Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  Books by Joan Lowery Nixon

  FICTION

  A Candidate for Murder

  The Dark and Deadly Pool

  Don’t Scream

  The Ghosts of Now

  Ghost Town: Seven Ghostly Stories

  The Haunting

  In the Face of Danger

  The Island of Dangerous Dreams

  The Kidnapping of Christina Lattimore

  Laugh Till You Cry

  Murdered, My Sweet

  The Name of the Game Was Murder

  Nightmare

  Nobody’s There

  The Other Side of Dark

  Playing for Keeps

  Search for the Shadowman

  Secret, Silent Screams

  Shadowmaker

  The Specter

  Spirit Seeker

  The Stalker

  The Trap

  The Weekend Was Murder!

  Whispers from the Dead

  Who Are You?

  NONFICTION

  The Making of a Writer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1999 by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Cover illustration copyright © by Tim Barrall

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company. Originally published in hardcover by Delacorte Press, New York, in 1999.

  Laurel-Leaf Books with the colophon is a registered trademark of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82353-3

  First Delacorte Press Ebook Edition 2013

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  for Karen Collins-Eiland

  a dear friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  The doorbell rings, but Mom, Dad, and I just stare at each other. We’ve been building walls of angry words, slathering them over with shouts of “That’s a completely unreasonable request!” and “You don’t even try to understand!” and “Use your brain, Kristi! Do you think we’re made of money?” and “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t care!”

  The loud chime of the doorbell intrudes and suddenly we’re silent. The noise is a shock, like being caught naked in the shower room after gym class. Dad clears his throat, turns, and walks to open the door.

  I can see a short, auburn-haired woman, wearing a plain navy blue suit and white blouse. She faces Dad on the doorstep. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a craggy, weather-beaten face stands behind her. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and white shirt too.

  “Are you Mr. Drew Evans?” the woman asks.

  “Yes,” Dad answers.

  She holds out a small leather folder. Now I can see the glint of metal. It looks like a badge. “Sergeant Janice Nims. HPD homicide detective,” she says. She nods toward the man with her. “This is Sergeant Jerry Balker, my partner. May we come in?”

  “Why, yes,” Dad says as he opens the door wide. His voice cracks and gets strangely high and tight as he asks, “What’s happened? What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”

  Mom and I come to life, bumping into each other, trying to make way as the detectives follow Dad into the living room.

  “Please sit down. Here … no, here,” Mom says. She smoothes down her dark brown hair, fluffs pillows, and attempts to make a soft drink can disappear, while I scoop up a pile of my books and homework papers.

  Dad has himself under control now, and he says, “Detectives Nims and Balker, this is my wife, Callie, and our daughter, Kristin.”

  We shake hands and murmur greetings, perching on chairs while we wait for what will come next. Although Sergeant Balker has a kind, pleasant look in his eyes, Sergeant Nims studies me as though she’s trying to memorize me for a test, and it makes me uncomfortable. Why should two homicide detectives visit our family on a Sunday morning?

  Sergeant Nims leans forward in her chair. A notepad and pen appear in her hands. Did they suddenly arrive by magic, or haven’t I been paying attention? “Are you acquainted with a man named Douglas Merson?” she asks.

  Dad and Mom look at each other blankly. “Mersome?” Mom questions.

  “Merson,” Sergeant Nims corrects her. “Douglas Merson.” She glances at me, but I just shrug.

  Dad shakes his head, and Mom answers, “No. Who is he?”

  Sergeant Nims doesn’t respond to Mom’s question. Instead, she says, “We have reason to believe that he’s acquainted with your family.” Again she gives me a strange, searching look. Why? I never heard of this Douglas Merson.

  “Merson? Merson?” Mom starts thinking aloud. “Maybe we met through our church? Or the high school? Is he in the booster club at Carter High? Tall man? Has a son on the football team?”

  “No,” Sergeant Balker says. His words are a slow, comfortable drawl compared to Sergeant Nims’s staccato bursts. “Douglas Merson’s home is in River Oaks, and his son is no longer living.”

  “Then I doubt if I’ve met his wife …”

  “Merson’s not married now.”

  Dad suddenly sits upright. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Douglas Merson. I knew that name sounded familiar. It was on the television news last night and in this morning’s Houston Chronicle. He was robbed and shot yesterday evening at the front door of his house. Isn’t that right?”

  Mom gasps. “He was murdered?”

  “Fortunately, Mr. Merson didn’t die,” Sergeant Balker answers. “He was shot twice—once in the shoulder and once in the jaw. He’s in intensive care, but it looks like he’ll make it.” Balker turns to Dad, and for the first time I can see the intensity of his gaze. “Have you ever had any business dealings with Merson?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Dad answers. “He’s not one of my clients. I’m an accountant. My wife and I are both accountants. We have our own firm.” Dad tries a smile that doesn’t make it. “March … income taxes due soon. This is our busy season, you know.”

