Lady Vanishes (8 page)

I decided to get to Harbor View before the night man, though this was just guesswork. No one had told me exactly when he came on, nor who else might be there in the evening. Since it was likely there’d be more than one person around, on the way over I thought up a variety of excuses for my after-hours presence.

When I unlocked the front door, I heard singing from the dining room. David was in the dining-room doorway, the way he had been when Samuel was doing dance therapy, maybe the closest he got to participating in anything, and little as it was, I was probably not the only one there to think this little bit of contact was a result of good care. There were places I’d been with Dashiell where nothing was too generous a term to describe what some of the residents did.

I let Dashiell go to him first, tying his leash around my waist and waiting in the empty lobby, the floor freshly mopped, the doors to all three offices closed, and my guess,
locked. I looked at the keys, still in my hand, five of them, wondering if the offices used the same key or separate ones and planning to find out if any of the keys I’d been given would get me where I needed to go.

Dashiell stood next to David, all but touching him, wagging his tail from side to side in slow motion, waiting for a signal to hype up his schmooze. Apparently it came, because he suddenly leaned in, giving David just enough of his weight that had David moved, Dash would have, too.

But David didn’t move. I watched his hands, to see if they’d relax the way they had earlier, but this time I saw something else. Now it appeared that David was moving his fingers in time to the singing.

I felt something like a cool breeze on my skin, a fluttering in my chest. Some things did seem to get inside and touch this inscrutable man. If that were so, wasn’t it possible that something could get out, too?

I walked up slowly, and not wanting to startle David, I sighed so that he would know I was behind him. If Eli Kagan wanted workers to knock on doors before entering residents’ rooms, this was the equivalent, as best as I could figure out.

I stood, as last time, so that Dashiell was in the middle, never greeting David, nor looking directly at him. For a moment, I watched the singers. Only about half the people gathered were actually singing or humming, the rest sitting, staring at the remains of dessert or at nothing much at all.

Samuel Kagan was leading the group. Dance therapy on Monday, singing on Tuesday, a man of many talents and endless dedication, I thought, watching him work. He appeared to be in his early forties. The zealous look on his face was not unlike the spaced-out look of the Moonies, the incandescent lights from above making his nude bean shine,
all the more so since it was slick with sweat. He had a round face, a roundish nose, full lips, and a great broom of a mustache. He bounced on the balls of his feet, singing as loud and as clear as a human being could without shouting, his short-fingered hands chopping the air forcefully as he conducted his little choir with such fervor, you’d think there was going to be a performance tomorrow.

For a while I became so enthralled watching him, his short, chunky body, shirt soaked with sweat despite the air conditioning, energetically tapping his feet and moving around, that I forgot all about David. Then I remembered what had happened earlier; one way or another, I’d passed by him without seeing him. Some people do that, I thought; the opposite of the vibrant, little man leading the singing, energy swirling about him, they pull their energy in, so far that they become almost invisible, like prey animals who change their color to blend in with the environment, their only protection against the predators. I wondered if this was just the way David was, if he had been born like this, or if something had damaged him so severely that he needed to hide this way, thinking of what Venus said, how he tugged at her, how even as closed as he was, he’d taken her heart.

I sat then, cross-legged on the floor. After a moment, David sat, leaving only Dashiell standing, but not for long. This time, based on their earlier communion, Dashiell slipped artfully down David’s leg, but not into a sit. Instead, he moved his body forward, so that when he finished sliding, he lay across David’s lap, gazing up at him with adoration.

The song ended, and Samuel began to clap, those residents who could joining in. When that was that, he turned, noticed me, and came over.

“Samuel Kagan,” he said, bending down to shake my hand, his eyebrows rising, asking my name.

“Rachel Alexander,” I said, my eyebrows staying right where they were, “and Dashiell,” since he was too occupied to introduce himself.

At the sound of his name, Dashiell lifted his head, sneezed, took a sniff, then sighed and laid his head back on David’s lap. Samuel squatted so that we’d be face to face, reaching out for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the team,” he said, leaving my hand warm and damp.

A thin stream of saliva glistened at the corner of David’s mouth, stringing its way down to Dashiell’s side. I was finally going to have a use for those paper towels I’d been carrying around—two uses—but for now, I let it be and looked back at Samuel.

“I was so sorry to hear about the accident,” I said, “and coming so soon after the other loss.” I couldn’t assume that because David didn’t speak, he didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to remind him of the two tragedies that had happened so recently, changes for the worse in a place where nothing was supposed to change at all. “I’m happy to help out during this difficult time.”

