My Soul to Keep (13 page)

“Did the doctor come?” I asked.

“Finally. At three o’clock this afternoon.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just ordered a bunch of tests.”

“What’s she having done?”

“I can’t even remember. It’s a long list.”

“Does Christine know?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

Liz picked up No-Nose and smelled him, closing her eyes. I saw a tear push past her lashes and fall silently to her cheek.

“You okay, Liz?”

She shook her head, opened her eyes, and hugged No-Nose. “I’m fine. I’m as fine as I can be under the circumstances.”

“Any word from Guatemala?”

“Not directly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Christine woke up this morning talking about Andy and the boys. She said they were eating tortillas and bananas and playing soccer.” She smiled. “Earl told her.”

“Earl’s reliable.” I grinned.

“He is that. The weather’s probably cleared. I’m sure I’ll hear something shortly.”

“Let’s hope for good news.”

“I can’t stand to think otherwise.”

“Hey, did Christine say anything else to you about the snake she saw?”

“No, just that the man had a snake.”

“She told me just now it was on his head.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“I can’t get a picture of that at all.”

“All I can conjure up is something coiled on his head—maybe a turban or something.”

“I think she knows what a turban is.”

“How would she know that?”

“She saw
Aladdin.”

“Oh. I guess Disney is responsible for kids’ cultural education these days.”

“Such as it is.”

“Maybe it was figurative,” I said.

“Christine keeps saying the man was mean.”

“Could be more than that,” I said. “Maybe evil spirits have some sort of snake manifestation.”

“On their heads? That’s ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than believing in them in the first place?”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s what they have instead of a halo. Peter Terry would know. Maybe we should ask him.”

I shuddered. “No thanks. I’ve got more trouble than I can handle already without bringing him into the conversation.”

I told her about John Mulvaney and the blog he was using to harass a student.

“And he’s saying you’re involved?”

I waved my hand, swatting away the concern. “It’s the kind of thing that can be easily disproved. I haven’t had any contact with the man since he was arrested.”

“But he’s in jail, right?”

“Yep. Downtown at Lew Sterrett. Awaiting trial.”

“Still?”

“Wheels of justice.”

“Do you think John Mulvaney could be involved in Nicholas’s disappearance?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. “I can’t imagine how.”

“It just seems odd that his name would crop up now. Didn’t he have some weird obsession with you?”

I felt a hint of nausea rise into the back of my throat. “He’d been taking pictures of me for … a year or so, I guess. He had them all over his apartment.”

Liz looked at me expectantly.

“I can’t see how it would be connected,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows.

I pursed my lips and considered her point. “I’ll call Martinez,” I said finally. At this stage of the game, I was willing to follow any meager little trail of crumbs I could find.

I decided to leave the hospital to make the call. I wasn’t too interested in being overheard talking about a sicko who was harassing someone in my name and who might possibly be involved in kidnapping a sweet little friend of mine. Not that any of it was my fault, you understand. But still, it’s not like asking someone to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home.

I walked out the sliding doors and dialed. Standing there, the warm air settling in on me, I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. After hours in the dank air conditioning, my skin felt clammy and prickly. I felt as though I would never warm up. All this darkness and cold malevolence. It seemed to be everywhere—all around me.

Martinez picked up immediately. I told him about John Mulvaney and his sick little blog.

“Liz thought it might somehow relate to Nicholas’s disappearance.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But it does seem weird, don’t you think? That this nut-job surfaces right after Nicholas disappeared?”

“How do you know he surfaced after Nicholas was kidnapped?”

I paused. “I guess I don’t. That was an assumption.”

“When did he contact the girl?”

“I don’t know. I just know it was recently.” I was starting to feel awkward and self-conscious. Why hadn’t I thought any of this through? Clearly I was wasting the man’s time.

“What’s her name?”

“Um, I don’t know. My boss said the girl was going to contact me.” The whole thing was starting to seem like a stupid notion.

“Blog address?”

“Don’t know.”

“Didn’t ask many questions, did you?”

“Guess not.”

“Call her back and get more information.”

“Okay. Any leads on the white car?”

“Nada.”

He was about to hang up when I stopped him. “Hey, do you know if anyone else saw the man in the park?”

“Which man in the park?”

“The tall one watching the soccer game. The one I said looked predatory.”

“I don’t know off the top of my head. I’d have to check the witness statements.”

“Would you mind?”

“Sure. I’ll call Ybarra.”

“Would you ask him again if I could talk to the child psychologist? The one who interviewed Christine?”

“He won’t let you.”

“Why won’t he let me?”

“Dylan, we’ve been over this. You’re a witness. He won’t want to muddy the stories.”

“But I’m also a psychologist. I need to ask him some questions.”

“Dylan, I hate to break it to you, but Casey Ybarra does not want your help with his investigation.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ll ask him, but the answer is going to be no.”

“Would
you
give me the name, then?”

He laughed. “Whose side do you think I’m on, anyway?”

“Nicholas’s,” I said sharply.

The line fell silent.

“Enrique?”

I could hear him breathing.

“Enrique, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up.

I mentally berated myself for being belligerent (another Top Ten Terrible Trait) and then dialed Helene.

“I need the student’s name.”

“Which one? The incomplete?”

“No. The one Mulvaney’s harassing.”

“Allegedly.”

“Allegedly. Whatever.”

“Do you have a pen?”

“Shoot.”

“Molly Larken. L-a-r-k-e-n.” Helene gave me her contact information but suggested I wait a day or two to see if she’d contact me first.

