Scheduled to Death

by Mary Feliz

  After a moment, she looked up and pulled herself together enough to explain. “I was on my way here when heard shouting. Boots and some guy. I was afraid, so I waited. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, but I didn’t want to walk into the middle of a fight, either. I’d just decided to talk to Boots another day when this guy ran up behind me. He was wearing a dark hoodie. I think I saw him once with Santana. I thought he was her ex-boyfriend, but she mentioned an uncle she used to live with. She didn’t like him.”

  Ketifa sniffed and I handed her a rumpled tissue from my pocket. “It’s clean,” I said. “Just crumpled.” She wiped her nose and went on.

  “He—he shoved me off the path and I tripped over one of those railroad-tie barriers. He yelled at me: ‘Tell Santana the bitch is dead and it’s all her fault. The same thing will happen to her if she doesn’t come back where she belongs.’”

  Ketifa began shaking with the memory. I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  Outside the shed, we could hear the sounds of the ambulance arriving, the crew shouting instructions to one another, and the wheels of a stretcher bouncing on the gravel path. I heard several voices that must have belonged to EMTs or police officers. Elaine answered, but I couldn’t hear what she’d said.

  Ketifa’s phone pinged and I realized it had been pinging rapidly since I’d entered the shed.

  “Do you need to answer that?”

  Ketifa shook her head and sobbed again. I patted her back. I wanted to know what was going on outside the shed, but I was certain there was nothing I could do that wasn’t already being done by the emergency team or Elaine.

  “Ketifa, did you see Boots?”

  She nodded. “I walked behind the shed, thinking I’d find Boots and ask her who the guy was. But when I saw her lying there and the blood . . . I felt faint and I wanted to sit down. I was afraid that the guy might come back and—and—” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I was doing. I’m such a coward. I should have gone to her. Helped her. Called 9-1-1. Done something. But I just ran in here and hid.”

  She dropped her head in her lap and cried. Without looking up, she handed me her phone.

  It was protected by a pink plastic case with glitter paint spelling out SANTANA. So it wasn’t Ketifa’s phone, but Santana’s. There were at least a dozen text messages with more coming in. All were vile threats, should Santana refuse to come home or should she tell anyone what had been happening between them.

  “We need to give this to the police,” I said. “Do you know where Santana is? Is she safe?”

  “She’s in Linc’s basement. We were both staying there. No one is supposed to know, but we’re both homeless. She said she had studying to do, but she must have been hiding from that guy.”

  I wondered if the crash Elaine and I had heard coming from Linc’s basement had been Santana. But the police had checked out the whole house. I told Ketifa that and she snorted.

  “The police couldn’t find Santana if she was right under their noses. When you’ve bounced around the foster system for a while you become good at becoming invisible. Santana has lots of practice getting in and out of that house without being seen.”

  “Did she have a key? I thought Tess and I had the only ones.”

  “She didn’t need a key. Those locks are ancient. Super-easy to pick. Besides, Santana has been climbing up the oak tree and in the window of the professor’s office. With all that electrical equipment in there, it gets pretty warm, so he leaves the window open most of the time.”

  I looked pointedly at Ketifa’s pregnant belly. “But you couldn’t go that way. How did you get in?”

  “Do you know how easy it is to find a hidden key? Everyone hides them in the same places. The professor’s key was resting on the top of the doorframe. I just reached up, got the key, unlocked the door, and put it back so no one would know it was missing.” She shook her head. “You’re too nice, Mrs. McDonald. You suburban moms don’t know anything.”

  I was about to protest, because she’d said the words with such disdain, but then I realized she was absolutely right. I’d grown up with plenty to eat, always feeling safe and loved, no matter what I did. What must it be like to grow up in an atmosphere that was the polar opposite of that? Where no matter what you did, you knew you’d never feel safe, never be sure you’d have enough to eat, and never experience unconditional love? I shuddered and hoped no one I loved would ever know what that was like.

