The Secret Room

by Sandra Block

  “I saw the picture of this kid in Abraham’s wallet during a family visit with Andre.”

  “Okay?”

  “I asked him point-blank who it was, and he said his nephew Jermaine. But it’s not. It’s his stepson. Or his sort-of stepson, at least. The boy called him Dad.”

  A sports car with a spoiler zooms by. “And can I ask how you know all of this?”

  I pause. “I really don’t want to get it into it.”

  “Fine.” He takes a deep, frustrated breath. “Then let me explain something. Both of these things may be odd, Zoe, but neither is illegal.”

  “But why would he do that? Lie about this boy?”

  “I don’t know. Who knows why people do anything they do? That’s your job, right? Maybe he was too embarrassed to tell Andre.”

  “Embarrassed? I don’t believe it. How do you hide that from your own son?” The detective doesn’t have an answer. “And if she did put everything in Andre’s name, it sure seems like good motive to kill the boy with the bright-red gloves.”

  Again the detective doesn’t answer right away. “Zoe, I’ll look into the will. Since apparently you won’t reveal your source.”

  I smile into the phone.

  “If it’s valid, then I’ll run it by the DA, at least. I can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a discussion.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But listen to me,” he says with a warning tone again. “And I mean it this time. Stay away from Abraham Green.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “I’ll try.” Then I hang up before he can protest. Turning onto our street, I see Mike’s car in the driveway, which is a surprise. The refrigerator schedule definitely said he was on today. Which makes me doubly happy I didn’t go through with the procedure.

  Not today, at least.

  I walk into the house, and Mike and Arthur are watching me expectantly. “What is it?”

  Mike gives me a Cheshire grin. “I got a surprise for you.”

  * * *

  The gun feels surprisingly good in my hand. Compact, well fitting.

  “Elbow straight,” he corrects.

  I can barely hear him with the headphones on and the ceaseless Jiffy Pop going on all around me. I sneak a look over at Mike, who has ringed the heart of his target. I think I might have hit the knee once (which would still be painful, I suppose). I’m not sure what the lemon is making of the commotion, but it doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other.

  Mike reloads. “Fun, huh?” he yells.

  “Sure. In a primal kind of way,” I yell back. I shut one eye, arm ramrod straight, and hit a shoulder. “Look!” I yell, like a kid who almost popped the balloon throwing darts at a fair.

  “Good job,” Mike answers, trying not to sound patronizing, and not succeeding. He goes for the head shot this time, leaving a hole in the target’s forehead. He could probably shoot the apple off William Tell’s son.

  After a while my arm is getting tired, and, having taken out the poor guy’s other knee, we decide to go. We hand in all our gear and head out to the car. A light snow dots the air. “Before you even ask,” I start.

  “I’m not,” he says. “Just want you to keep an open mind.” We climb into his Jeep, and he turns on the heat.

  “That was pretty fun,” I admit.

  “Only thing my dad and I ever really liked doing together.” His smile is bittersweet.

  “That’s sad.”

  “It is. My life has been one long sob story after another.”

  Chuckling, I fondle the adorable scruff on the back of his neck. “Is that your way of asking me not to overanalyze it?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says with a grin, and turns the steering wheel.

  “So, what’s new with you?” I ask. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Yup. Busy me, out there saving lives. And treating colds.”

  I laugh. “And I get to have you to myself, all day.”

  “Until six, at least. I had to switch with Damien, so I’m covering second shift.” He taps the steering wheel, waiting out a light. “Any more texts?”

  “No. But after what Zena said, I’m really convinced it’s Andre’s father.” I can’t explain the newer discovery about Jermaine without revealing that I stalked his father, so I don’t. “Anyway, Detective Adams is looking into it.”

  We drive in silence a bit until Mike turns on “new country” again. The silence was heavy, for me at a least, suffused with all the things I haven’t told him. Probation. The lemon. Dr. Marchand’s office. Tapping my foot to a song despite myself, I spy Anderson’s up ahead. “Hey, you want to do a late lunch?”

