Missings, The (25 page)

“What, exactly?” Terri asked.

Carol Greene moved to straighten an afghan, placed precisely on a chair just inside the living room. She pulled the beautifully patterned blanket off the chair and began to refold it, checking the corners to make sure they were aligned perfectly. Her cheeks spotted with color. “He said you had an abortion when you were fourteen.”

How did anyone know this? Somehow he’d gotten access to sealed records.

“That’s true, Carol.” Terri stood firm, her voice strong. “But I don’t see how that would make me unfit to adopt Lily.”

“Maybe it doesn’t, but it does suggest that as a child you were never properly parented.”

Terri closed her eyes. Carol Greene’s words were shades of her aunt, and yet she didn’t believe the woman standing in front of her would ever be as extreme as the stern woman who Terri had lived with for almost six years.

“My parents loved me very much.”

“And they died when you were twelve.”

Terri pushed away memories of her parents, their devotion as well as their deaths. Deaths caused by a drunk driver. Carol Greene’s words had begun to lift the lid on the box but Terri slammed it shut. Another place and time. Not now.

“Once again, Carol, I don’t see how any of this has any bearing on my desire—on my ability—to adopt your granddaughter and be there for her. None of what you have said could possibly—”

“What about the mental hospital?”

A cold wave washed over Terri, her lungs emptied of air. Terrible memories vied for her focus, insisting she lose herself to their vivid lure. But she had spent hard months, even years, learning what she gained and what she lost if she allowed herself to be a victim.

Terri swallowed and took a deep breath. “Can we sit down? I think we need to talk.”

Aspen Falls Middle School

Tuesday, September 25

Angela retrieved her favorite black jacket from her locker and pulled it on. She flipped her long hair out of the collar as she looked in the small mirror on the inside of the locker door, licked her finger and rubbed some ink off her cheek, then popped in her earbuds and did a quick search for the set of songs she wanted to listen to on the way home.

“You going to the party Friday night, Angela?” Keaton strode up behind Angela and opened the door wider so she could check her lipstick. Or pretend to.

“My parents haven’t decided.” She felt like such a baby. And Keaton looked even older than the fourteen she’d just turned. She looked sixteen, at least.

“That’s too bad. But you know what I heard?” The other thing about Keaton—she always knew the latest gossip.

“What?”

“The really big party—the biggest party of the year—is tomorrow night.”

“Wednesday? A school night?”

“That’s what makes it so big. No babies. Probably some college guys. It’s right off their campus.”

Keaton gave her the details and suggested that Angela try wearing some lipstick Wednesday night. And mascara.

In the parking lot Angela looked around for Hailey’s car. It was kind of hard to find with the snow. Heather’s sister had promised them a ride home after school—way better than taking the bus—as long as they were both at her car when she got there herself. She didn’t want to have to wait for them.

Angela spotted Heather waving at the end of a row of parked cars. Nice. She jogged over to her friend.

“Guess what!” Both girls said at the same time, then fell into giggles, their breath frosting in the cold air.

“We absolutely have got to go to that party,” Angela said.

They spent a couple of minutes talking about what they planned to wear.

“Shhh,” Heather said. “Don’t say a word to Hailey. I don’t think she’d like the idea of us going to one of
her
parties.”

Cobalt Mountain Books

Tuesday, September 25

Daniel paced around the bookstore, pulling books from the shelves, thumbing the pages, and shoving them back in. Who had the time to read all these books anyway?

Something gnawed at Daniel. Something he should have figured out earlier.
Crap
. He hated this. He should be working the case. Chase could have gotten a couple of uniforms to offer protection. Instead, it was Daniel who watched the kid.

Efraín knew his job and he knew the bookstore customers—most by name. After greeting them as they walked into the store, he almost always had something in mind for them he knew they’d like. Without exception, they bought the book or books they’d come in to get, along with the one he recommended.

“You’re really good at this,” Daniel said. “You could sell anything.”

“I can sell books. I love them. I want to be a writer.”

“No kidding.”

“You act like you’ve never met someone who wanted to be a writer.”