  “Ketifa, do you know what kind of car Santana’s uncle or boyfriend drove? Was it a black Range Rover? Something that looked like an army jeep, only bigger?”

  Ketifa nodded.

  “I’ve seen that car here in the parking lot,” I said. “And outside Linc’s house. Do you think he knows where Santana has been staying?”

  Before she could answer, the EMTs passed by the shed with Boots loaded on a stretcher. Their faces were grim.

  Elaine followed them and stopped as she passed the shed. “The police said I could go,” she said. “They’re going to stay awhile to process the scene.”

  I felt my face fall. I’d previously thought that phrase was only an expression, but it was like every muscle in my face let go at once, having completely given up on maintaining any kind of cheerful look. Ketifa sobbed and buried her head in her long skirt.

  “No, no. Wait.” Elaine said. “She’s not dead. The EMTs called in a neurosurgeon at Stanford to evaluate her as soon as they get her into the emergency room. They told me they’ve seen a lot worse.”

  “But there was so much blood,” Ketifa said.

  “But they’re processing the scene!” I added.

  “The police told me that with a head wound the bleeding isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It means the blood might not be building up inside the skull and putting pressure on the brain. They’ll know more tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  Elaine turned to me. “They also explained that they are processing the scene because Boots looked like she’d suffered a violent attack. I told them about the guy we saw running to the parking lot. They’ll do everything now while the evidence is fresh. That way, if it turns out to be . . . well, never mind about that just now.” Elaine looked alarmed by what she’d been about to say. Though she had stopped abruptly, I had no trouble filling in the blank, and I didn’t think Ketifa would, either. Elaine had been about to say that if Boots died, they’d want to have collected all the evidence they could from what would then be the homicide scene.

  Oh, please God, no, I thought. We didn’t need a second murder. Boots might not be my favorite person, but I didn’t want her dead. I didn’t want to ever see another murder in Orchard View.

  “Does he need to talk to us?” I asked.

  Elaine shook her head. “They’re understaffed today and working hard to gather up the evidence before dark. Unless you or Santana know more than what I already told them, I think we’re good to go. I gave them your names, like I said, and they gave me these cards for you.”

  I traded glances with Ketifa. Her shoulders drooped. I nodded, then turned to Elaine.

  “Ketifa does have some information and evidence she should probably pass along to the police.”

  Ketifa pressed against the ground in order to stand up. I reached out a hand to help her. Young and nimble as she was, she’d reached the awkward stage of pregnancy and her balance was off.

  “I never asked you, Ketifa—were you hurt when he pushed you? The baby? We still need to get your head looked at, but if you’ve got cramps or discomfort, we should go straight to the emergency room.”

  Ketifa gasped and grabbed her belly. “I didn’t think of that. Do you think he’s okay?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Those little guys are pretty well protected in there. But if you’ve got any pain or worries we need to get you checked out.”

  Ketifa sighed. “But Santana. And the police.”

  “Your health and the health of your baby come first,” I said. “Any pain? Cramps? Discomfort? Bleeding?
”

  She shook her head.

  “Then let’s go talk to the police. You can give them a quick run-through and your contact information, and then we’re off to the ER for stitches and a pregnancy status report.”

  The officers, a young woman with a dark ponytail and an older male sergeant with a grizzled beard, looked up as we approached. They introduced themselves, then glanced at Santana’s pink phone and asked Ketifa if she knew where Santana was and whether she was safe. When Ketifa said she didn’t know, I didn’t correct her. She was an adult and this was her story to tell.

  They popped the phone in an evidence bag as it continued to ping with what I guessed were more threats. Ketifa told them everything she’d told me about the man in the hoodie, who she thought he was, and the kind of car he drove.

  “If you see your friend Santana, please ask her to call us,” the younger cop said. “It sounds like she could use some help. She shouldn’t have to fight this guy on her own.”

  Ketifa nodded, but I wondered if she’d pass along the card she’d been given.