“Venus says Dashiell is working out really well with the kids.” Samuel looked at Dashiell sprawled across David’s lap and nodded his approval. “Really well,” he repeated.

“How often do you work with the kids?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m here every day.”

“They sing every evening?”

“Most evenings.”

“What a lovely way to end their day.”

“I also do dance and art with them, speech therapy, and a movement class, more structured than the dance class, very important with this population. They can lose motility if not reminded to exercise their muscles.”

I got up and took a few steps away, Samuel following me.

“What about David? Does he ever do more than watch?”

Samuel sighed.

“He’s a difficult man.”

I looked back at David, Dashiell lying across his legs.

“That’s one of the reasons we were so frantic when Lady disappeared. It’s the only contact he’s ever accepted, other than medical things, you know, a shot, or a checkup.”

“He’s okay with that? With the doctor touching him?”

“Yes. It’s one of those funny things. I worked with a young man years ago, when I was still studying speech therapy. Back when I still had hair,” he said, his lips spreading into a smile, dimples showing on either side of his mustache. “He was incapable of most of the activities we take for granted—getting dressed properly by himself, making a sandwich without destroying the kitchen and everything in it, walking without stumbling—but he could drive a car. Not only that, he was a safe driver. I was asked to see a patient upstate once, and he drove me.”

“You don’t drive?”

“Well, there’s not much need for a car in the city. But he had one, and he wanted to take me, too. I think he wanted me to see that there was something he could do well. He was totally sure of himself, confident, a graceful driver, and obviously, smart enough to know the rules and pass the test. But in the rest of his life he was the consummate klutz, in addition to his crippling stutter. The moral of the story is, you never know. Dad calls the phenomenon holes in the clouds, you know, a spot where the sun can shine through.

“David won’t mimic activities either. This is as good as it gets, and it took two years before he’d get this close to any activity. I do better with those in wheelchairs than with David, maintaining enough upper body strength and eye-
hand coordination by tossing a big, light ball around. I can even get Eddie to do things, but not David.”

“Which one is Eddie?”

“The Down’s syndrome man. He’s a real sweetheart, and game. He tries everything.”

I nodded.

“That class is tomorrow. It’s usually after breakfast, but because of the funeral, it’ll be after lunch. Come and watch, Rachel. And you should come to our Wednesday-night meeting, too, the staff and Dad, um, Dr. Kagan, talking about progress and problems. He’s—Dad is—very receptive to suggestions, and being new, I bet you’ll have some. And some questions, too. It’s here, in the dining room, eight o’clock.”

“Thanks, I’ll come.”

“See you then,” he said, the sweat still running down his full cheeks.

“And in the morning,” I said, “I thought I’d go to the service.”

“It seems to me you’re part of the family already,” he said, then he turned back to the kids, walking over to an older woman in a wheelchair, the one who wore the tiara.

There was a heavyset woman at the other end of the dining room, helping people get ready to leave. It was after nine, time for everyone to turn in, time for me to make like I had a reason to be here other than sheer nosiness.

The woman I’d noticed was crossing the dining room now, headed my way. I began to polish up my fish stories, but she only nodded to me. It was David she was after, not me.

“Time for bed, sweet pea,” she said, “follow Molly. Here we go,” she said, as if she were helping him up. But she wasn’t. David had put his hands on the floor to help himself
up. “Good boy,” Molly said, so Dashiell, who was also up now, wagged his tail. Then Molly turned to me. “I hope you and Dashiell will excuse us, Rachel. It’s time for David to clean up for bed.”

“Good night, David.” I stepped out into the lobby with them. “Nice to meet you, Molly.” She nodded without turning around. A busy woman.

Two more people who were here in the evening.

I watched Molly head for the stairs, David following, thinking at least he did that, he climbed the stairs a few times a day, something to keep a minimum amount of muscle tone. He was thin as a bone, his arms at his side, his fingers tapping again, trailing after Molly, who moved from side to side, carrying her weight slowly up the stairs, her little lamb behind her.

So he understood Molly.

Or did he just know the routine?

I watched until they were out of sight, thinking that, sure, he probably did understand some of the stuff he heard, glad I hadn’t talked about Lady within his earshot, but that he never looked from side to side. He never turned around. For whatever reason, he no longer had the curiosity all of us are born with, the desire to know what’s going on, the joy that comes with discovery.

