Nobody's There

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  The second officer looked questioningly at the first. He nodded and said, “You can tell her.”

  The officer looked away and dropped his voice. “She was attacked,” he said. “Someone bashed her in the head. She’s still alive, but the medics say she’s barely hanging on.”

  “What was she hit with?”

  “We couldn’t find a weapon.” He looked directly into Abbie’s eyes as he asked, “Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?”

  “No,” Abbie quickly answered. Then, “Yes,” she added. “I mean I can think of a few people who could have done it.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “A few? You mean a gang?”

  “Not a gang,” Abbie said. She told him about Officer Amanda Martin’s Buckler’s Bloodhounds, the fake roofers who had threatened revenge, and the guy who stole cell phone numbers and had come at Mrs. Merkel in his speeding car.

  As she finished her answer, the officer nearest the door said, “A TV crew just arrived.” He looked down at Abbie. “I don’t think you want to talk to them. Let’s take you out the back door. You want a ride home?”

  “No, thanks,” Abbie said. “I drove my mom’s car. It’s right out in front.”

  The officer took her arm and led her through a small dining room into the kitchen. Abbie noticed that the kitchen was as tidy as the living room had been, with just one exception—a half-filled cup of coffee and a jar of instant coffee granules lay on the counter next to the stove.

  Whoever had come had interrupted Mrs. Merkel as she was drinking a cup of coffee. She had left the kitchen to answer the front door and … Abbie shuddered.

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said to the police officer. “I want to go with Mrs. Merkel to the hospital.”

  “Since you’re not a relative, they may not let you ride in the ambulance with her,” he said, “but they’ll take her to Mercy Hospital. You can drive over there and they’ll probably let you see her.”

  “Thanks,” Abbie said. “I’ll do that.”

  “If you and the old lady are good friends … well, the news you get from Emergency might be kind of hard to take. Why don’t you go home and get your mom and dad to go to the hospital with you?”

  Abbie just nodded.

  “When you go outside, watch out for the media. Somebody from the Buckler Bee should also be showing up about now. Don’t talk to anyone. Go straight to your car and leave.”

  Abbie gave him a wave, ran down the back steps, and carefully picked her way across the broken stepping-stones until she reached Mrs. Merkel’s front yard.

  Darkness had settled in. The streetlights down the block spilled small pools of brightness, while the lights on the squad car and ambulance flickered like blue-and-red fireflies. It was easy for Abbie to mingle with the neighbors who were clustered in chattering clumps. She slipped from one group to the next until she was inside her car.

  For just an instant she collapsed, emotionally exhausted, and rested her head on the steering wheel. If she had come after school, when she had promised, she would have been there to support Mrs. Merkel. Maybe the person who had hurt Mrs. Merkel would have backed off if she hadn’t been alone.

  “It’s my fault,” Abbie murmured. She sat up, gripping the steering wheel with her left hand as she turned on the ignition with her right. There was only one thing she could do to try to make up for what she had—hadn’t—done.

  Abbie knew what Mrs. Merkel would want her to do. Abbie wouldn’t just leave this attack up to the police to solve. She’d work as hard as she could to find the person who had done this to Mrs. Merkel and come up with enough proof for a conviction.

  “I promise,” Abbie said aloud, as if she were talking to Mrs. Merkel.

  She pulled out behind the ambulance and followed it to Mercy Hospital.

  Abbie arrived at the hospital just behind the ambulance and she followed the stretcher inside, telling the woman at the desk that she was with Mrs. Merkel.

  The receptionist waved toward the nearly empty waiting room. “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”

  “May I borrow the phone for a second, please?” Abbie asked. “I want to call my mother.”

  “Here you go,” the receptionist said as she slid a telephone across the counter. “Please be quick. Just punch nine before you make your call.”

  Abbie told her mother a brief version of the story, ignoring her mother’s gasps and beginnings of questions. When Abbie had finished she asked, “Mom, could I stay until I find out if … uh … how bad off she is and how long she’ll be here?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I can try to get Mrs. Erwin to come stay with Davy so I can be with you.”

