He nods.
“I’d love to see them.”
He writes in my hand, C-O-M-E.
“I will,” I tell him. But I take a quick breath as a sudden thought disturbs me. Will the paintings be his own property? Or will they belong to someone else?
Mr. Merson is waiting, so I get back to my story. I tell him about being followed and what Sergeant Balker found out about the private investigator. Last, I tell him about tracking down Ms. Chase and visiting her art gallery.
His eyes crinkle, and I hear a low chuckle in the back of his throat.
“I’m going to call Detective Balker when I get home,” I promise. “I’m going to try to get him to assign someone to protect you.”
A voice speaks from the doorway. I look up to see Detective Nims. “You don’t have to call Detective Balker,” she says. “The hospital informed us of what happened here.”
“Are you going to put a policeman on guard?” I ask.
“Temporarily,” she says. “While we’re doing our investigation. You don’t need to help us, Kristi.”
“Do you mean until you find and arrest the person who tried to murder Mr. Merson?”
“We can’t make a promise for a scope as wide as that,” she says. “You can leave now, Kristi. I have some questions to ask Mr. Merson.” She pulls a pad and pencil from her bag. “You can write the answers on this,” she tells him.
Mr. Merson clasps my hand tightly. Then his finger traces two letters in my palm.
“He wrote ‘N-O’ in my hand,” I tell her. “He doesn’t want me to leave, and he doesn’t want to answer questions.”
Detective Nims frowns and moves to my chair. She hovers over me and makes it clear that I have no choice about staying or going. “Mr. Merson,” she says, “Kristi is scheduled to visit you here at the hospital with her parents and Sergeant Balker on Sunday afternoon. You’ll see her then.”
“But there’s something he was going to tell me,” I complain.
“He’ll have to do it next time,” she says firmly.
I stand up to leave, sliding my hand away from Mr. Merson’s. He sends me a pleading look. “I’ll be back,” I promise. “I really will.”
The door opens and Ms. Chase sails into the room. Ms. Chase holds a bowl that contains a huge arrangement of yellow tulips mixed with sprays of white dogwood. Ignoring Detective Nims and me, she plops the arrangement down on the wide windowsill, then rushes to Mr. Merson’s bedside.
“Douglas, it’s me, Alanna,” she says loudly, as though Mr. Merson has gone deaf. “Do you recognize me? Can you see who I am?”
Mr. Merson nods, and Sergeant Nims says, “According to the doctors, his mind is clear, and he hasn’t experienced any damage to his eyesight … or any loss of hearing.”
Ms. Chase turns to look at Sergeant Nims with irritation. Nims introduces herself and adds, “I was about to question Mr. Merson. You may return to his room when I’ve finished. There’s a waiting room near the elevators.”
“Haven’t you already questioned him?” Ms. Chase snaps. “Why are you pestering the poor darling?”
Nims says, “A short time ago another attempt was made on Mr. Merson’s life.”
“Here in the hospital?”
“Exactly.”
Ms. Chase gasps, slaps a hand over her heart, and staggers into the armchair. “Another attempt? Here? But it can’t be! Oh, Douglas!”
“You said someone probably would try again to kill him,” I tell her. “You were right.”
Nims gives me a sharp look, then quickly turns it on Ms. Chase. “What do you know about this attack?”
Ms. Chase glares at me. “I simply told this young lady that whoever tried to kill Douglas during the robbery at his home might try again, if he thought Douglas had recognized him.”
“Yes. That’s what she said,” I tell Nims.
Ms. Chase sits upright and looks at Mr. Merson with concern. “Did you recognize him, Douglas?” she asks. “Could you identify him?”
We all stare at Mr. Merson, waiting for his answer. He sighs, closes his eyes, then shakes his head.
His eyes slowly open. He motions to me to come near.
When I do he takes one of my hands and writes, T-I-R-E-D. G-O.
“He’s tired,” I say. “He wants us all to go away and let him rest.”
