Double Vision

by Ellie Hart

  I can’t stay still. I get to my feet, gesturing to Don and the two men.

  “Anyone want a top-off? Don?” The two agents shake their heads, but Don answers with a relieved look in his eyes. The man could probably live on coffee and cigarettes.

  “Sure,” he says, holding the cup toward me with his left hand and still writing with the other. “And could you add some water to it this time? That first cup was strong enough to walk around by itself.”

  “Sissy,” I say, smiling sweetly. He scowls in return, and I catch a fleeting smile on Maxi’s face as I turn away and head for the kitchen. I’m glad. I’ve been worrying about her, especially since her fainting episode earlier in the day. She’s got an armful of furry medicine, though. I’m glad Tramp is there.

  When Don has his refill and I’m seated once more beside Marta, the agent who asked the questions stands, and the other two follow suit.

  “Well, folks, I think that’s it for now. We’ll take this information back to the office and get right on it, get a missing person case started. And, Don? Let’s keep it out of the papers for the time being, all right? I’ll let you know when it’s acceptable to release the information.”

  Don gives a small nod, but I can tell he’s irritated. I don’t blame him. Sitting on a huge story, especially one with possible international scope, has got to be torture for an investigative journalist. Don doesn’t seem to be a model of forbearance to begin with, and now he’s being forced to act accordingly. Great. He’ll be a bundle of fun to be around.

  After the agents have gone, I suggest calling out for pizza for the five of us. Marta shakes her head, her gaze fixed on something in the distance that probably isn’t there, something that’s on her mind. Maxi keeps her face down, resting against a very patient Tramp. Don is still scribbling away in his notebook, and Jinx is the only one who speaks up.

  “If it’s all right with you guys, I need to go home. Max? How about you? Are you ready to hit the road?”

  “Yes,” is the muffled reply. “Doc, if it’s okay with you, I really want to head home. I can text Akemi, check to see if she’s cool with staying until the clinic closes today.”

  “Fine,” I say, giving Maxi a smile. “Marta, you want to come with me to take these two home?”

  “I’ll do it.” Don’s gruff voice cuts across the room as he flips his notebook closed, tucking it back in his pocket. “Doc, let me know if you hear anything else.” He stands, motioning to Jinx and Maxi to follow him.

  I wrinkle my forehead in response. I’m not sure what he thinks I’ll hear, especially since Chrissy Burton seems to be AWOL, and Bev Strait is currently nowhere to be found. Still, I just nod, suddenly wanting to be alone with Marta. But when our front doorbell rings, I know our quiet afternoon is at an end.

  Chrissy Burton stands there, a vaguely wild look about her. I’ve never seen her without her hair perfectly arranged or her clothes anything but stylish and immaculate. The woman standing at my door looks as though she’s been dragged through a bramble bush backward, to use my granny’s words.

  “Can I come in?”

  I realize I’m staring and quickly step aside, motioning for her to follow me in to the living room.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, sending Marta a silent message with my intense stare. She telegraphs one back: something is very wrong here. I get that just by looking at Chrissy.

  “Coffee is fine.” She sinks into the armchair earlier occupied by Maxi, and her nose twitches. “Do you have a dog?”

  Something causes me to hedge my answer, give only a partial truth. She must be smelling Tramp. Rex’s dog.

  “I probably carry home a ton of pet hair on a daily basis,” I say, giving her what I hope is a sincere smile. “Hazards of the job, so to speak.”

  Chrissy’s answer is a sneeze.

  Marta hands her a mug of coffee and sits beside me. She turns so that her back is against my side and her legs are stretched out along the couch, both hands clasped over her belly. Looking across at Chrissy, she says, “We’ve been a bit worried about you lately. Is everything okay? I mean, I know it’s not really, but how are you doing?”

  Chrissy shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee and sinking back against the chair’s cushions. A small sigh escapes her, and it strikes me she is acting like a woman who’s been rushing around, trying to get a lot of things done at once. She has that air about her, an impression of the rock that’s gathering no moss. I wonder what’s kept her so frenetically occupied.

