9
Ghosts have a way of
disappearing. People don’t. Not permanently and not without
leaving some trace of themselves, anyway. I knew this in my heart
and in my head, just as I knew (both in my heart and in my head)
that as much as I didn’t want to, I was going to have to prove
it.
It was the only way
I could get Dan to see that I was telling the truth.
I know, I know . . .
I couldn’t believe it, either. I’d spent so much time trying to
hide my Gift from Dan and everybody else in the known universe, and
now I was going to go out of my way—and in the cold, too—to
investigate, just so I could dig up all the right evidence to
convince him I was the genuine article and that I did talk to
Madeline. Hell, the whole I see dead
people schtick was exactly what he wanted to hear from me
since the day we met, wasn’t it? And now that I’d finally
confessed...
It was the next
morning, and too irritated to keep still, I got up from the
standard-issue hotel room settee where I’d been sitting and
thinking (OK, obsessing) and walked to the room’s single window
and back again. My room wasn’t much bigger than my office back at
Garden View, and it didn’t take long to walk its length. Too bad.
By the time I was done, I was no less aggravated.
Did I send signals
that I was that desperate?
Did I come across as
truly pitiful?
Was it possible—I
mean really possible—for Dan to think I’d made up the whole
thing about how I was able to talk to Madeline and how she told me
that she wanted him to be happy just because I was jonesing for a
date?
It was embarrassing.
Not to mention annoying. It was unfair, too, and for a couple
crazed moments, I was actually tempted to call the Cleveland Police
Department and conference Dan in, just so Quinn could vouch for the
fact that I had a healthy sex life, thank you very much. Without
any help from Dan Callahan at all.
Cooler heads
prevailed, and I decided sticking to my original plan was a better
option. Follow my logic here. It is—as
always—impeccable.
Dan didn’t believe
I could see and talk to Madeline.
Madeline was the one
who told me about the shady dealings at the clinic.
Since I had no other
connection there and since somebody besides Dan and Doctor Gerard
must have known about the missing patients but no one was talking,
I could only have heard it from Madeline.
So if I proved that
patients really were missing, I could therefore prove that I talked
to Madeline.
Then Dan would know,
once and for all, that I wasn’t just some desperate-for-a-date
chickie with hope in her heart and sex on her mind.
This was all good,
yes? But wait—as they say in those commercials—there really was
more.
If everything panned
out the way I hoped, I’d also help Dan see that as Hilton
Gerard’s sidekick, he was headed nowhere fast. Except maybe
toward being my dad’s roomie in the federal pen.
Was I being
magnanimous?
Well, yes. And
no.
Sure, Dan had pissed
me off. Majorly. He’d wounded my ego in a big way. But as much
fun as it was to think that he deserved every nasty form of revenge
I could concoct (and believe me, after what Joel had pulled on me,
I was an expert at fantasizing about revenge), I knew better. Dan
didn’t belong in prison. This, too, I knew in my heart and in my
head. Deep down inside, I firmly believed that Dan was one of the
good guys. And besides, he was way too cute; he’d look terrible
in an orange jumpsuit.
Then, of course,
there were those missing patients to consider. Whether Dan was part
of the equation or not, that was something I couldn’t
forget.
There were folks out
there who might be in trouble. Homeless, mentally ill
folks.
And, damn it, it
looked like I was the only one who could help them.
Â
Â
Reasonable person
that I am, I started my investigation in the most reasonable
place—the Gerard Clinic.
The moment the front
door swished closed behind me, I realized that reasonable or not, I
was a fish out of water. I glanced around the waiting room with its
institutional beige walls brightened only by the framed posters
that offered advice like Every Day is a
Gift and Today is the First Day of the
Rest of Your Life.
Call me cynical, but
I did not think this was necessarily good news to the
weather-beaten, ragtag clientele who sat around, stoop-shouldered
with blank expressions, on plastic chairs. Though it went against
the grain (not to mention every piece of advice I’d ever gotten
from the experts over at Cosmo), I knew
this was one instance when being conspicuous was not a
virtue.
I stripped off my
cashmere gloves and stuffed them in my pockets, but even sans
luxury fiber, I stuck out like a sore thumb. If I needed the
reminder, it came from the looks I got as I made my way to the
reception desk.
I was almost there
when a woman wearing a pink parka that was too small for her hopped
up and stepped into my path. She put a hand on my arm before I
could establish personal space boundaries, and let me go on the
record here as saying this was not a good thing. If ever there was
a time for firm limits, this was it. Especially considering that
the woman’s hands were grimy and she smelled like old
socks.
