Who Are You? (9780307823533) (10 page)

His shyness is contagious. I find myself stammering, groping for words. I can feel my face turn red. “Uh—sure. I would. I mean, I’d like that. Going together, that is.”

“Okay,” Jonathan says. He stops looking at my shoes. He raises his gaze until he’s looking right into my eyes, and he smiles at me. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I smile back. I don’t try to talk because my insides have turned squishy. Jonathan Stockton is the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s asked me
for a date. Well, sort of a date. Through the rest of the day I float on invisible wings and sketch little Jonathans along the margins in my notebook. I can’t wait to tell Lindy. She doesn’t care about art, but she’ll care about my date.

When I reach home after school, the wings fall off and I land with a thud. There’s a message from Mom on the answering machine.

“Detective Balker called. He’s arranging for you, Dad, and me to visit Douglas Merson on Sunday afternoon.” There’s a pause, and Mom’s voice drops, as if she’s talking to herself. “He didn’t say what hospital, and I didn’t think to ask him. Oh, well, it’s only Wednesday. He’ll be in touch with us before Sunday.” She picks up speed again and adds, “I took a package of ground beef out of the freezer and put it into the refrigerator. Be sure you defrost it completely in the microwave. You’ll find a package of mushrooms in the refrigerator. They’re getting a little too soft to be used in salad, so make a meat loaf for dinner, along with sautéed mushrooms and whatever else you want. Thanks, honey, for being such a big help. We’ll be home between seven-thirty and eight.”

The recording clicks off, and I lean against the counter with a sigh. Sunday? We can’t see Douglas Merson until Sunday?

Maybe Mom and Dad can wait that long, but I can’t. I’m going to visit Mr. Merson right now.

It takes only a little over fifteen minutes to drive
to Riverview Hospital, find a parking place shaded by tall pine trees, and ask at the reception desk the number of Mr. Merson’s room. The white-haired volunteer in the pink hospital uniform has such a friendly smile, she reminds me of Grandma, and I feel a sudden pang of longing for my grandmother. I wish she lived nearby and I could see her more than two or three times a year. Grandma would agree that I should study to become an artist. If there are sides to be taken, Grandma’s always on mine.

“Sixth floor,” the volunteer says. “Room six fifty-five. You can get further directions from a floor nurse at the central desk on the sixth floor. The elevators are to your right.”

“Thank you,” I say, and take the nearest elevator, which dings and slides its doors open as I approach.

On the sixth floor there’s a sign with room numbers and arrows on it, so I don’t have any trouble finding Mr. Merson’s room. Six fifty-five is at the end of the hallway to my right, next to the last door, which is labeled
EXIT
—
STAIRS
.

Mr. Merson’s door stands ajar, so I peek inside. The room is flooded with late afternoon’s intense light, which pours through the open Venetian blinds. This is a large room, with plenty of space for the two upholstered armchairs, the usual hospital bed, and bedside tables.

Mr. Merson, still bandaged and connected to tubes and machines, is lying there quietly, his eyes closed. He seems to be peacefully asleep.

I back away from the door and walk past the exit to a small alcove at the end of the hallway, where I
lean against the wall and think about what to do next. Mr. Merson has been badly hurt. He’s in pain. He needs to sleep … to heal. How could I possibly wake him? The detectives will be mad. My parents will be shocked that I came here—but I realize I’ve been doing lots of things my parents would find shocking. I haven’t felt ashamed, though.

My need to know who he is and why he’s had this sixteen-year interest in me is not selfish. I could leave him undisturbed. I could come back Sunday, when I’m with Mom and Dad and Detective Balker. But what really is fair?

I straighten just as the door to the stairs begins to open. It moves only a few inches, then stops. I don’t hear a sound from the other side of the door, so I realize that it’s not someone struggling to carry something through the door. It’s someone who seems to be waiting quietly, holding the door open just wide enough to look through. Since I’m standing on the hinged side of the door, I can’t see who’s there.

I hear two women’s voices as they come down the hall toward us. Their chatter rises to a squeal. “Annabelle! You’re looking wonderful!” A door closes behind them as they enter Annabelle’s room, and the hall is empty again.

Now the stair door opens wide, and someone comes through. As it closes, I get a quick glimpse of a doctor in a loose green cotton top and pants, cotton cap completely covering his hair, and even a surgical mask tied across his face. He looks as if he just walked out of an operating room on a TV
show. In a few steps he reaches the door of Mr. Merson’s room and enters.

Weird
, I think.
Something about all this isn’t right.
I’m pretty sure that doctors don’t leave surgery when dressed like that and then go visiting patients in their rooms.

I walk to Mr. Merson’s door, which is shut now. I grip the handle and slowly open the door.

Blinking, I can barely make out shapes in the room. The blinds and drapes have been closed, turning the once-bright room into a dark cavern. The doctor is bending over Mr. Merson’s bed, a large pillow in his hands.

In bed Mr. Merson twists and struggles. His muffled moan terrifies me, but I yell at the doctor. “What are you doing?” I run toward him, shouting, “Put down that pillow! Take that off his face!”

The figure whirls and swings the pillow at my head. He shoves me in the chest so that I stagger backward, hit the wall, and fall to the floor.

