by Kris Calvert
I gazed down on his frail body. “He’s got more color.”
Dr. Atwood nodded. “We need him to get stronger if we’re going to move him.”
“Move him?”
“Dr. Atwood?” A nurse called out from the doorway.
“Look, you shouldn’t stay long. He needs all the rest he can get.”
Taking a deep breath, I did a fast nod—the one I always used when I was excited or in trouble. Today felt like a bit of both. It took only a moment for the doctor and nurse to clear the room. Finally, I was alone with Oscar.
Slipping my left hand into his, a chill overcame me at the icy feel of his skin. Using my right hand, I swept the backs of my fingers across his forehead. It was something I’d always done when Dax was sick. Being a nanny had given me skills—not the least of all how to take care of someone who was ill.
Oscar’s heartbeat sounded out with the machines. The breathing tube still down his throat, he was attached to more medical gadgets, intravenous fluids and monitors than I’d ever witnessed on one person. I hated seeing him this way, but I had to admit, he looked better today than he did last night. Leaning down to him, I whispered in his ear. “Leo and I are right here with you, Oscar. We love you very much. You’re going to be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”
My breath caught. He opened his eyes at the sound of my voice. It was only for a moment, but he seemed to see me before closing them again. Then with a heavy-lidded flutter, Oscar again tried to look me in the eye. “Oh my God,” I breathed, completely consumed in the moment. “Oscar. Can you hear me? Oscar.”
Gripping the fingers I’d entwined with his, he moaned, the respirator so obviously uncomfortable. Tears formed and flowed from my eyes in an instant. I was shocked. Relieved. Frightened. “I’m right here. It’s me. It’s Polly. Leo’s going to be so happy that you’re awake. Then he’s going to be so upset that he missed this moment.”
He gripped my hand harder, this time squeezing my fingers. “What is it? Are you in pain? Do you want me to get the doctor?”
Oscar closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side only once. I could see him fading again. He patted the top of my hand as if he was searching for something. When he got to my ring finger, he grasped the sides of my engagement ring, pulling at it with every ounce of energy he had. “What is it, Oscar? I don’t understand.”
His body relaxed, his hand falling away from my fingers. His eyes closed.
Panicked, I screamed out. “Dr. Atwood! Someone! Anyone!”
The nurse and Atwood hurried into the temporary hospital room, pushing me aside to check his vital signs. “What happened?”
My mouth was dry as I stared at Oscar and held onto my hand he’d gripped so tightly. “I—I’m not sure. I was talking to him. He opened his eyes and then he grabbed my hand and squeezed it really tight. I thought maybe he was in pain, but he said no. I mean, he shook his head no. And then his eyes closed and he was gone again.”
The doctor rounded the hospital bed, pulling away Oscar’s eyelids to shine a penlight in each. “The old guy is hanging in there. I’ll at least give him that.” Atwood turned to me. “What did you say he was doing?”
I stared at Oscar, the tears still hot on my cheeks. “He was—um…he was holding my hand.”
“Everything okay in here?”
Atwood, the nurse and I turned in near unison to find Tree standing in the doorway.
“Who the hell let you in?” Atwood shouted, pointing for him to leave. “Get out! Get out now! This is a positive pressure room and you’re fucking it up.”
Tree backed out the way he came in and I looked to Dr. Atwood, my face twisted with shock. “Seriously?”
“I don’t know what the hell you and your husband have going on here, but I’m being paid to keep this man alive,” he said, bringing his voice down to an angry whisper. “And you and the band of apes running around here with machine guns are making my job very difficult. Now would you please start from the beginning and explain to me exactly what happened before you called me in here?”
Backing away from Atwood I gathered myself, wiping what was left of my tearstained cheeks to face his question without fear. I didn’t know how much, but I knew we were paying him plenty to take care of Oscar in secrecy. Judging from his comment, I surmised he would receive a hefty bonus when Oscar was himself again—courtesy of Leo.
“There was no need to yell at my security detail. He was only doing his job. I called for help and he showed his face. Now, I’m asking you to calm down so we can discuss this.”
Dr. Atwood pulled up a rolling stool and straddled it, crossing his arms and waiting for me to continue.
“As I was saying, I held his hand and spoke to him—nothing important—just words of encouragement. I told him that Leo and I loved him. That’s all. His eyes fluttered open and he began squeezing my left hand—hard.” I waited for Atwood to ask a question. He didn’t. “I worried he was in pain, so I asked him, are you in pain? He shook his head no. But then he gripped my hand so tightly, he was pulling at my ring and I got nervous, so I called out for you. I’m sorry if that was the wrong thing to do. I assumed if he opened his eyes, you’d want to be here.”
Atwood stood and began to walk away.
“That’s it?” I asked. “You’re just going to walk away and not give me an explanation?”
“Mrs. Xanthus,” Atwood began, his eyes shifting between me and Oscar’s bedside. “His vitals are still good. I’m sure he was glad to see you, perhaps got excited. Or—”
I walked toward him, not letting him out of the room or off the hook so easily. “Or what?”
“You say he grabbed your rings?”
