Left for Dead ar-7

by J. A. Jance

  “Your husband?” Sister Anselm asked, nodding in the direction of Jose’s room. She already knew the answer. She was simply making conversation.

  “Yes,” Teresa said. “His name’s Jose. I’m Teresa. Are you a nurse?”

  “No,” Sister Anselm said. “My name is Sister Anselm. I’m not a nurse. I’m what’s known as a patient advocate. The doctors and nurses are dealing with my patient’s medical needs right now, which is why I’m out here. What happened to your husband?”

  “He’s a deputy sheriff,” Teresa said. “He was shot last night.” She paused and looked at her watch. “About twenty-four hours ago.”

  “I saw two little girls earlier. Your daughters?”

  “My friend took them to a hotel. They were really tired of being here, and I don’t blame them. I’m tired of it, too.”

  Sister Anselm pulled another chair within range and motioned for Teresa to put her feet up. Her ankles were swollen. So were her hands and fingers. At that stage of pregnancy, it could be a dangerous precursor to some serious medical issues.

  “When’s your baby due?”

  Teresa looked down at her bulging belly. “About three weeks,” she said. Her voice broke. “What if Jose dies? What if my baby never knows his father?”

  “What does his doctor say?”

  Teresa gave a halfhearted shrug. “That it’s touch and go. Jose lost a lot of blood, and he was lucky to survive surgery. The doctor says that the next twenty-four hours are critical.”

  “So the doctors are looking after him,” Sister Anselm said kindly. “Who’s looking out for you?”

  Teresa bit her lip and shook her head.

  “Your baby’s a boy?” Sister Anselm continued, ignoring the lack of response.

  Teresa nodded. “We’re going to name him Carmine,” she whispered. “After his grandfather. After Jose’s father. That’s one of the reasons I married Jose. I thought he’d be a good father, like his father. And now …” She paused and shook her head. “The sheriff told me this afternoon that he may be involved with dealing drugs. I can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem like him, like the Jose I know, but … I don’t know. I just can’t believe any of this is happening.”

  Sister Anselm knew that was the real bottom line. The fact that Jose was injured was one thing. Learning about a possible betrayal made the situation that much worse.

  “Let’s take this one thing at a time,” Sister Anselm suggested. “Your husband has been shot and may not make it. But what happens if you don’t make it? What happens to Carmine then? Who takes care of your little girls?”

  Teresa shook her head. Again she didn’t answer, and she didn’t have to.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sister Anselm said. “Look. There’s a sofa at the end of the room that nobody is using at the moment. I’m going to go ask the nurses for a pillow and a blanket. You lie down on that and rest for a while. I’ll look in on your husband while you’re sleeping. If his condition changes, I’ll come get you immediately. All right?”

  It seemed that was all Teresa needed-permission. She nodded and then plodded over to the couch in question. Within minutes of lying down, she was deeply asleep, despite the noise and activity around her. For the rest of the night, Sister Anselm moved from the waiting room to Jose’s and then Jane Doe’s making sure that all were sleeping soundly and that the monitors showed normal levels of respiration, heart rate, and blood pressure.

  Earlier, when Sister Anselm read Jane Doe’s chart, she had noted that the doctors estimated the patient was between seventeen and twenty years of age. Once the waiting room quieted enough to allow for concentration, Sister Anselm picked up her iPhone and scrolled directly to the website for the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

  Once at the website, Sister Anselm entered the words “rose tattoo” into the search engine. Within moments she had half a dozen hits. Several of them specified that the tattoo in question was on either a right leg or a left leg. One said it was on the right arm. Three of those had been found on the bodies of unidentified murdered young women whose information had been added to the listing by law enforcement agencies seeking both the girls’ killers as well as their families.

  At the very bottom of the list was the only one that mentioned a tattoo of a single rose on the inside of the right breast. That listing, for a girl named Rose Ventana from Buckeye, Arizona, was dated three years earlier, when the missing girl’s age was noted as fourteen. The listing was accompanied by what appeared to be a school photo of a smilingly beautiful young woman, a photo that bore no resemblance to the shaved head and the shattered visage lying on a hard pillow in Physicians Medical’s ICU.