  “We know,” Sergeant Nims says. And we don’t care, her impatient tone implies. She goes on to question Dad and Mom about the name and address of their company and how many employees they have. It doesn’t take long. There’s only Betsy, their secretary and receptionist.

  Again Sergeant Nims looks at me as though she can see right into and through me. I can’t help squirming. I don’t like it. No one’s asked me any questions, but I blurt out, “We don’t know this Douglas Merson you’re talking about. We’ve never met him.” I try
to ease the situation with humor, as I add, “And we certainly didn’t shoot and rob him, if that’s what you’re getting at.” After I’ve said it, I realize it didn’t come across as being funny.

  Surprise flickers briefly in the sergeant’s eyes, but she keeps her gaze steadily on me. “We have reason to believe he does know you,” she says. “Our officers were called to the house by a neighbor who heard gunshots. The door was open. It’s possible that Mr. Merson opened the door to someone he knew.”

  I break in, irritated that she hasn’t believed us. Also, I’m a little frightened. Does she really think one of us shot Mr. Merson? “I sometimes read the newspapers,” I tell her, “and I nearly always listen to the evening news on TV. There’s often something about Police report that there was no forced entry, so the victim must have opened the door to someone he knew.’ But it’s not true. People open doors to salesmen or repairmen or other people they don’t know. Just because he opened the door doesn’t mean—”

  “Kristi, please.” Mom touches my arm, and I close my mouth, damming up the spill of words.

  Sergeant Nims continues. I listen carefully, even though I can’t stand her calmness. I hate her for frightening and upsetting us, then acting so cool about the whole thing.

  “Mr. Merson was lying in the entry hall. His watch was gone. We were told he was in the habit of wearing it. After the paramedics took him to Ben Taub Hospital, we searched the immediate vicinity of the house for evidence connected to the crime. On the table in the living room was an open folder. We assume Mr. Merson had been going through the items in the folder, so we intend to follow up. We’re very much interested in the contents of the folder.”

  As she pauses, Dad waits patiently. I clamp my lips together, refusing to ask the obvious question, but Mom’s curiosity gets the best of her. She asks, “What was in the folder?”

  “Newspaper clippings,” the detective says. “A birth announcement from the Chronicle in September 1983. There were a number of small items about school awards, a fourth-grade school play, an honorable mention in a citywide art show in middle school, art shows and awards in high school …”

  As she speaks a shiver creeps down my neck and along my backbone. I hold my breath. It’s hard to breathe.

  Mom doesn’t have a clue. “Were the clippings about Mr. Merson’s son?” she asks. Her voice is low with concern. “You said that he’d had a son who’s no longer living.”

  Sergeant Balker suddenly speaks, his voice low and quiet. “They’re not about Merson’s son,” he says. “The clippings all have to do with your daughter. The file is labeled ‘Kristin Anne Evans.’ ”

  CHAPTER TWO

  There are more questions, and—worst of all—detectives show me photos. My hands shake as I see myself caught in time, totally unaware of a camera. There are pictures of a younger me, taking a bow after a ballet recital, and walking up the steps to someone’s front door. I’m carrying a beautifully wrapped birthday present, and my flyaway blond hair is captured in a gigantic white bow. But there are later pictures … current pictures. In one photo I’m talking to Lindy, my best friend, while we wait for the school bus. In another I’m shopping in the mall with Mom, and there’s a picture of me watering our front lawn in the shade of the elm tree.

  The skin on my back prickles. I’ve been targeted. I’ve been spied on. I’ve been photographed. And I didn’t know it was happening.

  Sergeant Balker takes one look at me, then turns to Mom and Dad. Maybe he thinks he can spare me some of the horror and outrage I feel if he talks about me instead of to me. “There’s a possibility Kristi was being stalked,” he says.

  “Stalked?” I’m so shocked I can only stupidly repeat the word. Mom and Dad are too stunned to say anything, but Mom grips my shoulder and hangs on, as if she’ll never let me go.

  Balker continues. “Did Kristi ever suspect she was being followed? Have there been phone calls? Threats?”

  “No!” My voice cracks, but I manage to speak up first. “Nothing like that.”

  Sergeant Nims breaks in. “Douglas Merson seems to have taken a strong interest in you, Kristin. We need to know why. Do you have any idea?”

  Her look is almost accusing, and some of my shock turns to anger. “Why ask me?” I demand. “Why not ask Mr. Merson?”

  “I’m asking you,” she answers.

  Sergeant Balker’s drawl is reassuring, smoothing Nims’s sharp edges. “Merson can’t talk to us. Among other things, his jaw was fractured by one of the bullets that hit him, and right now he’s full of medicine to kill the pain. The doctors had to do a lot of work to put his jaw back together again.”

