“It occurred to us,” Balker drawls. “We’re on top of the situation.”
“Are you with Mr. Merson now?”
The call goes out on the intercom again: “Will Dr. Harvey Walters please report to pediatrics?”
Balker raises his voice, speaking over it. “As a matter of fact, I just talked to Merson. Are you satisfied?”
“Did he tell you who shot him?” I ask.
“He can’t speak. Remember?”
“Can he write? Can he draw a picture of the killer?”
Balker chuckles. “Want to be a detective when you grow up, Kristi? You’re on the right track.”
I gasp. “Who did he say shot him?”
There’s just a slight pause before Balker says, “You’ll hear it from the media anyway, so I can tell you this much. Merson opened the door to some one in a ski mask. The porch light had been shattered, and the house is set back from the street, so there wasn’t enough light for him to make out any distinguishing details. Then everything happened fast.”
“But was the person in the mask tall or short? Was it a man or a woman?”
“He doesn’t know. He couldn’t tell. As I said, it was dark and everything came down in a hurry.”
“Do you have a policeman stationed there to protect him in case the robber comes back to keep Mr. Merson from identifying him?”
“All Merson saw was the ski mask. Kristi, you watch too many cop shows on TV.”
“Someone has to be with Mr. Merson.”
“If Merson is concerned he can get the guy who works for him to hire a bodyguard. That’s up to him.”
I visualize Merson as I saw him, wrapped in bandages, attached to tubes, and lying helpless in bed. I’m swept with a new surge of pity for him, even though I don’t really know who he is. “May I please come and visit Mr. Merson now?” I ask.
“Not just yet. Give it a few days.”
I feel strange about asking. My face grows hot as I mumble, “Did he … well, did he say anything about me?”
“No, and I didn’t ask him. The doctor limited my time to ask questions.”
“What hospital is Mr. Merson in?”
Balker laughs again. “Nice try, Kristi, but it won’t work. As I promised, I’ll be in touch with you. I’ll take you and your parents to see Merson when the time is right. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
“Okay,” I answer. There’s no point in arguing—especially not when I know how to find out the name of the hospital.
I pick up the yellow pages again and turn to the hospitals section. I can’t believe there are so many hospitals in Houston.
For a moment I’m angry with Detective Balker for not just telling me where Mr. Merson is. It would save me a lot of work.
I take Jonathan’s drawing of a pear from my notebook and place it on the kitchen counter, near the phone, where it will be safe from splatters. Jonathan drew it. Jonathan gave it to me, so it doesn’t matter that the pear never had a chance to live. I’ll never bury it. Instead, I’ll tape it on the mirror in my bedroom.
Mom and Dad arrive home. As I begin to dish up the spaghetti and the salad of mixed field greens that I’ve tossed together, Dad stops at the counter and picks up the drawing. “Callie! Look at this pear!” he exclaims, excitement in his voice. “This is great. This looks just like a real pear.” He beams at me. “Kristi, you don’t need art lessons. You’ve got a natural talent.”
I ache inside. “It’s not my drawing, Dad,” I say quietly. “A friend of mine gave it to me.”
“Oh,” Dad says. As he puts down the drawing, he looks embarrassed. “Well, your friend has real talent … too,” he adds.
During dinner Mom and Dad try to talk to me about school and stuff that I’m doing, but I don’t feel like talking. There’s too much to think about. They’ve always made it easy for me to talk about anything with them, so I feel a little guilty that now I can’t. Finally they give up trying to reach me and discuss their clients’ tax problems. As soon as they’ve finished eating and head for their home office and their computers, I sit down with the telephone and the yellow pages.
I choose the biggest hospitals first, then move to some of the smaller private ones between River Oaks and the Medical Center. In each case I ask for the pediatrics department. When someone answers, I ask for Dr. Harvey Walters.
It’s not until late the next afternoon, on my second try, that I get what I want. The receptionist nswers me by saying, “Dr. Walters has left Riverview for the day. Please call his office. Do you have that number?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say quickly, and hang up.