I nodded. “Yes. Why?”
Atwood walked to a steel desk in the corner and picked up a small piece of paper. It looked as if it had been ripped from a steno pad—the top edge raveled. He handed the yellow paper to me without saying anything.
Staring at the scribble on the page, I looked back to him. “Is this supposed to mean something?”
“You tell me. Oscar drew it this morning when he was awake.” Atwood shoved his hands into his pant pockets, pushing away his long white lab coat.
“Oscar drew this?”
Atwood nodded.
“What is it?”
Atwood shrugged his shoulders. “I was hoping you or your husband could shed some light on it for me. We tried to communicate as best we could with him. I let him know that we couldn’t remove the ventilator just yet when he pulled at the endotracheal tube. Then, just before we gave him a sedative to calm him, he pulled the pen from my top pocket,” he said tapping his pocket protector full of pens and a reflex hammer. “We gave him a piece of paper, thinking he would write some words for us. This is what we got.”
I looked back at the paper and shook my head. “But it’s just a box. I mean, I think it’s a box—with another box in the corner? Is that the letter A?”
Atwood shrugged his shoulders again and I was starting to tire of his body language. He may have been genuinely confused, but it was coming across as snarky.
“I’m going to keep this,” I said, folding the paper in half and walking toward the exit. “And, Atwood?”
“Yes?”
“Call my husband and give him an update. Please.”
Atwood bit down on his bottom lip. I thought perhaps he was literally holding back his tongue. He gave me a single nod.
“One more thing.” I waited for a reply this time. We stared each other down for two or three full breaths.
“Yes.”
“Please don’t yell at my security detail again.”
He blinked, but didn’t even give me so much as a nod the second time. I walked away brushing past the nurse, giving her a forced smile and whispering in her ear. “Call me if there’s any change in Oscar—any change.”
Her eyes darted to Atwood and back to me. She nodded and quickly hustled away.
Outside by the car, Tree immediately began his apolog
y with open palms and a remorseful look. “Ma’am—”
I held my hand up to him. “Save it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But ma’am, I—”
“Polly.”
“Miss Polly. I didn’t mean to contaminate anything.”
He opened the passenger’s side door and waited for me to get in. I turned to him, perching my sunglasses on my nose to fight the glare of the midafternoon. “Tree, I’m not upset. When I am upset? You’ll know it. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am—I mean, yes, Polly.”
I flinched before stepping on the running board to climb into the SUV. “Thank the Lord you’re finally getting the hang of that.”
He shut the door and walked to the driver’s side. Opening the paper, I gazed down at Oscar’s shaky drawing. “What are you trying to tell me?” I whispered aloud.
Tree started the car. “Anywhere else, Miss Polly?”
I shook my head and ran my fingers over the fine lines on the paper.
“Whatcha got there?”
My brow arched. “I’m not too sure. Something.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “It came from inside the warehouse.”
Tree grimaced. “I get that. I mean, whose drawing is it?”
“It’s something Oscar drew when he woke up. He couldn’t speak—they’ve got that breathing tube shoved down his throat. This is what he wrote down for them.”
We pulled away from the warehouse in the Ninth Ward and onto State Highway 39, pausing briefly at a red light. “Is Oscar a card player?”
I stared into the traffic that awaited us and away from the paper. “Card player? What do you mean?”
“Does he play poker?” Tree asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. That’s something Leo would know. Why?”
Tree pointed to the drawing in my lap as we began to drive away. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s a card.”
I twisted and turned the paper around. “A card? How did you get that? You mean a playing card?”
Tree leaned his hulking arm over the armrest and traced the outline with his thick finger. “That’s a card. And I could be mistaken, but I’m pretty sure,” he continued as he got to the hieroglyphics in the corner. “That’s the ace of diamonds.”
A chill overcame my entire body. My stomach quivered. I should’ve known what it was. And then it occurred to me. “Tree?”
“Yes, Miss Polly.”
“You said your dad was a high school science teacher—here? Here in New Orleans?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you call him?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you call him?”
“What on earth for, ma’am?”
“I need a microscope.”
13
POLLY
When we pulled into the parking lot of Benjamin Franklin High School, Tree had been given specific instructions to meet his father at a side door. We were essentially sneaking into the school after hours. Parking near the door, I was impressed Tree knew so much about the place.
“Did you go to school here too?” I asked.
He nodded. “It’s not so easy being a student where your dad’s the main science teacher. Especially if science isn’t your thing.”
“I can understand that.”
“Yes ma’am. What I don’t understand is what we’re doing here.”
I took a cleansing breath. “I know you don’t, Tree. Believe me. I’d tell you if I thought it wouldn’t put you in danger.”
“Miss Polly. Danger is my business.”
“Protecting me is a job, Tree. When I’m gone, you’ll be out of danger—at least all danger that pertains to me. I don’t want you knowing something that might get you killed. I can promise you, if the people who think we’re dead are aware that you know something? They will kill you to get to the information, or worse, they’ll kill you to keep you from telling anyone what you know.”