Jackson had the desire to paint, and the Weissman twins their passion for argument. Someone else drew pictures, too, the kid who’d rendered the tree a dozen times, once more when the squirrel had come for its brief visit.

I bent over Dashiell and dried him off with the paper towels, dried my hand as well.

When I looked back at the dining room, the last of the kids was leaving, Samuel heading for the elevator with Charlotte at his side.

“Bedtime stories,” he said. “Would you and Dashiell like to join us?”

“I’ll pass, but thanks,” I told him. “You gave me a wonderful idea a moment ago, and I want to work something out with Dashiell, a surprise for tomorrow’s movement class.”

His eyebrows went north again. “Oh,” he said, clasping his hands in front of his chest, “I can’t wait to see it.”

And liar that I sometimes am—in undercover work, if you don’t believe the end justifies the means, you won’t get anywhere—this time I’d been telling the truth. I did have an idea for the movement class. I walked Dashiell into the dining room and began to walk around the perimeter of the room. Then when he got used to my pattern, I sent him on ahead.

Forward, good boy, I told him. Now I was following him. Then, Stop. And again, Forward. As we went, I pictured the kids, adding things to the routine I thought some of them might be able to do, even those in wheelchairs, Dashiell loving every change, turning his head and watching me intently to glean clues not only from the words I said but from my body language, trying to predict my direction—succeeding, too. After forty-five minutes, the building quiet and lonely now, having saved the best for last, I gave a command he wouldn’t have needed, one for creatures less observant than my dog.

All fall down.

I hit the ground laughing, Dashiell at my side. He rolled over twice, first away from me, then back, a big grin on his face, his tail banging out a tune on the bare floor.

That done, we got up and quickly crossed the lobby, trying the keys Venus had given me on the door to the left, the one farthest from hers. None of them worked. It had been a bit on the optimistic side to figure I’d be handed the keys to
the place that held the secrets I was after. When had life ever been that easy?

But that was okay. Because as soon as I had tried all the keys on all three doors and discovered that I was locked out of not one but all three of the private offices, I thought of another way I might be able to get what I was after, a better way. Just the thought of it gave me an adrenaline rush, Dash feeling it and beginning to bounce around me, letting me know, whatever it was I was planning, he wanted in.

I could hear Cora and Dora arguing as I passed the stairs. They must have left their door open. I wanted to talk to Cora about what she might have seen the evening Harry was killed, but I knew the morning would be a better time. The later it was in the day, the less lucid she was likely to be.

I headed for the garden door, shutting off the outdoor lights before unlocking it, letting Dashiell out, then closing it without making a sound.

Once outside in the dark yard, I turned right, walking along the wall of the building until I came to the window of the office farthest from Venus’s, planning to try the window in the hope it wouldn’t be locked. With the high wall around the garden, the alley gate locked, and staff here around the clock, I was hoping that whoever used that office wasn’t paranoid about people sneaking in through the window after hours.

The air conditioner, set into the brick wall beneath the window, was off. And sensibly, someone had opened the window so that the room wouldn’t get too stuffy overnight.

I slid up the screen and opened the window the rest of the way, climbing into the dark room first, bumping my shin against what my hands told me too late was a chair, then feeling along the wall for the light. Once I had the light on, I told Dashiell, “Over,” and he sailed into the room, landing clear of the chair. He immediately began to check out the thick oriental rug for scents of the people who had been here recently, and perhaps even more interesting, of the dog who worked at Harbor View before he did.

I pulled the shade down and closed the curtain, hoping it would block out most of the light, not knowing if the night man, or anyone else, would be stepping out into the garden for a smoke or a breath of tepid air.

Turning around, I looked at the office—Harry’s, I was sure, not only because the middle door had been plastered with drawings that gave a user-friendly impression but because this place was clearly an executive’s office, a place where someone could shut the door and deal with the business of running an institution, not a place where the kids might come to talk, those who could or would.

I took two cushions off the butter-colored leather couch and laid them against the doorsill. The fact that I didn’t have the key to this office didn’t mean that no one else did, and I had no desire to attract company with light shining from under the door.

Working quickly and quietly, I pulled out the leather desk chair and sat, hearing only the sound of Dashiell’s nose, a flood of air exhaled every few minutes to make way for the new scents he needed to analyze. Then I began to open the drawers. I wasn’t checking for random items, anything at all
that would tell me something about this man or this place. There was something specific I was after, the thing Venus had gone to the lawyer about this very afternoon—Harry Dietrich’s will. I hoped there’d be a copy in the desk or in the files.

