by Ellie Hart
And I need to have my head examined. Is this how people cross over from sanity to a proper crackup? Conscious of King observing me with those uniform-blue eyes, I flush. I’m sure I already appear crazy in his sight. I draw myself up straighter and rearrange my expression as I reply.
“No, unless you want to count that homeless guy who always stands under those trees across the street.” I nod at the window as if I can still see him in his layers of old clothes, a worn Oakland A’s cap covering his head.
“Ah. Steven.” King nods as well, a small smile on his mouth. “You’d never know by looking at him he’s got a doctorate in physics.”
“Seriously? Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. He used to teach at Berkeley back when I was in college.” He shakes his head, but I see admiration there instead of sadness. “I never took one of his classes, but everyone said he was brilliant. I’ll say this for him, he knows how to live.”
I’m taken aback by this comment, but I offer no rebuttal. King might have a point, I think. Imagine not having responsibilities toward an employer or anyone else. The closer it gets to D-Day, Marta’s due date, the more I can see the reasoning behind a disappearing act. Who knew I was such a coward?
“So, what about this note?” he asks. It’s been placed inside an evidence bag King produced from his pocket, a magician in the forensic world. It’s a good thing his frame is slender because he seems to carry the tools of the trade in his various pockets.
“The message is fairly straightforward, I would think. Shouldn’t you be out there talking to Chrissy Burton?”
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, the only visible reaction to my rather brash question.
“And why would I do that?”
I give a defeated shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe because this is really about her and her situation. I really regret even letting that woman into my house, to tell you the truth.”
Officer King sits in silence for a moment, eyes fixed on the small notebook resting on one thigh. Finally, he says, “I want you to think hard, Dr. Cutler.” He lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes, and I can see something is troubling him. “When Ms. Burton first came to your house, what was your initial gut reaction?” I start to speak, and he holds up one hand. “No, I want you to take some time, really delve into your feelings. That’s usually where the answers lie, in my experience.”
My uneasiness is growing. This is taking on the tinge of a witch hunt, I think. No, not a witch hunt. More like a paranormal investigation. “Mrs. X, please tell us how you felt when you first walked into the house.”
I shake my head, trying to dislodge these flights of fancy. Maybe I’m not sleeping enough. Maybe I’m a nutcase.
“To be honest,” I begin slowly, “I was taken in by how upset she was when she showed up. It was like she’d been physically attacked or something. She really was a mess.”
“Okay, let’s start with that.” King leans forward slightly, an intense expression in his eyes. “Did she say who was bothering her?”
I close my eyes, trying to recall the gist of our conversation that first day.
“From what I can recall, she was worried most about the mistaken identity of that woman they found in the bay. Apparently, the cops found something on her that made them think she was Chrissy, plus she looked enough like her to be a relative. But Chrissy said she was adopted and never knew her birth family.”
“Has she been able to verify any relation to the dead woman? Done any type of DNA testing?”
“Yup. Marta and I both went with her to the lab.” I give a half smile. “I have no idea what the results are, or if she’s gotten them back yet.”
“Well, that should be an easy fix.” King closes the notebook and stands, smiling down at me. “I’ll get an order of release.”
“Wait,” I say, standing as well. “Chrissy also said a DNA test probably won’t clear anything up. She’s a bone marrow recipient, which changes the individual’s DNA makeup.”
King folds his arms across his chest, feet spread wide. “That certainly muddies the water,” he says dryly. “Any idea why she went ahead with the test?”
“No idea. That part has bothered me. Why would someone submit to a test they knew would be skewed?”
It’s a rhetorical question. We’re standing in silence when a series of sharp, high-pitched barks echoes down the hall. Tramp, I think. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“Officer, I completely forgot to mention the other part of this little problem.” I nod toward the sound. “When Emily arrived this morning, she found one of our patients lying near the door, obviously in distress. The weird part is the puppy belongs to Rex, a bone marrow donor and a friend of Chrissy’s personal assistant.”
King’s blue eyes twinkle down at me. “I was wondering when you’d remember to mention that part of the note.”
I roll my eyes in self-deprecation. “Call it sympathetic preggo brain. The further along my partner is, the more I’m acting like her.”
“It’s a real thing,” he agrees with a sardonic smile. “When my wife was expecting our first, I gained as much weight as she did. Of course, we had more money then, so I could actually buy lunch. Now it seems like every spare dime goes to the kids’ activities.” He shakes his head, but I can see he’s happy. I sincerely hope I’ll feel the same after little what’s-it arrives.
With the typical request to call if I think of something else, the two officers leave. They’ve taken fingerprints and pictures and suggested we have the locks changed as soon as possible.
“I didn’t see any signs of forced entry, so the perp had either a key or some sort of a burglar tool.”
I bite my bottom lip, troubled at the officer’s words. I’d like to think it was some type of jimmying tool, not an actual key. To me that smacks of someone lifting a key from one of our employees or an inside job. Either one is concerning, especially since no one has reported a missing key.
“Thanks. Another day, another issue, right?”
I meet Maxi’s gaze. She quickly drops her eyes and begins shuffling and reshuffling a stack of invoices. I tuck this to the back of my mind for later perusal, curious if her reaction is voyeuristic or out of personal concern.
