“Because he liked you,” Molly said. “And for every kid he liked, there were ten he couldn’t stand, and toward the end he passed the ones he hated on to you.”
Sara shook her head, not accepting this. “He didn’t do that.”
“Sara,” Molly insisted, “ask Nelly. She’s been here longer than I have.”
“So, that’s my standard? That I’m better than Dr. Barney?”
“Your standard is you treat all the kids the same. You don’t play favorites.” Molly indicated the pictures on the wall. “How many kids did Dr. Barney have on his walls?”
Sara shrugged, though she knew the answer to that. None.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Molly said. “And it’s not going to accomplish anything.”
“I just want to be more careful from now on,” Sara told her. “Maybe we can cut the schedule so I can spend more time with each patient.”
Molly snorted a laugh. “We barely have enough time in the day to see the appointments we have now. Between that and the morgue—”
Sara stopped her. “Maybe I should quit the morgue.”
“Maybe you should hire another doctor?” Molly suggested.
Sara tapped her head against the wall, thinking. “I don’t know.”
The door shook as someone knocked on it.
“If that’s Elliott…,” Sara began, but it was not. Nelly, the office manager at the clinic since before Sara was born, slid open the door.
“Nick Shelton’s on the phone,” Nelly said. “Want me to take a message?”
Sara shook her head. “I’ll take it,” she answered, then waited for Molly to leave before picking up the phone.
“Hello, sunshine,” Nick said, his south Georgia drawl clear across the line.
Sara allowed a smile. “Hey, Nick.”
“I wish I had time to flirt,” he told her. “But I gotta meeting in about ten seconds. Real quick, though,” he began, and she could hear him shuffling papers. “Nothing current came up on female castration, at least, not in the United States. But I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear that.”
“No,” Sara agreed. Something so volatile would have certainly ended up in the press.
“A few years ago in France, a woman was tried for performing over fifty procedures. I think she was originally from Africa.”
Sara shook her head, wondering how a woman could do this to a child.
Nick said, “Hey, what do you already know about this?”
“Infibulation falls under the general heading of F.G.M.,” she said, using the acronym for female genital mutilation. “It’s sometimes practiced in the Middle East and parts of Africa. It’s tied somehow to religion.”
“Well, about as much as suicide missions are tied to religion,” Nick corrected. “You can make a religious justification for just about anything these days.”
Sara made a noise of agreement.
“Mostly, it’s a custom passed down from village to village. The more uneducated the group, the more likely they are to do it. There isn’t a real good religious argument to justify it, but the men over there like the idea of making sure their women don’t stray.”
“So they make it impossible for them to enjoy sex. Perfect solution. If this was happening to men over there, Africa and the rest of the Middle East would be an empty crater.”
Nick was silent, and Sara felt guilty for painting him with the same brush. “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Sara,” he offered in a soft tone.
She waited a beat, then asked, “What else?”
“Well,” he began, and she could hear him shuffling through his notes. “After the procedure, they usually bind the legs together to promote healing.” He paused as if to catch his breath. “In a lot of cases, they sew them shut, you know, like your girl was, and leave an opening for her time of the month.”
“I read about that,” Sara confirmed. She also knew that women in the village who weren’t mutilated were not considered marriage material.
“The thread you pulled from the area looks common. I’ve sent samples to the lab, but they’re pretty certain you can find it in any Kmart.” He made a thinking noise. “You think whoever did this has some kind of medical experience?”
“Are you looking at the photographs?”
“Yep,” he answered. “Looks kind of elementary, but not half-assed.”
“I agree,” she told him, thinking that whoever had sewn the girl up was probably good with a needle and thread.
“I read this statistic,” he said. “A lot of the girls die from shock. They don’t exactly anesthetize them, if you know what I mean. Most times they use a piece of broken glass to perform the procedure.”
Sara shuddered, but tried to maintain her composure. “Any idea why someone would do this here?”
“You mean someone who’s not part of an immigrant population?” he asked, but didn’t let her answer. “Over there they do it to make sure a girl stays pure. Usually, the husband opens her up on their wedding night.”
“Purity,” Sara said, focusing on the word. Jenny Weaver had used it with her mother.
Nick asked, “Was she a virgin?”
“No,” Sara answered. “Judging from the size of the vaginal orifice as compared to the urinary meatus, she was sexually active well before the castration. Probably with a number of partners.”
“You check her for any STDs?”
“Yes,” Sara said. “She came back negative.”
“Well, it was worth a shot.”
“Anything else?”
Nick was quiet for a few beats, then asked, “You talking to Jeffrey this week?”
Sara felt a bit embarrassed, but said, “Yes.”
“Tell him that drawing he sent didn’t come up on our computers. We faxed it up to the FBI for a run-through, but you know they’ll take their time.”
“What’s the drawing?” Sara asked.
“Some tattoo. I dunno. He said it was on the webbing between the thumb and pointer finger.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Over dinner?”
Sara laughed. “What are you getting at, Nick?”
“If you’re not busy, I’m gonna be down in your neck of the woods this weekend.”
