Dr. Knox (32 page)

Lydia didn't come in the next day, and neither did Lucho, who was over at her place helping her clean up. He called to explain as I was still squinting at the overcast dawn. I asked to speak with Lydia, and there was silence at the other end of the line, and then a nervous cough.

“Now's not the best time, doc,” Lucho said. “Maybe later.”

“Is she okay?”

“She's fine. I mean, she's not hurt or anything. You…you should let her call you.”

So it was chaos all day. I scrambled to find help, but none of our part-timers could make it, and the best I could do was Deirdre Zalce, a heavily inked and pierced young woman who lived somewhere east of the 101, and who sometimes helped Lucho with clerical work. She manned the waiting room, taking names and complaints, pulling files where we had them, doing what she could with the phones. She was game and highly caffeinated, but she was overmatched.

As was I. Each time I came out front to triage the room and collect the next patient, the crowd was larger, more restive, and less confident. By mid-afternoon, even Deirdre was giving me a
What the fuck are you doing?
look, and the less dire cases had begun to abandon ship. By five, we were empty and Deirdre was packing up. She pressed a wrinkled stack of phone messages into my hand before she left, shaking her head.

I carried them up to my kitchen, where I picked up an apple and a beer, and then continued to the roof. The sky was a chemical yellow, and the air smelled of scorched metal. I settled in the lounge chair and drank some beer and looked at my messages. Midway through the stack I found one from Sutter. I checked my cell phone and listened to his voice mail.

“I heard from my cop pals that they found the Ford pickup Elena boosted. It got towed last night from a lot around Seventeenth and Santee. That's practically underneath the 10, not far from the Blue Line. Wondered if it meant anything to you. Give me a ring and let me know. Hope Lydia's not hitting you anymore.”

I sighed, and thought about calling Lydia, or maybe Lucho, but didn't—I didn't think I could take the anger, or worse, the silence. I took a bite of my apple and thought about Sutter's message. Seventeenth and Santee. Underneath the 10. It didn't ring any bells at first, but then there was a faint tolling. I jammed the messages into my pocket, picked up my beer, and went downstairs again.

I pawed through layers of paper on my desk and found a yellow pad with the several phone numbers and addresses I'd found in our records for Mia. At the bottom of the list was an address that wasn't from her file, but from her boyfriend Jerome's. It was on the 300 block of Washington Boulevard, which, when I checked Google Maps, was maybe a quarter-mile from where the pickup had been found. I didn't bother changing out of my scrubs, but swapped my half-finished beer for car keys.

Jerome's neighborhood—if he still lived there—was just south of the 10. Most of the buildings were long and low and beaten-looking, and most of the businesses they housed looked about the same. There were dealers in office furniture, wholesalers of cheap sunglasses, vinyl purses, and medical supplies, several dubious-looking technical schools, and more than a few Korean churches. The most common storefront sign, though, seemed to be
FOR RENT.

The stretch of Washington Boulevard that fronted Jerome's place was wide and busy, and divided down the middle by tracks that carried the Blue Line back and forth between Metro Center and Long Beach. The building itself was one of the few apartment houses on the block. It was a sagging stucco box in watery pink and white, like a loaf of melting sherbet, and there were people—subsiding mounds in baggy clothes—on the stoop and the small porch. They seemed to have been there for a very long time—were maybe parts of the structure itself. I found a length of curb across from the building and killed my engine, and realized I had no idea of what to do.

I had no apartment number for Jerome, so unless his name was on a mailbox—which somehow seemed unlikely—looking for him inside meant knocking on doors, and God only knew who or what might be on the other side. And if I did find his place, what then? I sat and baked and speculated for ten minutes, wishing I had another apple or the rest of my beer. I stopped wishing when Mia walked past my car.