  “No, Mom,” Abbie said firmly. “It’s okay. I’ll be all right.”

  “Okay, honey. Call me if you need me,” Mrs. Thompson said.

  “Thanks, Mom. Bye.”

  Abbie heard the click, but as she was putting down the receiver she heard Davy say, “Wait, Abbie! Don’t hang up!”

  “Davy? Were you on the phone too?”

  “Yeah. I listened in on the extension. I’ve got my notebook right here, so keep talking. What time did you get to Mrs. Merkel’s house?”

  “Time? Oh, about five-forty-five, I think.”

  “What time did the police and ambulance get there?”

  “In about ten minutes. Maybe less. Listen, Davy, this isn’t important. I’ve—”

  “Yes, it is. We have to document everything. Do you have an alibi?”

  “Do I have—” Abbie stopped in midsentence, aware that the receptionist was watching her with curiosity. “Davy, we’ll talk when I get home.”

  “Okay,” he answered. “But this time pay attention to whatever is going on. Think about who you saw at Mrs. Merkel’s house. Remember what the doctors say. And if Mrs. Merkel comes to and says anything—well, remember every word. Don’t blow it this time, Abbie.”

  “I won’t,” Abbie said. “See you later.” She hung up the receiver, giving an apologetic glance to the receptionist, and walked toward one of the rows of molded plastic chairs that lined the walls.

  After what seemed like an endless wait, a voice spoke from beside her. “Ms. Thompson?”

  Abbie turned to see a young man dressed in scrubs. “I’m Abbie Thompson,” she said.

  “I’m Dr. Phillips. They told me you’re with Mrs. Edna Merkel?”

  “Yes. She’s a … a friend. Will she be all right?”

  “We won’t know that for a while. She was struck pretty hard on the back of her head with a heavy object. It fractured her skull. We’ve reduced the swelling and have stablized her condition for now.”

  “Could I see her? Talk to her?”

  “You can see her, but Mrs. Merkel won’t be able to communicate with you. She’s in a coma.”

  “Will she be in a coma for long?”

  “At the moment we have no way of knowing. She’s in the intensive care unit, and you can visit her for a few minutes. If her condition improves or remains stable, we’ll move her to a hospital room. Would you like to come with me?”

  Abbie walked with Dr. Phillips through a pair of swinging doors into a white, brightly lit hallway. “What was she hit with?” she asked. She thought of the men Mrs. Merkel had threatened. “The police couldn’t find a weapon. Could you tell what was used? Was it a tire iron? Or some kind of a tool?”

  Shrugging, Dr. Phillips answered, “I don’t know. There were two deep, pronglike puncture wounds. I have no idea what could have made them.”

  The doctor stopped at a desk, nodded to the nurse behind it, and held a door open for Abbie to walk through. “Talk softly in here,” he said. “There are only a few patients in our ICU, but they need peace and quiet.”

  He stepped ahead of Abbie, leading her to the foot of a bed in which Mrs. Merkel lay, covered to her chin by a white sheet and a light blanket. Under the bandage that covered the top of her head, her face was pale, etched deeply wi
th frown lines. Even unconscious, she looked dissatisfied and critical.

  “Can she hear me?” Abbie whispered.

  Dr. Phillips shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Abbie walked to the side of the bed. Mrs. Merkel’s hands were tucked under the blanket, so Abbie touched her shoulder lightly, patting it as if Mrs. Merkel were a small child. “It’s me … Abbie,” she said. “I’m here.”

  She waited for Mrs. Merkel to stir or to show some signal that she heard, but Mrs. Merkel gave no sign.

  “Whoever did this is going to be caught,” Abbie told her. “I’m going to find out who did it.” She waited, taking a deep breath as she tried to strengthen her resolve. “I promise,” she whispered.

  “Better go now,” Dr. Phillips said. “You can come back tomorrow if you like.”

  Abbie gave one more glance at Mrs. Merkel. “I hope you heard me,” she whispered, but there was no response.