Sara smiled. Nick had asked her out several times before, mostly as a courtesy. He was about six inches shorter than Sara and wore more gold jewelry than any man ought to be allowed. She doubted very seriously that he thought he had a chance in hell with her, but Nick was the kind of man who liked to leave no stone unturned.
She told him, “I guess I’m seeing Jeffrey again.”
“You guess?”
“I mean,” she paused. “Yes, we’re dating again.”
He took the refusal good-naturedly, as usual. “Can’t blame an old boy for trying.”
After they said their good-byes, Sara stayed in her chair, thinking about what Nick had told her. There had to be some connection between Jenny’s desire for purity and the castration. She was missing something, probably something very obvious. What would make a girl feel unclean, Sara wondered. Unfortunately, the only thing she could come up with was sex. Jenny Weaver had certainly been active. Maybe the guilt from her sexual promiscuity had been too much for Jenny to bear.
Also, there was the greater question of who had performed the mutilation on Jenny. It wasn’t as if the girl could do it to herself. She would pass out from the shock or the pain before it was completed. There had to be another person involved, someone who could do the cutting and sewing. Perhaps Jenny had drunk until she passed out, or bought pain killers or muscle relaxers from someone at the school. A veritable pharmacy existed at the high school. Anyone with the right money could practically stock an operating room.
Nelly slid open the door, saying, “The Patterson kid is here.” Then added, “Without the mother,” in a hushed whisper.
Sara glanced at her watch. Mark was supposed to have been in ye
sterday morning. His dropping by today would throw her whole schedule out of whack. “Put him in six,” she said. “Tell him he’ll have to wait.”
“Him?” Nelly asked. “It’s Lacey, the girl.”
Sara sat up in her chair. “Did she say why she’s here?”
“Just that she’s not feeling well,” Nelly answered, then whispered again, “She doesn’t look well, if you ask me.”
Sara whispered, “Why are you whispering?”
Nelly allowed a smile, walking into the office. She closed the door, saying, “She’s acting strange. She’s not with her mother.”
Sara felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. “How long has she been waiting?”
“Not long,” Nelly answered. “Put her in six?”
Sara nodded, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She picked up the phone to dial Jeffrey’s number, then changed her mind. Lacey had come to the clinic because she trusted Sara, and Sara would not betray that confidence. At the very least, the girl needed help. Whatever laws she had broken could be dealt with after Sara made sure she was okay.
Exam six was in the back of the building, at the end of the L-shaped hallway. Normally, it was reserved for very sick children or used as a waiting room for parents while Sara talked to their kids about sex, or birth control, or whatever things they felt they needed to talk to their pediatrician about in private. Sara supposed Molly had stuck Lacey back here to win the girl’s trust. Kids did not just show up at the clinic without their parents, even the ones who could drive themselves.
Molly was waiting by the closed exam room door when Sara turned the corner.
She handed Lacey Patterson’s chart to Sara outside the exam room, saying, “I’ll be in two if you need me.”
Sara flipped open the chart to review her notes from Lacey’s last visit, even though Sara had looked at the chart just a few days ago. Two months ago, the girl had presented with what appeared to be strep throat. Sara had started her on antibiotics, pending the lab results. Sara thumbed through the chart, but the pink sheet the lab usually sent was not in there. She was about to find Molly when she noticed a noise coming from behind the exam door.
“Lacey?” Sara asked, sliding back the door. “Are you—” She stopped midsentence, thinking that the last time she had seen someone so pale was in the morgue. The girl was sitting in the chair by the exam table, her arms wrapped across her stomach. Despite the weather she was wearing a neon-yellow raincoat. She was doubled over, her arms wrapped around her stomach as if in pain.
Sara put her hand on the girl’s back, surprised at how clammy it felt through the coat.
Lacey’s teeth were chattering, but she managed to say, “I need to talk to you.”
“Come here,” Sara said, helping her stand. “Let’s get you on the table.”
Lacey hesitated, and Sara lifted her up onto the exam table.
“I don’t…,” Lacey began, but she was shaking too hard to continue. Sara put her hand to the girl’s forehead, wondering if Lacey was shaking from fear or from fever. As hot as it was outside, Sara could not tell the difference.
“Let’s get this coat off,” Sara suggested, but Lacey would not unwrap her arms from her waist.
“What happened?” Sara asked, trying to keep her voice steady. There was an electric charge in the room, as if something really bad had happened.
Lacey tilted forward, and Sara caught her before she fell off the table.
“I’m so sleepy,” she said.
“Sit up for me a minute,” Sara told her. She raised her voice, calling into the hallway, “Molly?”
“I’m not feeling well,” the girl said.
Sara held her hands against Lacey’s thin shoulders. “Where do you hurt?”
She opened her mouth to speak, vomiting all over Sara. Of course this had happened to Sara before, and she stepped back, but not in time to keep from getting splattered.
After her sickness subsided, Lacey murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Sara told her.
“My stomach hurts.”
“You’re okay,” Sara told her. Holding Lacey up with one hand, she stretched toward the paper towel dispenser and gave the girl some cloths.
“I feel sick.”
Sara raised her voice again, this time louder than before. “Molly?” she called, knowing that it was futile. Exam two was on the other side of the building.