I make it through the day somehow, moving from patient to patient, administering vaccines and delivering diagnoses, checking in occasionally with Tramp. He is glued to Emily’s side, both literally and figuratively. She’s got him snuggled in a carry sack that hangs from the shoulders and tucks closely to her chest. His bright gaze moves from person to person as she goes about the day, only barking when he needs to be taken out back for a break. Rex has trained this puppy well.
Marta has arrived home before me, announcing her presence with an inviting aroma of cumin and chili. My guess is posole. Or white chicken chili. Either one is my favorite, I think with a smile as I dump my shoes and bag in the hallway.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out in my best Ralph Kramden impression. The only reply is the clatter of cooking utensils against stainless steel pots. Not quite the response I was hoping for. I peek around the doorway into the kitchen, a cautious cat assessing its territory for interlopers.
I spy one instantly. She is standing with her back to me, ramrod straight, one hand clutching a large ladle as if it’s a lifeline. Or a weapon.
“Marta?” I walk into the room, hesitant at first. I know something has happened. I can feel it as if it were a tangible presence. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“Chrissy Burton, that’s what’s wrong.” She bangs the ladle down on the granite counter with so much force that I wince. “I want this to all go away, Gij.” When she faces me, I can see her swollen eyes, her swollen belly. She’s been crying.
Without another word, I’m across the kitchen with her in my arms, holding her as tightly as I dare.
“Can you leave the dinner for a few minutes?” I lean down and kiss the top of her head, nearly putting one eye out on an artistically gell
ed spike. “Let’s sit down, all right?”
I guide her out of the kitchen into the living room. We are a two-headed, multilimbed beast, moving in harmony despite everything. I will keep it this way no matter what.
“So,” I say into her hair as she sits encircled in my arms, “what happened?”
She reaches down to the front pocket of her maternity jeans and draws out a white envelope. I instantly recognize the writing on the outside and shudder. It’s one thing to threaten me, but it’s quite another when you come after my family. I take in a deep breath and read the note. It’s a duplicate of the one I got.
“Where did you get this?” I sound sharper than I intend, but Marta knows me. It’s my visceral reaction whenever I feel threatened or uncomfortable, and right now I’m feeling both.
“It was tucked under my windshield wipers when I left work.” She cranes her neck and looks up at me, her dark eyes wide. “Gij, we’ve got to let this one go, let the police handle it. We can’t afford to get involved in something this dangerous.” She cradles her belly as if to reassure the baby that she’ll protect it.
Swallowing hard, I put one hand on hers. If someone wants to bump heads with me, bring it on. Marta, however, doesn’t see things this way and lets me know in no uncertain terms.
“Think about, it,” I urge, striving to keep my voice even. “Chrissy Burton is the one who brought us into this whole mess. She needs our help, not our criticism.” I draw in a breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Yoga breathing. Stress control.
“I’m not criticizing her, love. I’m just not sure we need to go any further with this. Let the SLPD handle it, okay? That’s what they went to the academy for. You’re a vet. I’m a social worker.”
“And Chrissy’s your boss.” My neck muscles are beginning to tighten. I will them to relax, let my shoulders sag. It’s a trick I’ve always used whenever I feel the fight-or-flight reaction beginning to appear. “Don’t you feel some sort of loyalty to her?”
“Of course I do.” Marta sounds hurt, and her body language is screaming contention loud and clear. Her arms are crossed high over her chest, fingers pressing into her skin.
I lean over and gently move her hands, holding them in mine. I look down and can see the half-moon impressions left by her nails, a sure indication she is heading toward anger.
“Love, I’m not disagreeing with you, I’m really not.” I gently kiss the side of her head. “And I get why you want to be done with this, but I still think I need to see this through. I owe it to Chrissy.”
Marta begins to laugh, a slightly hysterical sound that troubles me. Since the beginning of the pregnancy, her emotions have roller-coastered all over the place, but this is a new one on me. I hope I don’t have to fall back on the time-honored response to hysteria. If I have to slap Marta, she’ll probably slug me back and move me to the guest room permanently.
Finally she gasps, wipes her eyes, and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“That was the best laugh I’ve had in a while,” she says, her eyes bright and cheeks pink. “And don’t ask me why I think that’s so funny, but I do. Giselle Cutler, knight in shining armor.” And she’s off again, giggling madly and clutching her stomach. If nothing else, our baby is getting a good workout.
I don’t know whether to be flattered or irritated. I decide on hungry.
“Hey, you.” I give Marta’s shoulders a little shake and stand up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Want me to bring you dinner in here?”
She wipes her eyes on the corner of the voluminous top she’s wearing and holds out one hand to me. I lift her to her feet and give her a gentle hug.
“No, I want to eat at the table. I’ll probably be couch-bound soon enough.” She grins up at me, her dimple winking from the corner of her mouth. “Just think, Gij. Pretty soon you’ll be the one making dinner for me.”
I shudder, not bothering to hide my reaction. Despite my wish that this pregnancy be over soon, I’m dreading the inevitable.