  I thought we were done and had turned to go when Ketifa added one new piece of information. “Santana says he has a handgun. He carries a knife and has a shotgun in his car.”

  I whipped my head around then. “Officer, the Range Rover he drives is one that your department is already looking for. Paolo Bianchi knows about it. If the driver is armed, you might want to make sure everyone knows.”

  The young officer’s eyes grew large and she took a few steps away and started talking into her shoulder mic in the police codes that I found so mystifying. But at least I knew she was taking the information seriously.

  * * *

  After the police were finished with us, Elaine, Ketifa, and I walked slowly back across the garden and Linc’s yard toward Elaine’s car.

  “Can we give you a lift home, Ketifa?” Elaine asked. “Or are we taking you straight to the emergency room?”

  Ketifa shook her head and took on the guarded look of a trapped animal. I took her hand. “It’s okay, Ketifa, you can trust Elaine.”

  “Would you come with me to check on Santana? I’m afraid—if he’s found her—”

  I wanted to hear a lot more from Ketifa and Santana about why they were crashing in Linc’s house, how they’d avoided detection, what they might know about Sarah’s death, and who the guy in the dark hoodie actually was. But before they’d say anything to me or to Elaine, they would have to trust us.

  “Of course,” I said. “Elaine, the girls are in a tight spot and have been . . . um . . . camping out at Linc’s house.”

  Elaine looked from me to Ketifa and back. “Okay,” she said. “Lead on, Ketifa. Show us your digs.”

  We followed Ketifa up the steps and waited while she stood on tiptoe to retrieve the key, unlock the door, and return the key to its hiding place. She crossed the kitchen and went directly toward the basement stairs. When she reached the landing at the turn of the stairs, with Elaine and I following like baby ducklings after their mother, Ketifa stopped and called out.

  “Santana? Are you here? You can come out. Mrs. McDonald and her friend are here, but we can trust them.”

  She descended the rest of the stairs and stood in the middle of the empty basement. “Santana, some stuff has happened that you need to know about to stay safe. That friend of yours? The guy with the Rover? He hurt Boots. Maybe killed her. He’s looking for you and he’s really angry. Out of control.”

  Ketifa shrugged her shoulders and turned back to climb the stairs. “I think she would have come out if she was here.”

  “Should we check the other floors?” I asked. “Would she come out for us if we told her you wanted to talk to her? I want to make this quick so we can get you to the hospital. You really need to get that cut sewn up. And you don’t need to be climbing all those stairs.”

  Ketifa frowned. “If you’re calling for her, tell her about Boots. And to stay hidden if she won’t come out. That guy really scares me. Maybe we can come back later?”

  Elaine and I agreed, and we checked every level of the house delivering Ketifa’s message. We didn’t find Santana.

  “Should we call the police?” I asked. “In case Mr. Range Rover has found her?” If I’d been on my own, I would have called them in a heartbeat. But I was working hard to get Ketifa to trust me, and I wanted to consult her.

  “No,” said Ketifa, nearly shouting the word. “I’m sure she’s found a safe place. The police are not the answer.”

  She was adamant and unswerving. I looked at Elaine, who raised her eyebrows in an expression I wasn’t able to read.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll come back and check on her later. Should we leave her a note?”

  Ketifa made a sound of disgust. “And do what? Pin it to the front door so that guy can find it? I don’t think so.”

  Chapter 19

  When you’ve got a tricky topic to tackle with your teen, I recommend starting the conversation in the car.

  With everyone’s eyes focused on the road ahead, a young adult can avoid eye contact and will often feel less like they are on the spot. As a result, they may be better able to listen to what you have to say.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, November 7, 4:15 p.m.

  Elaine asked me to drop her off at her house before taking Ketifa to El Camino Hospital, which was smaller than Stanford and likely to have a shorter wait. It was also only a few blocks from Elaine’s.

  I took her up on her offer to borrow her car when she told me her daughter was traveling in Europe and had stored a car in Elaine’s garage.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t have a good track record with cars at the moment.”

