The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

As the elevator doors opened, she threw back the gate and pulled out her key, sliding it into the slot on the panel. Kitt pressed the button to the fourth floor and pulled the old gate closed.

  Bergman. She knew I’d find out. Why would she select a name I’d eventually . . .

  A jolt went through her.

  She turned the page and ran her finger over the notes, her eyes wildly scanning each word. “Where is it? Where . . .”

  Her finger stopped at the other name.

  Francine DeMond.

  Kitt tucked the file under her arm and tapped her tablet. The search engine opened, but the screen displayed a tiny wheel that spun and spun.

  Grimacing, Kitt looked at the ceiling and cursed. “You wretched old building! Get me a signal!”

  She tapped her foot, staring at her screen while the elevator lumbered to a stop at the fourth floor. When the doors opened, Kitt pushed back the gate and stepped out—and the website connected.

  The name Francine DeMond appeared in the search box.

  The results didn’t show her at all.

  Francine Demild profiles, Facebook.

  Frauke Demond profiles, Facebook.

  Francine Delgado, Addams Family, Megaman and others.

  Rubin & Demond, The Light Ekphrastic.

  Then, a row of images—an African-American singer, a man in blue jeans standing in a parking lot, a bus route map, some sort of cartoon—nothing that appeared to be the woman mentioned by the patient.

  Kitt rushed toward the nurses’ station, taking the file from under her arm and reading over the notes. At the desk, she glanced up. No one was there.

  “Patrice? Are you here?” She looked up and down the hallway. The low hum from the soda machine was the only reply. Kitt walked toward the old woman’s room, speaking loud enough to be heard throughout the ward. “My patient has some explaining to do, Patrice.”

  Putting her hand on the door, Kitt pushed it open.

  The room was empty.

  The bed had been stripped; only the bare mattress remained, resting on the bedframe. The machines were gone, the restraints, the charts, the towels. The trash can had been emptied. It was as if the old woman hadn’t been there at all.

  Kitt put a hand to her chin. The faint scent of pine and alcohol lingered in the air.

  The room’s been sterilized.

  “Patrice?” Kitt stepped into the hallway. The nurses’ station was empty. No reports, no charts . . . the computer had been turned off and the phone was unplugged. The trash can had been emptied there, too. A fresh liner, only partially opened, hung on the rectangular trash can.

  Kitt turned and stared at the patient’s empty room.

  They’ve moved her and shut down the wing. Why?

  One person will know.

  Frowning, Kitt gripped her tablet and file, marching toward the elevator.

  Chapter 4

  The receptionist outside of Dr. Dechambeau’s office was polite, but firm. “Il est occupé, Docteur. Si vous voulez bien prendre rendez-vous, s'il vous plaît.”

  Kitt frowned. The receptionist spoke perfectly good English when she wanted to. “I don’t need an appointment, Gabrielle. I need to speak with René now. S'il vous plait.” It was a bold step, but using Dr. Dechambeau’s first name—and only his first name—might imply that the Chief of Medicine in fact did want to see Kitt without an appointment. “He woke me at two in the morning and requested my report as soon as possible. I need to give it to him.”

  Gabrielle chewed her lip, eyeing the large, closed doors of Dr. Dechambeau’s suite. At the other desks, one assistant answered the phone; the other typed.

  “I will try one time on the intercom.” Gabrielle picked up the receiver from the phone console “But that is all. If he becomes angry, rest assured, he will know you are the reason for this interruption.”

  Kitt nodded. “Merci. I just need two minutes.”

  Dechambeau’s voice was audible through the phone pressed to Gabrielle’s ear. At the front of the desk, Kitt shifted on her feet. Dechambeau’s voice was muffled, but the tone was unmistakably irritated.

  “Oui, Docteur.” Gabrielle’s cheeks turned red. “Je suis désolé de vous interrompre.” As she hung up, she glared at Kitt. “The Chief of Medicine requests you make an appointment—and also that you consider making your resignation letter.” Narrowing her eyes, she smiled.

  Kitt returned the sarcastic look. “Thank you for all your help.” Sighing, she walked to the hallway. The tablet glowed in her hands.