“Miss Polly, I’m sure that all made sense in your head and maybe even coming out of your mouth, but it doesn’t mean a hill of beans to me.”
I gave him a small shrug. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to. You’re on a need to know basis, Tree.”
“Hey,” he said pointing toward the school. “There’s Pop.”
We exited the SUV and walked straight to the door on the side of the building. I didn’t know what time school was over, but at four-thirty in the afternoon, the parking lot was virtually empty and there were very few kids mingling about for afterschool activities.
“Miss Polly,” Tree said under his breath. “If you don’t mind, please call me Alex. My dad won’t understand Tree.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The man with glasses and graying hair looked like every stereotypical high school teacher I’d ever had. In his khaki pants, plaid button down oxford, and sensible shoes, I suspected he’d taught it all and seen it all in the thirty-plus years he’d been shaping young minds. Tree explained on the ride over that his father, Patrick Knight, didn’t like being referred to as a teacher. He thought of himself as more of a sculptor who had the chance to shape and mold young minds. As a person with the utmost respect for teachers, I had to say I agreed with him.
“Mr. Knight,” I said, holding out my hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you allowing me to barge in like this.”
“No problem,” he said, shutting the door behind us and ushering us down the hallway.
The building smelled like a high school—institutional cleaning fluid, pencil shavings and teenage hormones. It brought back memories of living in Montana with Ron and Mitch and a knot formed in my stomach. In the whirlwind, I hadn’t called them today to check in.
“Alex said you needed to look at something through a microscope?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“We don’t have a lot in the way of supplies to make a wet slide right now. We get our provisions according to the unit we’re working on, but I keep some of my own lab materials on hand. I don’t know exactly what you need Miss ah—”
“Benson,” I replied. “But please call me Polly.”
“As I was saying, I don’t know what you’ll—”
“I don’t need anything but the microscope, Mr. Knight.”
He opened the door to his room, giving his son a puzzled look. Tree shrugged his shoulders. “I’m in the dark as much as you are, Dad.”
“Come on inside. I set up the best one we have right over there. It’s an Amscope forty by one thousand with a USB camera. It’s one of our newer microscopes. If you have a USB drive, I can take pictures.”
“Really?” I asked, staring at the set up.
“Sure,” Mr. Knight replied. “Do you have a jump drive?”
I shook my head.
“Dad,” Tree began. “Do you have an extra? I’ll make sure it comes back to you. I think whatever she needs to see, she should probably have a record of.”
Mr. Knight looked back and forth between the two of us. “Yeah, okay. Hang on.”
He walked away and I mouthed thank you to Tree.
Mr. Knight returned, quickly setting up the microscope, turning it and the USB camera on the laptop on. “What did you need to examine, Ms. Benson?”
I swallowed and slipped the four carat diamond from my left ring finger, handing it to him. “There’s something engraved on the side of this stone. Numbers. They’re small, too small for the naked eye. A jeweler saw them once and told me about them. I need to know what they are.”
Tree dropped his chin in amazement. His father wasn’t as stunned. He was, however, intrigued. “So, on the diamond somewhere?”
“The girdle,” I said, remembering what the jeweler had said in Zakynthos.
“What’s a girdle?” Tree asked.
“It’s the thin perimeter dividing the crown from the pavilion,” Mr. Knight replied, taking the ring from my outstretched fingers with care.
&nbs
p; “The what from the what?” Tree asked again.
This time, his father didn’t respond. Holding the diamond ring with his bare hand, he turned it slowly, focusing the microscope. Tree and I watched the laptop screen to see what he was seeing with his eye. As he turned the side of the ring where it met the setting, it was clearly visible. Numbers.
“Well, you’re correct, Ms. Benson. There it is. Seven five zero, dot, zero four.”
I stared at numbers that were as plain as the nose on my face. The jeweler was right, they weren’t put there by a laser, the imperfections were too great. But the precision with which the numbers had been added was astonishing.
I felt my knees weaken. Oscar knew. This diamond was more than a diamond. But what?
I swallowed hard. Mr. Knight brought my ring out from under the microscope and looked at it with his naked eye. “I’m no gemologist or even geologist for that matter, but I know enough to say that is a perfect stone.”
I nodded.
He handed it over to me. “Is that it?”
I could barely get a word out of my dry throat. “Yes. Thank you.”
“I don’t get it,” Tree said, pulling out a stool from one of the lab stations. “Why put numbers on a diamond? And what kind of number is it, anyway? I mean, they’re not longitude and latitude.”
His father shook his head. “No.”
“Do you know what they are, Miss Polly?”
I batted my eyes in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Mr. Knight looked at the image captured on the laptop screen and tilted his head. “Seven five zero dot zero four.”
He turned on his heels and stared at us. A slow grin crossed his thin lips. “It’s a Dewey Decimal number.”
I sat up. “A what?”
Patrick Knight grinned with satisfaction. I couldn’t hide the astonishment on my face. “You mean like a book?”
The three of us gathered around the laptop and stared at the image. “I could be wrong. But I’d bet the farm that’s a Dewey Decimal number.”
“Referencing what?” I asked.
