by Mg Gardiner
He got out and stepped toward her. “Did you send the flowers?”
She kept backing up. “What flowers?”
He reached for her arm. “What kind of bullshit game are you playing?”
She didn’t need to feign alarm. She batted his hand aside. “Don’t.”
He stopped himself, seeming to realize he’d crossed a line. He jabbed a finger at her. “If I find out …”
“Forget it. Keep your car. I don’t want it.”
She continued to back down the street. His pointing finger hung in the air a second longer. He shook his head in seeming disgust, climbed in the Porsche, and screeched away. She stood in the street, hands at her sides.
Well, that was fun.
On the sidewalk was a mailbox. She walked over, wound up, and kicked it. Reminded herself: Showtime. This is why you wore the hard-toed cowboy boots. She kicked it again. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then she walked, slowly and in open view, to the coffee shop on the corner. She went in and slumped in a seat by the window.
Sarah was no game player. She was a hunter, a manipulator, a professional liar. She was a skip tracer. She looked out the window at the Cadogan Towers, waiting.
3
Everybody on the bus.”
The kids climbed the steps and scattered down the aisle, backpacks bouncing. Outside the door, Zoe Keller paused.
The teacher, Lark Sobieski, smiled and said, “Come on, honey.”
Zoe stayed put. “Do the cheetahs have room to run?”
“We’ll find out.”
Zoe’s face was grave. In the morning heat her cheeks were as pink as the giant strawberry on her shirt. She was a thoughtful child, dark-eyed and observant. She sometimes saw things sideways, things none of the other kindergartners noticed or even imagined. She was dexterous, one of those kids whose fine motor skills developed before their gross coordination. She’d suffered plenty of playground scrapes—Lark kept a box of Band-Aids in her desk that could be labeled Zoe’s. Some days, Lark thought Zoe would be an astrophysicist, or a shaman. Other days, when she smiled, bottom teeth missing, she just seemed like a little girl going to the zoo.
“I hope so,” Lark said. “Go on, honey, get a seat.”
Zoe watched her a second longer, as if checking for signs of untruthfulness, before she took a big step and climbed aboard. At the top of the steps she turned back.
“Because if they don’t have room, they need a place. In Kenya. Or a park. But with a fence.”
The driver, busy texting, said, “Can’t argue with that.”
Zoe leaned toward Lark and whispered, “You’re not supposed to be on the phone when you drive.”
Turning, she skipped down the aisle and hopped up on a seat next to Ryan Fong.
Lark hung in the doorway. Unsettled, she said, “Sir?”
The bus driver looked up sheepishly and set his phone on the dashboard. “All set?”
“Ready to roll.”
He fired up the engine. Lark took the front seat. The door closed slowly, easing shut with a pneumatic hiss that left her inexplicably ill at ease.
Sarah was halfway through her second cup of coffee when the door opened and Kayla Pryce walked in. Pryce was in full makeup, with sugar-frosted curls, wearing a black velour track suit and a Rolex that could double for brass knuckles. Sarah set aside her cup and checked that she had a clear path to the exit.
She had been warned that Kayla Pryce liked three things: doctors, diamonds, and sharp objects. Pryce had once, she’d heard, defaced the portrait of a love rival by stabbing out its eyes with an ice pick. She had scratched a woman in the face in a dispute at the gym over a Thighmaster. And at a designer dress salon, she’d gone after a seamstress with a pair of scissors for remarking that her new gown needed to be let out in the ass.
Sarah clenched and unclenched her fist. The long gash in her palm had healed to a white weald of scar, a slice that made her lifeline untraceable. Luckily, Your Morning Joe didn’t set out real cutlery. If Kayla Pryce wanted to slash, stab, or carve her up, she’d have to use toothpicks and bendy straws.
“You.”
Pryce’s voice rang like a school bell. Sarah reached into the messenger bag as though hunting for her car keys, and stood up.
“You. Janelle.”
Around the coffee shop, conversation stopped. Peripherally, Sarah watched Pryce approach.