  The search site had updated. A new story appeared about Francine DeMond. The headline read, “Freak Death Of Student.”

  Kitt tapped the screen, opening a Canadian website. An image of a woman, roughly in her early thirties, appeared next to the crest of the University of Montreal in Quebec. Kitt quickly scanned the story.

  Francine DeMond did go to the dentist for a root canal, and had a reaction to the anesthesia. She was a healthy woman in her thirties who was taking college courses at night at the University of Montreal. She died a few hours ago. The Canadian CDC is looking into the cause of death.

  Kitt leaned against the wall, her jaw hanging open.

  What is going on?

  The doors to Dr. Dechambeau’s suite opened and he walked out, leading a parade of men and women in business suits. Laughing, Dechambeau clapped an old man on the back. “Et donc, je vous verrai sur le terrain de golf plus tard?” He bent over and mimicked an exaggeratedly bad golf swing.

  “Bien sûr, René!” the elderly gentleman said.

  The others laughed and smiled. Dechambeau escorted them to the elevators, shaking the hand of each one as they passed. “Au revoir. Merci beaucoup d'être venus.”

  As the elevator doors closed, he turned toward his office.

  Kitt stepped away from the wall. “Sir, may I have a word?”

  “Do not think I didn’t see you there, Doctor Kittaleye. But I have a busy schedule today.”

  She mustered her best French, reciting that a man of power and importance is always busy. “Un homme de pouvoir et d'importance est toujours occupé.”

  Dechambeau shook his head, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat. “Do not attempt to flatter me, Madame Docteur. It insults us both, and your terrible accent slaughters the French language. Now, what is it that you want?” He withdrew his Gauloises cigarettes and lighter.

  “You summoned me to see a patient last night, and now you’ve moved her,” Kitt said. “Why?”

  “You dare question me in my own hospital?” Dechambeau’s voice thundered across the lobby. “And in front of my staff?”

  Gabrielle looked up from her desk. The other assistants stopped their work and stared at Kitt.

  “No, sir . . . and I apologize for my—my obvious poor choice of words.” Kitt looked down, clutching her file and tablet. “I merely wished to continue the task you assigned me, and to do it fully, as I know you would want. But when I went to see the patient today, she was gone.”

  Dechambeau lit a cigarette. “You sent your report this morning. ‘Insanity, Thorazine’—these were your words, yes?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then she is a mental case and belongs at—” Dechambeau glanced at Gabrielle.

  “Sainte-Anne Hôpital, monsieur,” Gabrielle said.

  “Sainte-Anne Hospital.” Dechambeau glared at Kitt. “Pas ici. Not here.” He walked toward his office.

  “I know you don’t respect my field, sir, but—”

  “Perhaps I’m merely challenging you to perfect what you’ve only studied in books, Doctor.”

  “Well, sir, I believe this case warrants further review.” Kitt trailed after him. “There have been some very irregular coincidences.”

  “Fine. The staff at Sainte-Anne can address them. I’ve forwarded your report. Good day, Madame Docteur.”

  Kitt stopped, her shoulders sagging. “Yes, sir.”

  “And Doctor Kittaleye . . .” Dechambeau took a long puff on his cigarette. “T
he next time my receptionist tells you to make an appointment, consider who it is you are actually saying no to.”

  Blowing the smoke in Kitt’s face, Dechambeau disappeared into his office and shut the door.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She turned to the receptionist. “And thank you, Gabrielle.”

  Because now I know where you’ve moved my patient.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Kittaleye sat in her cramped apartment, staring at the hospital-issued computer as the patient information screen loaded.

  Technically, this isn’t against the rules because I am authorized to update the records. If I happen to see the name used to transfer the patient, or the transfer number, that can’t be helped.

  The screen finally opened. The elderly woman was transferred at 8:03 a.m., under the French equivalent of Jane Doe, transfer record number 21-10312020.

  Dechambeau didn’t waste any time getting her out of here.

  Kitt made a note of both items.

  Now, since I don’t have admitting privileges at Sainte-Anne, I can’t just show up with a case number or transfer number.

  What could I do?

