Exorcising Aaron Nguyen

Live Long and Prosper

 I reached the boys' wing with my lungs on fire and a stitch in my side. Before I even got to the door, I saw three members of the lacrosse team through the little window. They were standing, some of them bending over a bit. As momentum slammed me against the door, I saw more—Hiroki on the ground, streaks of blood and reddish footprints testament to the damage already done to him.

My immediate urge was to burst through and lob the rosary down the hall, grab Hiroki and make a break for it before they could grab him again, but that presented its own problems. Hiroki might be too hurt to move. I might not be fast enough to get us away before they tried to shut us up. There were three of them, and they were all athletes—if they didn't want us to get away, we wouldn't. I had no way to protect Hiroki once they had the rosary. I needed backup.

Breath sharp as blades in my lungs, I hung up on Hiroki, dialed 911 and shoved the phone in my pocket. Then a memory struck me—I'd brought along my mini-recorder to our interview with the Bishop. Fingers slippery with sweat, I pulled it out of my bag, depressed the record button, and stuffed it in the side mesh pocket.

The card reader flashed green at a tap Bishop's wallet, and I shoved open the door.

The three lacrosse team players looked in my direction. My skin prickled. It was the feeling I expect a caribou gets when the hungry pack of arctic wolves turns their heads toward its scent. Danger. Panic. Drop of bowels. I thrust the rosary forward like I was trying to ward off a vampire.

"Stop hurting him," I said, my voice not at all steady. I prayed it would be enough for the 911 operator not to disconnect the call. "I'll give you Aaron's rosary, just..."

One of the players—a tall Senior named Jameson Hull—started toward me. I retreated a step, my back hitting the closed door, and dropped my messenger bag.

"Give it to me," he said. "This is a big mistake. Give it to me and we'll explain."

This wasn't working. I had to get them mad—mad enough to give me something like a confession.

"Explain that you murdered Aaron Nguyen over a couple of test scores?" I said. "Stay back!"

A terrifying expression crossed his face, and I realized at once that I had no way to enforce my command. I hadn't thought of the scenario where one of them overpowered me and took the rosary. There was no incentive for them not to hurt me, not if they were already in this deep.

"You stupid bitch," Jameson growled, reaching for the rosary. I registered the blood on his fist—Hiroki's blood—and white hot anger cut off contact to my sense of self preservation.

I shoved off the door like a swimmer from a block and slammed my shoulder into his gut. He clearly hadn't expected me to attack, because he went down like a sack of bricks. Somehow I kept my feet and got out of his reach, but the shock was fading from the other players' faces. They reacted, lunging for me.

I'd knocked over Jameson with a combination of surprise and greater physical mass, but neither of those elements were on my side this time. My brain reestablished contact, and I reverted immediately to my old plan: I drew back my arm and hurled the rosary into the air at the exact time both lacrosse team players slammed into me.

I've had fantasies of being tackled by two guys at once. Needless to say, this wasn't going like I'd planned. I shrimp-curled and managed not to crack my head, but the floor slammed into my back, shoving all the breath from my lungs. Knees and elbows and shoulders knocked into me as two six-foot-whatever guys crashed over me. Stunned, staring at the grid of perforated ceiling material, I vaguely heard the clatter of beads smacking the linoleum.