Who Are You? (9780307823533) (9 page)

She steps toward me with such fierceness that I stumble backward. Thrusting her face into mine, she growls, “
You
saw Douglas? They let
you
in to see him?”

“No!” I tell her. “I tried. I mean I got in, but a nurse asked me to leave.”

It was a big mistake to mention going to the hospital. Ms. Chase is shaking, and the darkness behind her eyes frightens me. “What did Douglas say to you?” she demands.

I shake my head. “Nothing. He couldn’t talk. He was totally out of it.”

Ms. Chase steps back, breathing heavily. I can see her trying to gain control of herself, picking up all the little pieces that exploded in anger and fitting them back where they belong.

Finally she says, “You’re a very foolish girl. Someone tried to kill Douglas. Don’t you realize that the person may try again? Douglas is still in great danger. You should keep away for your sake as well.”

Her eyes drill into mine as she adds, “For your own safety, Ms. Evans, stay away from him, and stop asking so many nosy questions or you could find yourself in danger too.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

T
he minute I walk into the safety of my own kitchen, I dump my books on the table. I go to the telephone and get the number for the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I’m finally connected to someone who, I hope, can answer my question. “Is the painting
Madame Kupka among Verticals
by Frank Kupka on display?”

“Not at the present time,” she says.

I know that sometimes museums lend their paintings to special exhibitions at other museums. Maybe that’s where the Kupka work is. But in my mind I see those glorious strips of color hanging in Douglas Merson’s entry hall. I have to ask. “Where is the painting? Is it on loan? Can you tell me?”

The line is silent for a moment. Then she says, “Who is this?”

“I just need to know if the painting has been stolen,” I tell her. I realize I must sound like a nut.

Her voice takes on a strange tone. “Stay on the line. I’m going to transfer your call to our security department,” she says.

Maybe she does. I don’t know. I hang up, nearly dropping the phone because my fingers are trembling.

I have to admit that I’m a little scared. I wish I could talk to Mom and Dad about what’s going on, but at this time of year they come home from the office exhausted, gulp down their dinner, and go back to work until very late at night. I know from experience that after April 15, when even the last-minute clients have their income tax returns in the mail, Mom and Dad will turn into real people again, but by then it may be too late.

When Ms. Chase told me Mr. Merson was in danger, I realized she was right. There must have been something about the robbery that frightened the thief. Did he think Mr. Merson could identify him? Is that why he shot him? If that’s the reason, whoever tried to kill Mr. Merson might keep trying. Does my folder fit in, or is that just coincidence?

I take Sergeant Balker’s card from my wallet and phone him. This time he answers the call himself. I can hear a voice on an intercom in the background: “Will Dr. Harvey Walters please report to pediatrics?”

“Are you in a hospital?” I ask Balker.

“That’s right,” he answers.

“With Mr. Merson? Or somebody else?”

“Hey, Kristi, does it matter?”

“I think it does,” I say, “because somebody tried to kill Mr. Merson and may have tried to make it look like a robbery. Maybe Mr. Merson knows who it was and can tell you as soon as he can talk. Okay? So the person may try again to kill him before he gets the chance.” I run out of breath, so I gulp in a lungful of air. “I thought you ought to know.”

“It occurred to us,” Balker drawls. “We’re on top of the situation.”

“Are you with Mr. Merson now?”

The call goes out on the intercom again: “Will Dr. Harvey Walters please report to pediatrics?”

Balker raises his voice, speaking over it. “As a matter of fact, I just talked to Merson. Are you satisfied?”

“Did he tell you who shot him?” I ask.

“He can’t speak. Remember?”

“Can he write? Can he draw a picture of the killer?”

Balker chuckles. “Want to be a detective when you grow up, Kristi? You’re on the right track.”

I gasp. “Who did he say shot him?”

There’s just a slight pause before Balker says, “You’ll hear it from the media anyway, so I can tell you this much. Merson opened the door to some one in a ski mask. The porch light had been shattered, and the house is set back from the street, so there wasn’t enough light for him to make out any distinguishing details. Then everything happened fast.”

“But was the person in the mask tall or short? Was it a man or a woman?”

“He doesn’t know. He couldn’t tell. As I said, it was dark and everything came down in a hurry.”

“Do you have a policeman stationed there to protect him in case the robber comes back to keep Mr. Merson from identifying him?”

“All Merson saw was the ski mask. Kristi, you watch too many cop shows on TV.”

“Someone has to be with Mr. Merson.”

“If Merson is concerned he can get the guy who works for him to hire a bodyguard. That’s up to him.”

I visualize Merson as I saw him, wrapped in bandages, attached to tubes, and lying helpless in bed. I’m swept with a new surge of pity for him, even though I don’t really know who he is. “May I please come and visit Mr. Merson now?” I ask.

“Not just yet. Give it a few days.”

I feel strange about asking. My face grows hot as I mumble, “Did he … well, did he say anything about me?”

