The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

  “The file on you? Yes.”

  “Would you open it to the fourth page, please?”

  Kitt leafed through the file.

  “Patient appears lucid,” the old woman said. “She is responsive but evasive, possibly suffering from a head injury sustained when the pectoral issue occurred, but the MRI and CT scan displayed no cranial trauma . . .”

  As the woman spoke, Kitt stopped turning the pages in the file. Her hands fell to her lap.

  “No obvious signs of dementia. Delusional. Possible PTSD. Evasive . . .”

  Helena was reciting Kitt’s entire session notes—handwritten by her earlier that day—that had never left the file.

  “. . . the patient’s mental state should be considered in light of the reported gunshot wound that resulted in a massive loss of blood, as well possibly a self-reinforcing delusion…

  Kitt read along as Helena said every word on the page, including the scratched-out parts.

  “You added, ‘2 p.m. follow up’ at the end.” Helena swept her hands out. “And here we are.”

  “I—I don’t understand. How . . . why . . .”

  “I need your help.” The old woman got up from the bed, clasping her hands in front of her. “There will be an update on the Canadian woman soon. She had no known allergic reaction to the anesthesia, but she marked the box on the form that she did. The hygienist misplaced the form. It went into another patient’s file.”

  Kitt opened a search engine on her tablet and typed the Canadian woman’s name in. The story updated at 2:11p.m., the exact time displayed on the tablet’s clock. The new information was exactly as Helena said.

  Kitt looked at the elderly patient. “How?”

  “The same way I knew you left Uganda with your mother and father when you were eleven. I saw it.”

  “You . . . saw it?”

  “The image is clear in my mind. I see it like a movie, but of course that would be how one would describe a dream. You wore your mother’s scarf on the plane because you were cold. It was red, yellow, and black—the colors of the Ugandan flag. She called you Pitta, the little bird of your native country. Green wings, with a yellow and black head, and a red underbelly.”

  Kitt’s jaw hung open. “But how?”

  Helena’s gaze went to the window. “When you look outside at that field of green grass, why don’t you see any red cars in it?

  Kitt craned her neck to see out the window. “Because there aren’t any red cars in that field of grass.”

  “So, you don’t need to see any red. In the same way, I didn’t need to engage brain waves on that level until it was necessary. When it came into my field of view, then I saw it.”

  “But that doesn’t—”

  “What if people were able to see ultraviolet light or hear ultrasonic transmissions? And what if human genetics had been manipulated to the point where some people could receive thought transmissions from others, or sense a pre-echo in the fabric of time and space the way dogs feel an earthquake before it happens?”

  “But it’s—the scientists have disowned such studies.”

  “Have they? Or have they not even seen the latest developments because they were never shared? Some people consider proprietary technology is too easily stolen to share with academics.”

  “Is what you’re saying true? Does it exist, the capabilities—”

  “If it did not, how could I have told you the things I’ve told you?”

  “About the deaths of those two women?”

  “And your plane flight as a child.”

  “You . . you see things? Before they happen?”

  “Some things. And, sadly, often the most tragic events are the ones I miss. Or maybe my unconscious knows I can’t handle them. Maybe that’s why you came to me—to help with the things I can’t. So, I trust you, Doctor. A young girl who is very important to me is in danger. I hope you can help me find her.”

  “You mentioned a child before. Your little girl. Is that your . . . granddaughter?”

  “My ward. A child entrusted to me, and I was her Keeper. She was in The Bahamas, but without a phone or any electronics, I can’t know. I only know I must leave here and go to her.”

  * * * * *

  Patrice bounded down the stairs of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, pulling the collar of her coat tight to her neck. She waved goodbye to a few co-workers, her blonde locks swaying in the chilly midday wind as she walked toward the bus stop on the corner.

  A blond man in a red and black plaid coat nudged the athletic woman next to him. “That is her,” he whispered. “The one with the yellow hair, coming this way.”

  “Merci, Jules.” The woman reached into a shopping bag and withdrew an envelope, handing it to him. “Go back inside—but take the long way, eh?”