As he dashes out the door I manage to get to my feet then into the hall, but he’s disappeared.

“Help!” I yell, and nurses pop out from their center station. “Help! Someone tried to kill Mr. Merson!”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I
eople appear from everywhere. I explain to a uniformed security guard about the doctor who tried to smother Mr. Merson, and he heads for the stairs. I tell the story over and over to nurses and doctors and people in business suits.

“No, I didn’t get a close look at the doctor,” I say. “The room was dark. The doctor shoved me against the wall.”

“You didn’t get a good look at his eyes?”

“No.”

“Did you notice any unusual identifying marks?”

“I told you, the room was too dark.”

“How tall was he?”

“I’m not sure. Average height, I guess … No.
Maybe taller. I think he was a little bit taller than I am.”

“Color of hair?”

“I don’t know. The hospital cap covered all of it.”

“Male or female?”

“I don’t know!”

Finally the questions stop. I realize that most of the people have left, and those going in and around Mr. Merson’s room are now moving normally and quietly. The security guard informs me that a hospital scrub suit like the one I described was found on the second-floor landing. He holds it up, and I identify it as like the one the attacker was wearing.

The security guard takes my name. Then a nurse asks if I’m hurt. She tells me Mr. Merson wants to see me.

“How is he?” I ask.

“He’s fine,” she says.

I can’t believe her matter-of-fact attitude at a time like this. “He’s fine? After almost being murdered?”

“He was upset, but his blood pressure has returned to normal and his vital signs are good.”

She leads me into his room, cheerfully chirping, “Here she is, Mr. Merson. Here’s the young lady who chased away your attacker.”

“Hello,” I say to this stranger I have been waiting eagerly to meet, “I’m Kristi Evans.”

He raises his left hand and points toward one of the armchairs. Then he motions as though he wants it moved closer.

I push the armchair close to the side of his bed and sit in it. Again he reaches out with his hand, and I think I know what he means. I hold out my left hand and clasp his in a backward handshake.

I’m wrong. That’s not what he wants. He turns my hand so that it’s resting on the blanket cover, palm up. Then, with his index finger, he draws the shape of letters in my palm,
T
-
H
-
A
-
N
-
K
Y
-
O
-
U
.

I tell him, “A person you know, Ms. Chase, said that whoever tried to kill you might come back and try again.”

His eyebrows rise, and I answer the questions in his eyes. “I went to your house. She came while I was there. She told Frederick she wanted to pick up some paintings you had promised her.”

Once again his eyebrows rise and fall. I say, “Detectives came to our house Sunday because they’d found the folder you’ve been keeping about me.”

I pause, waiting for him to respond, but he lies there quietly looking at me. Finally he prints in my palm,
G
-
O
O
-
N
.

“Okay,” I say, giving in for the moment. “I’ll go first, but I need questions answered, and I’m getting tired of waiting.”

So I tell Mr. Merson about visiting the intensive care unit soon after he was taken to Ben Taub. “You didn’t know it, but I was there.”

He shakes his head, then nods.

“What? You did know?”

He nods again.

“I thought you were sedated.”

Once more he nods.

“You mean you could hear what I said, even though you were out of it?”

He traces the letters in my hand.
I H
-
E
-
A
-
R
-
D Y
-
O
-
U
.

I look him straight in the eyes. “Then you know why I came. I have to know who you are. I have to know why you kept a folder of clippings and photographs about me.”

He writes in my palm again, and I hold my breath, concentrating intently. All he writes is
G
-
O O
-
N
.

Reluctantly I answer, “I said I’d talk first, so I will, in order of how it happened.”

I describe going to his house and talking to Frederick and seeing Ms. Chase for the first time.

“I saw Frank Kupka’s painting of his wife ‘among verticals’ hanging in your entry hall,” I tell him.

I wait for the look of alarm when he realizes that the painting has been recognized, but instead his eyes glow with pleasure. What do I say next? I can’t tell him I know where the painting rightfully belongs.

I interrupt the logical flow and ask, “Do you own other artists’ paintings?”

He nods.

“I’d love to see them.”

He writes in my hand,
C
-
O
-
M
-
E
.

“I will,” I tell him. But I take a quick breath as a sudden thought disturbs me. Will the paintings be his own property? Or will they belong to someone else?

Mr. Merson is waiting, so I get back to my story. I tell him about being followed and what Sergeant
Balker found out about the private investigator. Last, I tell him about tracking down Ms. Chase and visiting her art gallery.

His eyes crinkle, and I hear a low chuckle in the back of his throat.

“I’m going to call Detective Balker when I get home,” I promise. “I’m going to try to get him to assign someone to protect you.”

A voice speaks from the doorway. I look up to see Detective Nims. “You don’t have to call Detective Balker,” she says. “The hospital informed us of what happened here.”

“Are you going to put a policeman on guard?” I ask.

“Temporarily,” she says. “While we’re doing our investigation. You don’t need to help us, Kristi.”

“Do you mean until you find and arrest the person who tried to murder Mr. Merson?”

“We can’t make a promise for a scope as wide as that,” she says. “You can leave now, Kristi. I have some questions to ask Mr. Merson.” She pulls a pad and pencil from her bag. “You can write the answers on this,” she tells him.