Who Are You? (9780307823533) (18 page)

“If he’s a forger, he’s a criminal, Kristi. You don’t owe him anything.”

“There are some other things he and I need to set straight,” I say.

Balker nods. “Okay. I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

I’m only too glad to get out of that house. I run down the street to my car and jump in. It’s not until I reach San Felipe that the question hits me. Gurtz said a woman placed that fake call. Only one woman seems to be involved in Mr. Merson’s life right now, and that’s the gallery owner, Alanna Chase.

But Ms. Chase is in New York. Landreth said so.

A sudden thought jumps into my mind, startling me. Ms. Chase told us she was out of town—in Austin—when Mr. Merson was shot. She was out of town both of those times.

Or was she? I don’t want to tell the police until I’m sure, but there’s one way to find out.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

I
open the kitchen door, toss my backpack on the table, and reach for the telephone book. It takes a few minutes to find the number for the long-distance operator, but when I ask for the number of the Pierre Hotel in New York I get it immediately.

The hotel operator isn’t as swift when I ask for Ms. Alanna Chase’s room. But she finally comes back to me and says, “I’m sorry. There’s no one by the name of Alanna Chase registered at the Pierre Hotel.”

“Maybe she checked out early. Could you find out, please?”

It takes less than a minute before the operator returns. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Alanna Chase has not been a guest at our hotel recently.”

“Thank you,” I say, and hang up the phone.

I pour a glass of milk and take two oatmeal cookies out of a package in the refrigerator. Then I sit down to munch and think. Has she actually been out of town? Or has she told people she’s out of town to set up an alibi for herself? Is she a suspect? Maybe.

But why would she want to kill Mr. Merson?

I remember what Ms. Montero said about people who knowingly sold forged paintings. They were guilty and could be prosecuted too.

I remember I overheard Ms. Chase telling Landreth someone was going to cooperate. She was upset. Landreth told her not to worry.

Was it Mr. Merson who was going to cooperate? And was it with the police or the FBI or whoever was involved in the sale of forgeries?

If Mr. Merson admitted his part in the forgeries, he could go to prison. If he named Ms. Chase as the dealer who sold the forgeries, she’d probably go to prison too. Did Ms. Chase try to stop him from telling the truth?

I look up the area code for Austin and go through the operator to find the number for the Four Seasons Hotel. They can’t tell me when Ms. Chase checked out, or even if she stayed there. I better tell Sergeant Balker what I suspect.

It’s five-thirty. Mom told me this morning to bake a chicken for dinner, but it’s too early to put it into the oven. I get up from the table. I’ll clean my room. No, I won’t. I sit down again. I’ll do my homework.

I pull my books from my backpack and open my
notebook, but the words in the textbook turn into crazy lines and squiggles that make no sense at all.

There’s something I have to do, and I’m bugged by a terrible sense of urgency. Facing facts, I realize that I have to talk to Mr. Merson as soon as I can, or I may not be able to talk to him at all.

I’m not going to wait for Sergeant Balker’s permission to visit Mr. Merson. There’s someone else who can help me. I call Riverview Hospital and ask for Dr. Lynd.

I sigh with relief as he remembers me. “Mr. Merson’s coming along fine,” he says. “He’s sleeping now.”

“When do you think he’ll wake up?”

“We’ll keep him overnight and probably send him home tomorrow,” he says.

Tomorrow may be too late. “Could I come to see him now?” I ask.

“Bring a good book. He might not wake up for a couple of hours.”

“Thanks,” I tell him.

I mix the sauce for the chicken, put it all in a baking dish, cover it, and stick it in the oven at 325 degrees. Then I dump the contents of a can of new potatoes and a can of whole string beans into a pan. Mom can heat them while she’s putting the chicken on the table.

I set the table, write a note, and lay it on top of Mom’s plate.
I’m going to see Mr. Merson at Riverview Hospital. I’m sorry, but I have to
, I write. That’s all I need to say.

Twenty minutes later, I walk from the information desk at the hospital to Mr. Merson’s room.

Gurtz sits stolidly in a chair outside the door. His eyes narrow as he peers at me, but he nods and allows me to pass.

Mr. Merson’s sound asleep, just as Dr. Lynd said he would be. I pull a chair over to his bedside and sit there looking at him.

Mr. Merson has the long fingers of an artist or a magician. I glance down at my own hands. My fingers are long too.

“Which side of the family did Kristi get those long fingers from?” Aunt Darlene asked the last time she drove Grandma down to Houston for a visit. She spread out her own short, plump fingers on the table next to Mom’s squared hand.

The hospital room is quiet. The closed door muffles the occasional sounds of meal carts and footsteps in the hall. I’m tired. I rest my head against the edge of the mattress and close my eyes.

I awake to the gentle touch of fingers stroking back the hair from my forehead. “Mom?” I murmur, and struggle to sit upright.

I’ve forgotten where I am. It takes a moment to remember. But I look into Mr. Merson’s eyes. “Oh. You’re awake,” I say.

He points to a pad of paper and a pencil on the bedside table. I hand them to him, and he writes. “So are you.”

I don’t even try to smile at his teasing answer. I tell him, “Do you know what happened to you today?”

He nods and writes, “They told me you saved my life again. I’m even more in debt to you.”

Leaning closer, I say, “I don’t want you to be in
debt to me. I only want you to tell me the truth. Why have you kept the clippings and photos of me?”

For a moment Mr. Merson studies me. Then he picks up the pad and writes, “My son loved me, but he also hated me.”