  “Sure,” he says, crinkling his eyes. “But are you even hungry? You had two peanut butter sandwiches before we left.”

  “Oh yeah. That was just a late breakfast. And since you won’t be home for dinner.” As he turns into Anderson’s, my phone rings. It’s Jason.

  “I hate to ask you this, but could you cover my call tonight?” His voice is hoarse.

  “Sure,” I answer without hesitation. “No problem.”

  “Thanks. I feel like crap. Fevers, the shits. I think I’m dying.”

  “So a man-flu,” I say.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hey, I’m taking your call.”

  He pauses. “Okay, then fuck you and thank you.” Jason hacks into the phone before hanging up. Putting the phone in my purse, I feel an unexpected sense of relief. I hate call as much as the next guy, but at least it will take my mind off things. Mike’s on tonight, so it would be just Arthur and I alone again. And I could have Scotty over, but that means listening to all the various and sundry ways Kristy sucks.

  Taking call might not be the definition of fun, but at least it’s a distraction from the ongoing disaster otherwise known as my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Watch what you wish for.

  Call was brutal. I made the mistake of not checking the lunar calendar before agreeing to cover for Jason. Sure enough, full moon.

  Saturday night was light, but Jason was still sick so I took the next day and got hammered. All Sunday I ping-pong between prison and Buffalo Psych Center for a baker’s dozen of psychoses NOS (not otherwise specified, in this case mainly due to street-drug cocktails that didn’t mix). I spend the night in the suburban ER (not Mike’s) with consults for various nonpsychiatric disorders (one patient hallucinating due to kidney failure, one hallucinating due to d.t.’s, and one with an “acute personality change” due to a frontal lobe stroke). Finally, at one in the morning, I am climbing into bed, praying for no more calls.

  Mike is dead asleep already, and Arthur sticks his head up to give me a sleepy-eyed smile and lies back down to dream of squirrel adventures again. I don’t bother brushing my teeth or taking off my scrubs, just climb straight into bed. Mike reaches over for a semiconscious snuggle, and I’m asleep within seconds.

  When the phone blares me awake, it feels as if five minutes have passed. Checking the clock, I’m amazed that three hours have slipped by. I pull the phone to my ear, tucking my arm back under the covers, unwilling to relinquish the delightful warmth of my bed and the perfect heft of Mike’s arm lying over me. “Hello?” I mumble.

  “Hi, Dr. Goldman, it’s Larissa.” My not-favorite nurse. Just my luck. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling about Andre Green.”

  “Okay?” My voice is husky with sleep.

  “We brought him down to Medical because he’s been pretty lethargic.”

  I yawn, and Arthur puts his head on my hip again, burrowing in. “Jason told me he increased his meds on Friday. Is he worse?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him Friday.”

  Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. “Did the internist see him yet?”

  “Yes, Dr. Kohlman. But he suggested psych since you know him best. And the meds.”

  I sit up, and Mike opens one eye. “Larissa?” he guesses, and I nod. “Might as well just go in. There’s no getting
out of it.”

  He’s right, of course.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Be there in ten.” As I leave the bed, Arthur takes the unexpected opportunity to crawl into my warm, vacated spot. Then, to add insult to injury, Mike throws his arm around him. I shove on my comfiest UGGs, ruined by stiff salt stains all around them, and get into the car.

  The streets are empty, the landscape all white, with snowbanks sculpted like dunes by the wind under a brown-orange sky. Unearthly, like another planet. My car is almost warmed up by the time I hit the parking lot of the prison. After flashing my badge, clomping off my boots, and nearly slipping on the floor into the elevator, I finally get up to Medical to see Andre.

  He is lying on the cot with one red-gloved hand chained to the bed rail, pale, sweaty, and mumbling. “Nuke…gonna…Nuke…no, no, no…” Andre weakly swats away something with the other hand.

  “Jesus.” I grab the stethoscope from the wall to listen to his heart and lungs. “He looks terrible. Do we have any labs on him?”

