“She saw Aladdin.”
“Oh. I guess Disney is responsible for kids’ cultural education these days.”
“Such as it is.”
“Maybe it was figurative,” I said.
“Christine keeps saying the man was mean.”
“Could be more than that,” I said. “Maybe evil spirits have some sort of snake manifestation.”
“On their heads? That’s ridiculous.”
“More ridiculous than believing in them in the first place?”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s what they have instead of a halo. Peter Terry would know. Maybe we should ask him.”
I shuddered. “No thanks. I’ve got more trouble than I can handle already without bringing him into the conversation.”
I told her about John Mulvaney and the blog he was using to harass a student.
“And he’s saying you’re involved?”
I waved my hand, swatting away the concern. “It’s the kind of thing that can be easily disproved. I haven’t had any contact with the man since he was arrested.”
“But he’s in jail, right?”
“Yep. Downtown at Lew Sterrett. Awaiting trial.”
“Still?”
“Wheels of justice.”
“Do you think John Mulvaney could be involved in Nicholas’s disappearance?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me. “I can’t imagine how.”
“It just seems odd that his name would crop up now. Didn’t he have some weird obsession with you?”
I felt a hint of nausea rise into the back of my throat. “He’d been taking pictures of me for … a year or so, I guess. He had them all over his apartment.”
Liz looked at me expectantly.
“I can’t see how it would be connected,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows.
I pursed my lips and considered her point. “I’ll call Martinez,” I said finally. At this stage of the game, I was willing to follow any meager little trail of crumbs I could find.
I decided to leave the hospital to make the call. I wasn’t too interested in being overheard talking about a sicko who was harassing someone in my name and who might possibly be involved in kidnapping a sweet little friend of mine. Not that any of it was my fault, you understand. But still, it’s not like asking someone to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home.
I walked out the sliding doors and dialed. Standing there, the warm air settling in on me, I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. After hours in the dank air conditioning, my skin felt clammy and prickly. I felt as though I would never warm up. All this darkness and cold malevolence. It seemed to be everywhere—all around me.
Martinez picked up immediately. I told him about John Mulvaney and his sick little blog.
“Liz thought it might somehow relate to Nicholas’s disappearance.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But it does seem weird, don’t you think? That this nut-job surfaces right after Nicholas disappeared?”
“How do you know he surfaced after Nicholas was kidnapped?”
I paused. “I guess I don’t. That was an assumption.”
“When did he contact the girl?”
“I don’t know. I just know it was recently.” I was starting to feel awkward and self-conscious. Why hadn’t I thought any of this through? Clearly I was wasting the man’s time.
“What’s her name?”
“Um, I don’t know. My boss said the girl was going to contact me.” The whole thing was starting to seem like a stupid notion.
“Blog address?”
“Don’t know.”
“Didn’t ask many questions, did you?”
“Guess not.”
“Call her back and get more information.”
“Okay. Any leads on the white car?”
“Nada.”
He was about to hang up when I stopped him. “Hey, do you know if anyone else saw the man in the park?”
“Which man in the park?”
“The tall one watching the soccer game. The one I said looked predatory.”
“I don’t know off the top of my head. I’d have to check the witness statements.”
“Would you mind?”
“Sure. I’ll call Ybarra.”
“Would you ask him again if I could talk to the child psychologist? The one who interviewed Christine?”
“He won’t let you.”
“Why won’t he let me?”
“Dylan, we’ve been over this. You’re a witness. He won’t want to muddy the stories.”
“But I’m also a psychologist. I need to ask him some questions.”
“Dylan, I hate to break it to you, but Casey Ybarra does not want your help with his investigation.”
“I know, but—”
“I’ll ask him, but the answer is going to be no.”
“Would you give me the name, then?”
He laughed. “Whose side do you think I’m on, anyway?”
“Nicholas’s,” I said sharply.
The line fell silent.
“Enrique?”
I could hear him breathing.
“Enrique, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“I’ll call you back.” He hung up.
I mentally berated myself for being belligerent (another Top Ten Terrible Trait) and then dialed Helene.
“I need the student’s name.”
“Which one? The incomplete?”
“No. The one Mulvaney’s harassing.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly. Whatever.”
“Do you have a pen?”
“Shoot.”
“Molly Larken. L-a-r-k-e-n.” Helene gave me her contact information but suggested I wait a day or two to see if she’d contact me first.
“Do you know when the harassment started?”
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Why?”
“I’m wondering if it could have anything to do with the kidnapping. It just seems a little strange that both things would somehow connect to me. Do you have the blog address?”
I heard her shuffling around her desk. “I wrote it down …”
She read the address to me.
“Have you looked at it?”
“Why would I want to look at it?”
“You’re going to have to eventually. You’re at your desk, right?” I asked. “Type in the address, will you?”
I waited as she tapped on her keyboard.
She sighed. “You have the worst luck.”