“No, and I didn’t ask him. The doctor limited my time to ask questions.”

“What hospital is Mr. Merson in?”

Balker laughs again. “Nice try, Kristi, but it won’t work. As I promised, I’ll be in touch with you. I’ll take you and your parents to see Merson when the time is right. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

“Okay,” I answer. There’s no point in arguing—especially not when I know how to find out the name of the hospital.

I pick up the yellow pages again and turn to the hospitals section. I can’t believe there are so many hospitals in Houston.

For a moment I’m angry with Detective Balker for not just telling me where Mr. Merson is. It would save me a lot of work.

I take Jonathan’s drawing of a pear from my notebook and place it on the kitchen counter, near the phone, where it will be safe from splatters. Jonathan drew it. Jonathan gave it to me, so it doesn’t matter that the pear never had a chance to live. I’ll never bury it. Instead, I’ll tape it on the mirror in my bedroom.

Mom and Dad arrive home. As I begin to dish up the spaghetti and the salad of mixed field greens that I’ve tossed together, Dad stops at the counter and picks up the drawing. “Callie! Look at this pear!” he exclaims, excitement in his voice. “This is great. This looks just like a real pear.” He beams at me. “Kristi, you don’t need art lessons. You’ve got a natural talent.”

I ache inside. “It’s not my drawing, Dad,” I say quietly. “A friend of mine gave it to me.”

“Oh,” Dad says. As he puts down the drawing, he looks embarrassed. “Well, your friend has real talent … too,” he adds.

During dinner Mom and Dad try to talk to me about school and stuff that I’m doing, but I don’t feel like talking. There’s too much to think about. They’ve always made it easy for me to talk about anything with them, so I feel a little guilty that now I can’t. Finally they give up trying to reach me and discuss their clients’ tax problems. As soon as
they’ve finished eating and head for their home office and their computers, I sit down with the telephone and the yellow pages.

I choose the biggest hospitals first, then move to some of the smaller private ones between River Oaks and the Medical Center. In each case I ask for the pediatrics department. When someone answers, I ask for Dr. Harvey Walters.

It’s not until late the next afternoon, on my second try, that I get what I want. The receptionist nswers me by saying, “Dr. Walters has left Riverview for the day. Please call his office. Do you have that number?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say quickly, and hang up.

Riverview Hospital
. It’s on Woodway. I write down the address and tuck the slip of paper into my bag. As soon as I can I’m going to pay another visit to Douglas Merson.

On Wednesday I get up a half hour early and have breakfast on the table when Mom and Dad come into the kitchen. They look at the platters of scrambled eggs, sliced melon, and buttered toast and smile with delight.

Mom hugs me, and I ache when I see the dark circles under her eyes. “You and Dad need to eat a good breakfast,” I tell her. “Coffee and toast doesn’t cut it.”

“Who’s the mother?” she teases me.

“Whoever makes breakfast.” I grin.

It’s pretty quiet as they begin to eat, but I break
the silence. “I talked to Sergeant Balker yesterday. He said Mr. Merson has been moved to a private hospital.”

Dad and Mom both look up quickly.

“Did he say which one?” Dad asks.

“Sergeant Balker didn’t tell me anything,” I say, “except that Mr. Merson didn’t see the person who shot him. There’s no way he can identify him.”

“Mr. Merson can talk?” Mom asks.

“No, but I guess he can write.”

“Good,” she says firmly. She bites down hard on her toast and chews it as though she’s crushing it to death. “He has some explaining to do to us. At this time of the year we need all the sleep we can get. I don’t appreciate having to lie awake nights worrying about what peculiar interest some strange man has in our daughter!”

I reach across the table and pat her hand. “Mom, Sergeant Balker said he’d take us to see Mr. Merson in just a few days.”

“Did he say what day?” Dad asks.

“No. I don’t think he knows yet.”

Mom peers at the tiny calendar fastened to the band on her wristwatch. “It’s going to have to be on a Sunday. There’s no way your father and I can take off during the week.” She gives a little moan. “But I do need to know what this is all about.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. You will. The police are right on top of it.”

And so am I.
But I don’t need to tell them that.

Art appreciation class is great, as usual Ms. Montero is taking us through some really fascinating art history. As I study the slides on the screen I itch to visit the museums in person. Oh, if only I were an art historian myself, I’d get lost in the galleries and churches of Rome!

Ms. Montero turns off the projector and flips on the lights. “On Friday evening at seven-thirty there’s a preview showing of an exhibition of eighteenth-century French paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts. Two of the paintings you just saw will be in the exhibit. I’ve arranged to get tickets for those of you who’d like to attend for extra credit.”

I wave my hand wildly as she writes down names. I can’t wait to go.

Jonathan stops by my desk as the class ends. His voice is softer than usual, and he stares at the floor. “We could go to the exhibition together,” he says.

My heart gives a jump. All along I’ve thought Jonathan wasn’t interested in me, but that wasn’t it. Jonathan’s shy.