  Even so, Sister Anselm’s heart quickened as she scanned through the information. From the girl’s point of view, three years was a long time to be away from home. From a grieving parent’s point of view, three years of waiting and hoping and dreading must have seemed like forever. Sister Anselm was convinced the distraught parents would welcome their long-lost daughter, damaged or not, with open arms, but she didn’t pick up her phone to call them. Her first responsibility, as patient advocate, was to her patient.

  Over the years Sister Anselm had learned that many of her patients had chosen to strike out on their own because of some conflict that existed in the family home. Until she was sure Jane Doe wanted to be returned to her family, Sister Anselm would keep the knowledge to herself.

  She contented herself with doing a computerized search for articles dealing with the long-ago disappearance of Rose Ventana, who had left for school as usual one February morning and then simply vanished. Foul play was suspected, although no body was ever found.

  Rose’s mother, Connie Fox, a tattoo artist by trade, was the one who had created the tattoo, and she was the one who had mentioned it in the press. Articles included statements from James Fox, Rose’s stepfather, who was briefly considered a person of interest in Rose’s disappearance. He was quoted several times, as were Rose’s two younger sisters. Subsequent articles done on the first, second, and third anniversaries of Rose’s disappearance showed the mother and stepfather standing side by side. In all of the photos, the stepfather looked every bit as grief-stricken as the mother, but Sister Anselm wondered if that was true. In her work, she had seen much of the world’s evil underbelly, and her knowledge was anything but theoretical. She knew the kinds of unsavory family situations that often drove children to run away.

  Rose had been off on her own since she was fourteen. She might have been close to death from a beating and terribly dehydrated when she was brought to the hospital, but she certainly wasn’t starving. In those intervening years, Rose had eaten well enough. So how had she managed to support herself and provide for food and shelter?

  Sister Anselm knew that fourteen-year-olds weren’t generally employable in the regular job market; prostitution remained the most likely occupation of choice for underage girls. She also understood that these days prostitution was seldom a solo endeavor. It was a world where freelancing was frowned upon by the guys running the show. If Rose Ventana had been absorbed into the shadowy world of prostitution, that was most likely the source of her attacker-a disgruntled John or an angry pimp. Sister Anselm worried that if the perpetrator learned his victim was still alive, he might well try again.

  Yes, Sister Anselm was fairly certain she now knew the name of her Jane Doe patient. For the time being, she had no intention of mentioning that fact to anyone but the patient herself. Instead, when the charge nurse finally cleared her to return to Jane Doe’s room, she settled into her chair, took her sleeping patient’s hand, the one without the cast, and held it.

  Earlier, thinking her patient was an illegal, Sister Anselm had spoken to her in both English and Spanish. She deemed that no longer necessary.

  “My name is Sister Anselm,” she said softly. “I’m here to help you.”

  18

  7:00 A.M., Sunday, April 11

  Patagonia, Arizona

  Phil Tewksbu
ry crawled out of his warm bed and started in on his Sunday chores. He went into the kitchen and turned on Mr. Coffee. Then he unloaded the dishwasher and got his weekly wash under way by loading that week’s dirty uniforms into the aging Maytag. The uniform load went first. While the next load-bedding and towels-was washing, he’d get the uniforms ironed.

  He checked the freezer. He had a selection of microwave dinners, enough to make it through the week. Next weekend he’d have to go shopping. Once he had made a real effort to cook decent meals. Now he barely bothered. Why should he? Microwave dinners worked fine for him. As for Christine? Oatmeal was what she wanted-that was all she wanted, three meals a day, 365 days a year.