“Your son was supposed to be a fine person. I don’t think he hated you,” I tell him. “Sometimes kids get angry with their parents, but—”

Mr. Merson holds up a hand to silence me. When I stop talking, he continues to write. “Roger knew how much I wanted our family to grow. He knew I wanted a grandchild. He knew I planned to lavish love and care on that child totally from the moment it came into the world.”

He hands me the page, then keeps writing. “In the resentment and anger he felt toward me, Roger exacted a terrible revenge. He became a sperm donor. He fathered children I would have no claim on, grandchildren I would never know.”

The words squiggle on the page. I have trouble focusing my eyes, and my hands tremble. “Do you think I’m one of these children?” I whisper.

“Yes,” Mr. Merson writes. “I know you are. Roger gave me the sketch he’d made of your mother. He told me to enjoy wondering if this was my grandchild on the way.”

I struggle to make sense of what he’s saying. “Wait a minute. He didn’t say I
was
your grandchild. He said
if
.”

“That was Roger’s way of tormenting me,” he writes. “I knew you had to be his child.”

“Your son was
not
my father,” I tell Mr. Merson. “My father’s name is on my birth certificate.”

He gives me a long, sad look. Then he writes, “Of course, it would be. I hired an investigator to find out as much as he could. I am familiar with Dr. Salinas’s fertility clinic, as well as the circumstances of your birth at the Women’s Center.”

I can see that he isn’t listening to me. “The names of sperm donors are kept secret,” I say. “Even the women who receive the sperm don’t know. No one would have given the information to your investigator. And Roger could never discover who received his sperm. That is impossible.”

Mr. Merson writes, “Roger knew.”

“No, he didn’t. He couldn’t. What you think you know is not the truth.”

“Kristi,” he writes, “think of what I can teach you. Think of what I can give you. You are artistic like Roger, like me. When you’re ready I can give you everything.”

There’s a light tap at the door, and it opens. It’s my mom. She doesn’t come inside. She stands there looking at Mr. Merson and at me. “I’m sorry you had to go back to the hospital, Mr. Merson,” she says. She moves and holds out a hand toward me. “I came to get my daughter.”

I’m aware that Mr. Merson is writing again, but I don’t wait to see what his message is. I get up and walk to my mother, who puts an arm around my shoulders. But as we leave the room, I stop short so quickly that we stumble. “Mom,” I say, “I have to go back. Today I told Sergeant Balker … well, it
was something about Mr. Merson, and I want to be fair. I have to tell Mr. Merson what I said.” “Not now,” Mom says.

Without complaint I let her guide me out of the hospital and into Dad’s car.

“I’ll drive,” she tells me. “Your father brought me here. He’s taking the other car home.”

As we climb into the car I clutch her arm. “Don’t start the car yet, Mom. I have to talk to you. I can’t wait till we get home.”

“All right, Kristi,” Mom says. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” She twists toward me, leaning back against her car door.

Aching at the terrible sorrow in her eyes, I start to cry, but I manage to spill out everything Mr. Merson told me.

Mom pulls a fistful of tissues from her bag and gives them to me. When I’ve finished mopping up, she says, “Chip … Roger was a tormented person. I didn’t know he had such a cruel side. I’m disappointed and shocked by what he did to make his father suffer. I thought at the time he was trying to make up with his father and find peace. I was so wrong.”

“But Mr. Merson believes—”

“Mr. Merson believes what he wants to believe. And just now he probably made his dream seem very real to you.”

“Oh, Mom. It can’t be real! I don’t want it to be!” I cry. “It isn’t, is it, Mom?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” Mom answers.

“But I want
you
to say it! I want to hear it from
you
!”

“Kristi.” Mom’s voice is calm but full of feeling. “I could insist over and over again that Roger was not your father. I could tell you that Drew and I rejected the idea of in vitro fertilization because it involves many embryos that have to be destroyed. I could tell you that the right combination of timing and medication finally made it possible for us to conceive you. You’ll have to take my word. But I can’t give you absolute proof. You’ll have to trust me.”

Mom and Dad have dark hair. My hair is much lighter. I’m artistic and creative; while Mom and Dad are left-brained, mathematical people.

At times I’ve wondered about my parents, but now I have to trust. I fling myself at Mom, wrapping my arms around her, as the tears well up again. “I trust you. I believe you. Oh, Mom, I
do
believe you,” I sob.

Mom holds me tightly, and I hear her crying too. “Kristi,” she says, “your father and I love you with all our hearts.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

T
he phone rings, and I glance at the kitchen clock: 7:45
A.M.
Mom and Dad have already left for work, and I have to hurry if I’m going to catch the bus for school.

But the phone blasts insistently. It’s much too loud for this early hour. I gulp down the last swallow of orange juice and answer.

“He wants to see you.”

I recognize the voice. “Is this Gurtz?” I ask.

“Yes. Mr. Merson wants you to come. Now.”

“I can’t. I have to go to school,” I tell him. “I’ll visit the hospital this afternoon, after school.”

“He’s not at the hospital. He’s at home. He needs to talk to you.” There’s a pause, and it sounds as if Gurtz holds a hand over the speaker. He comes
back and adds, “He said to tell you he’s running out of time.”

I don’t want to see Mr. Merson. I made a choice. I chose Mom and Dad. That means I pushed out of my mind forever any questions about a possible tie to Mr. Merson. But what Gurtz just said concerns me. Running out of time? I don’t know what Mr. Merson means by that.