My Soul to Keep (14 page)

But there it was. Not only did John Mulvaney have his own blog, but the counter at the bottom of the home page proclaimed proudly that 2,574 “unique” visitors had actually taken a look. Make me 2,575.

I clicked the icon and stepped into John Mulvaney’s strange online world.

My cell phone buzzed, yanking me back into my office. I looked around at my bookshelves, remembering suddenly where I was. I checked my watch. I didn’t want to be late for Molly Larken. Then I flipped open my phone.

“I checked with Casey,” Martinez said without saying hello.

“Casey?”

“Ybarra. No one else saw the guy at the soccer game.”

“No one? Not one single person?”

“Just you.” I heard him kick the door to his office closed.

I thought for a minute.

“Why would that be?” he asked me.

“No idea.”

“You must have some idea, or you wouldn’t have asked.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Dylan?”

“I’m not sure he was really there.”

“What do you mean? You made him up?”

“No. I just mean—”

My phone buzzed as another call came in. “Hold on.” I checked the number. My father. No way was I talking to him right now. “I mean that he may not be a regular human person.”

“What’s the alternative?” he asked.

“Remember the Peter Terry thing?”

“Yeah. The spooky white guy who haunted Gordon Pryne.”

“The same thing happened the first time I saw him. I had a conversation with him in broad daylight. When I asked someone about it later, she said she hadn’t seen anyone but me.”

“You think the guy in the park was Peter Terry?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then who?”

“Maybe a friend of his.”

“You believe that?”

“I’m not sure. But why would it be that no one else saw him? Not one person out of … how many?”

He turned pages, then said, “One hundred eighteen. Not including kids.”

“A hundred and eighteen people and I’m the only one who saw this guy.”

“Maybe no one else was looking.”

“I wasn’t looking either. He only stood out to me because he was so predatory.”

“So you’re saying he was …”

“I don’t know.”

“A demon. Or something on the order of one. That’s what you’re saying.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“That’s—”

“Weird, I know.”

We both fell silent. I was relieved when he changed the subject.

“Casey wouldn’t give me the name of the shrink.”

“Well?”

He sighed. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Carmichael. Joan Carmichael.”

“I know her.”

“What a surprise.”

“We interned together at Parkland. Do you have her number?”

“I’m not giving it to you.”

“I’m calling her anyway.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“We have procedures, Dylan. We’re investigating a kidnapping.”

“Not
a
kidnapping. Nicholas’s kidnapping.”

“I realize that.”

“So I’m calling Joan Carmichael.”

“Suit yourself.”

“He’s out there somewhere, Enrique. He’s still alive. I know it.”

“Let’s hope so.”

He hung up on me again. I picked up my bag and headed out the door for my meeting with Molly Larken.

I
CALLED
J
OAN
C
ARMICHAEL
on my way to Starbucks and left her a girl-friendy-collegial type of voice mail. Sort of a “Hey, your name came up recently and I wanted to check in” type of thing. I was trading on goodwill and professional courtesy, and cashing in on all that false intimacy we’d banked through our mutual suffering on the locked adult psych unit at Parkland during our internship year. I didn’t tell her why I was calling, exactly. I figured it was seventy–thirty she’d return my call.

I parked my rattly truck in the immaculate, tree-shaded lot of immaculate, tree-shaded Highland Park Village shopping center, smack in front of the Chanel store between a sparkling navy blue Porsche 911 and a sparkling white Mercedes convertible. I shoved my shoulder against the door of my pickup, winced once again at the groan it emitted as it opened, and caught it just as it slammed into the side of the Porsche. I checked the Porsche—no ding, thank God, and no alarm—then feigned nonchalance and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. I found myself in the stare of a Chanel saleswoman, who was looking at me through the store window as though I’d just dumped a truckload of manure in front of the store. I gave her a big “hi, there” smile, passed up a perfect hair-flip moment as I walked past her, and swung open the Starbucks door.

It was freezing inside, as usual. I’d spent many hypothermic hours in this Starbucks grading papers. My feet would be blue in a few minutes. I scanned the store but didn’t see anyone who had that anxious “are you the one I’m meeting?” look about her. I was early, for once, so I ordered some iced tea and took a seat just inside the door. A few minutes later, Molly Larken walked in. Ten minutes late. I knew her immediately, though I was positive we’d never met.

She was maybe five-four, wearing frayed Levi’s and a pink baby tee that said “I’m Bluffing” on it in big black letters. Her Converse sneakers were faded and worn. A peace-sign keychain jingled from the slouchy leather bag slung over her shoulder. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing beady earrings and a yin-yang drop on a leather choker. She wore no makeup. Her big, greenish eyes were set off by a creamy complexion. She sported a respectable tan for a redhead.

I stood as she walked in. “Molly.”

She turned to look at me.

I stuck out my hand. “Dylan Foster. Thanks for meeting me.”

Her eyes moved up and down my body, starting at my Converse sneakers, pausing at my slouchy leather bag, and settling on my auburn ponytail. “Wow. You look just like me. You could be my mother.”

I cringed. “Ouch.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Big sister. Cousin, I could work with. Aunt, even. But mother? Did you have to go there?”

“Sorry.”

I smiled and waved away her apology. “Kidding. Don’t worry about it.”

“But you are too young to be my mother, right? Like, way.”

“Thirty-five and lucky to have made it this far.”

“Way too young. My mom’s, like, fifty.”

“What a relief.”

She studied me. “Not a match, exactly. More like a conjugation.”

Big-girl words too.

“Can I order you something?” I asked. “I’m having iced tea.”

