“Easy for you to say.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t make me beg. Be a sport.”
“When and where?”
“You busy tonight? I’m asking in a general sense only—not digging for information about your personal life. I’d like that to go in the official record.”
“So noted.”
“Well, are you? Busy tonight?”
“As it happens, I am. What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow will do just fine. Can I take you to supper?”
“I think that might be a little ambitious.”
“A drink, then. Or coffee?”
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“Work with me here.”
“I think we should avoid food and beverages entirely. How about we meet at SMU? Are you working tomorrow? I’ll be over there anyway.”
“At the school?”
“Just in the neighborhood.”
For once I held my tongue, reminding myself firmly that it was none of my business what he’d be doing in the neighborhood.
“How about the Meadows?” he said.
“The Meadows? On campus? You are aware that’s a museum?”
“And your point would be …”
“Last time we went to a museum, you were insufferable.”
“They had a toilet on a platform in the middle of the room.”
“It was modern art.”
“It was a toilet.”
“See? You’re a redneck in disguise. I’m not taking you to a museum. Bowling maybe.”
“No, really. I’m growing. We can walk around and, you know. look at art. I can improve my mind while you’re busy not freaking out.”
“I think there’s some sort of visiting exhibit. It’s supposed to be a big deal.”
“Well, then, you’re on.”
“I’ll see if I can snag us free tickets.”
“Professor perk?”
“One of the few. Two o’clock?”
“You’ll be late.”
I feigned indignation. “I will most certainly not be late.”
“Okay. You won’t be late. See you at two thirty.”
“Right. See you then. And David?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, Dylan.”
22
I CAME DOWN HARD from my nervous high after my conversation with David and found myself standing in a bustling hallway full of strangers, feeling embarrassed and alone. Hey, you? Who had I become? I used to be witty. Interesting. Interested. I had sharp social skills and an innate ability to connect with people. I was a confident, assertive woman. Not a nervous, giggling simpleton who generates inane remarks in a simple exchange with an ex-boyfriend.
And I had never in my life been afraid of anything. Ever. Not until that ill-fated August day when I met Peter Terry and learned that fearlessness is almost always based on denial.
Only the ignorant are unafraid.
The crucial error, of course, was that I had ignored my better instincts completely and given that pasty, invasive stranger the time of day in the first place. I should have cold-shouldered him the instant he showed up in the water and stood too close to me—the very second he pushed me to talk to him. I’d known in that moment that he was bad news. And I hadn’t listened to myself.
Anyone who won’t take no for an answer never, ever deserves a yes.
Idiot, my mind said to me.
“Exactly,” I said out loud. “You are a grade-A prime idiot.”
I tried Christine’s room again and then Liz’s cell phone. No answer at either number. On a hunch, I decided to hike the considerable distance to the Parkland main patient-information desk. My feet were blistering under the straps of my flip-flops by the time I arrived.
Maybe it was the smell of the film-developing chemicals wafting through radiology that had triggered the impulse. Smells carry powerful associations with time, place, and memory. Just the smell of canned green beans can knock me back to the lunchroom in my junior high, whether I want to go there or not. Whatever the cause, standing there in the waiting room on the worn, maroon carpet, trying to worm my way back there to see Christine, I had been overcome by a conviction that I needed to find Joe Riley. A man I’d met only once. A man who, at least according to the Parkland Hospital patient records, didn’t exist.
The woman behind the desk tapped the keys with her long, pink fingernails and scowled at the computer.
“No Joe Riley,” she said triumphantly.
“You checked Joe and Joseph, right?”
“No Joe, no Joseph. I checked four different spellings of Riley.”
“Can you see if you have any record of his having checked in at all? Maybe you have a patient record from some other visit?”
“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
“Oh. Why not?” I felt strangely indignant, like I did when I was nine and accidentally slammed my bicycle into a wall.
“I can’t go in there and look for just any old Joe Riley ever. Not without an address or a date of birth.”
“Why not?”
“Patient confidentiality just doesn’t allow for that sort of thing. If you had the DOB or maybe the Social, I could tell you if he wasn’t here. But I can’t tell you if he was here. If you get my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
She pulled a Bic out of her bouffant and started on a diagram, complete with circles and arrows and underlined question marks. “See, with Joe Riley being such a common-type name, there could be a dozen or so here in our system. Like this.”
She drew a bunch of squares scattered across her paper.
“If I pull up all the Joe Rileys”—frantic circling and underlining—”and you don’t have an address or a DOB, I can’t tell you who wasn’t here, now, can I?” Four question marks in a row.
“I guess not.”
“Right. So you understand the problem.”
“Got it,” I said, though of course I didn’t. “No Joe Riley.”
She slipped the pen behind her ear with a satisfied smile.
“What about John Mulvaney? Can you tell me if there’s a John Mulvaney here? I think he might have been brought in last night.”
