by Chris Fabry
Miriam opened a tattered copy of Huckleberry Finn and read another inscription: To Frank, may you always have a heart like Huck. I’ll be cheering your ride down the Mississippi. Pap.
Miriam wondered where Frank had gone and why he had let go of such a heartfelt gift. Each book was a story within a story, tales told to young and old that kept giving and returning.
At the end of the final row, the largest of the three because of the way the shelving was situated, shoved up against the end of the bookcase and a copy of Ethan Frome inscribed to My dear Cecilia, was a pristine copy of Goodnight Moon. It did not have the same wear and tear as the other books on the shelf and when Miriam opened it, her breath caught, not because it felt like the book was opening for the first time, but because something fell out and she simultaneously spotted the word Treha inside the cover.
To Treha, it said. Miriam could not believe her eyes. Was there another human being on the planet with that name? She looked at it again and wondered if perhaps Treha had bought the book for herself and written the message. But Miriam had seen her handwriting, had noted the slanting, miniature left-handed scrawl. This was not it.
To Treha,
Though you can’t read it yet, I hope this book will bring you comfort and let you know there is someone who loves and cares for you. Keep it to remind you that my prayers will always be with you.
Love always,
Kara
Miriam read the note again, examining each cursive line, every consonant and vowel. Was Kara Treha’s mother? It was given when she was too young to read. . . . But who was this phantom?
She looked at the piece of paper that had fallen to the carpet. It was a business card with the name Kara Robbins at the top. Underneath was the title Children’s Advocate. There was a phone number with an area code she didn’t recognize and underneath that were the words Family Support Services. The rest of the card was blank.
Miriam pulled out a card of her own from her purse and on the back she wrote down the name and number. Now her heart rate increased as if she had uncovered some hieroglyph of Treha’s past. She put the card in the front of the book and flipped through it to make sure there was nothing else written inside. She only found Margaret Wise Brown’s words and Clement Hurd’s illustrations. It was a popular book, she knew, but she had never actually read it. She never had a reason. No children to tuck in at night, no little eyes to coax to sleep with the tucked-in bunny and the cow jumping and the great green room.
She closed the book and put it back where she had found it. The carpet was as comfortable as a concrete slab. With the natural light showing, she noticed a few bugs crawling up the wall.
Miriam retrieved her purse and locked the front door behind her. Before she started the car, she gazed at Du’Relle and Samantha’s place. The blinds were closed on the tiny window that faced the parking lot. If all the hurt in the world were laid end to end . . . No, forget all the hurt in the world. If all the hurt from the hearts that dwelled in just these two apartments were laid end to end, she had no doubt it would encircle the earth.
And that didn’t count her own heart.
CHAPTER 30
DEVIN’S FIRM CONVICTION, his overriding principle, was that telling the story led to life. Following the next step, the next chapter, the next memory propelled them forward.
He was beginning to question that principle.
Treha sat in the front with him, and Jonah got in behind them with the equipment, sweating profusely.
“I think we dodged a bullet—no pun intended,” Jonah said. “This is the kind of guy who shows up at a government office one day and opens fire and his neighbors can’t believe it and everybody’s looking for why. There’s no why to crazy. It’s just crazy. We could have been part of a big headline. ‘Three Killed in Deadly Rampage.’”
“Tell me what you know about Phutura,” Treha said. No emotion. Not paying attention to anything but the drum of her fingers and the movement of her eyes.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to make sense of what he told you,” Jonah said. “He’s crazy.”
“Phutura is a big pharmaceutical company,” Devin said. “Big as in billions of dollars every year.”
“Go; just drive away from here before he finds his stash of grenades and lobs one toward us,” Jonah said. “I’m applying at Target tomorrow. You don’t pay me enough to risk my life. In fact, you don’t pay me at all.”
Devin looked at Treha. “He really thinks there’s someone listening to him, doesn’t he?”
She nodded.
“Can we go now?” Jonah said.
Devin started the car. “Did you get through to him? Can you tell?”
“I don’t know if he has dementia or disease. There’s definitely paranoia. But there’s something different. . . .”
“Devin, she’s not a doctor; she’s a janitor. No offense, Treha.”
“His fear is very deep. I can sense that.”
“I don’t understand,” Devin said.
“I don’t understand why we’re not moving,” Jonah said.
“You think he’s actually being watched?” Devin said.
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Treha said.
“Yeah, but you’re the reason we’re here. I don’t have a hidden agenda or a black helicopter.”
“He told me I was in grave danger.” She looked down at a crack in the leather seats. “What if he’s right?”
“Great, now we’ve got two of them,” Jonah said. “Buckle her up and keep her away from sharp objects.”
“Treha, the guy probably thinks the president is reading his e-mail. Or the attorney general. Every time the air conditioner kicks on, it’s another government plot to poison him with refrigerant. I’m surprised he lets the postal service get that close to his house. Surely you ran into this at Desert Gardens. Come on, you’re scaring me.”
She stared out the windshield, her jaw set. Devin’s phone buzzed and he answered it.
A pause. “Mr. Hillis, I need to speak with you.”
