My Soul to Keep (31 page)

“We’re sort of broken up.”

“Sort of?”

“The jury’s still out.”

“His or yours?”

“His.”

He took the card from me, fished underneath his jacket, and pulled a pen out of the pocket of his shirt.

“If he convicts, give me a call.” He wrote down his name and number and handed me the card.

“Buck Bradley,” I read out loud. “That sounds like a rodeo name. Or a movie star. Or an astronaut.”

“Nope. Just a fireman.” He tipped his hat again. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foster.”

“Do you always hit on the women whose houses you get called to?”

Another dazzling smile. “Only the ones who know how to bring a rabbit back to life.”

The firemen let Liz and Christine climb up with them so Christine could blow the siren, which sent her into spasms of delight. I sat on the curb by myself, watching the scene, twirling the card between my fingers.

I stared at it for a moment, trying to imagine myself with Buck Bradley of Dallas Fire-and-Rescue. Then I tore the card up and tucked the pieces into my pocket.

W
E DECIDED THAT
L
IZ
and Christine would smuggle the rabbits into their hotel room in Liz’s duffle bag. Someone needed to keep an eye on them, and after their recent ordeal, I thought it only fair to let them enjoy their recovery in a snake- and carbon-monoxide-free environment. Plus, Liz needed a night of room service and Frette linens after almost a week of sleeping in the Lysol chair.

That left me alone at my house—just me and Peter Terry—waiting for TXU gas to come find my leak and turn the gas back on. I walked through the living room, my temper rising.

“You’re losing your touch,” I said out loud.

The sound of my breathing seemed to fill up the kitchen, which had fallen eerily silent. The air was still and warm. There was no knocking from the water heater—no gas, of course. The clock on the wall, which normally hums as the red hand counts off the seconds, had stopped.

The kitchen drawer protested loudly as I yanked it open and fished around for a screwdriver, which I used to pull the back off the clock.

“You’ve stooped to killing rabbits? Where were you in the eighties? Didn’t you see
Fatal Attraction?
Come up with something original.”

I popped the batteries out and pulled another AA Duracell from the pack, slipping it in and flipping the clock over to verify that the second hand had begun to move. I checked my watch and set the time: 9:37.

“I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing. You’re not scaring me anymore.” I hung the clock back on its hook. “I’m onto you. You know that? You’re nothing but a stalker. A coward.”

My shoulders ached. I reached into the cabinet for aspirin and opened the fridge for a cold bottle of water.

“Hiding in the shadows, breaking light bulbs, and summoning flies and rats and snakes like a petty vandal. No one cares. Do you hear me? No one cares about any of this. Least of all me. I’ll just keep swatting the flies and trapping the rats and the snakes.”

The water was so cold it hurt my teeth. The aspirin caught in my throat. Another swig, tossing my head back, and a hard swallow before they yielded and slid down my throat.

“You’re a fraud. A pretender. And I’m telling you, you are fighting a losing battle. Everyone seems to understand that but you.”

The clock stopped again.

I stalked over, pulled it off the wall, and popped the back off.

“You keep at it. I got plenty of batteries. You should know by now I’m well supplied.”

A fresh AA, and the hands started to move again. I replaced the back and hung the clock back up on the wall, straightening it carefully.

“Only a coward kidnaps children,” I said to the silence. “You know that? Someone who can’t handle a fair fight—that’s who kidnaps kids. Losers like you who have to overpower someone small and weak in order to feel important. To feel like they have some power in the universe.”

I rolled my shoulders and shut my eyes, my hair falling back on my shoulders.

“I will absolutely make it my mission in life to get him back. I will not stop until you are whining and crying and begging for mercy. Angels will come and strangle you slowly.”

I looked around the room, daring him to appear. “What do you want? Ransom? What are you holding out for? Why don’t you just give up now? You know we’re going to get him back.”

I threw the rest of the new batteries into the drawer and slammed it shut.

“We both know how this is going to come out in the end. My dad can beat up your dad.”

Silence. I knew he was listening. I didn’t really care to hear his response.

I finished my water and reached into the fridge for another bottle, then snapped off the light in the kitchen, glancing for the first time at the answering machine. I groaned. That blasted light was blinking again.

I considered ignoring it but caved to the guilt and punched Play, scrolling through a few messages from my father, one from my brother, and one from Helene, who wanted to congratulate me on my absolution. The last message was from Molly Larken, wanting to talk to me tonight. She didn’t leave a number.

Ten o’clock is the boundary between evening and night for most people, the moment after which it becomes rude to call. My watch said 9:52. I decided to go for it. Another search through my bag—cursing that I hadn’t taken the half minute required to put her number into my phone.

There were maybe a dozen slips of paper bunched up in the bottom of my purse. I pulled them all out and searched through them, looking for the card she’d given me. I got halfway through the pile before I stopped cold, staring dumbly at the card in my hand. On it were an ankh and a phone number. Nothing else. I vaguely recognized the area code.

I flipped the card over and sure enough, there was Molly’s phone number in her handwriting. This was the card she’d given me.

Molly picked up on the first ring.

“Did you see the blog?” she asked.

“When? Today?”