Riverview Hospital. It’s on Woodway. I write down the address and tuck the slip of paper into my bag. As soon as I can I’m going to pay another visit to Douglas Merson.
On Wednesday I get up a half hour early and have breakfast on the table when Mom and Dad come into the kitchen. They look at the platters of scrambled eggs, sliced melon, and buttered toast and smile with delight.
Mom hugs me, and I ache when I see the dark circles under her eyes. “You and Dad need to eat a good breakfast,” I tell her. “Coffee and toast doesn’t cut it.”
“Who’s the mother?” she teases me.
“Whoever makes breakfast.” I grin.
It’s pretty quiet as they begin to eat, but I break the silence. “I talked to Sergeant Balker yesterday. He said Mr. Merson has been moved to a private hospital.”
Dad and Mom both look up quickly.
“Did he say which one?” Dad asks.
“Sergeant Balker didn’t tell me anything,” I say, “except that Mr. Merson didn’t see the person who shot him. There’s no way he can identify him.”
“Mr. Merson can talk?” Mom asks.
“No, but I guess he can write.”
“Good,” she says firmly. She bites down hard on her toast and chews it as though she’s crushing it to death. “He has some explaining to do to us. At this time of the year we need all the sleep we can get. I don’t appreciate having to lie awake nights worrying about what peculiar interest some strange man has in our daughter!”
I reach across the table and pat her hand. “Mom, Sergeant Balker said he’d take us to see Mr. Merson in just a few days.”
“Did he say what day?” Dad asks.
“No. I don’t think he knows yet.”
Mom peers at the tiny calendar fastened to the band on her wristwatch. “It’s going to have to be on a Sunday. There’s no way your father and I can take off during the week.” She gives a little moan. “But I do need to know what this is all about.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. You will. The police are right on top of it.”
And so am I. But I don’t need to tell them that.
Art appreciation class is great, as usual Ms. Montero is taking us through some really fascinating art history. As I study the slides on the screen I itch to visit the museums in person. Oh, if only I were an art historian myself, I’d get lost in the galleries and churches of Rome!
Ms. Montero turns off the projector and flips on the lights. “On Friday evening at seven-thirty there’s a preview showing of an exhibition of eighteenth-century French paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts. Two of the paintings you just saw will be in the exhibit. I’ve arranged to get tickets for those of you who’d like to attend for extra credit.”
I wave my hand wildly as she writes down names. I can’t wait to go.
Jonathan stops by my desk as the class ends. His voice is softer than usual, and he stares at the floor. “We could go to the exhibition together,” he says.
My heart gives a jump. All along I’ve thought Jonathan wasn’t interested in me, but that wasn’t it. Jonathan’s shy.
His shyness is contagious. I find myself stammering, groping for words. I can feel my face turn red. “Uh—sure. I would. I mean, I’d like that. Going together, that is.”
“Okay,” Jonathan says. He stops looking at my shoes. He raises his gaze until he’s looking right into my ey
es, and he smiles at me. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I smile back. I don’t try to talk because my insides have turned squishy. Jonathan Stockton is the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s asked me for a date. Well, sort of a date. Through the rest of the day I float on invisible wings and sketch little Jonathans along the margins in my notebook. I can’t wait to tell Lindy. She doesn’t care about art, but she’ll care about my date.
When I reach home after school, the wings fall off and I land with a thud. There’s a message from Mom on the answering machine.
“Detective Balker called. He’s arranging for you, Dad, and me to visit Douglas Merson on Sunday afternoon.” There’s a pause, and Mom’s voice drops, as if she’s talking to herself. “He didn’t say what hospital, and I didn’t think to ask him. Oh, well, it’s only Wednesday. He’ll be in touch with us before Sunday.” She picks up speed again and adds, “I took a package of ground beef out of the freezer and put it into the refrigerator. Be sure you defrost it completely in the microwave. You’ll find a package of mushrooms in the refrigerator. They’re getting a little too soft to be used in salad, so make a meat loaf for dinner, along with sautéed mushrooms and whatever else you want. Thanks, honey, for being such a big help. We’ll be home between seven-thirty and eight.”