  Jules shoved the envelope into his coat pocket. The wind blew his blond locks into his eyes. “She won’t be hurt, will she?”

  “Your part is done. Go now.” The woman nodded to two men smoking by the far side of the hospital exit. One was dressed in a hospital maintenance uniform—a blue-gray shirt and drab, gray pants; the other was disguised as a construction worker—blue jeans, yellow hard hat, and a yellow safety vest. They dropped their cigarettes and walked behind Patrice as she made her way to the corner.

  The woman put the shopping bag over her arm and raised a small radio to her cheek. “I am engaging the target. Bring the vehicles now.” Dropping the phone into her coat pocket, she rushed toward Patrice. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”

  Patrice stopped, glancing at the bus stop and then back to the woman. “Yes, I speak English.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I’m so lost. Can you help me? Do you know where this is?” She opened the bag to reveal a tablet playing a video. On the screen was an image of a blonde-haired woman with a gun to her head.

  Patrice leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?”

  From behind her, the maintenance man and the construction worker grabbed Patrice’s arms.

  She gasped, looking over both shoulders and struggling against the grip of the assailants.

  “Patrice Chevalier.” The athletic woman stepped forward, her nose an inch from the nurse. “Silence. Le silence.” She grabbed the nurse by the chin. “If you say one word, the man with the gun kills your mother. Nod if you understand.”

  Shaking, Patrice nodded.

  “Remain silent, and this will all be over quickly. Nod again if you understand.”

  As a van drove up to the curb, Patrice nodded a second time.

  “Good.” The athletic woman said. “Keep your mouth shut and get in the van. We don’t want to hurt you, but if you say or do anything, my man on the video will splatter your mother’s face all over the screen—and you will be next.”

  The van doors opened. The men pulled Patrice inside and shoved her to the floor. As the woman boarded, the maintenance man closed the van door and they drove away. The construction worker handed the woman a blindfold.

  “This is necessary,” she said, giving the blindfold to Patrice. “Put it on. Cover your eyes. And remember, if you speak, the first bullet kills your mother at her apartment in Sèvres. The second bullet kills you.”

  Tears welled in Patrice’s eyes as her trembling hands slid the blindfold over her eyes.

  “Give me your phone,” the construction worker said.

  Patrice took her phone out of her pocket. The man took it and turned away.

  The van swerved around a few more turns, then came to a stop.

  “Take your blindfold off,” the woman said.

  Quivering, Patrice pulled the fabric down past her chin.

  The van door slid back to reveal an ambulance, its doors open and a fat man lying on a stretcher, bandaged around both arms and legs.

  “Right. Bring her to me,” he growled in a thick British accent.

  The maintenance man grabbed Patrice and dragged her to the van door.

  Narrowing his eyes, the British man glared at the
nurse. “You been watching a woman in your hospital. An old bird, in a special wing.”

  Her mouth hanging open, Patrice looked at the woman who had kidnapped her.

  The man in the ambulance scowled. “Tell her to answer me, Miss Franklin.”

  The female kidnapper nodded to her blonde hostage. “You may answer Mr. Hollings’ questions, Patrice.”

  “Oui. I—I did,” Patrice whimpered.

  “Aye, you did, flower,” Hollings said. “Where might she be now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shoot her mother. Put a bullet in each foot. See if it jogs the sweet young lass’ memory.”

  “No!”

  Hollings’ face turned red. “Then stop messing about and tell me where the old bird is!”

  “I do not know. While I was watching the woman, a doctor came and spoke with her. Then, they move her from the ward. No one says to me where they take her.”

  “Aye. And this doctor—does he know where the patient is?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I never saw him before.”

  The fat man shrugged. “Shoot her. Kill the mother and bury the lot in the garden.”

  “Please!” Patrice cried. “I am telling you the truth!”

  Hollings narrowed his eyes, staring at her. “Aye, lass, maybe you are. Now, where might I find this doctor?”