  It doesn’t take long to find out. Everything about Rex. Bev. Even a hint concerning the woman in the water.

  Afterward, I wish I’d just let it go, let the feds handle it without my input. The only thing that I do that shows any common sense is to text Don. For some reason I feel the need to tell him who’s in my house. And that she wants to show me and Marta something, something near the bay.

  “I’ll drive,” I volunteer. “Marta, don’t you think you need to stay here? Maybe keep your feet up for a while?” I don’t want her going anywhere with this potentially crazy woman, even if I’m there. And to be honest, I have no idea why I’ve agreed to go. Maybe I’m harboring some secret Sam Spade fantasy, where I manage to find the last clue that ties everything together.

  “Nope.” Marta is firm in her reply. “If you go, I go. Besides, Chrissy seems as though she could use the company right now.”

  As we’re belting into the Honda’s seats, I take out my cell phone once more and quickly tap out another text to Don: heading to Pier 45. M and C with me. I include an emoji with its eyes opened wide. Hopefully mine will be as well. The atmosphere in the SUV is slightly off-kilter, and all my senses are on high alert.

  * * *

  By the time we arrive at the pier, I realize Marta and I have probably just made one of the dumbest decisions in our lives. Chrissy has gotten very, very quiet, and when I peek into the rearview mirror, she’s got one hand on her waistband. That’s never a good sign, at least in all the movies I’ve seen over the years.

  “Stop,” she says suddenly, pointing to a parking lot on the deserted end of the pier. I obey, turning the Honda sharply as Marta falls against the door. When I’ve pulled into a parking space, I look around and realize that we’ve driven behind one of the Bay Area’s finest hospitals, known for its child cancer ward. And transplants. When I glance at Marta, I can see she’s realized it as well. We open our doors and step out onto the dull black tarmac. Chrissy does the same. And when I face her, I see something I’ll have a hard time forgetting, if indeed I ever do.

  To say Chrissy Burton’s face is distorted with rage is to put it mildly. Not a conventionally pretty person to begin with, right now she is absolutely incandescent with anger, and the snarl on her mouth is just this side of feral.

  “You two,” she snaps, biting off each word cleanly as she glares at us. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” The gun is pointing straight at us, her knuckles white as she grasps it tightly. I try to see if the safety is on without being obvious I’m looking, but I can’t tell from where Marta and I are huddled against the tire well.

  Marta’s body trembles against me; her arms are wrapped protectively around her stomach. Without thinking my action through, I thrust her behind me and stand tall, hands planted on my hips, matching Chrissy’s glare with one of my own. You mess with mi familia, you mess with me.

  “Look, Chrissy, it’s over, so you might as well put that thing down.” I nod toward the pistol, amazed to find my chin is not quivering. Maybe I’m tougher than I thought. Or maybe I’m still in shock at who is holding a gun on me. Of all the suspects on the list, Chrissy’s name would have never made an appearance. After all, wasn’t she the victim here?

  And just like that, a light bulb goes off. Taking in a deep breath, I lower my hands to my sides, palms facing her in a sign of placation.

  “Chrissy,” I begin, my eyes fixed firmly on hers and not on the gun swiveled in my direction, “who do you bl
ame the most? Was it the doctors? Your parents? Who was it?”

  I really don’t know what I’m talking about, but she does. Her eyes widen and her arm lowers just a smidgeon. This entire thing has been about Chrissy seeing herself as a victim. And since it seems to be centered on the transplant she endured as a child, I assume that’s what she’s thinking about right now.

  “You have no idea what it was like to watch your best friend get sicker and sicker.” She spits the words at me, gesturing with the pistol. Behind me, I can hear Marta’s muted intake of breath.