Devin plugged his Bluetooth in and held his other ear. “It’s good to hear from you, Mr. Davidson.”
“Hang up!” Jonah said.
“A question for you. Where did you get her?”
“Treha?”
“Yes.”
“At the retirement home. We sort of found each other.”
“Do you have any idea where she is from? Where she grew up?”
“No, but she’s right here. I can ask.”
The man paused and made a noise—perhaps rubbed his face. Devin couldn’t tell. “Why me? Why do you . . . ? Are you working for those monitoring me?”
Devin took a breath. “No, sir. My partner and I are working on a documentary that features Dr. Crenshaw and others from Desert Gardens.”
“And you came to me because . . . ?”
“We’re focusing on Treha now. Telling her story and looking for answers about her life. We think you might have information.”
A long pause. “I don’t see how that could be possible.”
“Mr. Davidson, if you could give us fifteen minutes—just ten, even—I think we could get some answers.”
The line went dead. Devin stared at the phone.
Then Jonah screamed like a girl. “There he is! I told you we should have left!”
Calvin Davidson opened the door behind Devin and almost fell into the seat, his pistol out. “Drive away, now,” he said, his eyes dancing. “They’ll be here any minute.”
Devin glanced at Treha. Jonah was pressed up against the other door, acting like he wanted to jump out.
“This is much more serious than you realize,” Davidson said gravely. His color was off and he was breathing heavily.
“You’d better buckle up,” Devin said. The man’s hands were trembling. “Jonah, help him buckle up.”
“Why me?”
“I can do it myself,” Davidson said.
He fumbled with the seat belt, and Devin thought
Jonah had plenty of opportunities to take the gun from him, but was glad he didn’t. A misfire could be disastrous.
“I apologize for my rude behavior, but there are some things you don’t understand.”
“Maybe you could fill us in,” Devin said.
“Or maybe you’ll just fill us with lead,” Jonah said, wiping his face.
“I don’t want to harm you. I want to protect you. And myself. It’s just that I get befuddled in the head.” He waved a hand. “I’ll answer your questions, but not here, not where they can hear me.”
“Have you taken your medication?” Jonah said.
Davidson threw back his head and laughed. “Now that is funny. If I’m treating you kindly, like a human being is supposed to, I must be on medication.”
Devin looked in the rearview at Jonah, trying to tell him with his eyes to shut up, to humor the old man. Not to tick him off. They started driving through the affluence of Scottsdale with this man who seemed like he hadn’t been out of his house in years.
“Do you have a phone?” Davidson said to Jonah.
“You want to call your therapist? Be my guest.” Jonah reached in his pocket gingerly and handed the phone to the man. Davidson rolled down the window and, before Jonah could protest, tossed the phone out.
“Hey!” Jonah sat forward, his mouth agape, looking first at Davidson, then at Devin. “You just . . . That was my iPhone! Stop the car, Devin!”
“Don’t stop the car,” Davidson said. “Keep going.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jonah said. “Do you know how much that costs? All of my contacts are on there!”
“You can buy a new phone. You can’t buy a new life.”
“If we’re in that much danger, we should get to a police station,” Devin said.
“No, not the police,” Davidson said. “They may be part of it.”
Jonah was still openmouthed, looking behind them. “The conspiracy theories are flying as fast as the phones. You owe me a new iPhone, man!”
“They can trace you with your phone,” Davidson said. “If you want to stay alive, listen to me. Do what I tell you.”
“Stop the car, Devin,” Jonah said. “This is crazy. Let me out. I’m not staying in here with . . . He’ll throw the camera out next.”
Davidson shifted in his seat and Jonah grabbed the camera bag. “Don’t you dare! You don’t touch this.”
Davidson shook his head. “You’re incorrigible. You don’t see what’s coming.”
“Who are we dealing with?” Devin said. “Who’s listening to you?”
Davidson looked back. “The company. Whoever they’ve hired. They want me silenced.”
“What company? Phutura? What do you know that’s so important to them?”
“Keep driving. You don’t need to know this. It will only put you in more danger.” He lifted a hand toward the front. “I need your phone as well, Mr. Hillis.”
“No way. Don’t let him have it,” Jonah said. “He’ll chuck it into the cheap seats.”
Davidson still had his hand out, waiting. “Do you have a phone?” he said to Treha.
She shook her head.
“Look, just take out the battery,” Devin said. “There’s no way for them to track us.”
“That’s not true. . . . They can still track you.” Davidson looked confused.
“Not if your phone isn’t communicating with the towers,” Jonah said. He held out a hand and Devin gave him the phone. Jonah powered it down and removed the battery. “Why didn’t you tell him that before he threw mine out the window?”
“We’ll get you a new phone,” Devin said.
“Great. You know, if they had geriatric Olympics, you could get the gold in the iPhone toss. You actually put some backspin on it.”
Davidson’s face was stern, his teeth clenched. “They will find me.”
“Who?” Devin said. “Tell me who we’re running from.”
“Young man, are not the years I have lived enough reason to respect me? Do you see the lines in this face? I’ve paid the price for your respect.”
They came to a red light at a large intersection.
“We need to go somewhere they won’t expect. Somewhere far from here.”
