“But she told you she didn’t . . .” émile splutters. “This is crazy,” he adds, looking at the ceiling. The old lady and I continue our staring contest, but when Phil speaks his words spark a sudden feeling of dread inside me.
“I think that’s why Gavin coughed so much when we got here,” he says. He darts his eyes around, still looking for his son. “He has asthma. I’m afraid the chemicals they used might bring on an attack. We should leave. He didn’t bring his inhaler tonight.”
“But where is he?” Valerie says.
And my dread turns to panic. I know where Gavin went. He went there, fully expecting me to follow. If something happens to him, it’s my fault.
Twenty-Five
Once inside Marguerite’s apartment the smell hits me immediately: it’s overpowering, sharp but strangely sweet at the same time, making me gag. Is Gavin really in here? He can’t be that stupid. I shout his name, but hear nothing. Maybe I’m wrong, but I have to be sure. If he’s here, it’s mostly my fault.
My eyes dart everywhere but find nothing. Then I hear a sound. A hoarse, rasping cough. I sprint to the kitchen and he’s there, sitting on the floor. Lips blue, dark eyes wide, mouth open, gasping. As I reach for him, an iron grip circles my wrist and I’m jerked backward.
“I knew it was you, girl! Where is it?” Thomas bellows in my face.
“He can’t breathe!” I scream. “He needs to get out of here!” My words are mangled.
“What?” Thomas says, taking a step back. He looks down at Gavin on the floor.
“Get up, you!” he screams. His face is a monster mask, contorted with rage. Gavin doesn’t answer. He just sits there and tries to breathe. His coffee-colored eyes are round. He looks up at me with nothing in his expression but fear.
“Up!” Thomas screams. Still keeping his grip on me, he lunges toward Gavin, grabs his shoulder and shakes, hard. Gavin’s head snaps back and forth.
“Stop it! He needs help!” I scream again. Thomas lets go of Gavin and shakes my own arm so hard I yell in pain.
“Where is it?” he roars. I stare helplessly as Gavin curls into a fetal position and gasps for breath.
“What?” I sob, feeling tears pour down my face. Gavin is going to die if we can’t get out of here.
“Don’t play innocent with me, girl!” Thomas screams. He lumbers over to me and jerks me by my arm, pulling me so close I smell sour sweat and pine tree aftershave. He leans his revolting face into mine, inches away. “It’s time you learned your place! You’ve caused us enough trouble!” Still holding me by one arm, he lifts a bony fist into the air. “You tell me where it is, NOW!” he screams, as his arm starts to descend. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face to the side, fear curdling in my stomach. But Thomas’s fist doesn’t make contact. Instead, he bellows like a bull, clutches his head and lets me go. I fall to the floor and open my eyes.
I blink. Maybe the rodent-killing fog is giving me hallucinations. Mrs. Thackeray, tottering and tiny, has appeared in the kitchen, a look of shock and rage on her face. Still holding onto Marguerite’s portrait when she came in, she saw what her sweet Tommy was up to and smacked him on the side of the head with the heavy wooden frame of the painting. I’d cheer if I weren’t still so terrified.
Not to be deterred, Thomas snatches the portrait from his mother’s hands, knocking it from her grasp. As it thumps onto the tiles, there’s a sound of splintering wood and something small falls from the back of the frame and hits the floor with a metallic “ping.” It’s a tiny metal key. Thomas and I dive for it at the same time, and neon stars and galaxies explode in my eyes as our heads collide.
Sound detonates all around me as well. Booming voices bounce off the walls in Marguerite’s home. Gentle, soft-spoken émile, who never shouts, is screaming like a drill sergeant on steroids. He yells words I don’t understand and I blink swirling supernovas out of my eyes in time to watch while émile and Zander hustle Thomas outside. My mother shouts and sobs as her trembling hands cling to me. Phil and Valerie magically materialize, pull Gavin to his feet and rush him out, their pale faces terrified. Shouting and scuffling sounds fade away.
Mom finally stops yelling, helps me stand and leads me out of Marguerite’s kitchen and through the ruined front room. She won’t stop sniffling. My head pounds. I stumble over books and hear the crunch of something broken beneath my feet. We exit through the front door, which screeches as it opens, and totter down the stairs. Back in Sylvie’s shop, I’m led to a chair at the long table. Mrs. Thackeray is already there, her ancient face now covered with confusion and fear.
Sylvie appears with an ice pack and I hold it to the bump that’s forming on my head while I sit and stare at platters of congealing food. No one speaks. I hear the whir of Ansel’s respirator. I wonder what he thinks about all this.