I spelled the name and she tapped. “John Mulvaney. I can confirm he is here.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Why not?”
“Patient confidentiality.”
At this point my temper was kicking like a roped colt. I mentally straddled it and wrestled it to the ground.
“But if I step back and call you on my cell phone, you could put me through to his room, right?”
She squinted at the screen. “Unfortunately, no.”
I sighed. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t have a phone in his room.”
“And the room number would be?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
I made a mental note to send my congressman a nasty-gram about these inane confidentiality rules, which were making my life unnecessarily difficult. As though I needed any help with that.
“Okay, how about this?” I said. “Isn’t the locked psych unit up on eight? They haven’t moved it or anything, have they?”
“I believe the eighth floor is where that unit is located,” she said, flashing a secret-sharing smile my way.
“So my guess is, if I take a stroll on over to the locked psych unit, I might be able to track down a friend of mine.”
“I think that might be a good place to start.” She winked at me.
“Great.”
I thanked her for her time and had started for the psych unit when Liz rang my cell phone.
“Where are you guys?” I said. “I’ve been all over the hospital.”
“Christine had to get some blood drawn and meet with an infectious disease specialist.”
“Why? What’s wrong? Did she have another attack?”
�
��No, she’s just dehydrated, I think. She’s feverish and a little nauseous. She’s got a little rash on her legs. I can’t get her to eat anything.”
“She was eating fine last night.”
“I know. The doctor’s wondering if she picked up an infection or something.”
“Have you tried a strawberry milk shake? That was all she wanted the other day.”
“Good idea. I’ll see if I can get them to make her one.”
“Are you guys back in the room now?”
“Settling in for another long night.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
“Something besides Cheetos and Dr Pepper? Maybe some wine and cheese?”
“You got it.”
Parkland is located in an infamously seedy area of Dallas, wedged between I-35 and Harry Hines Boulevard on the west side of town. You can’t swing a dead rat in a neighborhood like this without hitting a liquor store. If you’re looking for anything from beer to bourbon, you’re in the right place. But the finer choices are limited, to say the least. I navigated potholed streets in search of wine in a bottle, not a box—streets populated by hookers looking for work in front of the nasty strip clubs that seem to spring up like mushrooms in this part of town. I finally wandered into a better neighborhood and found a Whole Foods, where I picked up a couple of bottles of Sauvignon blanc—New Zealand, of course—and got the guy behind the counter to recommend a couple of cheeses. I splurged on a set of Riedel wineglasses and picked up a corkscrew while I was at it.
Maria had finished her shift and was sitting in the Lysol chair when I arrived.
“I brought refreshments,” I said after I’d hugged everyone. I unpacked my paper sack and set out our impromptu picnic. I’d bought pistachios too, which I divvied up into foam cups for Liz, Maria, and myself.
“You sure you don’t want some pistachios?” I said to Christine. “They’re the green ones, remember? Nice and salty and real super crunchy. Look.” I demonstrated. “You get to break them out of the shell.”
She shook her head. Her brown bangs were stuck to her damp forehead, her cheeks pink and feverish. She seemed fussy and uncomfortable, twisting around in her bed and tangling herself up in the sheets. She scratched at her legs.
“You’re not hungry, huh?” I said.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth and shook her head no.
“What’s her temp, Liz?” Maria asked.
“Hundred and one.”
“That seems really high,” I said.
“Not for a kid,” Maria said. “Their temperature can shoot up pretty easily, especially when they’re dehydrated.” She turned to Liz. “Has she eaten anything at all today?”
“Nope.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “They had to put her back on saline. I’ve been trying all day to get something in her.”
“Probably just a bug,” Maria said. “They drew blood?”
Liz nodded.
“How did that go?” I said.
Liz rolled her eyes. “How do you think? You were there for the x-ray, remember?”
I sat down beside Christine. “You tired of being in the hospital, sweetie?”
Christine was up on her knees and was digging around in her covers. She looked up at Liz with panic in her eyes. “Where’s No-Nose?”
I got up and picked up my bag. “I took him out for a little walk,” I said.
Her face twisted. The pink cheeks turned red as she burst into tears. The crying quickly devolved into shrieking. “He doesn’t like the dark!” she shouted. She stood up in the bed and held out her arms. “Take him out! Take him out!”
I yanked No-Nose out of my bag and handed him over to Christine. She grabbed him and clutched him to her chest, sobbing, as she fell back to her knees.
I sat down next to her again and tried to push her hair out of her eyes, but she jerked away. I pulled my hand away quickly, stung. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t know.”
I met Liz’s eyes and mouthed an apology.
“He seemed pretty happy,” I said to Christine. “I just assumed he liked it in there.”
“He hates the dark,” she whined. “It makes him scared, and he cries, and then he can’t breathe.”
Liz, Maria, and I looked at one another. It was as though all the air had whooshed out of the room.
Maria’s chin began to quiver.