“That would be correct.”

“Especially a Hispanic kid from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.” Efraín squinted his eyes at Daniel. “What do you like to read?”

“I um, I don’t have time to, um—”

“You kind of like that girl who was here, don’t you? Elizabeth? Follow me.”

Less than a minute later Daniel looked at the book in his hands. “What kind of title is
Like Water for Chocolate
? And am I supposed to be impressed because it was written by a Hispanic?”

“Trust me.”

Daniel bought the book.

The evening employee arrived and Efraín updated her on new arrivals and customers he thought might be coming in after they got off work. She slid a couple of questioning glances in Daniel’s direction but the kid ignored her.

When Efraín pulled something up on the computer, the elusive piece Daniel had been missing a few minutes ago roared big and bold into his brain.

“Efraín, do you have to go home right away?”

“Not necessarily. But I do need to let my mom know where I’ll be.”

“Good. Call her.”

Efraín shook his head. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?” Daniel’s patience had left the building.

“We don’t have a phone.”

Daniel, brought up short with sudden realization for the second time in less than a minute, processed the information. “Okay, fine. We’ll go by your house, you can talk to your mom or leave her a note or whatever, then you and I need to get to the station.”

Daniel punched a number in his cell phone. “Terri, I need you to pull a warrant for me ASAP and send a couple of uniforms over to the ER and get the main computer they use. You should have enough between Leslie James and Fyfe’s trash. I want that computer and I’ll be at the station within the hour. Oh, and get me the name and contact info for their head IT guy, in case I need it.”

He had to move the phone away from his ear. He waited until the high-pitched static in the form of his co-worker’s screeching slowed before settling it back against his head. Terri vented as well as anyone he knew.

“One computer will do. Thanks.” He disconnected before his hearing could become permanently impaired.

“C’mon, young Hemingway. We need to lay down some tracks.”

The Preston Clinic

Tuesday, September 25

Edward Sloan sat in the chair, pressed into his wife’s hospital bed, head resting at her side. He held her hand while she slept.

Friends and family hadn’t understood that Diana couldn’t have flowers in her room, so the lobby of the clinic soon filled with colorful arrangements, from simple daisies to dramatic exotics he couldn’t name. In her room, a stack of get-well cards they’d gone through together sat on the table next to her bed. A simple pile of paper illuminated by soft lamplight that represented the love of so many people. She’d grown tired before they could read them all.

The snow had almost stopped, leading to a day that had been busier than most with visits and phone calls from family and friends. Maggie had run interference for them when needed, but Diana had been so happy to catch up with everyone that Edward allowed it to go on a little longer than he should have.

The clinic—the staff and surroundings—were everything he’d been promised and then some. But the room’s elegant appointments didn’t mask the mechanical hiss of machines that kept his beloved alive.

Or cover entirely the sound of his weeping.

Pressure on his back. He jerked up to see an angel standing behind him. No, not an angel. A nurse. He wiped the tears from his face.

“Mr. Sloan, would you come with me, please?”

She turned and crossed the room to the door. Waited for him to follow.

In the hall after the door had closed on its silent hinges, she held out her hand. “I’m Nancy Collins, Mr. Sloan. I’ll be helping care for your wife.”

Edward Sloan, not used to people seeing him vulnerable, shook her hand and mumbled a thank-you.

“Dr. Frederickson would like a word with you in the conference room.”

“Now?”

“Yes, Mr. Sloan. If it’s not inconvenient.”

Once again she turned and began walking away from him. He followed.

The clinic hallways were decorated like a fine hotel. Patterned, bordered carpet—with such thick padding that pushing wheelchairs would be almost impossible—stretched between butter yellow walls. Mahogany wainscoting and crown molding framed both the walls and the occasional table that featured more fresh flowers.

Nancy Collins paused outside a closed door and knocked. She pushed it open, nodded to the occupant, then stood aside for Edward to enter. He heard the soft click of the door close behind him.