“Is it pictures or narrative or what?”
“You need to see it for yourself. I’m turning it off.”
“How bad is it? Regular bad or unusually bad?”
“How could we not have known he was such a mess?” She sighed again. “You have the worst luck.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s true.”
“I can’t help it.”
“It keeps getting worse.”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Helene.”
“Maybe you need a sabbatical.”
“It’s summer, for crying out loud. I have two months off.”
“I’m just saying …”
“Hey, speaking of needing a sabbatical—I forgot to ask you about my review. That was why I called in the first place.”
“You’re not ready, are you?”
“I’ll be ready,” I said, scribbling notes to myself. “When is it again?”
“Fall semester. Officially, August, but I can stall for you until October or November.”
“What should I be working on?”
“Just make sure your work is up to par.”
“My work’s up to par.” I waited for her to say something. “Isn’t it?”
“Your student evaluations are wonderful. Your classroom work is superior. Your record … is pretty clean.”
“Pretty clean?”
“The Zocci thing.”
“That turned out to
be nothing.”
“A kid died.”
“I didn’t mean literally nothing. I’m just pointing out that it didn’t have anything to do with me.”
“It’s still in your file.”
Erik Zocci, Christine’s uncle, had been a patient of mine in the student clinic a couple of years ago. He’d died under mysterious circumstances. That whole mess, which eventually led me to a friendship with the Zocci family, started the day I met Peter Terry. The creep dragged me into the fray with false accusations of professional impropriety. I’d been absolved, but still, it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want in your personnel file.
“I haven’t been watching your publication history,” Helene was saying.
“I’ve got another journal article coming out in August. That makes eleven. I submitted a book outline six months ago. I’m still waiting to hear.”
“Who’s got it?”
“Harcourt.”
“I’d call Harold. He did a book with them a few years ago. He might be able to get you out of the slush pile. Isn’t he mentoring you?”
“Yep. I lucked out. He’s the only one in the department with any people skills at all.”
“Other than me.”
“Obviously. That goes without saying.”
“Stop kissing up. Call Harold. He’ll help you through it.”
I was still writing furiously. “I don’t know if I have the energy for all this right now, Helene.”
“Oh, stop whining. You have all summer to get ready. Things will have settled down by then.”
“You’re certainly optimistic.”
“I’m optimistic by nature. Have been all my life. But you,” she said, cackling, “have a way of surprising me.”
12
I GOT UP EARLY the next day and went for a swim, then called Liz in the room and told her I had some errands to run. I blew off Helene’s advice and called Molly Larken on her cell phone. She didn’t sound too happy to hear from me but said she’d talk to me. We agreed to meet at Starbucks at one that afternoon.
I showered and changed, then moved my truck to faculty parking behind my building, pulling into a nice wide slot under a large, leafy live oak tree. Two for two. I threw my shoulder against the door of my pickup and forced it open against its will, wincing at the familiar donkey honk of the hinges. Time for another can of WD-40.
As I stepped onto the asphalt, I was struck once again by what a great place SMU is to work. Beautiful campus, supportive faculty, reasonably intelligent (if somewhat apathetic) student body. And—wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles—generous and proximate faculty parking. I felt a little alarmed at the possibility of bombing my review. I knew I’d never find another job like this one, especially with my legendarily rotten luck. Now that I understood the way the universe worked, I couldn’t believe I’d landed here in the first place. I’d probably just squeaked past the gate while Peter Terry was off at the beach or something.
I walked quickly to Hyer Hall, my mind trailing off again toward Nicholas and the park and the rest of it. Preoccupied, I stalked up the steps to my office. I was determined, by sheer will if nothing else, to squint through the blinding glare of seemingly unrelated details—which all seemed to converge at a point unknown, some fractal disaster zone just out of sight. I unlocked my office and threw my bag down on my old leather chair, punched the button on my computer, and watched it warm up while I checked my phone messages.
There were several calls from disgruntled students. A couple of them wanted grade changes. Fat chance. Delete, delete. One call was from a student who had missed the final, claiming his sister had been in a car accident. I checked my records. The kid hadn’t missed a class all year. I’d give him a makeup test and threaten him with his life if he took this magnanimous and unprecedented gesture for granted. The last call was from the boy who needed to get the incomplete off his record. I called him back and relieved his anxiety by letting him know I’d send in the grade today, then bumped him from a C+ to a B- as a guilt offering for my lack of availability. I didn’t tell him that, of course. But it would be a nice surprise when his grades showed up. I finished returning calls, then got online and found John Mulvaney’s blog.
The Internet is the modern version of an ancient cultural tradition. Instead of ripping open an overcoat and flashing at one or two strangers at a time, narcissists, exhibitionists, and the pathologically self-involved can now reveal their private parts (literal and figurative) online—and have access not just to one stranger at a time but to countless infantile voyeurs who wander into their cyberspace. I’d always found the odd, counterfeit intimacy of the online universe profoundly unsettling. Why anyone would want to spew their secrets into the cosmos for strangers to pick through and smell—a virtual garage sale of emotions and sentiments and opinions—was beyond me.
