The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(55)
“Did she say why?”
“She said you were going to keep us safe.”
“Brayden, do you remember anything about the lady?”
“She was an angel.” He frowns, draining the rest of his cup. “She looked like an angel, maybe. Maybe? I don’t see too good. But she looked all white. Like the moon.”
“Did she give you anything?” I ask, already knowing the answer but curious how he’ll answer it.
“Bears,” he replies promptly. “White bears, and parts of them were noisy.”
“Noisy like what?”
“Like . . . like . . . like Bubble Wrap blankets,” he decides after some thought. “Like a tissue paper present.”
“Were you in a car, Brayden?”
With the nurse watching his vitals and giving him just a little bit of water each time he empties the cup, I ask Brayden all the questions I can think of until a doctor comes in, and then I move down to the next curtain. I don’t swap out the gloves this time, because I didn’t touch Brayden. Caleb, however, is in no condition to be answering questions. He doesn’t seem to hear what the nurses and doctor are asking him. Beneath the oxygen mask, he keeps up a steady stream of half-formed words, and occasionally cocks his swaying head as if he’s listening to something, but what he’s saying doesn’t seem to have anything to do with what the rest of us can hear.
So I peek back behind Zoe’s curtain. They’ve got her hooked up to a heart monitor now, and it’s going a little crazy, so I don’t try to go in. Instead, I walk back to the nurses’ station. Eddison is there, but Holmes isn’t.
“She went outside to meet Simpkins,” he answers before I can ask the question.
“Mierda.”
“She specifically wanted you here, and it calmed the girl.”
“Yeah, calmed her right into a seizure.”
He flicks the center of my forehead, more irritating than painful. “One has nothing to do with the other. Stop.”
“Extrapolating from what Brayden said”—I sigh, peeling off the UM tee so I can lean against the counter without worrying about castoff meth from Zoe—“our killer prepared the explosion before she woke up the kids. She woke up Zoe first, and kept hands on her so the boys wouldn’t risk fighting, if they were even in any condition to do so. Parents were still sleeping in their room, she pushed the boys outside, did something, then carried Zoe out and got all three kids a safe distance away before the explosion. Brayden said he felt the heat, but they weren’t in danger of burning. She got them in the car—a big car, he said—keeping Zoe in the front seat, and gave them the bears. Brayden tried to open the door, but the child lock must have been engaged. He doesn’t know how long they drove for. She stopped in sight of the fire station to let them out, and gave them the instructions and my name. He looked back when they were at the station door, but he couldn’t see well enough to know if she was still there. One of the firefighters ran out and looked but didn’t see any cars out of place, so she must have gone.”
Being in the halter top has me anxious, especially knowing Simpkins is right outside, but I’d really prefer not to wear the meth-rubbed shirt any longer than I absolutely have to.
“He’s seizing!” calls a voice from Caleb’s curtain. A moment later a similar cry rises from Zoe’s partition.
Eddison grabs my arm before I can race back to Brayden’s bed. “Doctor is in with him,” he says softly. “I know you want to comfort him, but right now you’ll be in the way, especially with the other two in such unstable condition.”
“Why do you think he isn’t as bad as them?”
“We don’t know that he isn’t, just that he isn’t seizing yet.”
“Ramirez, what the hell are you wearing?” snaps Simpkins, stalking inside with Holmes at her heels. The two Smiths, who have been on her team about as long as she’s willing to keep anyone, follow, giving us small nods of acknowledgment.
I stand up straight and point to the bundle of fabric on the counter. “It has meth castoff from calming the girl,” I answer calmly. “It wasn’t safe to wear, and we didn’t have time to change before we came.”
“You shouldn’t have come here at all.”
“It was my call,” Holmes reminds her in an aggrieved tone.
“Clearly the children don’t need you now,” Simpkins continues, ignoring the interruption. “Leave.”
“No,” retorts Holmes. “I called her in.”
“You chose to partner with the FBI—”
“Partnered, yes, I did not give up the case to you, and I need her checking in on these kids.”
The two women stare each other down, and honestly I’m very glad I get to stand off to one side for this particular pissing match. Surprisingly, Simpkins is the one to look away. “Who can give me a status report?” she yells, stomping toward the curtains, and two nurses and a doctor glare at her.
The taller Smith shrugs out of his windbreaker and holds it out to me, while the stouter Smith pulls a plastic sack from the bag at his side. I drop the shirt into the sack, following it with the gloves, and then gratefully accept the jacket. It’s cold, true—hospitals are nearly always cold—but I feel more exposed than I’d like, in a way that doesn’t really have anything to do with clothing or skin. The jacket helps anyway.