The recording clicks off, and I lean against the counter with a sigh. Sunday? We can’t see Douglas Merson until Sunday?
Maybe Mom and Dad can wait that long, but I can’t. I’m going to visit Mr. Merson right now.
It takes only a little over fifteen minutes to drive to Riverview Hospital, find a parking place shaded by tall pine trees, and ask at the reception desk the number of Mr. Merson’s room. The white-haired volunteer in the pink hospital uniform has such a friendly smile, she reminds me of Grandma, and I feel a sudden pang of longing for my grandmother. I wish she lived nearby and I could see her more than two or three times a year. Grandma would agree that I should study to become an artist. If there are sides to be taken, Grandma’s always on mine.
“Sixth floor,” the volunteer says. “Room six fifty-five. You can get further directions from a floor nurse at the central desk on the sixth floor. The elevators are to your right.”
“Thank you,” I say, and take the nearest elevator, which dings and slides its doors open as I approach.
On the sixth floor there’s a sign with room numbers and arrows on it, so I don’t have any trouble finding Mr. Merson’s room. Six fifty-five is at the end of the hallway to my right, next to the last door, which is labeled EXIT—STAIRS.
Mr. Merson’s door stands ajar, so I peek inside. The room is flooded with late afternoon’s intense light, which pours through the open Venetian blinds. This is a large room, with plenty of space for the two upholstered armchairs, the usual hospital bed, and bedside tables.
Mr. Merson, still bandaged and connected to tubes and machines, is lying there quietly, his eyes closed. He seems to be peacefully asleep.
I back away from the door and walk past the exit to a small alcove at the end of the hallway, where I lean against the wall and think about what to do next. Mr. Merson has been badly hurt. He’s in pain. He needs to sleep … to heal. How could I possibly wake him? The detectives will be mad. My parents will be shocked that I came here—but I realize I’ve been doing lots of things my parents would find shocking. I haven’t felt ashamed, though.
My need to know who he is and why he’s had this sixteen-year interest in me is not selfish. I could leave him undisturbed. I could come back Sunday, when I’m with Mom and Dad and Detective Balker. But what really is fair?
I straighten just as the door to the stairs begins to open. It moves only a few inches, then stops. I don’t hear a sound from the other side of the door, so I realize that it’s not someone struggling to carry something through the door. It’s someone who seems to be waiting quietly, holding the door open just wide enough to look through. Since I’m standing on the hinged side of the door, I can’t see who’s there.
I hear two women’s voices as they come down the hall toward us. Their chatter rises to a squeal. “Annabelle! You’re looking wonderful!” A door closes behind them as they enter Annabelle’s room, and the hall is empty again.
Now the stair door opens wide, and someone comes through. As it closes, I get a quick glimpse of a doctor in a loose green cotton top and pants, cotton cap completely covering his hair, and even a surgical mask tied across his face. He looks as if he just walked out of an operating room on a TV show. In a few steps he reaches the door of Mr. Merson’s room and enters.
Weird, I think. Something about all this isn’t right. I’m pretty sure that doctors don’t leave surgery when dressed like that and then go visiting patients in their rooms.
I walk to Mr. Merson’s door, which is shut now. I grip the handle and slowly open the door.
Blinking, I can barely make out shapes in the room. The blinds and drapes have been closed, turning the once-bright room into a dark cavern. The doctor is bending over Mr. Merson’s bed, a large pillow in his hands.
In bed Mr. Merson twists and struggles. His muffled moan terrifies me, but I yell at the doctor. “What are you doing?” I run toward him, shouting, “Put down that pillow! Take that off his face!”
The figure whirls and swings the pillow at my head. He shoves me in the chest so that I stagger backward, hit the wall, and fall to the floor.