“A wise idea,” the nurse who is now in the room says. “I was about to inform you myself that visiting time is over.”
Ms. Chase jumps up, trots to the foot of the bed, and begins to question Sergeant Nims about police protection.
I’m puzzled by my strange feelings as I look down at this man, whose face I still haven’t seen. Although he seems to know all about me, I don’t know anything about him. No one seems to know anything. From what I’ve guessed, he might be an art thief I’ve even been told that he’s suspected of being a drug dealer. And yet I want to like him.
“Goodbye, Mr. Merson,” I say quietly, and try to slip my hand from his, but he holds it tightly. His gaze is compelling as he prints in my hand, C-O-M-E S-O-O-N.
“Yes,” I murmur. “I’ll see you soon.”
As I walk to the door Ms. Chase says loudly, “Douglas, dear, we’re going to get you a bodyguard. I’ll speak to Frederick. I’ll hire one myself.”
I’m glad she offered. She may be flaky, but she’s still a good friend to hire protection for him. And isn’t that what friends are all about—coming through for you when you need them the most? I look at my watch. Thinking about good friends makes me think of Lindy. As soon as I get home and start dinner, I’ll call her and tell her the latest.
A young doctor, dressed in a white coat, with a stethoscope draped around his neck, walks up to me as I wait for an elevator. “Kristin Evans?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I’m Dr. Lynd, on the hospital staff, now Mr. Merson’s primary physician. I asked one of the nurses to point you out. Mr. Merson has been writing notes, asking for you.”
That surprises me because no one has told me, but I say, “I’m supposed to come on Sunday with my parents, but I didn’t want to wait that long.”
He grins. “Your timing was great. It looks like you arrived at just the right time. Are you his granddaughter?”
“Mr. Merson’s not my grandfather,” I tell him.
“I guess I just took it for granted … his age … yours …”
“He’s … well, he’s … a friend,” I say.
“Fine. That’s exactly what Mr. Merson needs right now,” the doctor says. “When a patient feels well in mind and spirit, it helps him recover faster. I hope you’ll come back.”
“I’ll come back soon,” I answer.
“Good. I like my patients to get well.” Dr. Lynd smiles.
The elevator comes, and I step into it. As the doors close, I think about my mother’s father, Grandpa Bill, who died when I was twelve. I still miss him. And I think about Dad’s father. I never got to meet him. Dad’s parents died in a car accident when Dad was in his teens.
For an instant I wish Mr. Merson were my grandfather.
On the way home I turn on my favorite radio station and try to blast away my anxiety. I can’t help wondering why the killer came back.
Did he think Mr. Merson could identify him?
Or was there another reason?
Mentally I go over stories about murders that have been in the news. I remember someone killing a witness because he was afraid the man would testify against him. In some murders, people gave in to a terrible anger. One case, I remember, had to do with greed. Some of the worst murders took place because of revenge.
Someone out there is trying to kill Mr. Merson, and no one but the would-be killer himself knows who he is or why he wants to commit murder.
Shuddering, I turn the radio up.
CHAPTER TEN
While the meat loaf is in the oven I call Lindy. I have so much to tell her.
“Mr. Merson actually heard you talking to him while he was in intensive
care?” she exclaims. “What did you say? Do you remember?”
“I only had a short time before the nurse told me to leave. I remember that I explained who I was and said I knew about the folder. I asked Mr. Merson who he was.”
Lindy’s voice rises in excitement. “Did he tell you? I mean, not then, but now … today … when you visited him?”
I sigh with frustration. “I think he was going to. He wanted to know about me first, so I told him. But then Detective Nims came into the room and ordered me to leave. She wanted to ask Mr. Merson some questions.”
Lindy gives a sympathetic groan. “No fair. She could have waited.”
“I guess I’m the one who’ll have to wait. Maybe he’ll tell us on Sunday when Mom and Dad come to see him too.”
“You’ll call me right away, won’t you? I mean, the very minute you get back home? I’m dying of curiosity.”