A skip tracer couldn’t show fear. As an old hand put it, skip tracing was a dark business: Every time you found someone, you made an enemy. You had to be confident, tenacious, and crafty.
“Don’t ignore me.”
Sarah turned. Pryce was taller than she’d expected, by half a foot. And that didn’t count her hair. The duck lips had been plumped to new extremes. She stamped up to her like a furious ostrich, and for a second Sarah thought Pryce planned to peck her face off.
“Sorry?” Sarah said.
“Why were you talking to Derek?”
Sarah looked around, as though for an invisible friend. “I’m here by myself.”
“Outside. You were all over him.” Pryce flapped her hands. “His one, his only Janelle.”
“Not even close.”
“Don’t play innocent.”
Nearby a barista watched anxiously, a coffeepot in her hand. “Ma’am …”
Sarah raised a hand. “It’s okay.”
Pryce said, “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Stay away from Derek.”
“I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about.”
“So who the hell are you?”
“Priscilla, Queen of the Cowgirls. Who are you?”
“I’m his fiancée,” Pryce said.
Sarah cocked her head. “Kimberly?”
“I’m Kayla. Who the hell is—”
“Kyla? You’re Kyla DeMint?”
Pryce’s ostrich lips parted. “Kayla Pryce. Jesus, who are those other women?”
Sarah seemed to hear a sound like slot machines paying off. Pryce had just identified herself, and in front of twenty witnesses. From the messenger bag Sarah pulled the manila envelope that contained the subpoena.
“Maybe this will explain.”
Pryce grabbed it. As she tore it open, Sarah said, “You’re served.”
Pryce gaped at it. Then, as though it had turned into a silverfish, she threw it on the table and jumped back. Sarah turned for the door. Rule number one for service of process: Once you get what you’re after, don’t hang around. Get your ass gone.
Pryce shoved a chair at her. “You bitch.”
Sarah stopped the chair with her boot. Pryce blocked her path.
The barista came toward them, trying to be conciliatory. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind …”
Pryce grabbed the young woman’s arm and yanked the coffeepot from her hand.
The place erupted. People would happily watch a catfight, but scorned women and scalding coffee made for bad juju. Sarah hoisted the chair in front of herself.
The coffee flew first, a hot spray. Then Pryce smashed the glass carafe against a table.
“This is about the trial in Houston? You’re their hound?”
The glass swung near Sarah’s face, gleaming like broken teeth. She felt a white spark of fear. She hated sharp objects. And hated being part of a scene. She raised the chair.
“Take it back,” Pryce shouted. “I refuse service.”
That was like refusing gravity, but Sarah didn’t bother to explain. The barista had ducked behind the counter. She came out, face flushed, and this time she wasn’t holding a coffeepot.
Sarah lowered the chair to ensure that Pryce’s eyes were on her. “Enjoy the flowers. In jail you’ll get cavity searches, not roses.”
Pryce lunged at her. Sarah ducked and raised the chair.
And the barista stepped up behind Pryce and Tasered her.
Pryce jerked, hit herself in the head with the broken carafe, and toppled to the floor. She hit with a thump and lay there twitching.
<
br /> The barista said, “She shouldn’t have done that.”
Sarah set down the chair. “I’ll say.”
Pryce barked like a little dog and flailed at the barista’s ankle with her nails. The barista scooted back.
Sarah groped some cash from her wallet and jammed it in the barista’s hands. “Cupcakes for everybody. On me.”
She rushed out the door. Got her, she thought. By knockout—a clean win. It took her two blocks to realize that she was running. In cowboy boots.
Ten minutes later, as she sat in the truck filling out the Proof of Service, her heart was still pounding. Her ears had barely stopped ringing when the phone started.
4
The emergency room at St. Anthony was racked with noise. Kids were crying. Nurses in scrubs called to each other. Parents shouted into phones. Sarah rushed in and found the teacher, Lark Sobieski, sitting with her arm around a little boy. His shoulders bobbed with sobs. Lark’s forehead had a bloody gash.
“Where’s Zoe?” Sarah said.