  “Yes.” Larissa pulls up his chart on the computer. “UA was negative, so was CBC.”

  “How about his chemistry?”

  “Pretty good. His BUN and creatinine were up a little. We were gonna run an IV in case he’s dehydrated.”

  “Or on his way to renal failure,” I say. “Unless we’re looking at neuroleptic malignant syndrome.” Then I remember the full tox screen I asked Jason to run and ask her about it.

  “Negative. I printed it out for you.”

  “Anyone order a chest X-ray?” Larissa offers only a blank look in response. “Either way, he needs to go to the County. He’s definitely too sick to stay here.”

  “Jermaine!” Andre yells out clearly, then starts mumbling again.

  “You sure about the County?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” And I’m also sure that Larissa does not want to fill out the paperwork involved in transferring him.

  “So you really don’t think he’s malingering?” she asks.

  The idiocy of the question catches me off guard. “Malingering?”

  She puts a hand on her hip. “I spoke with Dr. Novaire earlier, and that’s what he thought might be happening. Pretending to be sick to get out of going to school.”

  “No,” I say, as calmly as possible. “If Dr. Novaire knew anything about this patient, he would know he loves school. And if he had actually examined him, he would know he is not malingering. He is very ill. I will put in the orders. Please call for a transfer. Now. As in right now. Not in a couple minutes. Not in an hour. Right goddamn now.”

  Larissa huffs, and I know I’m in for a write-up, which could be all Warden Gardner needs to terminate me, but right now I don’t even care. My watch tells me it’s five in the morning, which means two hours to sleep until rounds.

  Grumbling, I trudge off to find the call room.

  * * *

  The devil flies in like a hawk, almost grabbing the baby.

  “No!” I hold on to it, tight, bending my whole body to protect it. A demon swoops in again, and a flash of fire singes my hair, leaving a sulfurous smell in his wake. “Please, no!” I am running away. But it’s an endless prison hall.

  “Bitch, you gonna fuck me now?”

  “I always like you tall girls. I’ll bend you over good, don’t worry.”

  Piss is being thrown at me, shit, gobs of spit, semen, splatting against the wall.

  “Mike!” I’m screaming, covering the baby. The hallway keeps going. “Mike!”

  My voice echoes down the hall until finally I get to a door. I’m afraid to open it, but I can’t stay where I am. I feel a lick of heat on the back of my neck from the devil’s flaming breath. Leaning forward, I try the handle, but it’s locked. I start knocking, shifting the baby on my hip. Knocking so hard my knuckles sting. “Please, let me in. Help me!”

  I look backward and see the devil smiling. His split tongue moving up and down. Finally I body-slam the door with my shoulder, and it opens. Shutting it behind me, I am left in a sudden, deathly silence. I stand there, breathless, listening. Then, on the other side of the door, I hear the patter of the devil’s feet, running away.

  “It’s okay now,” I say to the baby snuggling against my chest. She smells like baby powder. “It’s okay,” I murmur, my body finally relaxing, but then a peal of laughter rings out in the corner of the room, and I look over to see.

  It’s Sofia with her nebulous smile.

  “Do you forgive me?” she asks, and a nail file flashes in her hand.

  I wake up to myself gasping and my cell phone ringing. My scrub neck is damp with sweat. I have no idea where I am, but realize after a few disoriented seconds that I’m in the call room in the prison. Rubbing my eyes, I grab my phone, which tells me it’s seven in the morning. The screen casts a hazy gray box-shaped shadow on the wall. The caller ID says Dr. Koneru, and I wonder momentarily if she’s calling about the baby, then remember this makes no sense. Scrambling up in the cot, I push the answer button. “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. What is it?”

  “I finally got to review my file on Charmayne Green. And I came across something funny.” I hear rustling over the phone. “It may not be anything, but it’s worth a look.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about her fingernails. I’m just going to send you a picture. And I think you’ll see what I mean.” The picture lights up my phone, shocking my eyes, and I stare at it for ten straight seconds.