“You know I will,” I promise. I find myself saying, “I spoke with this one doctor who told me that Mr. Merson had asked about me. He took it for granted that Mr. Merson was my grandfather.”
“Probably because Mr. Merson’s so old,” Lindy answers. “Speaking about grandparents reminds me …” She begins to complain about the report she has to write for her community issues and ethics class. “I was going to write about grandparents as parents. Lots of kids are being raised by grandparents because of single-parent families and families where both parents work, but Angie Stone already picked that topic. Julie chose teen moms, Andy’s got something about affirmative action, and Jonathan has test-tube babies. There isn’t anything really good left! Any ideas?”
I search for an answer and, thankfully, an idea pops into my mind. “Why don’t you write about child advocates? You know, the people who volunteer to stand up for kids and their rights when the kids or their parents are in court?”
“Hey, that’s good!” Lindy says. “There’s even a big group called Child Advocates in Houston. I know because their ads are in the Chronicle. I’ll bet they’ll give me tons of information.”
Lindy rattles on, but my mind goes in another direction. “Did you say Jonathan is in your class?” I interrupt.
“Yes, your boyfriend is in the class too,” she teases.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I reply, but I have to admit I do like the way it sounds.
“Not yet,” says Lindy, “but after your big date this weekend he may be. So have you thought about what you’re going to wear?”
We quickly go over a few outfits, but before we can decide on anything, I hear Dad’s car drive up and the garage door crank open. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Lindy. “Mom and Dad are home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mom kicks off her shoes, washes her hands, and works beside me as I finish making dinner. Dad changes and comes back into the kitchen in comfortable clothes. “What can I do?” he asks.
“You can pour the water,” Mom says. At the same time, she and I both reach for the buttered, seasoned bread crumbs to put on the tomatoes we’re going to broil. We collide. Laughing, we make a second try, and Dad says, “That reminds me of a joke I heard about two mountain climbers.”
We listen and groan. I don’t know where Dad finds these corny jokes.
I wait to tell Mom and Dad what happened at the hospital.
Dad settles back in his chair and smiles. “You’re a good cook, Kristi,” he says.
“It’s just plain old meat loaf,” I answer. “Nothing special.”
“Maybe it’s what you put with it. The broiled tomatoes were good, and I like the salad with pecans in it.”
“Mom made the tomatoes.”
Mom pats my hand and smiles too. Food energy is kicking in. They’re perking up. Now’s the time, I decide, to tell them.
“Did you have a good day, honey?” Mom asks me.
“It was an unusual day,” I say. I take a deep breath and go through the story of what happened at the hospital with Mr. Merson.
Neither Mom nor Dad interrupts. They listen with wide eyes until I reach the end. Then the questions start.
“Why couldn’t you wait until Sunday, when we’ll be with you?” Mom asks. “That maniac could have killed you, too!”
“I didn’t know what was going to happen. Anyhow, he didn’t kill me. And because I was there he didn’t kill Mr. Merson, either.”
“That’s beside the point. We don’t know Mr. Merson. We don’t know what kind of a person he is. It was a brave thing for you to do, but you shouldn’t have been there without us.”
“What had you hoped to accomplish by visiting him, Kristi?” Dad asks.
I sigh. “I hoped to find out who Mr. Merson is,” I answer. “I didn’t. But I did accomplish something. I saved his life.”
“Granted,” he says. “And we’re proud of you for that, but we worry that you’re taking dangerous options.”
I lean toward them, looking from one to the other. “Let me ask a question now. It’s about my birth.”
I can see Mom’s shoulders tense. Dad sucks in his breath and stares at me.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this reaction. “What?” I ask.
“Go on, Kristi. What’s your question?” Dad says. He and Mom are looking at me as if I’d asked nothing more threatening than what they want for dessert. What did I just see? It’s no longer there. Did I imagine it?
I clear my throat and speak up. “One of the doctors in the hospital thought I was visiting my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?” Mom asks. “What gave the doctor that idea?”