  Elaine raised an eyebrow. “You have insurance, don’t you?”

  I nodded, taking her comment seriously.

  “I was kidding, Maggie. I know you’ll take good care of it. The bad guys won’t recognize my car, so you’re much safer driving it than you were with your own car. Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  Maybe because Ketifa was pregnant or because we’d arrived at a slack time, we were in and out of the emergency room in just over an hour. Six stitches and a very large bruise had marked Ketifa’s face, but the baby was fine and showing no sign of popping out early. She was checked for concussion and while she passed all the tests, the ER doctor suggested someone keep an eye on her for twenty-four hours.

  One of the hospital employees came out to talk to me while Ketifa was being examined.

  I assumed she wanted to know how Ketifa’s bill would be paid and I said I would take care of whatever expenses she had incurred.

  “That won’t be necessary. She has insurance. What she needs most is someone to stay with her for the next twenty-four hours. I can’t tell you anything specific about her condition without her permission, but I can tell you we expect she’ll be fine. Having someone available to check on her is just a precaution. We’d want someone who’d be willing and able to bring her back here quickly if necessary.”

  I nodded. “I can do that. She’s our houseguest.” It was mostly true. I’d planned on inviting Ketifa and Santana to stay with us for at least a few days, if not longer. There was very little furniture left in Linc’s house. It was no place for a pregnant woman, and Ketifa had demonstrated that it wasn’t secure.

  As soon as we were out of sight of the emergency room, Ketifa stopped and whispered to me: “Thanks for telling them I was staying with you, Mrs. McDonald. But I’ll be fine. Can you take me back to Dr. Sinclair’s house?”

  “Please, Ketifa, call me Maggie. And if you’re willing, I really would like you to come home with me. Dr. Sinclair was staying with us, but I txted him while we were waiting and he’s going to stay at Sarah’s house. His dog was injured and he doesn’t want him to climb all the stairs to our third-floor guest room. I talked to my husband and he’s already expecting you. As soon as I dr
op you off, I’m planning to try to find Santana. It’s going to be cold tonight and she needs someplace safer and warmer than the basement floor of an unheated house. You do too.” Ketifa looked skittish and ready to turn down my offer. “Think of your baby. The best thing you can do for him or her is to look after yourself. You’ve had a dreadful day. We all have. You need to eat, rest, and feel safe.”

  Ketifa shivered. The wind had come up and the temperature had dropped. Clouds skittered across the darkening sky. We were due for another storm.

  I took my coat off and draped it over her shoulders again. “Let’s talk in the car with the heat on.” Plump drops of rain pelted us as we ran to the car.

  I turned on the car and the heat and let it warm up while Ketifa and I fastened our seat belts. Ketifa put her hands to the vents, looked at me, and smiled.

  “It’s warm already. It feels good.”

  I turned the heater knob to maximum.

  “Okay.” I said, “While you get warmed up, prepare yourself for the sell job on my house. Here’s the upside.” I ticked off the points on my fingers. “We want you to come. We’re expecting you. It’s warm. You’ll have your own room and a bathroom you’ll share with Santana, if we can find her. The sooner I drop you off, the sooner I can look for Santana. You won’t need to cook. My husband has already made some soup and fresh bread. We can fix you up with warm, dry clothes too.” I took a deep breath and studied her face. She still looked skeptical.

  “And here’s the downside: It’s a crazy household. We’ve got a dog and two cats and we’re looking after Dr. Sinclair’s kitten, who’s been living in what will be your room. If you’re violently allergic to animal fur, we’ll find you another space. I’ve got two teenaged boys, both still in school. While they’re home, they’re loud. And those dry clothes I promised? They won’t fit well or be the height of fashion. I can only promise warm and dry. Any questions?”

  Ketifa bit her lip and looked at me as if trying to read between the lines to uncover any malice or danger in my offer. I realized there was much more to this young woman’s backstory than I’d probably ever understand—or that she’d ever be willing to share with me.