  It can’t be.

  “Did you get it?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I answer, feeling sick with shame. All this time he’s been so sick, and I couldn’t see it through his red gloves. Planting seeds in his fingernails, it was so obvious.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you, Zoe. There’s been a lot going on here. But I’ll do some testing if the lab saved any of her blood work.”

  “Good,” I say, in a daze.

  “And I’ll call Detective Adams. We really should reopen the case.”

  “Of course. Thanks for calling.” I throw on my lab coat, ready to race over to the county hospital. Right now it’s not even about Charmayne.

  We have to save Andre.

  * * *

  “No!” Andre is screaming, all his lethargy burned away. “Stop!”

  “Why isn’t he at the County yet?” I ask.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” Jason says. “I just happened to be rounding in Medical and saw him still in here. That’s why I called you.”

  “Yeah, but…” I trot over to the head of the bed. “He was supposed to be transferred last night. Fucking Larissa. I told her.”

  “Then yell at her, not me. I put your orders through again, and EMT is on the way.” He rubs his head. “And yes, I still have a fever, thanks for asking.”

  “At least we can take at look at his hands while we’re waiting.” I notice he is not handcuffed to the bed for the moment.

  “His hands?” Jason asks. “Why would we want to do that?”

  Andre is mumbling. His eyes are half-closed, bloodshot. Strands of hair are sprinkled all over his undershirt. But trying to remove one of the red gloves wakes up a demon.

  “No!” Andre screams.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, Andre,” I assure him. “I just need to look at your fingernails.” But he buries his hands underneath him while I try to tug out an arm.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jason asks. “What do you need his fingernails for?”

  “He’s planted seeds in there,” Andre screeches. “You can’t take my gloves. I need my gloves.” He is squirming away from me.

  “I just wanted to check something. Lift his shoulder, would you?”

  Begrudgingly Jason obliges, and I manage to yank off one dirt-spattered red glove, but Andre quickly shoves the hand directly under his body. “Zoe, seriously, tell me,” Jason says, huffing. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Lines
,” I say, grunting with the effort of holding him up.

  “Lines?” Jason asks. One of the guards, a blond kid with peach fuzz, walks into the medical room. “Need some help there?”

  “We just need to see his fingers,” I explain.

  “Okay.” The guard puts on a no-nonsense voice. “You’re not in trouble here, Green. We just need to see those hands.” Finally the guard and I are able to rock him onto his back, but Andre pulls his balled fists up to his mouth.

  “Can’t get them,” Andre is gasping out. “The roots. The roots.” The guard manages to splay out two fingers of the ungloved hand, with Andre still braying and fighting. I hold up Dr. Koneru’s texted picture to his hand, and there’s no doubt.

  “Damn it,” I say.

  “What?” Jason asks, peering over my shoulder. “What are you seeing?”

  “Lines,” I say. “Mees’ lines.” I turn to the guard. “Okay, you can let him go now.”

  “Thanks be to Jesus.” The guard releases his hand. “Son of a bitch is strong.”

  “Here’s your glove, Andre,” I say, putting it back on. The gesture seems to placate him, and his breathing slows down again.

  “Mees’ lines?” Jason says with astonishment. He grabs the phone to look at the picture again. “Holy shit. Nice catch, Zoe.”

  “Not really. We did a tox screen. But the wrong one. I never looked for heavy metals.”

  “Mees’ whats?” The guard surveys us with confusion.

  “Mees’ lines,” I say, “from arsenic poisoning. I just can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.” The EMTs are jogging into the room with a gurney. “His father is poisoning him,” I explain. “Just like he did his mother.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I’m about to grab a quick lunch when the detective calls.

  “Hi, Zoe. Got some news.”

  “Okay?”

  “We don’t have enough to arrest him yet, but we’re getting there. And you’ll be happy to know they’re reopening the case in Atlanta, too.”

  I rub my eyes, which sting from lack of sleep. “Do we have any idea how he was doing it?”