My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

  Liz and Christine weren’t in the room when I got there. I tracked down the charge nurse, who said they’d gone for another test. Christine had developed some complications, she said. She wouldn’t tell me what complications she was talking about.

  “Blame the federal government,” she said. “That HIPAA privacy nonsense has got us all hogtied.”

  I sat in the Lysol chair and made phone calls.

  Molly Larken was first on my list. For some reason, I felt like she should know about John Mulvaney. I left messages at her home and on her mobile.

  Maria didn’t pick up either. I figured I’d have heard from her if she had any news. But I hadn’t talked to her in a while and wanted to check in, at least to let her know I was thinking about her.

  I tossed out a pitch to the universe and called David, though I knew there wasn’t a gnat’s chance he’d pick up. I left him a breezy, “Just thinking of you; hope you’re well,” message. Maybe if he heard my voice, he’d realize how much he missed me.

  I briefly pondered whether or not to put in a call to Ybarra. I knew he wanted me to stay out of his case, but I knew equally well that I had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. The more I considered the call, though, the more certain I was I shouldn’t do it. What would I say? That Christine Zocci was somehow tuned in to Nicholas and was having asthma attacks that weren’t really asthma attacks? That the spiritual radar Ybarra thought was nonsense was really quite accurate and seemed to indicate that Nicholas was longing for red Kool-Aid? That the snake represented subterfuge and stolen power? I rolled my eyes and looked around, embarrassed, even though it was just me sitting there.

  It took me a few minutes to track down Martinez. He wasn’t in his office and didn’t pick up his cell phone when I called. He called me back a short time later, though. I was relieved to hear his voice.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  “A little. HP police ticketed a white Ford Fairlane for using a handicapped spot at the park that day.”

  “A Fairlane? They stopped making those forever ago, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. Sometime in the seventies, I think. Talked to the cop who wrote the ticket. Red leather interior. Cracked. Oxidized paint on the hood. Said he thought about just towing the thing, it was such a wreck.”

  “You’re kidding me. That’s got to be the car.”

  “It was parked at the wrong end of the park—too far away for the guy to have been parked there when he snatched Nicholas.”

  “What time was the ticket?”

  “Four in the afternoon.”

  “That’s right when we got there.”

  “Maybe he watched for a while, picked his target, moved his car to the other end of the park, and waited.”

  “So they know the plate number now, right?”

  “The plates don’t match the make and model of the vehicle.”

  My heart sank. “Someone switched the plates.”

  “Looks like it. Plates are registered to a guy over near Harry Hines. Red Chevy truck—2004.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “He’s clean. He’s worked at that Home Depot over on Lemmon for six years. Legal resident from Mexico. Green card, the whole bit. Family man with solid alibi for the time of the disappearance. Clean record—no priors, no known criminal associates. No history of child porn—nothing on his computer at all. He opened it right up for us. He says he reported the vehicle stolen two days before the abduction.”

  “You checked that out, I assume.”

  “Yep.”

  “So. Dead end.”

  “Right.”

  “But the car’s right, isn’t it? It’s a white Ford Fairlane? What year?”

  “Probably ’63. Could be a ’64. With stolen plates. We’ve got every trooper in this state looking for it.”

  “Let’s hope the guy’s got a lead foot.”

  “How’s Christine?”

  “I don’t know. I just got back to the hospital. She and Liz are gone for another test. The nurse said she’s had some complications.”

  “Maria said it’s something with her trachea.”

  “Did she tell you the rest?”

  A long pause. “Do you believe it?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve seen stranger things happen.”

  “You told me about all those summers you spent with your grandmother in Mexico.”

  He chuckled. “Yaya, God rest her soul. Some creepy stuff went down at Yaya’s house.”

  “What would she have done? To find Nicholas? Is there a spell or something?”

  “She probably would have called me. She was a pragmatist.”

  “I talked to Joan Carmichael.”

  “I knew you would. What did she have to say?”

  “Just that Christine probably imagined the snake. Or superimposed it somehow from something she saw.”

  “I think we all agree on that.”

  “There’s this whole thing about snakes and the human psyche. It’s an iconic image. I did a little research today.”

  “What’d you come up with?”

  “People have always associated snakes with evil,” I said. “That’s the short version.”

  “So you think Christine saw the evil in this guy.”

  “That’s my theory,” I said. “I don’t think Nicholas was a random choice.”

  “I know you don’t. But that’s the way it’s adding up.”

  “How’s Maria? I haven’t talked to her today.”

  “She’s holding up okay. Better than I am.”

  “You know, I forget how close you and Nicholas are.”

  “I love that kid like my own. We were going to the ball game on Sunday.” His voice cracked. He collected himself, then cleared his throat. “When I catch up with the guy …”

  “There’s a special place in hell, Martinez.”

  “I intend to help the scumbag arrive, then.”

  “Painfully,” I agreed. “Nicholas is out there,” I added. “We’ll find him.”

  “I hope we get there in time.”

