seems to have avoided expulsion or other serious disciplinary action until an altercation described by witnesses as “a normal school yard fight.” DS violently attacked three youths in what officers suspected was a chemically fueled rage. An adrenaline surge may also explain the display of extraordinary strength reported by witnesses. By the time authorities interceded, one youth had suffered spinal fractures. Medical experts fear he may never walk again.

The single-spaced page of background detail continued, but the words vanished, and all I could see was the floor whipping past as Derek flung me across the laundry room.

Extraordinary strength …

Violent outbursts …

May never walk again …

They’d taken Liz away for throwing pencils and hair gel bottles, and they kept Derek? A huge guy with a history of violent rages? With a disorder that meant he didn’t care who he hurt or how badly?

Why hadn’t someone warned me?

Why wasn’t he locked up?

I shoved the pages under my mattress. I didn’t need to read the rest. I knew what it would say. That he was being medicated. That he was being rehabilitated. That he was cooperating and had shown no signs of violence while at Lyle House. That his condition was under control.

I shone the flashlight on my arm. The finger marks were turning purple.

EVERY TIME I DRIFTED off, I’d get stuck in that weird place between sleep and waking, where my mind sifted through the memories of the day, confusing them and twisting them. I’d be back in the basement, Derek grabbing my arm and throwing me across the room. Then I’d wake up in a hospital, with Mrs. Talbot at my side, telling me I’d never walk again.

When the wake-up rap came at the door, I buried my head under my pillow.

“Chloe?” Mrs. Talbot opened the door. “You need to get dressed before you come down today.”

My stomach seized. With Liz and Peter gone, had they decided we should all eat breakfast together? I couldn’t face Derek. I just couldn’t.

“Your aunt is coming by at eight to take you out to breakfast. You need to be ready for her.”

I released my death grip on the pillow and got up.

***

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you, Chloe?”

I stopped moving my scrambled eggs around my plate and looked up. Worry clouded Aunt Lauren’s face. Dark half-moons under each eye said she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. I’d missed those smudges earlier, hidden under her makeup until we got under the fluorescent lights of Denny’s.

“Mad about what?” I asked.

A short laugh. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe because I dumped you in a group home with strangers and disappeared.”

I set down my fork. “You didn’t ‘dump’ me. The school insisted I go there and the home insisted you and Dad stay away while I adjusted. I’m not a little kid. I understand what’s going on.”