  Oatmeal with skim milk and brown sugar. Phil could hardly stand to look at the stuff anymore, but that was what she wanted and what she ate, so he cooked up a big batch every morning, dividing it into three separate containers-one for breakfast, when she bothered to get out of bed; one for lunch, which she ate usually while he was out delivering mail, and one for dinner. She often ate the third batch long after he had gone to bed. God forbid they should sit at the same table during dinner and actually talk.

  When he was working, people knew him. Everybody nodded at the mailman. Little kids waved at the mailman, though they didn’t know him particularly well because he avoided talking about himself and his difficult home situation as much as possible. Phil had broken his silence with Ollie because she was different and because she understood. As far as other people were concerned? The details of his life were nobody else’s business. As far as Phil was concerned, explaining Cassidy’s death to others and admitting what her loss had done to his marriage was far too painful.

  A few months ago, with Ollie’s encouragement, Phil had broached the subject with one other individual-his own physician. He had finally broken his self-imposed silence. Worried about the long-term effects of Christine’s oatmeal-only diet on her overall health, Phil had mentioned the subject during his own annual physical.

  Dr. Patterson was Phil’s doctor rather than Christine’s. Doc Manning, who had been her doctor once, had been dead for seven years. Since Christine refused to leave the house for any reason, finding a new doctor for her or even taking her to a dentist for a simple and much-needed cleaning or filling wasn’t exactly an option.

  Which was why Phil decided to ask his doctor for advice. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about my wife.”

  “Wife?” Patterson asked, looking dismayed. “All these years I thought you were a widower. I noticed you wore a wedding ring, but since you never mentioned having a wife, I assumed she was deceased.”

  “Not exactly,” Phil said. “But she does have issues. For one thing, I’m worried about her diet. The only thing she eats is oatmeal.”

  “Oatmeal?” Dr. Patterson repeated. “As in oatmeal three meals a day? No protein? No vegetables?”

  Phil shook his head. “Nothing but. Whenever I try giving her anything else, she tosses it in the garbage.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Years,” Phil admitted. Fifteen going on sixteen, like it says in the song, Phil thought, but he didn’t say it aloud.

  “So tell me,” Doc Patterson said. “What’s the deal with the oatmeal?”

  Phil took a deep breath before he answered. “It’s what we used to eat for breakfast on Christmas morning, before Cassidy opened her stocking or her presents.”

  Dr. Patterson gave Phil a quizzical look. “Cassidy?” the doctor asked. “Who’s Cassidy?”

  Phil knew he was in for it now. That was the main reason he avoided talking about Christine-so he wouldn’t have to go over the painful details of Cassidy’s death, which had led, inevitably, to everything else. This time, though, more for Christine’s sake than for his own, he told the whole story.

  “So your wife blames you for your daughter’s death?” Patterson asked when Phil finished.

  Phil nodded. “Every day and in every way.”

  “And you’ve kept the same Christmas tree up and lit for fifteen years? Isn’t it dirty?”

  “She dusts it sometimes,” Phil says. “When I’m out of the house or when she thinks I’m sleeping. She wipes off the ornaments and brushes off the cobwebs.”

  And replaces some of the bulbs, Phil thought.

  That was the first time the bulb-replacement scenario had surfaced in his mind as a coherent thought, when he was talking to Dr. Patterson. He’d thought about it a lot since, but he hadn’t said the words aloud-not to Doc Patterson and not to anyone else, either.

  “Have you considered having a psych evaluation?” Patterson asked.

  Phil grinned ruefully. “For her or for me?” he asked. “Because I’m probably as much of a nutcase as she is for putting up with it all this time. Seriously, the only way I could get her out of the house is by force, and I’m not going to do that. At first people told me she was grieving and that it would take time. Then they told me she was depressed. Now I think most people have forgotten about her. If they think about her at all, it’s like, ‘Oh, you know, the crazy lady who keeps her Christmas tree up all year long.’”

  “Everyone has forgotten about her but you,” Dr. Patterson said.

  Phil nodded as tears stung his eyes. “It’s my fault,” he said. “That makes Christine my responsibility.”