  I winced. “How are our odds at this point?”

  “Not too good, Dylan. It’s been five days. A lot can happen in five days.”

  My phone beeped. I checked the number. “I gotta go. Call me if you hear anything.”

  “You’re second on my list.”

  “Is Maria working today?”

  “She’s on now, I think.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.”

  I clicked over.

  “Hey, Helene.”

  “Are you trying to commit career suicide?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What time is it?” she asked testily.

  I looked at my watch. “Four twenty-five. Why?”

  “What time were you supposed to meet Harold?”

  “Twelve thirty. But not until Thursday.”

  “Today is Thursday, Dylan.”

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s been Thursday all day long. This is a verified fact.”

  I felt my stomach clutch. “You’re joking, right? You’re kidding around.”

  “Why would I joke about this? Harold just called me. He’s furious. Just for future reference, Dylan, when a senior colleague—a tenured professor and an endowed chair, I’d like to point out—offers his time and guidance out of sheer generosity, it is unwise to leave him sitting at a sushi bar for an hour by himself. This might seem like fairly basic information, but it is the sort of lesson you seem to have a great deal of trouble digesting.” She sighed heavily. “Harold doesn’t even like sushi.”

  I needed Mylanta. Now. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I do hope you’re not fishing for sympathy.”

  “Don’t say fish.”

  “Fish, fish, fish.”

  “Harold doesn’t get furious, does he? I’ve never seen him get past mildly ann
oyed.”

  “Congratulations are in order, then. You’ve managed to tip him over the edge.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Helene. I thought today was Wednesday. What should I do?”

  “I’d look for groveling opportunities if I were you. And in the meantime,” she said, “I’d suggest you start looking for another job.”

  21

  CAREER SUICIDE HADN’T BEEN on my agenda for the day, but with my usual efficiency, I’d managed to squeeze it in anyway. I called Harold at every number I had for him. I left contrite messages, groveling as Helene had recommended, knowing even as I did that it was a vain and inadequate effort. No amount of penitence on my part could possibly clean up a mess of this magnitude.

  I sat there for several long minutes just staring at the mottled tile floor. Then I dug in my bag for my notebook, pulled out a pen, and started a list of my Recent Disastrous Failures. I put the Harold debacle first, since it was the freshest and smelliest, then worked my way backward. At the end of the list I wrote David’s name, underlined it heavily, then counted the items. I couldn’t take the full blame for my lousy relationship with my father but was fully prepared to accept my half. That left me with nine and a half incidents. And that was just off the top of my head.

  I leaned my head back onto the Lysol chair and closed my eyes. As though the apocalyptic apprehension I’d been enjoying wasn’t enough, now I’d managed to plummet myself into full-on, abject despair.

  In this distressed state, there was no way I could just sit around and wait for Liz and Christine to come back. My mental health was no longer a load-bearing structure. My only hope was to keep moving, or the whole thing might collapse.

  I stuffed No-Nose in my bag and lit out toward radiology, figuring that was as good a place to start as any. If they were there, I’d be able to follow the screams and find Christine and Liz in short order.

  Interestingly, I made the same series of mistakes I’d made the first time, though, of course, I should have known better. Followed the indigo stripe instead of the purple one. Took the quicker elevator on the left rather than the sluggish one on the right, my chronic sense of urgency and legendary lack of forbearance winning out once again over any shred of common sense I might possess.

  I was relieved to see that Patrick the gender-ambiguous guard dog was not at his post. In his place stood a fairly fluffy and pleasant-looking woman with a tight black bun, skin the color of Duncan Hines brownies, and a name tag that had a bright yellow happy face on it. I sized her up, checked the tag, and decided to go with one of the techniques a rabid stalker client of mine had used to trick women into falling for him: forced teaming.

  “Hi, Bernadette,” I said sweetly, as though we were old friends.

  “Well, hello now.” She stopped what she was doing and beamed at me. “What can I do for you?”

  I pasted on a wide-eyed look of innocence. “We’ve got a little problem.”

  Her eyes widened a bit. “Do we now?”

  “Yes we do. We have a little girl in there right this minute who’s having a terrible time of it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Our little sweetie—she’s my niece, actually”—lie number one—”is having a procedure today, and she’s just downright terrified.” I pulled No-Nose out of my bag and held him out for her to see. “You don’t mind if I just nip in real quick and give her a hug and her teddy bear before she goes in, do you?”

  She smiled apologetically. “Why no, honey. I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that. It’s not allowed. You know how that is.” She winked at me as though we were just suffering this minor little indignity together, the two of us.

  She’d forced-teamed me right back. Bernadette was tougher than she looked.

  “Would you like me to give her a message for you?” she said with apparently genuine sympathy. Brilliant move.

  “Maybe you could just check the visitors list? I think they might be expecting me. Dr. Dylan Foster?”

  “Honey, we got no visitors list up here at this desk today. We’re runnin’ two hours behind, and those technicians are working so hard, they got no time for such things. You know how that is. I’m just as sorry as I can be.”