Edward Sloan was used to conference rooms—he’d been in enough of them over the years. This one however, looked more like a large dining room. He made eye contact with a man dressed in a respect-me-I’m-a-doctor white coat, standing next to a sideboard.

“Mr. Sloan, I’m Dr. Nathan Frederickson. I’m the administrative doctor on staff at the clinic. Although I don’t have direct responsibility for the patients, I do get involved in the communications with the families.” He gestured to two small settees in the corner. “Please.”

A pitcher of water and two crystal glasses sat on a tray near them. Frederickson righted the glasses and poured them each some water.

“I want to make sure you have the complete picture of the patient’s condition as it now stands.” The doctor took a sip.

Edward nodded.

“Her heart is wearing out, Mr. Sloan. The mechanical intervention that keeps her alive is now a contributing factor to her death.”

Edward dropped to the settee. He’d heard it all before. Once was one time too many.

“In the event Dr. Jackson hasn’t been clear, she doesn’t have much time. If we are unable to obtain a suitable replacement organ soon, I’m afraid there will be nothing more we can do for the patient.”

“Her name is Diana.”

Dr. Nathan Frederickson’s face went blank. He didn’t understand.

Edward gritted his teeth. “Is there anything else, Dr. Frederickson?”

Unused to being dismissed, the doctor sat speechless while Edward Sloan stood and moved to the door.

He didn’t turn around. “Just have an operating room available at all times. For Diana.”

Edward made his way back down the long hallway. He’d grown weary of the supercilious attitudes of the medical profession. So many of them tried to cast larger shadows than normal human beings could. They did so because on some level it worked for them.

His own shadow had shrunk in the last few months. He was one man—one broken man—without his wife. Two years ago when Diana had her first transplant operation, they had prayed together about the life that had to be lost in order to spare hers. When matching organs—typed rare—had become available, they’d felt blessed by God.

Circumstances were different this time, and Edward Sloan understood the ramifications of his latest decision.

Someone healthy would have to die in order for his wife to live.

This time he wasn’t praying.

The Madrigal Home

Tuesday, September 25

Daniel’s patience was as taut as his nerves. Who knew this scrawny high school kid used his own money to pick up groceries on his way home? By the time they made a stop at City Market, Daniel wanted to yell at someone. Maybe one of these days he’d experiment with that meditation stuff to try and find inner peace. Well if not peace, at least to calm down a little. But not today. Too late for today.

Efraín gave him directions. Daniel could have plugged the address into his GPS, but at least this gave them something to talk about.

“Turn right here.”

Daniel swung a right and drove down a dark road. The snow had been tracked by cars, but no plows would be out for just a couple of inches. If there were street lights here they weren’t lit.

“This is my house.” Efraín indicated a small clapboard structure that looked like a good gust of wind would lay it flat. Daniel parked the car and followed the boy down a dirt path to a side door. On closer inspection, the clapboard had recently been painted a sort of mustard-orange color and the windows sparkled. The house might blow over in a heap, but it would be a clean, maintained heap.

“Does your family own this house?” Daniel asked.

“No. We rent. But we sometimes can pay less when we fix things. My dad is good at fixing things. We’ve lived here for as long as I can remember.”

They walked into the kitchen and three sets of eyes looked up from schoolwork to see who had come home with their brother. Politeness and respect for their guest kept them silent.

Efraín introduced Daniel to his mother. She said his father had found a day job and probably wouldn’t be home until after dinner. When Mrs. Madrigal learned what Daniel did for a living, her face closed up. Her responses became either a nod or a shake of her head while she cast suspicious glances in Daniel’s direction. When Efraín told his mother they were leaving and he would be home later the woman froze, then grabbed her son’s arm and pulled him into the next room.

Daniel heard rapid Spanish spoken low and intense. Efraín’s responses were even more muffled. Then silence. The children working at the kitchen table fidgeted in their seats but said nothing. Daniel needed to get to the station, get to that computer, and still do what he’d been told to do by Chase. Protect Efraín. About to interrupt the discussion in the adjoining room, Daniel stopped short when Efraín reappeared with a backpack and nodded toward the door.