“Lie back,” Sara told Lacey. “If you get sick, turn to the side.”
“Don’t leave me!” the girl cried, holding on to Sara’s hand. “Please, Dr. Linton, I gotta talk to you. I gotta tell you what happened.”
Sara could guess what happened, but there were more important things right now than hearing the girl’s confession.
“I gotta tell you,” the girl repeated.
“About the baby?” Sara guessed. She could tell from Lacey’s expression that her guess was right. Sara felt stupid for not having figured it out before. She said, “I know, sweetie. I know. Just lie down and I’ll be right back.”
The girl’s body tensed. “How do you know?”
“Lie down,” Sara told her. Thinking this would soothe her, Sara offered, “I’ll go call your mom.”
Lacey bolted upright. “You can’t tell my mom.”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“You can’t tell her,” Lacey insisted, tears streaming down her face. “She’s sick. She’s real sick.”
Sara did not understand what the girl meant, but she soothed her anyway. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Promise me you won’t tell her.”
Sara said, “Honey, we’ll worry about that later.”
“No!” she yelled, gripping Sara’s arm. “You can’t tell my mom. Please. Please don’t tell her.”
“Stay right here,” Sara ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
She did not wait for an answer. Sara stepped into the hallway, slipping off her soiled lab coat as she walked toward the nurses’ station.
Nelly asked, “What happened?”
“Call an ambulance,” Sara said, tossing her coat into the dirty linen bin. She leaned back, looking around the corner to make sure Lacey had not left the room. “Get Molly in six right now, and then call Frank over at the police station.”
“Oh, my,” Nelly mumbled, picking up the phone.
Elliot came out of one of the exam rooms. “Hey, Sara?” he asked. “I’ve got a six year old with—”
“Not now,” Sara told him, holding up her hand. With a glance down the hallway, she went into her office and dialed Jeffrey’s cell phone. She let it ring four times before hanging up. Next, she dialed the station.
Marla Simms answered. “Grant County Police Station. How may I help you?”
“Marla,” Sara said. “Find Jeffrey, send him over to the clinic right now.”
A banging noise echoed up the hallway, and Sara mumbled a curse as she recognized the sound of the back door popping open.
Marla said, “Sara?”
Sara slammed down the phone and ran out into the hallway, prepared to chase after Lacey. What she saw stopped her cold. Mark Patterson stood at the end of the hall, every muscle in his body tensed. There was a cut across his abdomen that stained his blue shirt to a dark purple, and his jeans were torn at the knee as if he had skidded across asphalt.
“Lacey?” he screamed, sliding open the first door he came to.
Sara heard a shocked gasp from the mother of the patient in the room, followed by the wails of a frightened child.
“Sara?” Nelly asked. She was standing at the nurse’s station with the telephone in her hand.
Sara said, “Call the station. Tell them to send whoever they can.”
“Lacey?” Mark repeated, his voice vibrating through the hallway. Thankfully, he had not noticed the tail end of the hall and the two exam rooms off to the side.
He came closer, and Sara could see that his clothes were stained and dirty-looking. Flecks of whit
e paint covered everything. His hair looked greasy and was uncombed, as if he had not bathed in a while. Sara had seen Mark many times over the last decade, but she had never seen him looking so unclean.
“Goddamn it!” Mark screamed, throwing his hands into the air. “Where’s my fucking sister?”
A couple of doors behind Sara slid open, and she turned, signaling for the parents to stay inside.
Molly stood beside Sara, holding a chart to her chest. It was the first time Sara had ever seen the nurse shocked by anything that happened in the clinic.
“Mark,” Sara said, putting some authority into her tone. “What are you doing here?”
“Where’s Lacey?” he said, slamming his hand into the next door. The panel shook on its slider, and Sara could hear a child screaming behind it.
Nelly’s voice was muffled as she talked to someone on the phone. Sara could not make out the conversation, but she hoped to God they were sending somebody.
“Mark,” Sara began, trying to keep her voice calm. “Stop this. She’s not here.”
“The hell she’s not,” he countered, taking a step toward her. “Where is that little cunt?” He slammed his hand against the door again, punching an impression into the wood. Nelly screamed and ducked behind the counter.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Sara purposefully made what she hoped was a nervous glance toward her office. Mark picked up on it immediately.
“Aha,” he said. “She in there?”
“No,” Sara told him.
He smiled, stepping closer to her. Sara could see that his pupils were as small as pinpricks, and guessed that whatever he was on was not about to dissipate any time soon. Up close, he seemed to be giving off an odor. Sara was not certain, but the smell reminded her of chemicals.
She asked, “What are you on, Mark?”
“I’m about to be on my fucking sister if she doesn’t keep her fucking mouth shut.”
“She’s not here,” Sara told him.
“Lace?” Mark said, craning his head around the office door. “You better get the fuck out here right now.”
Sara caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She knew from the neon-yellow blur that it was Lacey, trying to make her way out the back door. A cold sweat chilled Sara as she calculated how long it would take for Lacey to make it to the exit. She stared at Mark, willing Lacey to hurry, but the girl was not moving. She was standing stock still as if someone had pinned her to the wall.
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