  “I don’t know that, either—please don’t hurt me! I don’t know where he is. I never saw him before. He is not on our staff. He—he left the hospital, and that is all I know.”

  “Bugger all! She’s useless.” Hollings growled. “Put her on the street. Let her go.”

  Franklin nodded, turning to the construction worker. “She can have her phone back now.”

  He handed Patrice the phone.

  Franklin put her hand to Patrice’s cheek, stroking the blonde hair away from the nurse’s eyes. “You did well, little nurse. You get to live. And if you want your mother to stay alive, get out of this van and start walking—and don’t look back.”

  The maintenance man shoved Patrice out of the van. She fell onto the cold, hard asphalt of a vacant lot. As she scrambled to her feet, the van and the ambulance sped away.

  Trembling, Patrice brushed bits of gravel from the palms of her hands, walking until she was sure the vehicles were out of sight, then raced to the nearest open business—a small grocery—and threw open the door.

  She collapsed to the floor, shaking and crying.

  “Mademoiselle!” The grocery clerk ran to her side. “Are you all right? Are you sick? Is there something we can do for you?”

  “No, please—thank you.” She cowered against the wall.

  My mother.

  Patrice dialed the phone, her heart racing.

  “Oui allo, Patrice!” her mother shouted.

  “Oui, mama!” A tear ran down Patrice’s cheek. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  Her mother was sobbing. “What is happening!”

  “I don’t know.” Putting a hand to her head, the nurse crouched down and peered out the store window. “Some people attacked me outside of the hospital. Kidnappers. They wanted information on a patient, and—”

  Kitt.

  They wanted information about Dr. Kittaleye.

  “Mama, I must call you back.”

  “No! What is happening!”

  Patrice ended the call and dialed Kitt.

  * * * * *

  Standing outside the van parked around the corner, Franklin smiled at the bandaged fat man in the ambulance. She held her laptop up to him. “You see, Mr. Hollings? You scare someone and then see who they contact—after you install a call tracer in their phone.” She patted the back of the construction worker. “Neat trick, right? I learned it from a guy I used to work with. Maybe you’ve heard of him—The Greyhound?”

  “Bah. The Greyhound is . . . silliness. A romantic figure made up by desperate people, nothing more. He don’t exist.”

  “Whatever you say, since you’re signing the paychecks now.”

  “Yes, I am.” Scowling, Hollings sat up on the ambulance stretcher. “And who does our pretty young nurse call after her dear mother?”

  Franklin studied the laptop screen. “She is now speaking to . . . a phone registered to Djimoa Kittaleye, somewhere in east Paris. We will have the exact location of the phone momentarily.” She turned to the maintenance man. “Do a search for the name. Keep it local.”

  He typed on his computer. “Kittaleye. Doctor of Psychology, interning at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital.”

  “Brilliant,” the fat man said. “Start the engine. I want both of my hands ‘round that doctor’s manky throat before the nurse can finish warning him about us.”

  “As you wish.” Franklin climbed into the van. “The doctor is near the intersection of Rue Cabanis and Rue Broussais. It’s . . . a mental hospital. The Sainte-Anne.” She pounded the back of the driver’s seat. “Go! Go!”

  * * * * *

  Kitt lowered the phone, her face white. “Patrice says she was kidnapped, and the people who did it will be looking for me. They—they put a gun to her mother’s head!”

  “Yes.” Helena walked to the window and eased back the edge of the curtain. “I’m very sorry for the deception, dear, but if I had stayed at your hospital, you might be dead now.”

  “She said to go, to get out of town and hide somewhere.”

  Outside on the street, a van and an ambulance screeched to a stop.

  “I’m afraid it’s time for a decision,” Helena said. “I must leave here and go to the child. And if you are to remain safe, you must come with me. But we must leave now.”

  Kitt stared at the floor, unfocused, shaking her head. “I—I have a friend who lives in Berlin. Maybe I could go there, hide . . .”

  Picking up the doctor’s long black coat and stylish knit hat, Helena put her hand on Kitt’s shoulder. “I can’t protect you in Berlin, Doctor.” She grabbed Kitt’s scarf. “Now, take off those boots, dear, and hurry. We haven’t much time.”