I shrug. “Well, because Mr. Merson had been asking for me. I told the doctor Mr. Merson was not my grandfather. I was right, wasn’t I?”
Mom’s eyes widen with amazement, and Dad looks puzzled.
“Of course you’re right. You know Mr. Merson isn’t related to us,” Mom says.
And Dad adds, “That’s a peculiar question, Kristi. I don’t know why you’d ask it.”
“We’ve never even met the man,” Mom says.
“I’m not adopted,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Oh, good heavens,” Mom says. “Of course you’re not. Don’t you think we would have told you?” Impatiently she pushes her chair back from the table and begins to rise, but Dad rests a hand on her arm. He chuckles, surprising both of us.
“Nearly every kid wonders at some time or another if he’s been adopted,” he says. “I did. You probably did too, Callie. I remember taking a good long look at my parents, seeing all their flaws and thinking there was no way in the world I could have the same genes.”
Mom’s shoulders drop as she relaxes. She smiles back at Dad. “I was ten,” she says. “I was furious with my mother because she wouldn’t let me do something I badly wanted to do. I don’t even remember now what it was. But I do remember how sure I was that I’d been mixed up with another baby in the hospital and had gone home with the wrong parents.”
“I was twelve,” he tells her. “We were a lot younger than Kristi is.”
They both grin at me. “Clearly, a case of arrested development,” Dad says.
“Very funny,” I tell them. But I get busy and clear the table, glad that Mom’s no longer upset with me about what I said. I shouldn’t have asked such a weird question.
I know that when I was born Mom began keeping a scrapbook with lots of photos of me and records of how much I weighed and how tall I grew—all the stuff mothers think is important. She kept it up for years and years. The scrapbook is filled with special school papers and greeting cards I made for Mom and Dad on holidays. I began adding to it myself about the time I started high school.
After the kitchen has been cleaned, I go upstairs to my room and pull down the scrapbook from my closet shelf. On the third page is an envelope with my birth certificate inside. I take out the certificate and study the information on it.
I was born at Houston’s Women’s Center. Mom was thirty-six when I was born, and Dad was forty-five. The attending physicia
n was Dr. Alonzo Salinas. He’s not Mom’s doctor now, but I recognize his name. Whenever there’s a news story about some new advance in women’s health care, the TV reporters interview him. He seems to be a local authority on the subject of women’s health.
I wasn’t surprised at the ages of my parents when I was born. I knew that Dad was nine years older than Mom and that Mom had been working as a sales clerk when they met. After they’d married he tried to encourage Mom to go back to college and get a degree in accounting. It took a few years, but she finally agreed. Her grades were so good that she made the honors program. She’s sometimes talked about the good friends she made in the program and the projects they worked on to raise funds for speakers for events in the honors program. Then, near the end of her senior year, Mom found she was expecting me.
Once, when she’d been reminiscing about it, I shrugged and said, “I must have been bad timing.”
Mom laughed and hugged me. “Not at all. Your father and I had tried to have a child for six years. You’ve heard of biological clocks? Well, we got a late start and were running out of time. I was afraid we’d never be able to have a child. So we were both ecstatic when we discovered that I was pregnant.”
“You never had another child. Just me.”
Mom gave me an odd look. Then she said in a quiet voice, “It’s not that we didn’t want another child. We just couldn’t. We considered ourselves very lucky to have had you!”
I fold the birth certificate and tuck it back into the envelope. Mom and Dad are my birth parents. There’s no doubt about it. There’s even a signature on the certificate from the attending doctor at my birth. I trust my parents completely, so what am I trying to find? What am I hoping to prove?
I’m not going to wait until Sunday to visit Mr. Merson. He asked me to come back, so tomorrow I will.
During art club Ms. Montero stops by my desk. “Did you ever call New York and find out from the Museum of Modern Art about the Frank Kupka painting?” she asks.
“They said it wasn’t on display right now. But they didn’t tell me where it was. The woman I talked to acted suspicious of me.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to find out if I saw the real painting or not. Actually, I need to know.”
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