“Has No-Nose been real hot today?” I asked Christine.
She nodded.
“And thirsty?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Doesn’t he want anything to drink?” Maria said.
She shook her head violently. “No!”
“Why not?” Maria said gently. “I think he’d feel a lot better if he had a milk shake.”
“He wants his mommy!” She began to sob again.
Liz shot a glance at Maria, who looked like she’d just been hit in the forehead with a bat. She put her head in her hands, her composure crumbling completely. Her shoulders began to heave as she cried silently.
Liz and I looked at each other and wordlessly divvied up the duties.
I grabbed a Kleenex box, sat on the arm of the Lysol chair, and hugged Maria as she cried it out.
Liz got up and sat down on the bed next to Christine. “It’s okay, Punkin. Mommy’s right here.” She petted No-Nose. “And see? No-Nose has his mommy too. You’re right here for him, okay? Settle down. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be ooookay.”
Christine wrapped her arms around her mother and buried her head in Liz’s hair.
We sat like that for several minutes until everyone had calmed down. Conversations in the hallway seemed muffled and faraway, as if someone had stuffed the doorway with cotton.
Maria eventually pushed her hair back, blew her nose, and went to the bathroom to wash her face. She came back looking exhausted but determined. She sat down on the bed opposite Liz.
“Christine, sweetie. Are you doing okay?” she asked carefully.
“Uh-huh,” Christine mumbled. She lifted her head and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her pink jammies.
Maria touched Christine’s forehead. “Have you been real hot all day?”
She nodded.
“And thirsty?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sweetie, do you think Nicholas might be hot and thirsty today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Punkin,” I asked, “have you seen Nicholas lately? Like that time you saw him in the closet?”
She nodded.
Maria drew a quick breath. “Do you know where he is? Is he okay?”
Christine mumbled something.
“Speak up, Christine,” Liz said. “Miss Maria can’t hear what you’re saying.”
Christine lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder. “It was real dark.”
“Was he in a real small space, Punkin?” Liz asked.
“Uh-huh. It was all itchy.”
We looked at each other. “Itchy?” I asked. “What do you mean? His skin was itchy? Or was he sitting on something that made him itchy?”
“He looked like a snickerdoodle.” She wiped her cheeks and looked at me. “Miss Dylan, are you going to make Mr. David some snickerdoodles?”
“Not right now, sweetie.” I said.
“But will you?”
“I promise. I’ll make him some snickerdoodles. First chance I get.”
“What’s a snickerdoodle?” Maria asked.
“A sugar cookie,” Liz said. “Except with cinnamon sugar.” She turned to Christine. “You mean like when you’re at the beach? On Lake Michigan? When we used to go to Grandma’s house?”
Christine sighed. “I like to do sand angels.”
Liz turned to Maria. “When she’s at the beach, she rolls in the sand, then says she’s a snickerdoodle.”
“Is Nicholas sitting on some sand?” Maria asked Christine.
“He looked like a snickerdoodle, and he was all itchy.”
“So what do you think?” I said. “Texas coast? Me
xico?”
Maria nodded. “Lots of kidnapped kids end up in Mexico. There’s a market there. Especially for fair-haired kids.”
“I’ll call Enrique.”
I stepped into the hall and had a brief conversation with the detective.
“I’m not sure Ybarra or the FBI will find this to be credible information,” he said.
“But you do, don’t you?”
“Any other kid? No.”
“But this isn’t any other kid. This is Christine.”
“I know.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He cleared his throat. I could tell he was choking back a truckload of emotions. “You think she could describe anything in more detail?”
“With the right person asking the questions, yeah.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
By the time I got back to the room, Christine was asleep, No-Nose clutched to her chest. Liz had pulled a chair up to the Lysol chair and was sitting knee to knee with Maria, talking quietly.
“What did he say?” Maria asked.
“He said he’d call me right back. Did she say anything else?”
“She said there was carpet and it was bumpy,” Liz said.
“What was bumpy? The carpet?”
“What else would she have meant?” Maria asked.
I shrugged. “I’m wondering if she was talking about a bumpy ride. Dark space, small, with carpet, bumpy, maybe with sand.”
“Trunk of a car,” Maria said.
“Did she say what color carpet?” I asked.
“Black,” Liz said.
“Where else would you find black carpet?” I said. “It’s got to be the trunk of a car.”
“That doesn’t help us much,” Maria said. “It means he’s still being moved around.”
“Enrique said they’ve got a lead on the car,” I said.
My phone buzzed. Maria filled Liz in about the white Ford Fairlane while I stepped outside and took the call from Martinez.
“I’m bringing over a sketch artist,” he said. “We’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“Christine’s asleep,” I said. “You might want to wait a little while.”
“You think she’s down for the night?”
I checked my watch. “I doubt it. It’s only six. She’s just tired from crying and from the fever. She hasn’t eaten anything today.”
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