I'd never seen her look so unglamorous. She wore flip-flops, cutoff gray sweats, and an oversized tee-shirt with a washed-out image of Kurt Cobain on the front. Her black hair was tied in a dull bun, and the bones of her face were stark beneath sallow skin. She was carrying groceries in a white plastic bag, and looked tired and distracted as she crossed Washington. She gave no backward glance as she climbed the stairs to the front door, and so did not see me sprint behind her, across the street and up into the dim lobby.

The lobby smelled of mildew, urine, and unwashed bodies. The walls were beige, and there were sticky red tiles on the floor. It was empty, but I heard Mia on the stairs, and saw her white ankles on the landing. I followed her up three flights, and called to her as she put her key in the lock. She jumped.

“
Jesus!
You scared the piss out of me, doc.”

“And yet you don't seem totally shocked that I'm here.”

She shrugged. “We were saying—me and Shelly—we might have to call you. It's what Elena said to do if she doesn't come back.”

“Elena's gone?”

“She took off this morning, before anybody was up.”

“With Alex?”

“She left him here, with me and Shelly.”

My stomach clenched. “To go where? Where is she, Mia?”

“I don't know. I was just getting dinner.” Mia turned the key and went inside, and I followed.

The apartment was small and dark—a living room, a kitchen like a broom closet, a narrow bathroom, and a bedroom separated from the main room by a green curtain. Shelly was sitting on a swaybacked sofa, flipping through channels on a big flat-screen TV. Alex was at a card table, leafing through a comic book. He smiled when he saw me, jumped up, and came to stand by me.

I smiled down at him. “How you doing, bud?”

He nodded. “All right. My mom isn't here.”

“I heard.” Alex looked okay, if a little tired and grimy. “You hungry?” Alex nodded.

“I got you chicken tenders,” Mia said. “And mac and cheese, and broccoli. And I got you milk.”

Alex didn't look enthusiastic. “When's my mom coming back?” he asked me. I ruffled his hair but didn't answer.

“How are you, Shelly?”

She sat up. “I'm okay, doc. And you? You pissed at us?”

“I'll get over it. What happened?”

“It wasn't my call, doc—it was Ellie. She said some of the people looking for her had you jammed up pretty bad, and she wasn't sure what you might do, and she didn't want to wait around to see.”

I shook my head. “A real vote of confidence. I mean, it's not like I've stuck my neck out for you guys or anything.”

“That's exactly what I tried telling her, but she wouldn't listen. She's actually pretty stubborn.”

“No shit. She stole the truck?”

Shelly nodded. “She had it all planned. We got lucky and scored some cash from that house, too, and a cell phone.”

“And then you called Mia.”

Shelly nodded. “She owes me.”

“Not anymore,” Mia said. “Not after this. After this, it's all the other way.”

I looked around again. “Jerome's not here?” I asked, and a nervous silence descended. Even Alex looked tense. “Where's Jerome, Mia?” She looked at Shelly, who looked at the TV. Then Mia walked to the green curtain that was the bedroom door and pulled it open. And there was Jerome, on the floor beside the bed, bruised and swollen, gagged with tape and trussed with extension cords. His eyes widened when he saw me, and were pleading.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, and knelt beside him. “What the hell happened?” I pulled the tape from his battered mouth, which opened up some cuts.

“Ow! Fuck!” he said. “I'll tell you what happened—that little foreign bitch is what. She comes to my place, and outta the fucking blue she cold-cocks me, and—”

“That's a load of shit,” Shelly said. Alex sidled up to the sofa and stood beside her and took her hand. “This guy was fucking creepy to me and to Ellie, and he was asking a lot of questions—”

“It's
my
place—I can say what I want,” Jerome sputtered.

Shelly shook her head. “She got a bad feeling about him, and then he said something about the kid. Something…nasty. And that was that.”

“She fucking cold-cocked me—and with the one good ashtray I had. My fucking Bellagio ashtray.” Jerome shook his head sorrowfully, and I looked at Mia.

She shrugged. “It's like Shelly told. And, really, he's better this way.”