“That’s okay. I’ll get it.”

She turned and walked to the counter. Odd for a student to pass up an offer for free coffee. They usually assume they’re being treated, even though most of my students could buy and sell me a dozen times over.

She bought an iced coffee, followed me outside, and sat down opposite me, tucking the change into her pocket. She pulled the wrapper off the straw and began to twirl it into a knot.

“So, you teach at SMU?”

I nodded. “Guilty.”

“What do you teach?”

“Psychology.” I waited for the next question, intrigued that she had taken the lead.

She untied the wrapper and started in on it again without looking up. Clearly it was my turn.

“What about you? You’re at SMU, right? Studying what? Business?”

“Art.”

“Unusual. At SMU, anyway.”

She glanced up. “Yeah, everybody’s in the B school. It’s a good department, though. There’s cash behind it. Have you been to the museum?”

I nodded. “Lots of big Spanish art. Do you paint?”

“Some. I do sculpture, mostly.” She twisted the paper into a half bow and curled it up on the ends. I looked down at her hands, which were calloused and rough looking, the cuticles torn and dry, the nails unpolished. She caught me staring. “Makes it tough to keep a manicure,” she said.

“You don’t seem like the manicure type.”

The corners of her mouth turned up for the first time. “Neither do you.”

“Guilty.” I held out my hands for her review. They weren’t as bad as hers, but I could have used a visit to Madge the Palmolive-manicure lady. “Tell me about your art. Figurative or abstract?”

“They make us do both, but I like abstract.”

“What medium?”

“Mainly bronzes. That’s what I like to do, anyway. We do a lot of clay—for pragmatic reasons. It’s hard to get studio time for bronzes or any kind of metals. One of my professors has a studio, though. I do most of my bronze work there.”

“Would I know his work?”

“He doesn’t show much. His studio is in the garage behind his house. He helps me with my stuff more than he works on his own.”

“Sounds like a good arrangement.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have to sleep with him or anything.” She caught the look on my face. “It happens. Students get exploited like that all the time. Especially the poor ones like me.”

“But not you.”

“I let him know the first day he’d have to stay on his side of the workbench. I pay him for studio time. I don’t owe him anything else.”

She was self-possessed, much more so than I had been at her age.

“So why SMU?”

“My parents. They’re mad for the place.”

“They must be to pay the tuition.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have a full ride. It came down to SMU or one of the art conservatories if I decided to go away. But I didn’t want to be stuck with artists all the time. They’re too weird.”

“You’re on an art scholarship, then?”

“Academic. President’s Scholar.”

Oh. That was a whole different level of smart.

“I went all the way through school on scholarships,” I said.

She laughed. “And look how you turned out.”

“This,” I said dramatically, “is your destiny.” I gestured toward the window at my crummy truck.

“That’s yours? I noticed it when I came in. It’s so cool!”

“Well, I like to think so, but I’m usually the only one.”

Her eyes were on the truck, but from the side I could see her expression lapsing, her eyes changing focus. She looked back at me.

“So.” She took a sip of coffee. “John Mulvaney.”

“Right. John Mulvaney. I hear he’s been harassing you.”

“E-harassing, I guess. Is that a word?”

“What’s he been doing?”

“Mainly talking about me on his blog. E-mailing me all the posts.”

“By name?”

“By name, by address, by description, by phone number, by e-mail. Pretty much advertising all over the Web who I am and where I live and
how to contact me, just in case any of the sickos who read his blog want to know.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“He says I’m his muse.” She rolled her eyes. “It makes me want to puke.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked at me with a level, hardened gaze. “You tell me. You’re the one who posts the content. He calls you his ‘liaison to the free world.’ A little grandiose, I thought.”

“I don’t have anything to do with the blog, Molly.”

Her expression softened. “You don’t, do you? I could tell as soon as I saw you. And not because you look like me.” She cocked her head. “You just don’t look like the type. You know what I mean? Those women who visit prisons and write letters to convicts and then marry them and never even spend one single night with them?” She took another sip of coffee and unwound the straw wrapper again. “Weirdos.”

“That’s the clinical term, I believe.”

“So. Dr. Mulvaney.”

“Weirdo du jour.”

She folded the paper in half lengthwise and started to twirl it into a spiral. “I can’t get much information from SMU. They told me he had to take an unexpected leave of absence. For personal reasons.”

“Well, that’s sort of true.”

“I mean, it’s not like he went home to nurse a sick relative. There’s a difference.”

“You found out what happened, though, right? It was all over the news.”

“I looked it up in the
Morning News
archives.”

“Well, I can’t speak for SMU. I do know the department head, and she’s terrific. I guess it was a judgment call.”

“Whatever. The whole thing is freaky.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How well do you know Dr. Mulvaney?”

“Not well, I’m happy to report. Only professionally. I knew him
well enough to know something was a little out of whack. I had no idea he was as disturbed as he turned out to be.”

She looked away. “Yeah, well, you can’t always tell about people.”

“Did he ever, you know …”

“Come on to me? You’re kidding, right? I don’t even know the man. I only know what he looks like from the blog.” She grimaced. “What a drip.”

“I wonder how he knows your address?”

“Don’t professors have access to students’ addresses?”

“We have e-mail addresses because students log in to our online classes.” My eyes mentally scanned my desk. “And come to think of it, we all have a campus directory. I guess he got it out of that.”

“I’m not in the directory.”

“Why not?”

“You can decline to be listed.” She looked up at me. “For privacy’s sake.”

She shuddered.

“I wish I could help you,” I said. “I can’t think what—”

“I thought about visiting him in jail and asking him to stop.”