Driven to Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  Something was definitely up with Dan Franklin, and I didn’t know whether he was a good guy or a bad guy.

  Even though my head was swirling, I couldn’t spend too much time pondering the situation. My next client came in as I hung up the phone.

  As I picked up my tattoo machine and it hovered over Rachel Kristina Jones’s lower back, the clip cord got in the way a little, and I had to shift around slightly. I’d never looked at a cord as a murder weapon before, but now I could imagine it as one.

  “Anything wrong?” Rachel’s voice was muffled because her face was in the crook of her elbow as she lay on her stomach.

  “No,” I said, taking a deep breath and pushing away the thoughts. I dipped the needle into the ink and pressed on the foot pedal, the machine vibrating slightly in a familiar way against my hand.

  Rachel was an English major at UNLV, and she was into quotations. So far I’d inked “Frailty, thy name is woman!” from Hamlet along her forearm and “We live as we dream—alone” from Heart of Darkness across her chest, just above her breasts. Today’s quote was from Crime and Punishment: “To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in someone else’s.”

  I vaguely remembered reading all three in school, but I spent my days with artists, not writers.

  “So how’s school going?” I asked casually as I worked, adjusting the light so I could see better.

  “Pretty good,” she said.

  “I’ve never been over to the campus,” I said. “But I know a guy who works with lab animals. Would you know where that might be?”

  Smooth, Kavanaugh, smooth.

  Now I was talking to myself like Jeff Coleman.

  Rachel lifted her head a little. “That’s probably over where all the science buildings are. I’m not really sure exactly where, but you can access that part of campus over by Flamingo Road.”

  Good to know.

  I mentally slapped myself. What was I thinking? Was I really considering going over there to check up on Dan Franklin?

  I paused a second, lifting the needle off Rachel’s back.

  Yes, I was considering it.

  Tim would kill me.

  “Is something wrong?” Rachel asked again.

  “No.” I went back to work.

  If my next client hadn’t canceled, I don’t think I would’ve found myself driving toward the university campus. And if Bitsy hadn’t pressured me into telling her where I was going, she wouldn’t have come with me.

  But here we were, Bitsy and I, off to look for Dan Franklin, or at least see if anyone might know where he was.

  “I should call Tim,” I said for the umpteenth time.

  “He’s not even on the case,” Bitsy said.

  “Why are you encouraging this?” I asked, shifting the Jeep into fourth, even though it really didn’t want to. Tim needed to get this Jeep serviced soon, or it would rebel on him and stay in first gear forever.

  “I’m curious,” she said. “And it’s not as though you haven’t already told that detective about Dan Franklin. You did tell him about the phone conversation. But it doesn’t hurt to double-check things. Things they might have missed.”

  “The police wouldn’t miss anything,” I said, although I thought about Dan Franklin’s empty house. Had the police been over there? Did the cruiser that showed up on our heels earlier check out the mail piling up in the mailbox, the newspapers on the doorstep?

  “They miss a lot,” she was saying. “You’ve heard stories about people being locked up in prison for years, and then the police discover they’re innocent and have to let them go. What about that girl who was kidnapped and worked in public and no one ever figured it out, even though the cops knew the guy was a sex offender? Eighteen years and two kids later they finally figure it out? Give me a break. And then there are all those crimes that are never solved.”

  She had a point.

  “Unless you want to talk yourself out of this,” Bitsy said.

  We were halfway there already. Might as well do it and satisfy my curiosity. I could tell Tim about it later.

  Bitsy had Googled the Laboratory Animal Care Services department and discovered it was in the life sciences building, surrounded by chemistry and physics buildings. These were all subjects I had no talent for. The sisters had tried to teach me chemistry, but after I set a trash can on fire by accident, we all agreed that my future would not include medical school.

  I turned off Flamingo Road and took an access road into a large parking lot. Bitsy held up the map that she’d downloaded, then looked up at the buildings in front of her.

  She pointed to one. “That’s it.”

  I hated to admit that I needed the navigation help.

  I parked the Jeep, and we climbed out. Bitsy came around the side of the Jeep, stuffing the map into her purse. We both looked up at the building.

  “What if they don’t let us in?” I asked.

  She made a face at me. “You should stay in the car, then. I’ll do it.”

  We started walking.

  The life sciences building was boxy and concrete, with a green lawn and trees. In fact, there was a lot of green lawn around here, and it seemed an oxymoron in a desert city that was suffering a drought. Wouldn’t any of these scientists see the contradiction in this? Wouldn’t they make some noise and get the administration to revert to a natural desert environment?

  Tim says I should work in city government so I can turn down all those permits for waterfalls and waterways.

  A few people passed us on the walkway, both on foot and on bikes. Even though it wasn’t the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, I felt somehow at home here. Maybe it was the whole college-campus atmosphere that translated from school to school. Maybe it was the green grass and the trees. But I wasn’t quite so uncomfortable anymore as we made our way around to the entrance.

