Counting by 7s (15 page)

Y
es, he worked for the Bakersfield Unified School System.

And, well, ah, yes, he'd heard—or rather—he
knew
that there had been an accident involving the parents of one of the children he was helping.

He had to concentrate. To focus. Fear had a way of scrambling his brain.

What was the woman going on about?

“The police report said that you brought her home . . .”

Dell was grinding his teeth as his jaw slid back and forth and his tongue sucked up into the roof of his mouth, forming a kind of foamy vacuum.

He was able to break it long enough to say:

“Yes, I'd been working with her. I'm a counselor. It's just a tragedy.”

And then he heard:

“We'd like you to come down to Jamison. You could be part of the search.”

It was like the sun suddenly poked through a stormy sky. Everything changed color and tone and intensity.

“The search . . . ?”

The voice now replied:

“She's missing. You could be helpful.”

There might even have been bells somewhere far away now ringing.

Dell found his voice rising two octaves.

“I
could
?”

Dell left work, driving ten blocks out of his way to pass the Chance house, where several dozen bouquets of flowers from neighbors and coworkers lay wilted from the heat on the front steps.

Someone had made a homemade banner that said:

JIMMY AND ROBERTA R.I.P.

But the evening wind from the night before must have gotten hold of the sign, because now it was on the neighbor's dry front lawn.

A group of burned-low votive candles sat on the walkway and a half-dozen empty beer bottles were on their sides nearby.

It looked, Dell thought, like the remains of a bad party.

Willow Chance, according to the assembled authorities—was he part of them now? It looked like it!—had no viable relatives.

But now the kid was missing.

They had sent a patrol car to Happy Polish and she wasn't there.

The woman in charge was playing a version of the blame game, accusing all kinds of people of being at fault.

He knew that game well, having been a finger-pointer since early childhood.

When in doubt, pout. Or falsely accuse someone.

But one thing in the muddle of confusion was clear: He was being asked to help.

He could sense his power in the room. It was a new feeling and it made him literally dizzy.

What if he could actually find the missing kid?

They were focusing on “foul play.” Abductors who might have been caught on video cameras or other means of surveillance.

But Dell knew in his heart that the twelve-year-old hadn't met with any kind of foul play.

It was more likely that she was assisting a doctor performing open-heart surgery than that some creep had snatched her.

But he didn't show his hand.

And so while Lenore huddled with other employees filing police reports and requesting interviews with hospital workers, Dell excused himself and accessed the school district website.

He then drove straight to Mai's high school.

I
would live here
at Beale Memorial Library, if it were any kind of viable option.

But it's not like the classic book where the two kids run away from home and go to hide in a museum in New York City.

I know that I need a bed, and I like to take frequent baths and showers. Brushing my teeth is very important and not just because of the proven connection between poor oral hygiene and heart attacks.

But as I walk through the double doors of this place I do wish that it were possible. Because:

books = comfort

To me anyway.

And comfort is a thing of the past.

I have trouble concentrating, but I still attempt to search for reading material involving losing a parent.

I find no literature or empirical data directed to a middle schooler.

If I were a publisher, I would immediately initiate a series of books for kids who have to cope with the death of their mother or father.

And I would include an entire edition for those who have lost both of their parents at the same time.

But despite my own situation, I do not believe that there is a large enough need for useful information about losing two parents twice.

I find an abandoned piece of paper on a desk, and after borrowing a pen at the front counter, I write:

 

There must be commonality in the experience of losing a parent that makes it worthwhile to share the particulars of the occurrence.

Especially for the young.

More literary output is needed from professionals in this area.

Please pass along this request to the appropriate people in the world of publishing.

 

I then fold the paper in half and slip it into the suggestion box, which is located next to the water fountain on the first floor.

And then I head up to the second level.

You are not allowed to sleep in the library.

I know this because I've seen the security guard wake people.

It's a rule to keep the homeless from taking over the place.

I feel overwhelming empathy for that group right now.

We are one.

But I know this building.

And upstairs, in the far corner, are big molded chairs that look like doughnuts.

I crawl behind a red one.

I tuck my knees up against my chest and only my shoes stick out.

Camouflage is a form of crypsis, which means hiding.

The skin on my ankles is dark and I'm wearing a pair of brown work boots.

The carpeting in here is also shades of tan and chocolate. It is a pattern of swirls and dots, no doubt installed to camouflage any dirt.

I'm hiding in plain sight, which is often the best way to be concealed.

And in only seconds, I'm asleep.

D
ell went to
the front office and made a request to speak with Mai Nguyen.

He showed his credentials and, though a few eyebrows were raised, only minutes later the scrappy fourteen-year-old was escorted out of class and stood in front of him.

Mai's fiery eyes narrowed as they noticed Dell.

What was
he
doing here?

At the same time that she was mildly freaked out by the sight of the bearded counselor, she was also excited. She'd never been plucked out of class before.

All the teenagers had stared as she was led from the stuffy room. Mai wondered if her classmates assumed it had something to do with her shady brother.

She had to admit the thought had crossed her own mind.

But no. Mr. Duke wanted to see
her
.

It wasn't until the nosy receptionist had finally left them alone in the cramped little room (which smelled like the sweat-soaked stuff in the overflowing lost-and-found box) that the counselor got down to business.

He blurted out:

“Willow is missing.”

Mai was not one for drama. Her voice was unmoved as she replied:

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Dell felt his jaw clench.

This girl needed an attitude adjustment! She should have been intimidated by him and at the same time shown deep concern for her missing friend.

He saw no evidence of either.

Dell cleared his throat and reminded himself not to get too cranked up.

“A woman from Social Services picked her up from your mother's nail salon. Willow was at their facility when she fell and cut her forehead. She needed stitches and it was all taken care of at the emergency room at Mercy. But then before they could leave she said she had to go to the bathroom and no one's seen her since.”

Mai's eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean she fell?”

Dell's eyes widened. Why did she have to question the facts?

He tried to remain in control.

“She fainted.”

Mai's voice was smug.

“That's not falling. Falling is an accident. Fainting is a medical thing.”

Dell pulled an old piece of beef jerky out of the inside pocket of his jacket and ripped off a chunk with his coffee-stained teeth.

He silently cursed himself for thinking this smart-mouth teenage sister of the troublemaker known as Quang-ha could ever help.

He found himself chewing the jerky with loud, thrashing vigor, hoping it made him look tough, not just hungry.

“Her injury is not the point. Maybe I didn't make myself clear. The problem is that no one can find her.”

Mai couldn't help but smile. Willow had given them the slip.

“You took her to the hospital?”

Dell was relieved that he could at least answer:

“No. They only brought me in to help find her after she disappeared.”

Mai liked that his idea of finding Willow was to come to her for help. She smiled as she said:

“She will probably end up back at the salon. But I have some ideas for where she'd go before she gets there. You need to sign me out of here.”

Dell didn't like the way that sounded. This wasn't an episode of
CSI: Bakersfield
. They weren't all of a sudden crime-fighting partners! He wanted Mai to give him a few leads. That was all.

Dell sputtered:

“Well, I didn't—that wasn't what I—”

But Mai was already out of her chair and heading for the door.