As he dashes out the door I manage to get to my feet then into the hall, but he’s disappeared.
“Help!” I yell, and nurses pop out from their center station. “Help! Someone tried to kill Mr. Merson!”
CHAPTER NINE
Ieople appear from everywhere. I explain to a uniformed security guard about the doctor who tried to smother Mr. Merson, and he heads for the stairs. I tell the story over and over to nurses and doctors and people in business suits.
“No, I didn’t get a close look at the doctor,” I say. “The room was dark. The doctor shoved me against the wall.”
“You didn’t get a good look at his eyes?”
“No.”
“Did you notice any unusual identifying marks?”
“I told you, the room was too dark.”
“How tall was he?”
“I’m not sure. Average height, I guess … No. Maybe taller. I think he was a little bit taller than I am.”
“Color of hair?”
“I don’t know. The hospital cap covered all of it.”
“Male or female?”
“I don’t know!”
Finally the questions stop. I realize that most of the people have left, and those going in and around Mr. Merson’s room are now moving normally and quietly. The security guard informs me that a hospital scrub suit like the one I described was found on the second-floor landing. He holds it up, and I identify it as like the one the attacker was wearing.
The security guard takes my name. Then a nurse asks if I’m hurt. She tells me Mr. Merson wants to see me.
“How is he?” I ask.
“He’s fine,” she says.
I can’t believe her matter-of-fact attitude at a time like this. “He’s fine? After almost being murdered?”
“He was upset, but his blood pressure has returned to normal and his vital signs are good.”
She leads me into his room, cheerfully chirping, “Here she is, Mr. Merson. Here’s the young lady who chased away your attacker.”
“Hello,” I say to this stranger I have been waiting eagerly to meet, “I’m Kristi Evans.”
He raises his left hand and points toward one of the armchairs. Then he motions as though he wants it moved closer.
I push the armchair close to the side of his bed and sit in it. Again he reaches out with his hand, and I think I know what he means. I hold out my left hand and clasp his in a backward handshake.
I’m wrong. That’s not what he wants. He turns my hand so that it’s resting on the blanket cover, palm up. Then, with his index finger, he draws the shape o
f letters in my palm, T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U.
I tell him, “A person you know, Ms. Chase, said that whoever tried to kill you might come back and try again.”
His eyebrows rise, and I answer the questions in his eyes. “I went to your house. She came while I was there. She told Frederick she wanted to pick up some paintings you had promised her.”
Once again his eyebrows rise and fall. I say, “Detectives came to our house Sunday because they’d found the folder you’ve been keeping about me.”
I pause, waiting for him to respond, but he lies there quietly looking at me. Finally he prints in my palm, G-O O-N.
“Okay,” I say, giving in for the moment. “I’ll go first, but I need questions answered, and I’m getting tired of waiting.”
So I tell Mr. Merson about visiting the intensive care unit soon after he was taken to Ben Taub. “You didn’t know it, but I was there.”
He shakes his head, then nods.
“What? You did know?”
He nods again.
“I thought you were sedated.”
Once more he nods.
“You mean you could hear what I said, even though you were out of it?”
He traces the letters in my hand. I H-E-A-R-D Y-O-U.
I look him straight in the eyes. “Then you know why I came. I have to know who you are. I have to know why you kept a folder of clippings and photographs about me.”
He writes in my palm again, and I hold my breath, concentrating intently. All he writes is G-O O-N.
Reluctantly I answer, “I said I’d talk first, so I will, in order of how it happened.”
I describe going to his house and talking to Frederick and seeing Ms. Chase for the first time.
“I saw Frank Kupka’s painting of his wife ‘among verticals’ hanging in your entry hall,” I tell him.
I wait for the look of alarm when he realizes that the painting has been recognized, but instead his eyes glow with pleasure. What do I say next? I can’t tell him I know where the painting rightfully belongs.
I interrupt the logical flow and ask, “Do you own other artists’ paintings?”
Who Are You? (9780307823533) Page 7