  “Hey, do you think you could put that down for a few minutes?” I nod at the gun. “I really want to hear what you have to say, but to be perfectly honest, that thing is taking all my attention.” I let myself smile slightly, hopefully showing Chrissy I don’t mean anything offensive. The last thing I want to do is upset her.

  To my relief, she glances at the hand holding the gun almost as if she’s surprised to see it there. Without a word, she tucks it into the waistband of her jeans, and I hear Marta let out a long sigh.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I mean it from the bottom of my frenetically thumping heart. “Tell us about your best friend, Chrissy. What was her name?”

  “Her name was Anika,” she says in a quieter voice. “Anika Petrofsky, and she was my age, just eight years old. Can you imagine knowing you’re going to die when you’re that little? Can you?” I can’t, and she doesn’t give me time to respond. “And she was going to die because her family didn’t have the money to move up the transplant list like mine did.” Chrissy Burton stares directly at me, her eyes filled with tears. “They came to this damn country, to San Francisco, because they’d heard kids with leukemia were always taken care of, were always cured. They spent every dime they had to get here, and when they did, it was to find out about that damn transplant list.”

  The three of us are silent for a moment, and then I hear Marta getting slowly to her feet. When she moves around me, I reach for her but she shrugs out of my grasp and walks over to stand just in front of her boss. And the gun.

  “Chrissy,” she begins softly, “I’m so sorry about Anika, I really am. I wish you would have told me sooner.”

  “Yeah? And what could you have done about it?” The response is automatic, but she’s trying hard not to break down.

  “Honestly? I don’t know.” Marta places one hand gently on Chrissy’s arm. “But I would have made damn sure no one else’s child would have to suffer like she did.” She moves her other hand to her belly, letting it rest there. “And I’d make damn sure no one would do that to my baby if she needed a lifesaving procedure. Money should never matter in situations like this.”

  Chrissy snorts, swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand. “It sounds good to say it now, but when you’re just a kid, no one listens to you.”

  “Did you know about the list?” Marta’s voice is quiet, and I stand listening, my entire body waiting for the answer.

  Chrissy nods. “Sometimes the nurses would talk in front of us, as if they thought we weren’t listening or wouldn’t understand. I tried to tell my mom, but she’d always hush me and tell me not to worry about things that shouldn’t concern me. Looking back, I suppose it was her way of telling me to be happy I was getting the treatment I needed and not to worry about anyone else.” She shakes her head, and when she speaks again, her voice is imbued with bitterness. “After all, she had my dad and my brother and me to care for, and she wasn’t going to use her energy on anyone else.”

  “You know, Chrissy,” I say without thinking, “your mom was probably exhausted out of her skull. Dividing herself among three other people who needed her, as you said, and having no time for herself can make anyone selfish.”

  “But Anika was only a little girl!”

  The wail that comes from her mouth absolutely tears me apart. How many years had she carried this hurt, this guilt? To be honest, it’s amazing she hasn’t struck out before now. Marta instinctively leans into her boss and envelops her in a hug.

  I decide to take a page from Don Butler’s investigative book as I slowly, silently slip my cell phone out of my back pocket. Chrissy’s gaze is fixed on Marta’s face now, but I don’t think she’s seeing anything except her memories. With a quick glance down at the screen, I select the recorder icon with one thumb, nudging the speaker’s volume up as far as it will go before replacing the phone in my pocket, careful to keep the mouthpiece facing upward. I can only hope she’ll say something that will help solve the mystery of the woman in the bay and Rex’s disappearance.

  Marta moves back from Chrissy, reaching around and rubbing her lower back. She grimaces slightly, and I’m instantly concerned she might be in pain. Instead, she simply smiles at Chrissy and asks if we can sit someplace for a while. Talk about panache.

  “Here,” I say, reaching over to open the Honda’s back door. “Sit here, love. I can stand.”

  I wait for Chrissy to start waving that ridiculous gun around again, but she doesn’t. Marta sinks into the back passenger seat with a little groan, but she waves me off when I lean toward her.