“Are you my
attorney?†She was so glassy-eyed that even if I had been so
inclined, it would have been hard to take the question seriously.
“I’m waiting for my attorney.â€
“Sorry. I’m not
an attorney.†I did not want to continue contact in any way,
shape, or form, so rather than pluck her fingers from my sleeve, I
backed up and out of her reach.
Silly me to think
that would deter her. She closed in on me and grabbed my sleeve
again. “Are you my probation officer?â€
“Nope.†I tried
for a smile. I doubt she noticed. She was too busy looking
confused.
“Then, are
you—â€
“Not that,
either.†I got a move on. “Can’t help you.â€
I covered the
distance to the reception desk in record time.
The heavyset
gray-haired woman behind the desk didn’t look convinced that I
belonged there, either. I didn’t get it. I’d gone out of my way
to dress like a social worker in black pants and a black
turtleneck. Maybe it was the gold hoop earrings that gave me away.
Or my boots with their stiletto heels.
What, a social
worker can’t be fashionable?
Whatever the
reasons, the receptionist slid open the glass that separated the
staff from the patients they were supposed to be there to serve,
and looked me up and down—twice—before she said, “Can I help
you?â€
On the way over to
the clinic on the L, I’d carefully practiced everything I was
going to do and say, and I reminded myself to take it slow. I had a
pseudo-leather portfolio under one arm and, carefully keeping it
turned over so that the receptionist couldn’t see the flowing
script on the other side that clearly branded it as a freebie from
the cemetery conference, I set it down on the ledge so there was no
way the receptionist could close the glass. My smile was bright,
but not too sunshiny. I had no proof, but I suspected social
workers weren’t sunshiny.
“Health
Department,†I said, a little hurriedly and under my breath so I
could deny it if push came to shove. “I’m checking on two of
your patients. A man named Oscar and a woman named . . .†I
opened the portfolio and ran my finger down a list of names as
phony as the leather. “Becka, I think it is.†I snapped the
portfolio shut. “I presume her name is really Rebecca. Sad case,
that one.†I leaned in close and lowered my voice, keeping in
mind what I’d learned from Ernie about the only two people he’d
ever named who, he said, had gone into Doctor Gerard’s program
and never come out again. “Drugs, you know.â€
“Uh huh.†The
woman gave me another careful look, one so long and probing, I was
all set to mumble something about how I must have been mistaken and
hightail it out of there. Until she touched one hand to a nearby
computer keyboard. “Last names?†she asked.
I breathed a sigh of
relief. “Last names? Their last names?†I wasn’t a complete
moron, I knew she’d ask, and being prepared, I was ready to
equivocate with the best of them. “That’s the problem. I’m
filling in for somebody, you see. The woman who usually takes care
of this sort of thing. She left me the information, of course, but
she’s not very organized.†I lifted the portfolio and thumbed
through the pages of a legal pad I’d tucked in it. “She forgot
to leave me that information, and it’s exactly what I’m looking
for. Oscar and Becka’s last names.â€
“Uh
huh.â€
It was exactly what
the receptionist said the first time, right before she caved.
Encouraged, I leaned forward. It was a good thing I didn’t lean
too far or I might have sustained a permanent injury when she slid
the glass window shut.
I tapped on
it.
She ignored
me.
I waved my
hands.
She turned her
back.
I’m not a quitter,
but even I could see I was getting nowhere fast.
It was time to try
Plan B. As soon as I thought of one. I’d already gotten back to
the door and was heading outside to regroup when I felt a tug on my
sleeve.
I turned to find
Pink Parka Woman shuffling her tattered sneakers against the pitted
linoleum. “I know Oscar,†she said. “He’s my friend. Do you
want to talk about Oscar?â€
I had barely gotten
out my “I do,†though, when she wrinkled her nose, narrowed her
eyes, and looked at me like she’d never seen me
before.
“Are you my
attorney?†she asked.
I put a hand on her
arm and ushered her to the door. I might have sounded a little
eager, but she was so out of it, I don’t think she noticed when I
told her, “Your attorney ? You bet I am, sweetie.â€
Â
Â
I offered to buy
Pink Parka Woman a cup of coffee, but once we were outside, that
didn’t look like it was going to happen. There were no
bistros—charming or otherwise—in the area. No dingy diners,
either. Pink Parka Woman didn’t let that stop her. Like a limpet
on a rock, she took my arm and led the way, and before another ten
minutes had passed, we found ourselves in the basement of St.