Lark glanced up, scattered.
“Zoe,” Sarah said.
Lark pointed at the examination area down the hall. Sarah took three quick steps toward it and turned back.
“Everybody here?” She couldn’t bring herself to phrase it any other way.
“A minivan cut us off,” Lark said. “The bus slid into a ditch.”
“The kids?”
“Most of them walked away.” She cuddled the little boy under her arm. “Everybody’s here, yeah.”
“You okay?”
“It’s nothing.” Lark touched the gash. Her fingers came away bloody.
Sarah squeezed the young woman’s shoulder and hurried to the desk. Her eyes stung. She tried to speak and her tongue felt thick.
“Zoe Keller. She was on the school bus.”
The nurse said, “You family?”
Sarah nodded and fumbled to pull her wallet from her messenger bag. Lark called, “She’s Zoe’s mom.”
With trembling fingers Sarah took out her driver’s license. The nurse read it. “Your daughter’s being examined.”
“Is she okay?”
The nurse called a hospital volunteer, a woman in her seventies who wore a red vest. She led Sarah through double doors into the fluorescent bay of the ER. They passed kids from Zoe’s class. Doctors. Mothers Sarah recognized. At the far end of the room, a nurse leaned over a hospital bed.
On it Zoe sat cross-legged, watching the nurse take her blood pressure. She focused attentively on the inflating cuff.
The floor softened beneath Sarah’s feet and the walls seemed to shiver with light. The volunteer put a steadying hand beneath her elbow.
“Thanks, I’m okay,” Sarah said.
She wasn’t, she couldn’t even spell okay, but she was back from the brink. The volunteer patted her arm and headed off.
Zoe looked up. “Mom, they’re squeezing my blood.”
With her two bottom teeth out, Zoe whistled when she talked. Sarah grasped the railing of the bed. “I see.”
For the first time in five years, she felt herself praying. Not with words, but with a clear singing tone that seemed to spin around her and infuse the air. Thank God.
“How you doing?” she said. She eyed the nurse. “How’s she doing?”
The nurse tore off the blood pressure cuff. “She’s all right. Just shaken up.”
Zoe’s brown hair, bobbed short like a flapper, was held off her forehead with a clip. It had a big fuzzy bumblebee on the end. No unicorns or kittens for Zoe. She went for things that sting.
“The bus turned on its side,” she said.
Sarah’s throat locked. She put a hand on Zoe’s head and kissed her, shutting her eyes to hide her tears. She felt a bandage on the back of Zoe’s scalp.
The nurse took Zoe’s pulse. “She has bruises and she complained of a sore neck—we got some x-rays.”
“What did you find?”
“No neurological signs of head trauma, only abrasions and minor lacerations.” She set Zoe’s hand down. “The doctor will speak to you about her results.”
Zoe eyed Sarah soberly. “On the bus, grass and dirt came in the windows. Like a cheese grater, only we were on the inside.”
“I’m so sorry, pup.”
“Ryan Fong fell on top of me. Then we crawled out the emergency door. Miss Lark busted it open with a little hammer.”
Sarah lowered the rail, sat on the bed, and pulled Zoe into her arms. “You’re going to be okay.”
“I know.”
At that, Sarah smiled. This child.
To the nurse, she said, “When can I speak to the doctor?”
“He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Zoe said, “They took blood.” She held up her arm. A cotton ball was taped to the crook of her elbow. “With a needle, and I didn’t cry.”
“You were very brave.”
“I saw the van crash into the bus.”
Once again Sarah’s nerves crackled. She stroked Zoe’s hair. “I’m sorry it was scary.”
“It zoomed around the curve.” She pulled her knees up and hugged them. “The lady driving the van was drinking a soda and talking on her phone.”
Great. Her little eyewitness, prepping for testimony. The nurse raised an eyebrow.
“You saw that?” Sarah said.
“She yelled at the phone and threw it at the windshield. She was talking to her boyfriend, I think.”
The nurse looked wry.
“Maybe …” Sarah stopped. Her own phone was ringing. She excused herself.