  Mom’s sympathy takes over. “The poor man,” she murmurs. “Is he going to recover?”

  “They think so. Two bullets, but they missed the brain and the other vital spots. That’s what the docs told us.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?” I ask.

  My question startles both detectives. “The crime scene photographs wouldn’t be appropriate for you to see,” Sergeant Nims tells me.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I tell her. “I mean a snapshot, a posed photo—whatever would have been taken during the last few years. I want to see what he looks like. Maybe I’ll recognize his face. Maybe not. But I have to know.”

  “We have no photographs of Merson,” Sergeant Balker answers. “He seems to have been camera shy.”

  A fresh spout of anger bubbles up inside me. “Then I want to see him,” I say. My mother’s mouth makes a little circle of surprise, and even Sergeant Nims’s eyes widen, but I go on. “I have to see this man who was stalking me, even if he can’t talk to us. I need to know what he’s like.”

  Sergeant Nims shakes her head. “From what you’ve just told us, it doesn’t seem likely you were stalked. A stalker usually tries to frighten his victim. That’s a major part of his plan. In your case all we have is evidence that Merson was putting together some sort of record or report about you.”

  “But what about the photographs?”

  “He could have hired someone to take those photos.”

  “Why?”

  Frown lines deepen on Dad’s forehead, and I’m startled to see that his skin looks gray, as though all the color has been sucked out. “This Merson … he’s in the hospital. Does that mean Kristi is out of danger?”

  “We don’t know that Kristi was ever in danger,” Balker drawls, the deep slowness of his words giving them a kind of solid comfort.

  “Then why—”

  “That’s the question we’re trying to answer,” Nims tells Dad.

  Mom has been thinking hard. Little wavy lines in her forehead have puckered together between her eyebrows. “What about Mr. Merson’s son?” she asks. “How long ago did he die? Losing a son could be …” She shudders, takes a deep breath, and goes on. “I mean, did it affect Mr. Merson mentally? Could he have picked a child—any child—as a kind of replacement?”

  In the silence that follows we all stare at Mom, but she answers her own question. Her face flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry. I guess that’s too farfetched.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Balker says, and he gives Mom a reassuring smile. “That’s what Detective Nims and I are here for—to find the answers. We’ll check it all out.”

  “What does Douglas Merson do for a living?” Dad asks. “Perhaps that might give us a clue as to why he has some sort of special interest in Kristi.”

  A quick glance passes between Nims and Balker before Nims says, “His occupation doesn’t seem relevant.”

  I’m more blunt than Dad. I don’t hesitate to ask, “Why don’t you want us to know?”

  Nims tightens up again, but Balker shrugs and smiles. “Kristi, we’re not trying to keep things from you. We don’t have the facts ourselves. Merson lives well—very well, but we’ve just begun this investigation. Right now we aren’t sure ourselves where the money comes from.”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss this,” Nims says.

&nb
sp; Sometimes I watch cop shows on TV, so I’ve seen the good cop–bad cop routine. I always thought it was something made up for television, but now I know it’s for real. And I know Sergeant Balker is a lot easier to talk to than Sergeant Nims. If there really was something about Douglas Merson I wanted to tell them, I’d go to Balker, not Nims. Is that why they’re doing this? Or are they acting the way they normally act and I’m only imagining we’re in the middle of a planned routine?

  “The one who died—what was his name?” I ask the detectives.

  Nims raises one eyebrow. “We told you. The victim didn’t die, and his name is Douglas Merson.”

  “Not the victim. The son. What was his son’s name?”

  “Oh,” she says. “The son. Roger. His name was Roger Merson.” She studies Mom and Dad. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Dad says.

  All the wavy lines draw together again as Mom shakes her head. “It means nothing at all,” she says.

  “How old was Roger when he died?” I ask. “Was he a little kid?”

  Nims impatiently shoves her pen and pad into her handbag, but Balker says, “He was twenty-one.” He answers the next question as if he knows I’m going to ask it. “Suicide.”

  He hands each of us one of his business cards and gets to his feet. “If you think of anything you can tell us—” he begins.

  But I jump up and face him. “I really do want to see Douglas Merson,” I say.

  Nims pops up from her chair and straightens her skirt. “I don’t think that can be arranged.”

  “Why not?” I try to pin her down. “In school in American history class I learned that every citizen has a right to face his accuser. This is the same kind of thing, isn’t it? I mean, our family is involved with this man, who—for no reason—has kept a secret file—on me. I have a right to see him. I need to find out exactly who he is and if he looks familiar. I’ll tell you so it will help your investigation.”

  “Kristi, dear,” Mom says quietly, and puts an arm around my shoulders.

  I shrug it off and step forward. “I should have the right,” I tell the detective again. “Just because I’m only sixteen, just because you consider me a kid, doesn’t mean I can forget about what happened. This man butted into my life. I need to know why. I need to see him.”