Jerome glared. “You
bitch
!”

“Quiet, Jerome,” I said, “or I'll put the tape back.”

Jerome muttered and whined while I checked his head, neck, face, and pupils. Despite his cuts and bruises, I saw no immediate signs of fracture or concussion.

“Are you going to behave if I cut you loose?” I asked him.

“It's my place. I'll do what the fuck I want.”

“You'll keep still and keep quiet, or I'll leave you where you are.”

“Fine. Whatever. I won't do shit.”

I looked at Mia. “Are you okay with it?”

She nodded. “I'm clearing out of here soon, and Jerome will behave himself until then. Right, baby?”

“Fuck you.”

I looked at Shelly and Alex. “And you two…”

“What about us?” Shelly said.

“I think you'd better come with me.”

Shelly glanced at Alex and shrugged. “I guess we did wear out our welcome, huh?”

Jerome struggled against his bonds. “Fuck you all. I don't care what any of you do, but I expect to get paid for what that bitch broke, and what she took.”

Mia sighed. “Give it a rest, Jerome.”

“You give it a rest. She broke my ashtray, she took my wallet—and I had like two hundred bucks in—”

“You had maybe fifty,” Mia said, laughing.

“Bullshit. And she took my car keys. That's a good fucking car.”

“That car had like half a million miles on it.”

“It barely had a hundred thousand. Plus, she took my piece, and that cost me over a grand.”

My stomach clenched. “She took a gun?”

“Shit, yes. A nice little nine—a Taurus. I only had the fucking thing three weeks.”

I looked at Shelly. “She left here with a
gun
?” She nodded. “Where did she go, Shelly?”

“I don't know, doc, I swear to you. Ellie doesn't do a lot of talking, she just
does
shit.”

I didn't know where else to take them, so I took them to my place. Alex handled more strange accommodations with equanimity. Shelly walked through the sparse white rooms with a skeptical eye.

“You live here? Really?”

“Really.”

“I guess the commute's easy. But it's kinda empty. Chilly.”

“I like to travel light.”

“I'm down with that, but it's like the moving van's come and gone already.”

“There's food in the fridge—some yogurt, a couple of apples, peaches, some salad fixings. There are probably cans of tuna in the cupboard, some cans of soup.”

“Lush life, doc,” Shelly said, and snickered.

I left her in the living room with Alex, streaming video on my Mac, and I went to the bedroom and called Sutter.

He sighed when I finished my story. “I guess we gotta hope Bray has called off the hounds, at least for the moment, and that no one's been following you around.”

“It…it didn't even occur to me.”

“Water down the crapper—probably they would've grabbed the kid already if they'd been following you. Elena's the new bad news—out on the town with her nine-millimeter.”

“I don't know what the hell she thinks she's doing.”

“Of course you do. This chick always has a plan, brother, and you know what it is.”

“You think she's going after the Brays? If she doesn't kill somebody, she's going to get herself killed doing that.”

“You don't think she knows it? Why else would she leave the kid behind?”

I sighed. “I don't know what the fuck to do.”

“I don't know that there's a whole lot for you to do but let it play.”

“I can't just—”

“What're you gonna do? Stake out Bray's house—all of their houses and offices and clubs and whatever—and try to grab her before she gets to them? You could get yourself killed doin' that.”

“I can't—”

“You don't know where she is, or where she's gonna be, or when. You got no way to contact her. She's in the wind, brother. Sitting tight is your only play.”

Sutter rang off, and I was listening to nothing. I sighed again and paced, and tried to fight the jangly feel of looming doom. I looked down and saw I was still in my scrubs and thought about a shower. I reached into my pockets, to empty them, and came out with a wad of message slips. I was smoothing them out when my cell burred. I looked twice to make sure it was Nora.

There was silence when I answered, with muted voices, telephones, a woman speaking on a PA system, the electric beeps and buzzes of medical monitors—hospital noises—filling it in.