  She leaned over and peeked into the mirror, brushing a strand of ebony hair from her brown cheek.

  I doubt anyone will think she’s my grandmother.

  Her gaze drifted to the tiny dresser.

  On the other hand, this is France.

  * * * * *

  Dressed in her long, black winter coat, a scarf, and a stylish knit hat, Kitt hailed a cab. Her ripped skinny jeans and fashionable high heeled boots weren’t right for the weather, but they’d be perfect for the admitting desk clerk at Sainte-Anne Hôpital.

  When a cab finally stopped, Kitt jumped in, invoking her best California girl accent. “Saint Annie Hospital, mon shoor. Por fuh vore.”

  The cabbie gave her a half smile in the rearview mirror, then rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You are American, eh mademoiselle?”

  “I am.” Kitt flashed a wide grin. She was still young enough to pass as a college student when she dressed the part. “My school has a semester abroad program where you can go to any country, and I picked Paree.”

  “Yes. The country of Paris is so fortunate. Which entrance for the Sainte-Anne Hôpital do you wish?”

  “Are there more than one?” She stifled a wince. Her overdone California dialect was migrating toward Texas. “Uh, just the main one, I guess. I’m meeting my roommate, and she’s already there. She’s visiting her grandma.”

  The cabbie pulled into the thick traffic of downtown Paris, muttering. “Quelle chance pour la grand-mère.”

  Kitt looked out the window, silently translating.

  “How lucky for grandmother.”

  Indeed.

  If I play this right, the French will assume I’m an American that doesn’t speak French, and they’ll let their guard down. Hopefully, enough for me to find my patient’s room.

  The cab ride to the Sainte-Anne Hospital took about ten minutes. Kitt paid the driver and opened the door, greeted by a frosty gust of winter air. Her long coat whipped her ankles as she rushed to the hospital’s visiteurs entrance.

  The wave of warmth in the lobby was a welcome relief. The massive space was clean and white, a tall, wide, modern-looking area with a long, pristine counter at the far end. It seemed more like an upscale hotel than a psychiatric hospital.

  Kitt walked quickly over the large tile floor, her heels echoing off the gleaming walls and high ceiling. As she approached the admitting desk, the clerk lifted her eyes from her computer and looked at the slender, elegant psychologist.

  “Hi!” Kitt beamed. She spoke much louder than necessary. “I’m here to meet my roommate—and she’s visiting her granny. Can y’all tell me where they are?”

  The petite clerk recoiled. “This is the Sainte-Anne Hôpital, mademoiselle. Are you certain this is the facility you are looking for?”

  “Yep!” Kitt banged her hand on the counter, leaning over and inspecting the clerk’s desk. “Carrie said this is where she’d be. The Saint Annie hospital.” She glanced around. “This place is a lot prettier on the inside than the outside. Anyhoo, Ima grab a seat right yonder and wait for my roomie—don’t got but about three percent left on my phone battery, and we’re goin’ out to see some of Paree in a bit.”

  The clerk opened her mouth to speak.

  “Say!” Kitt wheeled around and grabbed the counter with both hands. “Would you mind if I plug in and charge up right here?” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You got a spare plug? This is an XL. It charges real slow, but I think Carrie said she and her granny were going to be visiting for a few hours, and I don’t mind waiting in the lobby. She’s my BFF and all.” Kitt stepped away from the counter, swinging her hands back and forth and clapping them each time they collided in front of her. “Yep. Give them a few hours to chat, and my phone will be all charged.”

  “Mademoiselle!” The clerk jumped up from her seat. “Perhaps you would like to visit with your friend and her grandmother upstairs.”

  “Well, now, that’s an idea. ‘Course, I don’t know her grandma’s name.”

  The clerk typed on her keyboard. “When did she come in?”

  “Oh, they brought her over this morning around eight,” Kitt said. “Transferred from a hospital on the other side of town. The Petey Saltpepper, or something. And Carrie did give me a transfer number—I have a great head for numbers. I mostly can remember any phone number. Wanna try?” She slapped her arm on the counter and leaned toward the clerk. “I bet I can remember yours. Go ahead. Try.”