  * * * * *

  The elevator doors opened, followed by the click-clack of high heeled boots going across the tile floor.

  Glancing up, the young lady at the desk scowled. With her phone pressed to the side of her head, the woman in the long black coat walked briskly across the lobby, the ends of her scarf bouncing around the back of her waist.

  Claude leaned on the counter, whispering to the clerk. “That American cowgirl isn’t right for those boots. She can barely walk in them.”

  “Cowboy boots for a cow.” The clerk frowned. “At least we are rid of her, and I say good riddance.”

  “Oui.” Claude called after the woman. “Au revoir, mademoiselle, et bon débarras.”

  Stifling a giggle, the clerk put her hand over her mouth. “Quiet. She will hear you.”

  “So what? The stupid cow doesn’t speak French.”

  Without looking back, the woman waved, her other hand still holding the phone tight against her face. She pushed through the exit and headed outside into the cold.

  “See?” Claude chuckled. “Typical dumb American.”

  * * * * *

  At the vending machines outside of room 1918, a slender young black woman in ripped jeans approached the maintenance worker. He emptied a garbage can into a large, round container.

  “Sir,” she said, “can you tell me how to get down to that adorable little courtyard?”

  The woman’s French was good, but not great, and contained a distinct American accent. He’d never seen her before, but she was far too young to be a patient.

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  She grinned. “Oh, you speak American.”

  He pointed to a sign marked Escaliers. “At the bottom of these stairs is the access. To the right is a door to the lobby. To the left is the door to the courtyard.”

  “Thank you. You’re very helpful.”

  “But mademoiselle, outside is very cold. Do you have a jacket?”

  “I don
’t.” She brushed a strand of black hair from her eyes. “I lent mine to a friend earlier.”

  * * * * *

  As she climbed into a taxi, Helena took off Kitt’s hat and scarf. “Faites le tour du bloc, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Oui, madame.” The driver started the car and drove around the corner.

  Helena crouched as they passed a parked ambulance and van. At the end of the street, she peered between the front seats and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, pointing at a young lady in ripped jeans. “This is my friend. C'est mon ami, monsieur.”

  The cab slowed to a stop.

  Kitt ran over and got in, rubbing her arms. “Whew! It’s cold out there.”

  “Yes, dear. Here’s your coat.” Helena slipped her shoulder out from the heavy garment.

  “No, you hang onto it, I’ll be all right. But you can have your shoes back.” Kitt blew warm air onto her hands. “Now what?”

  The old woman gazed into Kitt’s eyes, her tone calm and flat. “Now you decide if you’ll help me.”

  “I . . . can’t.” Kitt looked down. “I’d like to help you, ma’am. Honestly. But it’s impossible.” The young doctor turned her face to the window.

  “With all I’ve shown you so far, if you still feel that way . . . then there isn’t much else I can say.” Helena handed Kitt her phone. “See if you can ring up your friend in Berlin. You must leave quickly.”

  Kitt stared at the phone in her hand. Frida would let her come and stay until she could make a plan for herself—but what would that plan be? Walking away from her job? Her career?

  “No, dear,” Helena said. “You wouldn’t be walking away from anything. You’d be moving toward something, and you’d be helping me find my little girl.”

  Kitt recoiled, staring at the old woman. “What? What would I be moving toward?”

  “The truth, Djimoa Kittaleye. The reality of who you are, and why you came looking for me.” Helena clasped her hands in her lap. “Besides, do you think the man with the black mask—the one you have nightmares about—that it will all stop at the Berlin city limits?”

  Chapter 6

  Hamilton DeShear held a wiggling worm in one hand and a fishing hook in the other, as the charter boat drifted gently on the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Clutching a bright pink fishing rod with silver sparkles under his arm, he leaned against the railing and brought the worm up to the hook. A warm breeze pulled at the legs of his board shorts—and also the straight blonde hair of the little girl next to him.