by Harry Kraus
She entered and scanned the room. She emptied the closet, grabbed her toiletries and her new Bible, stuffing them into her suitcase. “Let’s go.”
“You can take the shampoo,” he said. “It’s from Redken, but they make it special for our patrons.”
Tori wanted to roll her eyes. “Keep it.”
She stomped back to the elevator, hiding her fear, pushing back a sudden urge to cry. Who wants me dead?
Where do I go?
Not home.
Not here.
In the lobby, she left her bags with a bell captain, who promised to have the valet retrieve her car. Then she paced the spacious public areas, trying to spot anyone who may have been watching her. But no one seemed to care. The statue of Thomas Jefferson was marvelous, but indifferent. The pool in the Palm Court, long ago the home of live alligators, was still. She opened her cell and dialed Officer Campbell. She got his voicemail.
She spoke quietly, facing a massive marble column. “Officer Campbell, this is Tori Taylor. I’ve been staying at the Jefferson Hotel downtown. Someone delivered some flowers with a note saying ‘You’re next.’ I left the flowers at the desk. I’m scared. I’m leaving town.” She closed the phone.
She was leaning against the column when the bell captain called, “Dr. Taylor, we have your vehicle.”
She watched as the valet put her luggage in the trunk. She handed him a tip and sat behind the wheel. Now what?
She pulled into traffic and tried to come up with a plan.
She flipped open her phone and punched in a number.
“Phin MacGrath.”
“It’s Tori.”
How to begin?
She took a deep breath. “I need your help. Can you meet me in the employee parking structure?” She waited for a response. She heard papers being shuffled and a squeak of his chair. “Now?” she added.
He sighed. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t have time to explain. But I’m in trouble, Phin. Someone’s really upset with me looking into Dakota’s death.” She felt her voice thickening. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”
“Okay. Try to calm down. I’ll come to the deck. My Accord is on the second level.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
Tori drove up the hill toward the VCU Medical Center complex, frequently checking her rearview mirror. There was so much traffic, she couldn’t tell if she was being tailed. Her only comfort was that the entrance into the parking deck required an employee ID badge.
Once in the deck, she circled the second level and found an open spot a few spaces from Phin’s Honda. He arrived two minutes later. She transferred her luggage and got into the backseat.
As he pulled out, she quickly slipped forward off the seat and pressed herself toward the floor.
“What’s going on, Tori?”
“If you talk to me, raise your phone to your face,” she whispered. Quietly and urgently, she summarized the terrifying events from the last few days.
She listened as Phin flipped open his phone. “This is crazy. Have you talked to the police?”
“Of course. They have the heart. They advised me not to stay at home. But whoever it is was able to follow me. Trading cars in the employee deck was my idea to throw them off. Hopefully they won’t recognize your car.”
He sighed. “Why me? I thought we were kind of—” He halted. “Off.”
She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
She felt the car turn left, accelerate, slow, and turn again. “I’m pulling into Popeyes Fried Chicken. No one followed me. Why don’t you come up here?”
When the car stopped, she quickly got up and out, then back in on the front-passenger side. After smoothing her hair with her hand, she looked over and smiled. “Thanks.”
He shook his head. “You make me crazy. What have you gotten into?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your next move?”
“I need to talk to that psychiatrist. She interviewed me under hypnosis but wouldn’t reveal what I said, only that she needed to process the information. I think my interview must hold the key to why someone wanted Dakota dead.”
“Have you talked to the Baltimore PD, told them about the threats?”
“I asked Officer Campbell with Richmond PD to talk to them. Hopefully they can come up with something together.”
“You talked to Gus Peterson?”
“Yep. He’s looking into finding out what he can on Dakota Jones.”
“Okay, let’s go back to my place to regroup.”
She looked at him. It felt better to have someone else in on her misery. “Thanks.”
“Have you eaten?”
She thought back over her day. It seemed like another life ago when she’d ventured out from the Jefferson and bought a new Bible. “Coffee this morning.”
“Hey, I know what kind of medicine regimen you must be on. You have to eat.”
“I know. Time got away from me today.”
On the way home, he stopped at a Ukrop’s grocery store. She stayed in the car, relaxing for the first time in hours. She closed her eyes after he locked her in.
She awoke about fifteen minutes later when he unlocked the doors.
Phin lived in a three-story townhouse in Henrico County, north of downtown. He carried her suitcase and two bags of groceries. She carried a two-liter bottle of Coke Zero. At least he had good taste in diet drinks.
His townhouse had bamboo floors, taupe walls with white trim. They were covered with modern-art reproductions, neatly framed and spotlighted. The kitchen had cabinets with wormwood doors of green, yellow, and cranberry, a happy Caribbean-island style. Tori relaxed a notch just walking in. A reproduction of a Calder mobile hung over an oak kitchen table. There were two complete arched window-like openings through the wall between the kitchen and great room. Each contained some sort of modern sculpture accented by recessed lighting in the tops of the cutouts.