“How about the Apple Store?”
“Jonah, please.” Devin gave him a frustrated glance.
“Take me to Tucson. I want to see Dr. Crenshaw,” Davidson said.
“And when we get there, what are we going to do?” Jonah said.
Devin drove under the interstate and Davidson gave him a tired look. “When we get to safety, after I’ve seen him, you can set up your camera and record my testimony.”
“Testimony?” Devin said.
“You mean like a religious conversion story?” Jonah said.
“I’m not talking about religion. I made promises years ago, when I was younger. Things I would not reveal. And if I testify about those things, it will cost them millions. Billions, even.”
“And this has something to do with Dr. Crenshaw?” Treha said.
“It has everything to do with him.”
“He is comatose,” Treha said. “He can’t speak with you.”
“If you want answers to your questions, take me there.”
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 23
Shot of home in Plainfield, AZ.
Cut to family room, where Corrine and Kelsey Wells sit on a couch.
Tight shot on family portrait behind them.
CORRINE: That picture was taken last year, before Kelsey started high school. We had homeschooled her up to that point but we all agreed she was ready. She loves volleyball and runs cross-country. And she’s musical . . . artistic.
Tight shot of Kelsey’s eyes and her nystagmus. Return to shot of Corrine and Kelsey.
KELSEY: I can’t . . . hold the guitar or the flute . . . anymore. My hands . . .
Tight shot of Corrine holding Kelsey’s hand. Then back to full two-shot of them.
CORRINE: In this little high school, there are two dozen kids who have the same symptoms. Six students have committed suicide. And there are anger and rage issues in students who were perfectly normal before they came to this school.
Cut to home videos of Kelsey playing volleyball, with most of image grayed to highlight #12. Slow motion of Kelsey spiking the ball and high-fiving teammates.
CORRINE (VOICE-OVER): She was so excited to be on the volleyball team. The students welcomed her and voted her the captain.
KELSEY (VOICE-OVER): Because I’m tall.
CORRINE (VO): (Laughs.)
KELSEY (VO): We won the district championship . . . and I wanted to go out for the JV team this year . . . but I got sick.
Linger on video of match point in district finals and girls celebrating on the court. Tight shot of Kelsey smiling.
Two-shot of Kelsey and Corrine watching the video, Corrine wiping away tears.
CORRINE: Yeah. That’s so painful to watch, isn’t it?
KELSEY: We won.
CORRINE: You sure did. . . . That was a year ago. It happened so fast. We’ve been looking for answers, reasons why she’s been struggling, and we finally made the connection between what happened with Phutura—the spill.
KELSEY: We have to go to court. A different court, not volleyball this time.
CORRINE: That’s right. And we’re going to win, aren’t we?
Tight shot on Corrine brushing hair from Kelsey’s face and pulling her closer to kiss her forehead.
CORRINE: We’re going to get you all better, baby girl.
CHAPTER 31
MIRIAM STARED at the computer screen. She’d never been very good at searching for things. Not like Charlie. Her search felt like a logjam on a swollen river. There was so much information swirling but so many barriers to get to Treha’s past.
She had dialed the number on the card for Family Support Services and spoken with a disinterested desk worker. She asked for Kara Robbins and was met with a pause.<
br />
“I’m following up on a case and trying to track down information. Is Kara in today?”
“Hold, please.”
Music on hold. Words she couldn’t understand set to music that would never speak to her. She was growing more and more like her mother, the songs from the past blocking anything new.
“This is Marie; can I help you?”
Miriam asked for Kara, explaining briefly and guardedly about an old case.
“I’m afraid you’re about ten years too late. Kara left some time ago. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Did she move to another job?”
“She started a family. She’s a full-time mom now. What’s this about?”
“I found her business card at a friend’s house. We’re looking into her past and I thought Kara might help.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Her name is Treha Langsam.”
A pause. “No, doesn’t ring a bell. How long ago would this have been?”
“It could have been fifteen, sixteen years ago.”
“That was before my time, and honestly, even if I knew, we aren’t at liberty to talk about confidential matters. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Before Miriam could formulate the next salvo, the phone had clicked and she sat in silence. She hit the search engine button and typed the name in again, but she came up empty.
Charlie wandered past the room, heading toward the kitchen, but paused, peering over her shoulder. “What you looking for?”
An innocent question, but she felt it was an intrusion. She didn’t pry into his online habits or searches. Maybe she should. Who knew what he was looking at all day back there.
“It’s about Treha. I’m looking for someone who knew her when she was young.”
“Why don’t you type the name into Facebook?” he said.
She hadn’t thought of that.
“Type her in and see what you get.”
He continued to the kitchen and Miriam typed in the name, coming up with people from Belvedere, Ohio; Kalamazoo, Michigan; St. Louis, Missouri; and more. She studied them all but none looked like they were old enough to have children. She clicked on See More and several others popped up—one from Arizona. Kara Robbins Praytor lived in Clarion, Arizona, originally from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Studied at Penn State. Degree in criminology. Previous employer was listed as “social work.” Her photo showed an African American with a pleasant face, big smile, and two children who hugged her neck so tightly it looked like they would leave a mark.