“Do you know when the harassment started?”

“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Why?”

“I’m wondering if it could have anything to do with the kidnapping. It just seems a little strange that both things would somehow connect to me. Do you have the blog address?”

I heard her shuffling around her desk. “I wrote it down …”

She read the address to me.

“Have you looked at it?”

“Why would I want to look at it?”

“You’re going to have to eventually. You’re at your desk, right?” I asked. “Type in the address, will you?”

I waited as she tapped on her keyboard.

She sighed. “You have the worst luck.”

“Is it pictures or narrative or what?”

“You need to see it for yourself. I’m turning it off.”

“How bad is it? Regular bad or unusually bad?”

“How could we not have known he was such a mess?” She sighed again. “You have the worst luck.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“I can’t help it.”

“It keeps getting worse.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Helene.”

“Maybe you need a sabbatical.”

“It’s summer, for crying out loud. I have two months off.”

“I’m just saying …”

“Hey, speaking of needing a sabbatical—I forgot to ask you about my review. That was why I called in the first place.”

“You’re not ready, are you?”

“I’ll be ready,” I said, scribbling notes to myself. “When is it again?”

“Fall semester. Officially, August, but I can stall for you until October or November.”

“What should I be working on?”

“Just make sure your work is up to par.”

“My work’s up to par.” I waited for her to say something. “Isn’t it?”

“Your student evaluations are wonderful. Your classroom work is superior. Your record … is pretty clean.”

“
Pretty
clean?”

“The Zocci thing.”

“That turned out to be nothing.”

“A kid died.”

“I didn’t mean literally
nothing
. I’m just pointing out that it didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“It’s still in your file.”

Erik Zocci, Christine’s uncle, had been a patient of mine in the student clinic a couple of years ago. He’d died under mysterious circumstances. That whole mess, which eventually led me to a friendship with the Zocci family, started the day I met Peter Terry. The creep dragged me into the fray with false accusations of professional impropriety. I’d been absolved, but still, it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want in your personnel file.

“I haven’t been watching your publication history,” Helene was saying.

“I’ve got another journal article coming out in August. That makes
eleven. I submitted a book outline six months ago. I’m still waiting to hear.”

“Who’s got it?”

“Harcourt.”

“I’d call Harold. He did a book with them a few years ago. He might be able to get you out of the slush pile. Isn’t he mentoring you?”

“Yep. I lucked out. He’s the only one in the department with any people skills at all.”

“Other than me.”

“Obviously. That goes without saying.”

“Stop kissing up. Call Harold. He’ll help you through it.”

I was still writing furiously. “I don’t know if I have the energy for all this right now, Helene.”

“Oh, stop whining. You have all summer to get ready. Things will have settled down by then.”

“You’re certainly optimistic.”

“I’m optimistic by nature. Have been all my life. But you,” she said, cackling, “have a way of surprising me.”

I
GOT UP EARLY
the next day and went for a swim, then called Liz in the room and told her I had some errands to run. I blew off Helene’s advice and called Molly Larken on her cell phone. She didn’t sound too happy to hear from me but said she’d talk to me. We agreed to meet at Starbucks at one that afternoon.

I showered and changed, then moved my truck to faculty parking behind my building, pulling into a nice wide slot under a large, leafy live oak tree. Two for two. I threw my shoulder against the door of my pickup and forced it open against its will, wincing at the familiar donkey honk of the hinges. Time for another can of WD-40.

As I stepped onto the asphalt, I was struck once again by what a great place SMU is to work. Beautiful campus, supportive faculty, reasonably intelligent (if somewhat apathetic) student body. And—wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles—generous and proximate faculty parking. I felt a little alarmed at the possibility of bombing my review. I knew I’d never find another job like this one, especially with my legendarily rotten luck. Now that I understood the way the universe worked, I couldn’t believe I’d landed here in the first place. I’d probably just squeaked past the gate while Peter Terry was off at the beach or something.

I walked quickly to Hyer Hall, my mind trailing off again toward Nicholas and the park and the rest of it. Preoccupied, I stalked up the steps to my office. I was determined, by sheer will if nothing else, to squint through the blinding glare of seemingly unrelated details—which all seemed to converge at a point unknown, some fractal disaster zone just out of sight. I unlocked my office and threw my bag down on my old leather chair, punched the button on my computer, and watched it warm up while I checked my phone messages.

There were several calls from disgruntled students. A couple of them wanted grade changes. Fat chance. Delete, delete. One call was from a student who had missed the final, claiming his sister had been in a car accident. I checked my records. The kid hadn’t missed a class all year. I’d give him a makeup test and threaten him with his life if he took this magnanimous and unprecedented gesture for granted. The last call was from the boy who needed to get the incomplete off his record. I called him back and relieved his anxiety by letting him know I’d send in the grade today, then bumped him from a C+ to a B- as a guilt offering for my lack of availability. I didn’t tell him that, of course. But it would be a nice surprise when his grades showed up. I finished returning calls, then got online and found John Mulvaney’s blog.

The Internet is the modern version of an ancient cultural tradition. Instead of ripping open an overcoat and flashing at one or two strangers at a time, narcissists, exhibitionists, and the pathologically self-involved can now reveal their private parts (literal and figurative) online—and have access not just to one stranger at a time but to countless infantile voyeurs who wander into their cyberspace. I’d always found the odd, counterfeit intimacy of the online universe profoundly unsettling. Why anyone would want to spew their secrets into the cosmos for strangers to pick through and smell—a virtual garage sale of emotions and sentiments and opinions—was beyond me.