Time to start collecting takeout menus.
We spend a quiet evening in front of the television, catching up on Stranger Things and trying to second-guess the season’s ending. It’s nice, I think, to sit here with Marta, relaxed and safe.
Except we’re really not. Whoever left us the twin notes knows who we are and how we’re connected. They probably already know where we live, and certainly know where we both work.
When the show is over and Marta has gone upstairs, I walk the house twice, double-checking windows and outside doors, making sure we are locked in securely for the night. I don’t know who is watching us, stalking us, threatening us. Whoever it is, though, had better watch out. Reaching into the downstairs closet, I retrieve my metal softball bat and carry it with me to the bedroom, keeping it within arm’s reach.
My last thought is that maybe I should come with the warning that I batted .750 last season. I rarely miss.
Chapter Thirteen
When the morning comes, I’m both relieved and irritated I did not have a chance to show off my batting skills. Marta, on the other hand, is beyond glad. She thinks I would have probably hit a wall instead of the intended target.
“We need to concentrate on getting a nursery ready, Gij, not on fixing holes in walls.” She smiles at me from the bathroom doorway, and I can see an imprint from the sheets on one cheek. Her color is good this morning, rosy instead of the wan complexion that has been typical of the past few months.
“Just get that honey-do list ready, and I’ll get on it,” I say as I lean down to fasten the Velcro straps of my running shoes. My plan is to get some exercise in before I hit the shower, something I haven’t done in a while. Hopefully, I won’t pull a hammie and have to call Marta for a lift home.
Marta tosses her head as she heads for the stairs.
“What?” I call out after her, trying to sound offended. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Nope.” Her one-word answer floats back up the stairs and I grin. She knows me too well.
“Yeah, well, guess I’ll have to prove you wrong.” I run down the stairs and stop in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and a kiss before I take off. “You write the list, I’ll get it done.”
The morning air is damp, the fog rolling around like something live and wild. Carl Sandberg’s famous cat would be a tiger here in the Bay Area.
I can’t even see the end of our street from the front yard, but my view of Mr. Flores’s house is clear as a bell. I can see him moving around his kitchen, walking slower than he does when in public. Hopefully he isn’t getting ill, I think. Marta will feel obligated to play nurse, something I don’t think she needs to do at the moment.
It’s good to feel the movement as I start jogging, running easily along the sidewalk snaking around our block. Since returning from our ill-fated trip to Arizona, I’ve taken up sporadic exercising. It’s a good way to banish negative feelings and has actually improved my sleeping patterns—when Marta isn’t snoring, that is. Thankfully this is something that’s cleared up slightly since her pregnancy. She’s sleeping more on her side these days instead of on her back, and her typical starfish pose has morphed into something compact, more protective of her belly. Even in her sleep, Marta is a fierce mama bear.
When I hit the end of the block I hesitate briefly, jogging in place, trying to decide whether or not to turn and complete the circuit or to keep going straight. The fog in this portion of the street is thicker, swirling in front of me as I pound the pavement.
The roar of a motor startles me, causing me to stutter step and nearly fall into the street. As the metal grille of the SUV materializes out of the fog and heads straight for me, I catch my shoe on a hillock of grass edging the sidewalk and tumble sideways, knocking my shoulder hard against a fire hydrant. I lie there for a moment, a turtle on its back, as the vehicle squeals its tires and heads back into the fog.
How it misses me is a wonder. Or a miracle. Or bad driving.
Later, Marta points out my moment of indecision is probably what saved me from being injured or even killed. She may be right, of course, but I tend to compartmentalize, so this is one memory I’ve revised and tucked away.
I get back to my feet and make a feeble attempt to brush away the grass stains on my knees. Marta will see it right away, I know, so I debate sneaking back into the house and into the shower.
“Doctor C, are you okay?”
I look over my shoulder and spot Mr. Flores across the street, standing with his hands on his hips as he cranes his neck to see through the mist. Nodding, I try to brush off the incident along with the grass, convincing myself it was an accident, a distracted driver.
“I was just startled and managed to trip myself up, that’s all.” I force a layer of jollity over my words and begin walking back toward my house, trying not to limp. “Guess I’d better get home and cleaned up before Marta spots this. She’ll be teasing me about this forever if she does.”
“I think it was aiming at you.”
His words give wings to the thoughts fluttering inside my head like birds trying to escape from a trap. I give a short laugh.
“Nah, probably just someone trying to text and drive. No one thinks the laws are meant for them, right?”
Mr. Flores follows me home from his side of the street, keeping pace with me as I try to walk without appearing hurt. When I reach the front of the house, I give him a jaunty wave and head inside, careful to close the door quietly behind me.
“Just can’t take you anywhere, can I?” Marta’s gaze is fixed on my green knees. “Looks like someone needs training wheels just to walk.”
“You know me, grace personified,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that. “I’ll get cleaned up and then head out to work. You leaving soon?”
Wrong question. I’ve just cracked open the door to her curiosity. She’s got intuition in spades.
“Any reason why Mr. Flores felt the need to shadow you home?” She puts her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, eyes fixed on my knees. “Anything you need to tell me, Gij?”