“He posted a poem this morning. It’s all about how he can’t wait to get out and get back to teaching so he can be with me again. He actually used the phrase ‘molding young hearts and minds.’ Listen …”

I heard her tapping computer keys. “Wait, I’m scrolling down … Here it is. ‘I miss molding young hearts and minds, helping them to a future in time.’ ”

I groaned. “That’s awful.”

“Let’s see. What else is on here? He mentions an article from today’s paper. About DNA exoneration. Claiming it will prove his innocence. ‘Beyond a shadow of a doubt.’ That’s not the phrase, is it? It’s ‘beyond a reasonable doubt,’ right? Is he an idiot or what?”

“He didn’t write that.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t write it?”

“I mean, he didn’t write it. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s locked in a room on the psych unit at Parkland Hospital.”

“Maybe he got a message to someone.”

“There’s no way in or out of there. No phone. No computer. No mail. I don’t even think he can get the paper. He couldn’t possibly have seen that article.”

“He might have. They have newspapers in the hospital.”

“I saw him today, Molly. He’s barely functional. Actually, he isn’t functional at all. He didn’t write it.”

“You saw him today?”

“I went down there. You got my message about the suicide attempt?”

“How did he do it?”

“He tried to strangle himself with his jail uniform.”

“Too bad it didn’t work.”

“He’s really a pitiful figure, Molly. He tried to kill himself again today. He sliced up his wrists with a paper clip.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?”

“He doesn’t know anything about the blog, Molly.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked him about it.”

“And you believe him? He’s in jail. Why would you believe anything he says?”

“He’s incapable of producing anything like that on his own behalf. I swear. He didn’t know anything about it. He’d never heard of you. He didn’t recognize your name at all.”

“He’s faking.”

“You never had a class with him, right? You’ve never met him?”

“No, but that doesn’t—”

“Even if you’d been in his class, I guarantee you he wouldn’t have remembered your name. I doubt he’d even recognize you if he saw you.”

“But you and I look so much alike.”

“That was the only thing I could figure—that maybe he saw you and it reminded him of me and set him on one of those psycho spirals he has. But I swear, he does not know your name. He’s never heard of you.”

“So what does that mean? What are you telling me?”

“Whoever created the blog did it without his knowing anything about it.”

“Why? Why would anyone do that?”

“I have no idea.”

I heard her tapping keys again.

“Are you still online? Looking at the blog?”

“Uh-huh. I wanted to ask you about something on here.”

I waited.

“Who’s Gordon Pryne?”

“What does it say about him?”

“That he’s a liar.”

“Read it to me.”

“ ‘Gordon Pryne is a liar when he said’—should be ‘says’—‘DNA is a convicts’—no apostrophe—‘best friend.’ His grammar is awful. ‘DNA will not be his friend when he is found guilty of this crime.’ ”

“The blog actually names Gordon Pryne?”

“Yep.”

“That’s not public information.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, only a few people even knew he was a suspect. The cops, me, and a few people who were questioned.”

“So it’s one of those people.”

“Or someone who knows Gordon Pryne. He might have told someone.”

“Where is he? Can you go talk to him?”

“He’s in prison in Huntsville. Serving time for sexual assault.”

“You keep good company.”

“It’s not like John has an avid social life. I can’t imagine it’s someone he knows. Maybe he has family somewhere.”

I flipped over the card in my hand. “Do you remember the card you gave me with your number on it?”

“You mean … which card, exactly? Um, no. Why?”

“It has an ankh on it.”

“What’s an ankh?”

“It’s a cross with a loop at the top.”

“What else does the card say? You mean a business card, right?”

My doorbell rang. I looked outside and saw the TXU truck.

“It doesn’t say anything else. Just the ankh and a phone number.”

“What’s the number?”

I read it to her.

“Three-one-eight. That’s my old area code.”

“Where? You’re not from Phoenix, are you?”

“Not quite.”

“Where, then?”

“Bossier City.”

“Where’s that?”

“Right outside Shreveport, Louisiana.”

I
BROKE THE TEN
o’clock rule, of course, and dialed the number on the card after the TXU boys had settled down to work.

I knew exactly what I’d hear.

“Serenity,” the voice chimed

I started to hang up. The voice continued with a Louisiana drawl you could land a plane on, it was so wide.

“Serenity is the quest of all the universe. Follow your star, no matter if it’s hopeless, no matter if it’s far. Please leave a message, and Psychic Brigid will call you right back.”

I hung up before the beep and stared at the phone.

What in the name of homegrown tomatoes was going on? Brigid was John Mulvaney’s junior-high girlfriend—probably the one female he’d ever personally touched in his entire life, not counting relatives and research rodents. She was also a wacko. A certifiable nut-job wacko.

She’d greeted me with a twelve-gauge shotgun last winter when I showed up at her house uninvited. Now here she was showing up in my life again. Definitely uninvited.

Oh, for a loaded over-and-under when you need one.

My kitchen clock was still running. I guess Peter Terry had decided to knock off for the night. The clock said 10:24. I broke the rule again and dialed Molly.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again. Especially so late.”

“I’m on college time. It’s early.”

“Listen, do you happen to remember an encounter with a psychic in Shreveport named Brigid?”