  As she followed Dr. Phillips from the intensive care unit, Abbie realized exactly what she had promised. Finding the person who committed this crime was up to the police, not to Abbie. What did she know about catching criminals? Shakily she drove home.

  “Mom, I need to talk,” she said when she walked through the door. As she and her mother settled down on the sofa in the den, she told her mother every detail of what had happened that evening.

  From where Abbie sat, she could see her pajama-clad brother. In the dim light on the stairs, Davy crouched against the wall, knees drawn up. Hunching over his notebook, he was writing as fast as he could, probably trying to take down every word she was saying.

  As Abbie finished her story and was answering her mother’s questions, the doorbell rang.

  Davy shot to his feet and scampered up the stairs into the darkness as Mrs. Thompson walked to the door.

  Abbie joined her mother, recognizing the voice of the woman who was speaking. “Mom, this is Officer Amanda Martin,” she said.

  “Oh … please come in,” Mrs. Thompson said, and Abbie was surprised to see that her mother was flustered.

  “I have just a few questions to ask Abbie,” Officer Martin said.

  They sat in the den, and Abbie again watched Davy—notebook mashed against his chest—creep to a spot on the stairs where he could hear the conversation.

  “I was told that you discovered Mrs. Merkel after the attack,” Officer Martin said. “Will you tell me exactly where you were, how you made the discovery, and what happened?”

  Abbie went through the story again. It was beginning to sound like the telling of a bad dream or a scary movie. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up and the story would be gone. None of this could have happened. Abbie would go to Mrs. Merkel’s house after school the next day, and Mrs. Merkel would complain, grumble, and tell Abbie to drive her to the coffee shop she was never supposed to set foot in again. Abbie put her hands to her forehead, pressing against a sudden pain.

  “Honey, are you all right?” her mother asked.

  “I’m sorry, Abbie,” Officer Martin said. “I know this has been tough on you. But we need as much information as we can get as soon as possible. I hope you understand.”

  People were always asking her to understand, hoping she’d understand. Why should she understand any of the things that had been happening? Why shouldn’t she just climb into bed, pull the covers over her head, and come out when it was all over?

  “Yes, I understand,” Abbie heard herself saying.

  “You told Officer Bantry that you suspected that either the roofers or the man arrested for allegedly stealing cell phone numbers might have harmed Mrs. Merkel. Do you have a reason for these suspicions?”

  “Only that all of them threatened Mrs. Merkel.”

  “Do you remember their exact words?”

  Abbie squeezed her eyes shut, trying hard to remember. “When the police took away the roofers, the one named Mitchell said something like ‘You’re going to be sorry you did this.’ Something like that.”

  “How about the other case—the one involving theft of cell phone numbers?”

  “Well … he yelled some obscene threats about what he was going to do to her.”

  “Abbie, you didn’t tell me any of this,” Mrs. Thompson said.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Abbie answered. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  Mrs. Thompson sat upright, her fingers clenched together. Color rose in her cheeks as she said, “Just what is this Friend to Friend business all about? Are these girls being led into dangerous situations?”

  “I don’t work with the program, but I’m sure that’s not the case, Mrs. Thompson,” Officer Martin answered.

  “Well, I’m going to find out from somebody who does know.”

  “Mom,” Abbie said quickly. “It’s not the fault of the Friend to Friend group. The elderly women who are assigned to the other girls in the program are nice people. They go shopping and to choir practice and have tea parties. Mrs. Merkel isn’t nice. She tries to cause trouble for everybody. She thinks she’s a private eye on a big case.”

  Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Since there’s nothing you can do to help Mrs. Merkel now, I’ll ask the Friend to Friend people to assign you to someone else. I’m going to make very, very sure you don’t end up with another Mrs. Merkel.”

  Abbie didn’t want to spend her free time visiting someone else, no matter how nice the woman might be. She needed all the time she could find to discover who had tried to kill Mrs. Merkel. “Please don’t go to the Friend to Friend people, Mom,” Abbie said. She didn’t use Mrs. Wilhite’s name and hoped that her mother had forgotten it. “I mean, I can help Mrs. Merkel by going to visit her in the hospital. I can talk to her. I can keep her company. Maybe I can help her recover and she can tell the police who attacked her.”