  “Just my body trying to make room for this little one,” she says, patting her tummy in that now-familiar gesture. “Only growing pains.” She looks at Chrissy. “I’m glad you told us about your friend. Can you explain why Rex and that other woman had to die, though? Did they have something to do with Anika’s death?”

  I’m damned if I can see any ties from the past that link the two deaths to Anika Petrofsky, but Chrissy is clearly anxious to tell us all about it.

  “That woman was a fluke, to be honest. I’d gone to the hospital for my annual check-in and there she was, gossiping with another woman about her new job, donating bone marrow and being paid to recruit new donors. I just saw red. Every time I had to go there, I thought about Anika, about how lucky I’d been and how unfair her life was. Hearing that someone was still using the sick as a way to make money made me furious.” She pauses, thinking.

  “And then what happened?”

  Chrissy shrugs. “I was already finished with my appointment, so I just followed her down to the pier. All I wanted to do was to tell her how horrible it was to be on the other end of the bone marrow scheme, but she didn’t give me a chance. Instead, she actually had the gall to tell me about ‘this cool way to make some extra cash,’ and I just lost it.”

  “So, how did she end up with your appointment card?” I can’t help asking the question, but I also want her answer for the recording.

  Chrissy gives a short, mirthless laugh. “I shoved it in her face, told her I was a childhood leukemia survivor. She grabbed it from me so she could see it better, I suppose. When she pocketed it, telling me I should be grateful for people like her and she was going to report me for harassment, I just gave her a shove.”

  She looks down briefly as if still seeing the woman’s body. “I guess she hit her head on one of those concrete barriers they’ve put on the pier. I just gave her another push with my foot and in she went, simple as that. To say I was shocked when they ID’d her as me—well, that was pure irony as its finest.” She gives a small smile. “And Rex was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess you might say. When I went to his apartment to confront Bev over her role in the donate-for-money scheme, he was there. And since I’d come to put an end to his income, he decided to put up a fight.” She laughs. “It wasn’t much of one, really. You know what they say about bringing a knife to a gun fight.” She reaches down and gives the pistol an almost fond pat.

  “So, why ask me to help you in all this?” I’m beyond stumped, trying to make sense of it all.

  This time her laughter is genuine.

  “Because I thought if there was any loose end, you’d be able to find it and give me the chance to finish cleaning up. Thanks for the info on Bev, by the way. I never did like that woman.”

  Marta and I just stare at her. I’m trying to come to grips with this living conundrum standing here in front of me. She is f
iercely protective of the children her office is responsible for, and maybe now I can see why. But where does this cold-blooded instinct come from? Can the same person casually take two lives and still be an advocate for others’ welfare? I have to give my head a small shake as I attempt to sort it all out.

  Chrissy, however, has other ideas.

  “Well, this conversation has been nice, but it isn’t going to solve the current issue, is it?” To my dismay, she’s withdrawn the pistol again. “There’s still someone else who needs to face the music.”

  I can’t help it. I ask who it is.

  The laughter issuing from Chrissy’s twisted mouth is just this side of maniacal, and it reminds me of those crazy horror films set in a forest cabin or an abandoned amusement park. Just before the madman—or madwoman—raises the knife or machete. Or gun.

  The sound of the shot is almost deafening. I stand with my eyes closed, both hands clapped tightly against my ears. I suppose I’m waiting for the sting of the bullet, but instead I feel nothing, and my eyes pop open as a sickly thought dawns on me. Marta. The baby.

  But Marta is still standing there, one hand covering her mouth and her horrified eyes peering over it. The very still form of Chrissy Burton lies crumped at her feet, limp fingers still clutching the gun. I’m surprised I don’t see any blood.

  “You gals all right?”

  Don Butler steps from somewhere behind me, and I watch in an almost dreamlike state as he slips a small black pistol back into the holster that hangs from one hip, and then he reaches down to gently remove its twin from Chrissy’s now-slack hand.