  The security guard at the desk made us take pause.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  Bitsy barely blinked. She flashed some sort of ID and walked right by. I tried to act as confident as I followed her, not making eye contact with the guard.

  He didn’t stop us.

  We were on the perimeter of an atrium filled with flora and fauna indigenous to the Southwest. Benches were scattered throughout, and a few students were lounging on them, some with laptops, some texting on their phones, some wearing iPod earbuds.

  Bitsy turned to the right, and I followed.

  “Where to?” I whispered.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re the one acting like you own the place. What was that card you showed him?”

  Bitsy grinned and pulled out her laminated supermarket card.

  I had to give her credit.

  “But we need to keep moving,” she said, stuffing it back in her bag. “Otherwise they’ll know we don’t know where we’re going.”

  “But we don’t.”

  “Ye of little faith.”

  When we turned the next corner into the next hallway, even Bitsy had to admit we were going to have to ask someone for directions. The building was too big to try to find anything on our own.

  A guy in a Nickelback T-shirt with a black backpack slung over his shoulder started to skirt around us, and I said loudly, “Excuse me?”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “We’ve got an appointment in the Laboratory Animal Care Services department,” I said, “but we’re lost. Can you help us?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?” And he practically ran off.

  I frowned at Bitsy. “What was that about?”

  She shook her head. “Who knows? Let’s keep wandering.”

  I didn’t know how much wandering we could do without being found out, and as we passed classrooms and labs, I began to think this whole road trip was incredibly futile.

  Until we turned another corner and ran into a familiar face.

  Dr. Colin Bixby was as good-looking as I remembered. I ju
st wished he’d stop looking at me as if I were a leper.

  Chapter 21

  “What are you doing here?”Colin Bixby demanded.As though I were stalking him or something. I hadn’t even tried to reach him after thinking he was trying to kill me a few months back. I respected the fact that he wanted nothing else to do with me.

  I hadn’t forgotten, though, how hot he was. Long and lanky, with spiky dark hair, green eyes that flashed sexy all over the place.

  He’d folded his arms across his chest, and those sexy eyes weren’t quite so endearing today. I shifted from one foot to another, wondering how to talk to him.

  Bitsy noticed the tension and spoke up. “We’re looking for the Laboratory Animal Care Services department.”

  He noticed her then. “Oh, you.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Bixby,” Bitsy said, and I recognized her tone. Uh-oh. “We are merely looking for directions. We would appreciate it if you could help us, and then we’ll leave you alone.”

  His eyes slid from Bitsy back to me.

  “Are you on some sort of wild-goose chase again?”

  Caught.

  But I’d never admit it.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “A man named Dan Franklin,” Bitsy said.

  “Another victim of your crazy imagination?”

  I didn’t want to get into it. So I’d been wrong. He didn’t have to keep bringing it up.

  “Listen, Dr. Bixby,” I said, hoping that keeping things formal might convince him I hadn’t meant to run into him. “We’re supposed to meet with Mr. Franklin. He came into the shop for a tattoo, and there’s a problem.”

  Immediately Colin Bixby’s hand went to his chest. I knew what was under that lab coat. A small Celtic knot just over his left nipple. I’d tattooed it myself, when he was still speaking to me and I thought that maybe we were connecting in more ways than one.

  “What sort of problem? Does he need medical care?”

  “We’re not sure,” Bitsy said quickly. “That’s why it’s imperative that we find him as soon as possible.”

  “Why doesn’t he go to the emergency room?”

  He was asking valid questions, but we had to keep up the charade.

  “Maybe if you could come with us,” I suggested.

  Bixby rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. But you know, we don’t usually let the public into that department.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say the animal rights people don’t like us doing research on animals. Even though we are complying with all guidelines for those animals’ care, according to federal regulations.” He sounded like a brochure for the Humane Society.

  But who was I to say anything? He was leading us down the hall toward an elevator.

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked. Last I knew, he was an emergency room doctor at the University Medical Center.

  “I teach a class once a week,” he said as he pushed the elevator button.

  “It’s lucky we ran into you,” Bitsy said.

  He pushed the button again, as if he couldn’t wait for the elevator to get there. It was clear he didn’t feel lucky.

  Inside the elevator, he swiped his card and pushed a button for a floor that didn’t have a number, only LL. As the elevator jerked downward, I asked, “How’s your mother?”

  He looked at me as if I had three heads. I knew, however, that his mother lived down the hall from him in his condominium building, and I was just making small talk, thank you very much.

  He was having none of it. Until the doors slid open, his eyes watched the floors drop away on the little flashing sign.

  We were in the basement. LL. Lower level, most likely.

  Steel doors flanked the hallway.

  “Don’t the critters need sunlight?” Bitsy asked, indicating the concrete walls and fluorescent lighting that made our skin look jaundiced.

  Colin Bixby snorted. Not a pleasant sound.

  “Those animals are being tested on,” I said in a stage whisper. “They don’t exactly need sunshine and three meals a day.”