I was in the office of a methodical man. In no time I saw the pattern in his files, found out where the personal things were, and had in my hand the copy of Harry’s will. Curious as I was, I thought it was risky to stay put to read it. Instead, I took out the staple that held the pages of the copy together and placed them in Harry’s fax machine, punching in my number and sending everything home.

I was about to leave, having found what I was after and not wanting to press my luck. After all, other people were in the building, people whose habits I did not know.

But I thought back to Venus’s first call, and so I took a chance on staying a few more minutes, enough time to pick up Harry’s phone, unscrew the mouthpiece, and find what I hoped I wouldn’t, sure now that I’d find the same thing in Venus’s phone, perhaps in Dr. Kagan’s too.

Venus had tried to protect herself the wrong way. Whispering doesn’t keep a conversation from being overheard when the phone you’re whispering into has been tapped. Whatever it was she’d wanted to hide was out.

And whoever it was she was hiding it from wasn’t being fooled by my cover.

How dangerous this was, I didn’t know. But suddenly Venus wasn’t the only one playing beat-the-clock. Her deadline was Friday. At least she knew.

Before leaving, I stapled the will back together and returned it to the file. I put the cushions back on the couch, looked around the room one more time, then picked up the picture that sat in a silver frame at the corner of Harry’s desk, a young woman in a halter top smiling at the camera.

I shut off the lights, pulled back the curtain, and released the shade, holding on so that it would roll up slowly. Telling Dashiell to wait, I went out first, swinging one leg over the windowsill, poking my head out next, feeling as twisted as a pretzel.

The night air was cool against my skin, a breeze moving my hair across my face so that for the moment I couldn’t make out anything in the yard, not even the shadow of the big tree someone had drawn over and over again. I leaned out carefully, holding on to the window with one hand, fishing around for the ground with the leg that was outside before pulling the other one through, still seeing nothing, my eyes not yet adjusted to the moonless night.

My toe was touching the brick flooring and I was ready to swing out when it happened—bony fingers, as strong and cold as steel, grabbing my ankle; the other hand, this one wet and sticky, as if covered in blood, encircling my wrist, then pulling in the direction I’d been going, out into the darkness of the yard. As I spilled out the window, completely off balance, my legs buckling under me, the powerful hands that held me propped me up, not letting me fall.

Not letting go, either.

It took all my willpower not to cry out and bring Molly or Samuel to catch me in the middle of a felony.

Or save my life.

But then, before my eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the garden, before anyone spoke, I heard Dashiell’s tail, banging against Harry’s desk.

And a moment later I too smelled something that allowed me to exhale.

“Thanks,” I said. “I might have fallen if you hadn’t caught me.”

The fingers holding my leg let go. The other hand re
leased my wrist. When he stood up, he towered over me. Facing him and smiling, I whistled for Dashiell, heard his nails scrabbling on the wooden sill, heard him land on the bricks with a soft thud, and then felt the comforting heat of his body at my side.

Jackson bent to pick up the leash that had come untied and dropped to the ground when he’d nearly scared the life out of me. For a moment we just stood there, me looking at him, him looking at some point beyond me as the smell of paint dissipated in the cool night air.

“How did you get out?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead he walked away, Dashiell following him. Standing in the open space in the center of the garden, he lifted his arms above his head, wiggling his fingers in the breeze.

I wondered if I’d left the door to the garden unlocked when I came out here, but I was pretty sure all the doors locked automatically. After closing Harry’s window, not quite all the way, and pulling the screen back down, I walked over to the door and tried to open it, but it didn’t budge. So I whispered to Jackson. This time, instead of asking him how he’d come out into the garden alone, I asked him to help us back inside.

Jackson bent and clipped Dashiell’s leash onto his collar, walking him to the window on the far side of the door, lifting the window as high as it would go, climbing in, then whistling for Dashiell to follow him, the exact note I’d just used to call him out of Harry’s office.

I waited. A hand came out from inside. I took the hand—the sticky one—and let Jackson help me through the window. Then he closed it carefully, turned the lock, and did an even more surprising thing. He turned the garden lights back on, leaving a small dab of yellow paint on the light switch
that matched the yellow paint on Dashiell’s leash and on my wrist.

When Jackson had handed me the leash and gone in the direction of the stairs, I wanted nothing more than to head home and read my fax. But there was something more important to do now. I wanted to see who stayed late, who Venus might have been afraid would overhear her call. So instead of heading for the front door, I waited for Jackson to disappear; then, with Dash trailing after me, I began to climb the stairs.