  The clerk leaned away. “Mademoiselle, if you have the transfer number, I may be able to locate your friend for you—then you could join them . . . instead of waiting here.”

  “What a right good idea! Thank you.” Kitt rubbed her nose and wiped her hand on the side of her coat, then dug in her pocket until she produced a small piece of paper. She handed it to the clerk, who held it by the corner with fingertips. “Actually,” Kitt said, “Carrie might still be fetching lunch—they was gonna eat lunch together in the room. So, is it okay if I just go on up before she gets here?”

  “I’m sure we can accommodate such a thing this one time.” The clerk stopped typing. “Yes, your friend’s grandmother is on unrestricted access. If she will allow it, you may visit with her.” A man appeared at the end of the counter, and she gestured to him. “This is Claude. He will escort you to the room.”

  The clerk looked at Claude and spoke in French. Kitt grinned broadly, listening to their conversation as if she didn’t understand a word.

  “Take this obnoxious child to the woman in room 1918,” the clerk said. “If the patient knows her, she may stay until her friend arrives.”

  Claude nodded. “And if not?”

  “Then take her out.” The clerk huffed. “And use any exit but this one.”

  Kitt kept her big grin plastered to her face.

  Claude stepped toward her. “If you will come with me, mademoiselle.”

  “Thank you, mon-shoor.” She winked at the clerk. “And thank you, maddamusell.”

  * * * * *

  At room 1918, Claude knocked on the door. “Madame, you have a visitor request. Do you know this young lady?”

  Kitt stuck her head in the door. “Hi. I’m your granddaughter Carrie’s friend. Remember me?”

  The old woman smiled from where she lay on the bed. “Of course I remember you, dear.” She glanced at Claude. “This will be fine. I was expecting her.” Her gaze went to Kitt. “And it’s nearly two p.m.—as we agreed earlier.”

  As Claude left the room, Kitt strolled toward the bed. “Two p.m.” She held up her phone, displaying the time. “What a coincidence. It’s one of many I’ve seen today, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Helena.” The elderly patient waved her hand at a chair that had been positioned near the bed. “And now, Doctor Kittaleye, if you would like to sit with an old woman, I shall tell you the things you hav
e come to hear.”

  Chapter 5

  Dr. Kittaleye folded her coat over the back of her chair. “Could you have seen the story on the news, and been confused?”

  “How could I be confused?” Helena said. “There was no TV in the ward. I’ve had no access to a computer or phone.”

  “Maybe you heard about the chef from Patrice and the other nurses. Same with the college student.”

  “Are you thinking that is so, or hoping it is?”

  Kitt knew the truth. The old woman could not have known about the deaths of two different women, thousands of miles apart, before they happened—even if she had access to phones and tablets and everything else.

  “I told you this morning, I’m not crazy.” Helena’s tone was soft. Patient. “But . . . there are those of us who have abilities that are not easily explained in the traditional sense of things.”

  Kitt rubbed her eyes with both hands, exhaling sharply. “So, you’re a psychic, is that it?”

  “Psychic? No, dear. It’s difficult to explain. My life has taken quite a unique path, it seems.” She adjusted the blankets. “I can tell you how it was explained to me.”

  “Yes. Let’s try that.”

  “Very well.” Helena sighed, her eyes looking at the young doctor but seeming far way. “Did you know that a baby born anywhere in the world will babble all phonemes? Eventually, they will latch onto the ones that are relevant to the language they need, and lose the ability to speak the rest. It begins like that. Then, in time, we learn to . . . interpret the things that come. With focus, we can understand it. We see the message in it all—like a dream—and we retain it, we comprehend it.”

  “I was told you don’t dream.”

  Helena smiled. “It’s like a dream, as far as what I conclude from how others describe dreams.”

  “You understand . . .” Kitt shifted in her seat. “From my viewpoint, it’s much more likely you overheard someone or caught part of a radio broadcast—”

  “Before it happened?

  “Well, that’s the part of the trick I can’t get my head around—no offense, ma’am.”

  “Trick. I see.” Helena stared at the floor. “I am sympathetic to your skepticism, dear. Let me disperse it now. Did you bring your file with you?”