  “Those animals, as you call them, are treated humanely. They have a sleep schedule, an eating schedule. We make them as comfortable as possible.” Bixby’s tone was definitely frosty. And he was staring at my arm. The one with the koi that Jeff had tattooed.

  “That’s new,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I nodded.

  He leaned over and studied it so closely I could feel his warm breath on my skin. But it seemed as though I was the only one getting all hot and bothered. I was only a specimen to him.

  “Are you going to get another?” Bitsy asked him.

  His head snapped up so fast I thought he’d give himself whiplash.

  “Another what?”

  “Tattoo,” Bitsy said, exasperation lacing the word.

  “No.” Colin Bixby might as well have been playing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? because I knew that was his final answer.

  But I also knew people should never say never.

  A sound like thunder echoed through the hall, and at the very end, where the hall came to a T, a large stainless steel cart came into view. A person dressed in blue scrubs and a yellow smock was pushing it. The person—and I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman because of the white cap that looked like a shower cap and a surgical mask—rolled the cart, which had several steel shelves lined with cages, toward us.

  When he—or she—saw us, the cart jerked to a stop.

  “Who are you?”

  Bixby stood a little taller, held out his ID card, and said, “Dr. Colin Bixby. These women are looking for . . .” He looked back at me, the question in his eyes.

  “Dan Franklin,” I said.

  “Dan Franklin,” he repeated.

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  The person gripped the cart, and I noticed now that he or she was wearing rubber gloves. They matched the rubber boots.

  What the heck was on that cart?

  I took a step closer and peered at it.

  Tiny quick movements and a few whiskers indicated rodents. But why would he or she be wearing all that stuff? Were they contagious with something? Maybe we shouldn’t have come down here. We had no idea what was going on behind those steel doors.

  A glance at Bitsy told me she was thinking the same thing.

  Dr. Bixby, however, looked more relaxed now that we had some company.

  “Haven’t seen Dan today,” the person said. “You could check with Roz. She’s in room seven.” The person paused. “You know, they’re not authorized to be here.”

  “I’ll take responsibility,” Bixby said, although from his tone, I could tell he was already regretting it.

  We hadn’t even gone out. Okay, so we’d shared one kiss. And it was one fantastic kiss. But that was all. There had been no promises made. I’d jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t right, and he was making me pay for it.

  He did live down the hall from his mother. Maybe it was better this way.

  The cart rattled past us, and now we had a clear view of those cages. They were most definitely rodents, rats or mice or both. I didn’t much make a distinction. Rodents were rodents.

  Bitsy started walking down the hall, and Bixby and I followed, noting all the numbers by the doors until we found number seven.

  “Here it is,” Bitsy said, then pointed to a small metal box next to the door where someone would have to swipe an ID card. She looked at Bixby. “Can you get us in here?”

  Colin Bixby looked as though it was the last thing he wanted to do. His mouth was set in a stern line as he gripped his ID card.

  “Let me do the talking, okay?” he asked, looking from me to Bitsy and back to me.

  We nodded, and he swiped his card.

  As we heard the latch click, Bixby pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.

  I’d thought a stainless steel cart full of rats in cages was bad.

  This room was a hundred times cree
pier. Rows of cages were lined up on stainless steel shelves, which stood in three rows to our right. A stainless steel sink on steroids was in the center of the room. A row of steel cabinets hung above a shelf with boxes of latex gloves and wipes and other implements that looked like something out of Frankenstein.

  I wanted to set all those rats free. They could all live in my trunk if they wanted.

  Bixby read my mind.

  “Brett, have you ever had a family member or friend with cancer?”

  Immediately I thought about my grandmother in hospice, covered with the patchwork quilt she’d made when first married to my grandfather way back during the Depression, her bony, transparent fingers clutching my hand as she told me she was going to be okay, that I could let her go.

  I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  “These animals—the testing that’s done on them—they can help. They can help us find cures, treatments for all sorts of illness and disease. You have to look at it that way.”

  I could see both sides.

  “Excuse me?”

  A woman had come around the corner of one of the banks of steel shelves. She wore the same scrubs and yellow smock as the guy in the hall, and as she pulled off her mask, I caught my breath.

  Roz was Rosalie. Rosalie Applebaum Marino.

  Chapter 22

  “Brett,” she said.“Do you have news about my father?” Her panic was evident in the tremble of her lips and the set of her jaw.

  She thought I’d found her to tell her about Bernie and Sylvia. I shook my head.

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  Puzzlement crossed her face. “Then why are you here?” Her eyes slid toward Bitsy and then to Colin Bixby. She touched her cap as if she were brushing a hair away from her face. I thought about how stylish she’d been when she showed up at Jeff’s shop earlier.

  “We’re looking for Dan Franklin,” I told Rosalie. “The wedding-chapel owner says he hasn’t been there in a couple days, and his phone’s no longer in service. Has he been here?”

  Rosalie shook her head. “I haven’t seen him, either, but he’s not on the schedule until tomorrow. I didn’t know about his phone. Do you think something happened to him, too?”