He smiled at her inspection. “I did that,” he said. “The room needed some character. Cutting those in the wall did the trick.” He pointed at a pale-green painting. In the center, outlined in a prominent blue circle, was a green-brown sphere. “This is my favorite. It’s called ‘Burst’ by Dalia Rubin. She’s an artist from Israel. Her art is all about nature and creation.”
“It’s perfect.”
He emptied his grocery bags onto a granite island. “I picked up a rotisserie chicken. Give me a minute to throw together a salad.”
She helped, washing baby spinach leaves and watching him sprinkle in Craisins, walnuts, and crumbled blue cheese.
“Not quite up to your gourmet standards,” he said.
“It looks great. Besides, my gourmet tastes are relatively newly acquired.”
He shook his head. “A lot about you seems to be newly acquired.”
She smiled.
“I want to heat this up a little,” he said, sliding the chicken in the oven. “I’m going to call Gus and see if he’s found out anything.”
“Okay, I’ll call Mary Jaworski.” She fished a business card out of her purse.
She reached the psychiatrist’s voicemail. She didn’t want to leave a message.
She listened to Phin’s half of his conversation with Gus.
Phin closed his cell phone. “That’s weird. He wonders if Dakota was a nickname. He can’t find anything on a Dakota Jones. No driver’s license, no credit history, no criminal history, nothing.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s seen it before. Either we have the wrong name, or …”
“What?”
“He thinks Dakota Jones may have been an alias.”
“What?”
“He thinks
Dakota Jones was hiding her true identity.”
31
Christian Mitchell had started actually looking forward to working at the Sixth Street free clinic. The patients weren’t as demanding as the ones in the university clinic, and the parents said thank you. The only thing Christian didn’t like was dealing with the clinic’s director, Clara Rivers.
It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon and Christian was finishing up with a young patient with an ear infection. “I think we have some samples that will work,” he said to the patient’s mother.
She balanced the fussy toddler on her hip and sighed. “I hope so. I can’t take another night of crying.”
He studied the bags under her eyes, wondering if he should ask her a few questions about how she might be dealing with her frustrations. She was a single mom with a history of alcohol abuse. The child may have been at risk for physical abuse, but Christian had seen no signs of bruising. He decided to let it pass. “I’ll be right back.”
He went to the large walk-in closet where the clinic kept a supply of donated samples. In the center sat a large rolling multidrawer station, much like a mechanic might use for his tools. It was the clinic’s controlled-substance locker. He noticed that the lock wasn’t secure. He thought about closing it but went ahead and opened the top drawer for a quick look.
“Whoa,” he muttered to himself. The top drawer contained vials of morphine, fentanyl, and Demerol. He closed it and opened the lowest and largest of the drawers. There, inside several large paper bags, were pharmacy bottles already labeled with patient information. He lifted a bottle to read.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up to see Carla, red-faced and glaring from below gray-streaked bangs.
“Just looking for an antibiotic.”
“We don’t keep them locked,” she said, lifting the bottle from his hand. She dropped it back in the bag, shut the drawer, and secured the lock.
“Why do we have prescription narcotics already labeled with patient names?”
“Palliative care brings over deceased patients’ medicines.”
“You dispense used meds?”
“They are not used. They are perfectly good. The clinic runs on a shoestring budget. You should know that by now.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “I’ll do what I need to do to help this clinic survive.”
Christian wondered about the ethics of reissuing meds that had gone out to other patients. He knew that it had to violate pharmacy standards. From what he’d seen in the bottom drawer, most of the bottles seemed to be nearly full.
He was about to protest but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He decided he’d ask the pharmacist back at Johns Hopkins. He turned his attention to the shelves of antibiotic samples and ignored the director. He selected a supply of amoxicillin.
The director seemed to be watching him and didn’t care to make it subtle. “You’ve got your medicine,” she said. “Now run along and get back to work. The waiting room is overflowing.”
He returned to his patient and handed the medicine to the mother. “Use this three times a day. Bring him back in ten days and we’ll take another look.”
Christian moved to the next room. He lifted a chart from the rack on the door. The chief complaint was listed as ‘leg pain.’” He entered the small exam room to see two adult women, one white and one black, and a young black male. He looked at the young man. “You must be Mike,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Mitchell.”
The African-American woman spoke. “I’m Kesha, Mike’s mother. This here’s my friend Dakota.”
He looked at the second woman, a slender female with short dark hair, multiple ear piercings, and a right nose stud. She wore sunglasses. A druggie. A gray sweatshirt covered her arms.
There was something familiar about her. Dakota?
“What brings you to the doctor, Mike?”
“We took the bus.”
Christian smiled. “What I mean is, why did you come?”
“My leg,” he said, pulling up a pair of baggy Nike shorts. “It’s been sore for a while. Then I noticed this lump.”