But there it was. Not only did John Mulvaney have his own blog, but the counter at the bottom of the home page proclaimed proudly that 2,574 “unique” visitors had actually taken a look. Make me 2,575.
I clicked the icon and stepped into John Mulvaney’s strange online world.
My cell phone buzzed, yanking me back into my office. I looked around at my bookshelves, remembering suddenly where I was. I checked my watch. I didn’t want to be late for Molly Larken. Then I flipped open my phone.
“I checked with Casey,” Martinez said without saying hello.
“Casey?”
“Ybarra. No one else saw the guy at the soccer game.”
“No one? Not one single person?”
“Just you.” I heard him kick the door to his office closed.
I thought for a minute.
“Why would that be?” he asked me.
“No idea.”
“You must have some idea, or you wouldn’t have asked.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Dylan?”
“I’m not sure he was really there.”
“What do you mean? You made him up?”
“No. I just mean—”
My phone buzzed as another call came in. “Hold on.” I checked the number. My father. No way was I talking to him right now. “I mean that he may not be a regular human person.”
“What’s the alternative?” he asked.
“Remember the Peter Terry thing?”
“Yeah. The spooky white guy who haunted Gordon Pryne.”
“The same thing happened the first time I saw him. I had a conversation with him in broad daylight. When I asked someone about it later, she said she hadn’t seen anyone but me.”
“You think the guy in the park was Peter Terry?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then who?”
“Maybe a friend of his.”
“You believe that?”
“I’m not sure. But why would it be that no one else saw him? Not one person out of … how many?”
He turned pages, then said, “One hundred eighteen. Not including kids.”
“A hundred and eighteen people and I’m the only one who saw this guy.”
“Maybe no one else was looking.”
“I wasn’t looking either. He only stood out to me because he was so predatory.”
“So you’re saying he was …”
“I don’t know.”
“A demon. Or something on the order of one. That’s what you’re saying.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“That’s—”
“Weird, I know.”
We both fell silent. I was relieved when he changed the subject.
“Casey wouldn’t give me the name of the shrink.”
“Well?”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Carmichael. Joan Carmichael.”
“I know her.”
“What a surprise.”
“We interned together at Parkland. Do you have her number?”
“I’m not giving it to you.”
“I�
�m calling her anyway.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“We have procedures, Dylan. We’re investigating a kidnapping.”
“Not a kidnapping. Nicholas’s kidnapping.”
“I realize that.”
“So I’m calling Joan Carmichael.”
“Suit yourself.”
“He’s out there somewhere, Enrique. He’s still alive. I know it.”
“Let’s hope so.”
He hung up on me again. I picked up my bag and headed out the door for my meeting with Molly Larken.
13
I CALLED JOAN CARMICHAEL on my way to Starbucks and left her a girl-friendy-collegial type of voice mail. Sort of a “Hey, your name came up recently and I wanted to check in” type of thing. I was trading on goodwill and professional courtesy, and cashing in on all that false intimacy we’d banked through our mutual suffering on the locked adult psych unit at Parkland during our internship year. I didn’t tell her why I was calling, exactly. I figured it was seventy–thirty she’d return my call.
I parked my rattly truck in the immaculate, tree-shaded lot of immaculate, tree-shaded Highland Park Village shopping center, smack in front of the Chanel store between a sparkling navy blue Porsche 911 and a sparkling white Mercedes convertible. I shoved my shoulder against the door of my pickup, winced once again at the groan it emitted as it opened, and caught it just as it slammed into the side of the Porsche. I checked the Porsche—no ding, thank God, and no alarm—then feigned nonchalance and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. I found myself in the stare of a Chanel saleswoman, who was looking at me through the store window as though I’d just dumped a truckload of manure in front of the store. I gave her a big “hi, there” smile, passed up a perfect hair-flip moment as I walked past her, and swung open the Starbucks door.
It was freezing inside, as usual. I’d spent many hypothermic hours in this Starbucks grading papers. My feet would be blue in a few minutes. I scanned the store but didn’t see anyone who had that anxious “are you the one I’m meeting?” look about her. I was early, for once, so I ordered some iced tea and took a seat just inside the door. A few minutes later, Molly Larken walked in. Ten minutes late. I knew her immediately, though I was positive we’d never met.
She was maybe five-four, wearing frayed Levi’s and a pink baby tee that said “I’m Bluffing” on it in big black letters. Her Converse sneakers were faded and worn. A peace-sign keychain jingled from the slouchy leather bag slung over her shoulder. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing beady earrings and a yin-yang drop on a leather choker. She wore no makeup. Her big, greenish eyes were set off by a creamy complexion. She sported a respectable tan for a redhead.
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