Katherine’s Church, where a long line of people as shabby looking
as the ones I’d seen at the Gerard Clinic were waiting patiently
for lunch to be put out on the buffet tables.
Pink Parka Woman
(I’ll just call her PPW, it’s easier) had obviously been there
before; she knew the lay of the land. She skirted the line and went
right for the coffee carafes set up on a table against the far
wall. She filled a cup, added about a half a pound of sugar, and
sat down at the nearest table where plastic cutlery had already
been set out on paper place mats.
I, of course, was
not about to take any chances with the food or the coffee. There
was no point in beating around the bush, and I wanted to get this
over with as soon as possible. I sat down across the table from her
and launched into my investigation. “Oscar,†I said, because I
had a funny feeling she might need the reminder. “We’re here to
talk about Oscar. You said he was a friend of
yours.â€
PPW nodded. She took
a long drink of coffee and nodded some more. When she finally
spoke, it was so quietly, I had to strain to hear, so it’s no
wonder I responded with, “Huh?â€
“That’s
right.†Her nodding made my head hurt. She finished her coffee
and got up to refill her cup. When she came back to the table, she
pulled the chair next to mine way too close and sat down. “They
came and whoosh! Just like that, he was
gone.†She emphasized the speed of whatever she was talking about
by touching her palms together then throwing out her hands in
opposite directions. When she did, she knocked into her coffee cup.
It went spinning and coffee splattered the table and the tile
floor.
I told myself I’d
worry about the mess after I got the rest of the story out of her
and before she went off on the attorney tangent again. “Oscar’s
gone?†I didn’t wait for her to answer. I just didn’t want
her to forget what we were talking about. “Who took him? Was it
after he went to see Doctor Gerard?â€
“Came in the
middle of the night. They always do.â€
“And you saw him
go?â€
She looked me in the
eye, and one corner of her mouth pulled into what was almost a
smile. “For an attorney,†she said, “you’re not very
bright.â€
“They don’t
teach us everything in law school.â€
“I’ll say.â€
She chewed her lower lip. It was dry and cracked, and when it
split, a drop of blood oozed out and stained the corner of her
mouth. I couldn’t stand to watch, and I couldn’t afford to walk
away, so I reached into my purse, found my Trish McEvoy lip gloss,
and passed it to her.
PPW slathered her
lips, but when she handed the tube back to me, I kept my hands
firmly on my lap.
“It’s cold out.
You’ll need it later,†I told her. Better than not on your life, which, of course, was exactly
what I was thinking.
“Need it later.â€
She gave me a toothless grin and added another coat.
The beauty regimen
taken care of, I got back to the matter at hand. “So you were
saying...about Oscar. What did you say his last name
was?â€
“Oscar’s my
friend.†PPW smacked her lips together. She used so much gloss,
it oozed, spread, and stuck, like stalagmites (or was it
tites?). “He’s
gone.â€
“That’s
right.†I flipped open my portfolio and got ready to write.
“And you said his last name is . . . ?â€
PPW rubbed her lips
together. By this time, they were nice and slippery, and enjoying
the sensation, she smiled and did it again. “Don’t know his
last name.â€
I stifled a groan,
but before I could lose heart, I reminded myself that all was not
as lost as the twenty-five bucks I’d spent for my lip gloss. PPW
was the closest I’d gotten to corroboration of the story I’d
heard only from Madeline. If she stayed lucid long enough, she
might be able to tell me even more. “So you don’t know
Oscar’s last name. But you do know that he left. Did you see him
leave?â€
She rolled her eyes.
“Like I said, for an attorney—â€
“I’m not very
bright. Yeah, I know. Because when I asked about you seeing Oscar
leave—â€
“They always come
at night. How am I supposed to see when the lights are
off?â€
“Exactly.†My
smile might have been smoother if I had any gloss on my own lips.
“So you didn’t see him leave, but you know he’s gone. Is that
because he hasn’t come back? Or has he? Did Oscar come back and
talk about where he’s been?â€
Apparently, even the
gift of my lip gloss wasn’t enough to endear me to her; not when
I asked questions that dumb.
PPW made a face. The
left sleeve of her parka was torn at the elbow, and she added one
more coat of gloss, then tucked the tube up between the pink outer
layer of her jacket and the lining that peeked out from the
hole.