It was her boss. “Danisha,” she said.
“Keller. Did you serve Kayla Pryce?”
Danisha Helms Legal was an attorney support service. The business handled service of process, court filings, document research, and Sarah’s field, skip tracing. The company’s name was both simple and canny: people would hide in a closet if they knew a process server was at the door, but they’d drop the chain and open up if they heard, “It’s DHL.”
“I served her,” Sarah said, “and I’m at St. Anthony. Zoe’s school bus was in an accident.”
“Oh my God. Is she okay?”
Bless the woman. Cool and ruthless and always looking like she wanted to reach for a Marlboro or a .45, Danisha Helms could soften like a lullaby.
“Cuts and bruises. They took some films, and she may need stitches, but not in a place that will leave a visible scar,” Sarah said.
No distinguishing marks. That was always the goal. “I’ll bring the proof of service as soon as I can.”
“Sugar, you stay there and take care of that little girl. Don’t fret about the office,” Danisha said.
“I’m not.”
“Your voice is shaking. I’ll be right there.”
Sarah thanked her, grateful, and ended the call.
The nurse said, “Mrs. Keller?”
It was Miss Keller, but Sarah didn’t correct her. She kissed the top of Zoe’s head. “Don’t know about Zoe’s accident reconstruction. Kids see the world in creative ways.”
Zoe was an inventive little girl. Wonderfully so, 95 percent of the time. The other 5 percent, the freaky five, the wild beasts of her imagination would see a mirage and conjure it into a hurricane.
The nurse just looked bemused. “It’s not that. It’s her test results.”
“Is something wrong?”
“The attending physician will need to speak to you about her x-rays.”
All at once she felt chilly. “What about her x-rays? What are you talking about?”
The nurse’s expression had gone flat. She eyed Sarah up and down in a way that made her feel naked. “You’ll have to speak to the attending about it.”
“No—tell me. Please.”
A man’s voice stopped her dead. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Sarah turned. Standing there was the attending physician, Derek Dryden.
5
Sarah’s internal alarm system flashed str
aight to Red.
So did Dryden’s face. “What kind of game are you playing?” He pointed at the nurse. “Call Security.”
Sarah raised her hands. “Stop. This has nothing to do with the subpoena I served on Ms. Pryce.”
“You have to do better than that. Nancy, call them.”
The nurse bustled to the wall and picked up a phone.
“Please, don’t,” Sarah said. “This is about Zoe. The nurse said you need to speak to me about her test results.”
“You’re her mother?”
Zoe said, “Of course she is.”
Go, Zoe.
Dryden inhaled so sharply his nostrils flared. For a second, Sarah thought he would throw the chart to the floor and stomp out. Instead, he retracted his anger behind a neutral expression. He smoothed his tie. He headed for the hallway, jerking his head for her to come along. The nurse hung up the phone and trailed after them.
The double doors closed behind them. Sarah said, “Dr. Dryden, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot earlier.”
“Is that what you call your little piece of street agitprop?”
“Is Zoe all right?”
Dryden crossed his arms and held the chart against his chest. “That depends.”
“On what? Please, is she okay?”
He stalked down the hall to Radiology. Inside, he turned on a light box, pulled an x-ray from Zoe’s chart, and jammed it up on the wall.
Sarah scanned it. “What’s wrong? What am I looking at?”
He tapped the film. “That.”
The x-ray showed Zoe’s skull and spine. Between her shoulders, buried deep, was a white spot no bigger than a grain of rice.
“Why have you microchipped your child?” Dryden said.
“Jesus.”
It tumbled out before she could stop herself. Dryden turned toward her, slowly, pivoting like a mummy. He eyed her for a long moment, seeming to check for signs she was gaming him again. His gaze slid over her shoulder to the nurse. The woman took it as a silent signal. She left the room.
“That’s an RFID microchip,” he said. “And you didn’t know?”
Radio Frequency Identification. RFID chips were essentially sophisticated bar codes. Next gen product identification. The chip was a tiny transmitter.