  “Could you just call back there and check? I hate to be any trouble.” Lie number two.

  “It won’t do any good, sweetheart. Why don’t you just let me take that on back to her? What’s her name?”

  “Christine Zocci.”

  She flipped through several pages on her clipboard. “No one here by that name today.”

  “Oh. You’re sure?”

  “Yes, honey. I got the whole list right here in front of me. What’s she having done today, darlin’?”

  “Um … Dunno.”

  She shrugged. “I sure don’t know what to tell you.”

  I thanked her for her help and started to leave, then turned and walked quickly back to the desk. “Hey, do you have the lists from previous days also?”

  She nodded. “It all goes in the computer.”

  “My brother-in-law”—lie number three—”was in here the other day. I wonder if you could just check and see if he’s still in the hospital anywhere.”

  “I don’t have that record here, but I can call down to patient information for you if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Name?”

  “Joe Riley. I just want to see what room he’s in. I think they might have moved him.”

  She picked up the phone. “Check-in date?”

  “I’m not sure. I know he was here yesterday.”

  She spoke into the phone, nodded, and said, “I see,” a few times, then looked up at me. “No one registered by that name, darlin’.”

  “So he’s checked out, then.”

  “No, I mean we don’t have a patient record for anyone named Joe Riley on that date. You sure you got the name right?”

  “Could you check outpatient? Maybe he was just in for the day.”

  She spoke into the phone again, then shook her head and hung up. “No outpatient record either, honey.”

  “That’s for the entire Parkland system, right? Not just … whichever part I’m standing in right now? Aren’t all these buildings connected?”

  “That’s for the whole caboodle. Maybe you got the wrong hospital, sweetie. Why don’t you try calling over to Baylor?”

  “I’ll do that. I guess I’ve got some bad luck going today. Thanks for your help.”

  I put No-Nose back in my bag and walked out slowly, puzzled. I was standing in the hallway, my brain spinning, when my phone rang. I checked the number and sucked in a breath. It was David.

  I fluffed my hair, straightened my shoulders, and wet my lips, then waited for the fourth ring before I flipped open my phone.

  “Hey, you,” I said, wincing even as the words left my mouth.

  He paused. “ ‘Hey, you’?” He let out a laugh. “Hey, you, yourself.”

  I made a note to shoot myself at the first opportunity. “That sounded incredibly stupid, didn’t it?”

  “I would say credibly stupid. But stupid nonetheless.”

  I prayed silently to the Good Lord Jesus to let me sink quietly into the floor and disappear forever.

  “I can’t think of one time,” he was saying, “in all the time I’ve known you, that I’ve heard you say ‘hey, you.’ ”

  “I choked.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “Why? It’s just me.”

  “I was trying to avoid the whole nickname thing.”

  “What nickname thing?”

  “You want me to call you back and start over?”

  “What nickname thing?”

  “You know, that thing when you’re so close to someone you never use their real name? You always say sweetie or babe or sugar pea or something instead?”

  “Ah. The dreaded nickname thing.”

  “You only use the real name when you’re mad. That’s the rule.”r />
  “You know, I never noticed that.”

  “All my nicknames for you seemed too …”

  “Intimate?”

  I sighed. “Just the word I was searching for.”

  “We are intimate, Dylan. We were together a year and a half.”

  “See what I mean? You just said Dylan.”

  Another pause. “Point taken.”

  There was a long, awkward moment of silence.

  David, bless his heart, bailed us out. “So … I got your message. Was there a reason you called me? Or were you just hoping to work out the whole nickname thing?”

  “A reason. Fair question. I don’t have my strategy mapped out, exactly.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Yes, quite a shock, I’m sure. Maybe we could meet later for coffee or something.”

  “Give you a little time to work on your speech?”

  I grinned. The man was absolutely disarming. “I need to go through a couple of drafts, then rework it. You know, do the spit and polish.”

  “And then there’s the test-market process …”

  “Exactly. I’ll have to run it by my focus group.”

  “That would be Maria and Liz.”

  “Christine, mainly. She’s the one with the good instincts.”

  He laughed. “Good call. How is she? I was going to try to get up there today, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

  “She’s okay. She’s had some complications, though. I can’t get anyone to tell me anything. All I know is they took her for more tests. I was just trying to track her down.”

  “Will you let me know?”

  “I’d love to tell you in person.”

  He paused. “You’re not going to freak out on me, are you?”

  “You mean if we meet or if we don’t meet?”

  “Either. And please don’t freak out because I’m asking you about freaking out. This is going pretty well so far.”

  “It’s a fair question. I’m not taking it personally. Note how calm my tone of voice is.”

  I heard him chuckle. A good sign.

  “I am definitely not going to freak out,” I said. “Not if we meet, I promise. And if we don’t—well, I guess that wouldn’t be your problem, would it? So it’s looking to me like a no-risk proposition for you.”