  “So it’s like that movie Groundhog Day,” Patterson said thoughtfully. “Every morning she wakes up, eats her oatmeal, and thinks that your daughter is going to come out into the living room and open her presents. Are they still there, too?”

  “All but one,” Phil answered. “The rest of them are wrapped and unopened.”

  Patterson blew out a breath of air and considered for a moment before he spoke again. “It’s a little difficult to diagnose a patient without ever seeing him or her. Would you say your wife is overweight?”

  “No,” Phil answered. “More like too skinny than too fat.”

  “Any mobility issues?”

  “She can walk when she wants to. And I know she does when I’m not around. At night I hear her pacing in her room, but during the day she mostly just sits in the recliner in the living room and stares at the tree. I try to get her to shower once a week.”

  “She sounds depressed,” Dr. Patterson said.

  “I think so, too.”

  “Would she take medication if you offered it to her?”

  Phil shook his head. “Probably not,” he said. “I had some leftover antidepressants my old doctor had given me. I tried giving them to Christine. She accused me of trying to poison her.”

  “What about her teeth?”

  “She’s lost several so far. I begged her to go to the dentist. She says that since I’m the only one who sees her, what does it matter?”

  “Presumably, your wife isn’t in the best of health, but then neither are you,” Patterson said. “Your blood pressure is off the charts. So is your cholesterol. If we don’t get a handle on those, chances are she’ll outlive you. Then what will happen to her?”

  Patterson had posed that question aloud for the first time several weeks earlier, and Phil had been grappling with the issue ever since. They had no kids-no surviving kids-who could be called on to help out in the face of a long-term health crisis. As Christine had turned into more and more of a hermit, the people who were once their friends had slowly drifted away. So had their relations. For now this was Phil’s fight and nobody else’s.

  That was what had prompted him to bite the bullet and replace the windows. It was why he was painting the exterior of the house and garage. His next plan was to redo the kitchen and replace the appliances. Next up after that would be the bathroom. And finally, the living room. If Christine was ever left alone with a caregiver, it would be in a house that was in the best shape Phil could manage.

  Lost in thought, Phil absently stirred the pot of oatmeal. Once it was finished, he divided it into the three microwaveable plastic bowls and set them on the kitchen counter before putti
ng the dirty saucepan in the dishwasher to run with yesterday’s dishes. Then he moved the uniforms into the dryer and loaded the bedding into the Maytag. Glancing up at his grandmother’s antique teapot-shaped clock, he saw that it was ten to seven-time for his one bit of daily self-indulgence.

  Every morning before work and on weekends, too, Phil stopped by the San Rafael Cafe to have a leisurely breakfast and shoot the breeze. His breakfast choices at the cafe tended to include crisp bacon and over-easy eggs, something he had no intention of mentioning to Doc Patterson.

  After breakfast, he’d come home, do the ironing, paint the garage trim, and do the rest of his chores, all the while hoping that Ollie would be waiting to see him when he delivered her mail on Monday afternoon.

  19

  11:00 A.M., Sunday, April 11

  Marana, Arizona

  On Sunday morning, heading down I-17, Ali used her Bluetooth to call Victor Angeleri, the criminal defense attorney who had been her go-to guy when she was accused of murdering her former husband and needed one. He had given her his home number back then, and she still had it. Fortunately, it was April and daylight saving time in most of the rest of the country. With Arizona and California in the same time zone at this time of year, she doubted she was in any danger of waking him up.

  “Long time, no hear,” Victor said cheerfully when Ali identified herself. “You’re not offloading inconvenient husbands again, are you?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh. “And if you recall, I didn’t do that the first time, either. Right now I’m calling for a friend of mine-a cop in southern Arizona who got shot the other night and is now under suspicion as a drug trafficker. He’ll probably be able to get help from the local police officers’ legal defense fund, but that will take time and paperwork. I’m looking for someone to step in sooner than that.”

  “I may have a contact or two in Tucson,” Victor said. “Is Tucson close enough?”