  “But these people you talked about—the roofers, somebody stealing cell phones—what if they come back?”

  Officer Martin spoke up. “Frankly,” she said, “we don’t think any of those three individuals were actually involved in this crime. Con men aren’t usually killers. They fleece their victims, then clear out.”

  “You’re not even investigating them?”

  “We’re following through. There’s an all points bulletin out for them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t skipped bail long ago and left for other parts.”

  Abbie didn’t agree. She wished Officer Martin could have seen the anger on Mitchell’s face, the hatred on the face of the thief who spewed such ugly words.

  Officer Martin added, “The crime against Mrs. Merkel is listed as a random attack during a possible robbery by person or persons unknown.”

  “Robbery?” Abbie asked.

  “Yes. It’s obvious that someone ransacked the downstairs. We don’t know what was taken. I’d appreciate it if you’d come to the house with me right now and look it over. We need you to discover if anything is missing.”

  Mrs. Thompson objected. “Go with you right now? But it’s late, and tomorrow is a school day.”

  “Mom,” Abbie groaned, embarrassed. “It won’t take long. I’ve only been in the living room and just walked through the dining room and kitchen. I don’t even know if I’d recognize that anything was missing.” An idea struck her and she asked, “What about Mrs. Merkel’s nephew, Charlie? Shouldn’t you get in touch with him?”

  “We’ve been trying. We found his name and address on an insurance form on Mrs. Merkel’s desk. Charlie lives near Dallas, so we’ve asked the Dallas police to try to find him.”

  “What do you mean, find him? What happened to him?”

  “Nothing that we know of. We verified the address and phone number, but he doesn’t answer his phone calls. He could be out of town or just at a movie. Until we reach him, you’re the only one we know of who has been in Edna Merkel’s house. Will you take a look and see if you notice anything missing?”

  Abbie stood. “I’ll be back soon, Mom,” she said. “You go on to bed. I can let myself in when I get back.” She could he
ar a rustling on the stairs. When she looked, she saw that Davy had left his hiding place.

  “I’ll wait up for you,” Mrs. Thompson said firmly, but she looked at Officer Martin. “Just keep in mind that Abbie has to wake up early tomorrow morning to go to school.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Officer Martin said politely. She walked out to her car, and Abbie quickly followed.

  Yellow crime scene tape was still attached to the trees and the porch railings of Mrs. Merkel’s house.

  Abbie stopped. “Do those mean we aren’t supposed to go inside?”

  “It’s okay to cross the lines,” Officer Martin explained. “The detectives and the crime lab have finished their work, but no one’s taken down the tapes yet.” Leading the way, she entered the house.

  The living room was colored a sickly yellow by the low-watt light that came from the lamps with tasseled, pleated shades. Trying to avoid looking at the bloodstained rug on which Mrs. Merkel had fallen, Abbie slowly walked around the room, trying not to step on books, papers, or knickknacks as she gazed at each object with full concentration. Something was missing. Something was not where it should be. But what was it?

  With Officer Martin at her side, Abbie walked through the kitchen, then leaned against the counter, shaking her head.

  “I only saw the kitchen briefly, as I was leaving the house earlier,” she said. “The coffee cup is still where it had been. Mrs. Merkel was interrupted while she was drinking coffee, wasn’t she?”

  “Maybe,” Officer Martin said. “It looks that way.”

  “The coffee cup’s still here.”

  “The detectives would have seen it, and so would the crime lab.”

  “Didn’t they take fingerprints from the coffee cup?”

  “No. They’d only get Mrs. Merkel’s prints. That wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  “What if it was somebody else who drank the coffee?”

  “That isn’t likely.”

  Abbie sighed. She wished she had done what Davy had told her to do—pay attention. She’d been so full of herself and her own problems. Why hadn’t she listened to Mrs. Merkel? Why hadn’t she known it would be important to remember? “She said something about …”