“You're still at work,” I said.

“One of my residents needed help,” Nora said. “He's got a girl in bad shape—immuno-suppressed, and now she's got a respiratory thing. We're waiting for labs to come back, but she's going south.”

“How old?”

“Nine. Almost.”

I sighed, and was quiet. “I was wondering if you'd ever call back,” I said after a while.

“I wondered too,” Nora said. Her voice was low and tired.

“I'm glad you did. It's good to hear your voice, and I wanted to apologize for the shit I brought to your doorstep.”

“How is all that going?” she asked. “Are you done with that business?”

Before I could answer there was a whoop from the other room—high-pitched laughter from Alex and Shelly. I looked into the living room and saw them, red-faced and giggling, watching something online. Shelly looked up.

“You gotta check this out, doc—it's octopuses that knit.
Knitting,
for shit's sake.”

I put a finger to my lips and closed the bedroom door.

“You sound busy,” Nora said.

“It's that business. They're at my house now.”

Nora sighed again. “So you're
not
done yet.”

“I'm ever hopeful.”

“You know, I was going to apologize too—for overreacting, or being too preachy or something.”

“You don't owe me that, Nora. You don't owe me anything.”

“No, I don't. And you don't owe me anything either, and I guess that's the point. The problem.”

“Which is it—the point or the problem?”

“That depends on what you think we've got going here,” she said. “What we are to each other.”

“Friends, right? Friends or something.”

She laughed ruefully. “I guess that's one way to describe it. And if we're not
friends,
then I shouldn't give too much of a damn if you're deeply nuts or not. If you might get yourself killed. But if we are
friends or something,
then I guess I
should
give a damn. I guess we
should
owe each other something, right? Apologies, explanations, excuses, histories—something, for chrissakes. But we don't do that, do we?”

“It's one of the things we have in common,” I said.

“Which makes things easy,” she said, “but not necessarily good.”

“We have a nice time, Nora. We enjoy each other's company.”

“Like a pair of drunks.”

“I would've been sorry if you hadn't called.”

Nora's laugh was short and bitter. “That's what over a year of being
friends
amounts to—
I would've been sorry if you hadn't called
? That's not a lot, Adam. Is it enough for you?”

“It could be a start.”

She laughed again, a little less bitter this time. “To what, the world's slowest—” Then there was another voice at her end, a man's, talking to her. “My cultures are back,” Nora said. “I've got to go.”

The phone went quiet, and I stood looking at it in my hand. “Shit,” I said softly, and sat on the bed.

The phone messages were beside me, in a wrinkled stack, and I smoothed them on my thigh. There were a couple from a real estate agent who'd heard from my former landlord, Kashmarian, that I might be in the market for new offices, and a couple from two of our part-timers, looking for job references. Rats from the sinking ship, but I couldn't blame them. At the bottom of the stack were two messages from Nate Rash, at Jiffy-Lab. I checked the voice mail on my cell. There were more from him there.

“Shit,” I said again, and called him back.

“Took you long enough,” Nate said. “I thought you were in a hurry for these.”

“The day got away.”

“You have time now? 'Cause I've got your analyses.”

“Let's hear 'em,” I said, and Nate talked about the initial tests he'd performed, the results he'd gotten, and the additional ones he'd run. When he was done, I was quiet for a while, then made him go through it again. After that I asked him to fax the report to the clinic, and to send me another copy via snail mail. I thanked Nate after that, put the phone down, and breathed slowly and deliberately until the rushing sound faded from my ears.

I rested my forearms on my knees, and my head in my hands. I needed to make some calls, and I thought about whom to call first. Sutter first. Then Mandy, probably, and then…I took another deep breath and ran a hand through my hair. I stood and paced, and then I opened the bedroom door. Shelly was in the kitchen, peering into the fridge, shaking her head, and Alex was still on my Mac. He was watching something and smiling at it. His face glowed in the shifting light, soft and round and unguarded.