“How long is a while? A month? A week?”
“Longer. Since Christmas.”
“Did you ever get hit in that area?”
Kesha shook her head. “Ain’ no one beatin’ this child.”
“How about accidentally? Maybe during a football game or something?”
“No,” Mike said.
“Is it changing? Getting bigger?”
“Seems to be growing.”
“Are you on any medicines? Do you have any other illnesses?”
“No.”
Christian touched the top of the exam table paper. “Okay, could you hop up here for me?”
Mike moved to the exam table.
“Lie down.” Christian reached out his hand. “I’m going to examine you.”
Mass deep anterior quadriceps. Fixed. Rock hard. Mildly tender. Four by six centimeters.
He felt over his left femoral area. No lymphadenopathy.
Christian started down a list of things that felt like that. The short list began and ended with rare cancers. “I’d like to order a few tests. A blood count. A chest X-ray.”
Kesha shook her head. “His chest is fine. It’s his leg.”
Christian didn’t want to explain that he was looking for spread of cancer to the lungs. Metastasis. Instead, he just said, “It’s routine.” He scribbled an order and filled out an X-ray request. “We don’t have an X-ray unit here, but if you take this to City Hospital, they have an agreement with us. Can you bring Mike back here to see me on Friday after the X-ray?”
Kesha looked at her friend. “Can you come with us?”
She nodded without speaking.
Christian studied her face. Could it be? It’s been more than a dozen years. The hair color is wrong. I want to see your eyes.
He reached out his hand. She looked at it and kept her head down. She didn’t accept his hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Dakota Jones.”
That voice.
Kesha took the hand that Christian still held out toward Dakota. “Thanks, Doc. We’ll see you on Friday.”
He smiled. “Sure. Just stop at the desk on your way out to make an appointment.
He watched them go. That’s crazy. He shook his head. She must be Emily Greene’s twin. Separated at birth.
The height is right. Her build and shape are the same.
He thought for a few minutes but couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that he knew her. He walked back to the waiting room, but they were already gone. He exited the front door and squinted at the sun. He looked across the parking lot to a bus stop just down the sidewalk. A bus was pulling up. The door opened.
He shouted after her, “Emily!”
He watched as she turned her head toward him. Recognition.
He took a step toward the bus.
She shook her head, turned, and leaped onto the bus.
He jogged a few steps, but the bus pulled away.
He thought about her sweatshirt, the sunglasses, and the piercings. She definitely looked when I called her name. Oh, Emily—what has happened to you?
Tori ate. And ate. In fact, she couldn’t remember when her appetite had been better.
When she looked across at Phin, he raised his eyebrows.
“What?” she said, licking her fingers. “Haven’t you ever seen someone enjoying your cooking before?”
He shrugged, smiling. “I just thought that with all the stress, well, I didn’t expect you to be hungry.” He shook his head. “Someone threatens your life, sends you a heart in the mail—that kind of stuff can mess with your appetite.”
She offered a smile and wiped her mou
th. “Maybe things are different now.”
He looked at her, waiting for an explanation.
She took a sip of iced tea. “After the phone call the other night, I’ll admit, I was scared. Really scared. But I didn’t want to call you.” She halted and looked up to see the hurt register on his face. “Sorry,” she whispered.
She took another bite of chicken. And more salad. Then she continued. “The way I see it, I was petrified because I was in charge.”
He squinted at her. He didn’t understand. “Was?”
She nodded. “I raced around town, running through yellow lights, making sudden turns, convinced someone was following me. I checked in at the Jefferson downtown. I couldn’t sleep.”
She paused to eat again. When she stabbed another bite of chicken, Phin’s hand came down on hers. “Oh no you don’t. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay.” She set down the fork. “It’s not really so complicated. I started reading a Bible I found in the nightstand. There was a little directory to tell you what verses to read if you needed peace. I read, ‘Come unto me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’” She looked into Phin’s face. “You don’t understand how much those verses impacted me. I felt drawn. I wanted what Jesus was offering. I knew I was doing a bad job at running my life. I mean, look at me. Sure, I’m a good surgeon, but I’ve alienated everyone I’ve worked with.” She paused before adding, “And managed to run off most of the people I care about.” Their eyes met for a moment before she looked away.
She went on. “Phin, before my transplant and all this trouble, I never wanted to believe. But lately, that’s changed. I knew in my heart that I wanted to believe that God could love me more than anything else.” She sighed. “Maybe Charlotte was right about the 316 message. Maybe I needed to believe ‘for God so loved the world.’
“So,” she said, “I found a prayer printed in the back of that Bible and I prayed it. Phin, I gave up control.”
He smiled.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m still a little scared. But not enough to kill my appetite.” She laughed.
So did he. “That’s obvious.” He reached for her hand. “This is the best news ever. It’s what I’ve been praying for.”