“They never come
back,†she said. “How can they? It would be such a long way and
how would they do it?â€
“They? Are other
people missing?â€
PPW scraped back her
chair. “Plenty. But they can’t come back. It’s millions and
millions of miles.â€
“To—â€
“The mother ship,
of course.†I was apparently stupid enough to rate a click of her
tongue. “They can’t come back unless they have ships of their
own. You know, UFOs.â€
It isn’t often
that I find myself at a loss for words. This, however, was one of
those times. I stared at PPW in wonder, trying to come up with a
way to keep her talking that didn’t include telling her that I
knew for certain now that she was a nutcase.
While I stared, PPW
shook her head, sadly disappointed.
“They need new
classes in lawyer school,†she said. She didn’t take her coffee
cup with her when she walked away. “Don’t they teach you
anything about alien abductions?â€
I guess I was so
busy watching her with my mouth open, I didn’t even notice I had
company until I heard a quiet “Excuse me†from over on my
left.
I turned to find a
slim, fifty-something woman in jeans and a navy blue pullover
sweater. Her dark hair was shot with gray. It was cut short and
stylish, and though she wasn’t wearing any makeup, her skin was
flawless. Her face was sprinkled with freckles that were just
starting to get lost in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and
on her cheeks.
“Are you here to
help?†the woman asked.
I would have
laughed, but let’s face it, even I knew that probably wasn’t
the best response. Instead, I pushed back my chair and stood,
distancing myself from her and the question that sounded a little
too hopeful to me. “I’m not exactly the helpful
type.â€
She looked at the
spilled coffee before she gave me a quick once-over. Instead of
turning up her nose the way the receptionist over at the clinic had
done, this woman grinned. “Well,†she said, “you sure don’t
look like you’re here for lunch.â€
“No. I was just
talking to . . .†I motioned toward where PPW had disappeared
through a doorway on the other side of the room. “I was just
looking for information, that’s all.â€
The woman’s
expression grew thoughtful. She, too, looked toward where PPW had
gone. “Information? From Stella? That’s certainly an
interesting choice of sources. I hope you weren’t counting on her
help too much, because I can pretty much guarantee, whatever she
told you, it isn’t true. Not that it’s her fault or
anything,†she added quickly. “It’s just that she’s a
little—â€
“Yeah, so I
noticed.â€
The woman smiled,
but not in a mean way. More like she actually understood what was
going on in Stella’s head. “What’s today’s delusion?
Monsters in Lake Michigan? Leprechauns?â€
“Aliens.†I
tried to smile, too, but I couldn’t. The whole thing creeped me
out. “I guess I should have known since she was hanging around
the clinic—â€
“The Gerard
Clinic?†I don’t think I imagined it; the woman actually looked
over her shoulder after she said this. She lowered her voice.
“You’re looking for information about someone at the Gerard
Clinic? I can’t say for sure, but I might be able to help
you.â€
Did I look
skeptical? I must have, because the next second, she held out a
hand. “I’m Sister Maggie,†she said. “For better or worse,
I’m in charge of this place. And you’re . . .â€
“Just trying to
satisfy my curiosity.â€
Sister Maggie’s
eyebrows rose. “Reporter?â€
I shook my head.
“Just . . . interested, I guess. I heard from a friend that some
of the people who used to hang around at the clinic . . .†I
shrugged, because I wasn’t exactly in a position to explain about
Madeline. “I’m looking for a couple of them. A man named Oscar
and a woman named Becka. Unfortunately, I don’t have last names
and that makes it pretty difficult.â€
Sister Maggie nodded
her understanding. “The folks who go to that clinic—most days,
they stop here when they’re done. We serve lunch every day and
dinner on Mondays and Wednesdays. A lot of them are
regulars.â€
“So you know them?
Oscar and Becka?â€
Sister Maggie looked
toward where a volunteer in a white apron was carrying a huge pot
of stew to the table. “We’re shorthanded,†she said.
“It’s going to take forever to feed them all today. As for
cleanup . . .†Again, her gaze traveled to the coffee that Stella
had spilled.
She didn’t say
another word. She didn’t have to.
And me? I stifled a
groan. I might not believe in divine intervention, but I knew an
opportunity when I saw one, just like I knew when I was being
offered a deal.
My jaw was clenched
when I spoke. That was because my gut was telling me that I was
going to regret this.
I told it to shut
up, right before I asked Sister Maggie for an apron and a
mop.