My Soul to Keep (43 page)

“Dylan, you can’t be serious,” Maria said.

“The man is tortured by Peter Terry. Absolutely tortured. I think he was trying to spare Nicholas that. I believe him.”

“That arrest record, the one from 1973?” Martinez said. “He went in the army after that—they were taking anybody because of Vietnam. He did a tour in Nam and left with a dishonorable discharge for stealing supplies. After that, he disappeared into the streets.”

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. “He was AWOL that whole time? From his own family?”

“Yep. Started writing letters from prison a few months ago, sending them to his brother through his lawyer. He didn’t even know his own brother’s address or whether he was still alive. I guess the lawyer tracked him down. Then Piper started the blog and started trying to get him released before their mother died.” He took a swig of Maria’s milk. “She passed last night, by the way.”

I batted my eyes to fight back the sting of tears.

“Did the lawyer know about this? That Nicholas was kidnapped?” Liz asked.

“She’s got a pretty good reputation,” Martinez said. “I’d bet money she didn’t know anything about it. Not at first, anyway.”

“I think she would have found a way to let someone know sooner,” I said.

“Even with privilege?” Maria asked.

Martinez took another bite and pointed at me with his fork. “It’s like you guys. You have exceptions to confidentiality, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Even if we didn’t, I would violate the rule and save the kid. I think she would have found a way.”

“Pryne’s not going to make it to court tomorrow, by the way,” Martinez said. “His lawyer’s going to ask for a postponement.”

“I hope he roasts in hell,” Maria said.

I was silent as she and Liz toasted with their milk glasses.

“Eschenbrenner saw the tape,” Martinez was saying, “of Dylan here doing her dirty work in the visitors’ room.”

“Who gave them the tape?” I asked suspiciously.

He smiled sweetly at me. “I did.”

“Oh, technical foul!” I said. “You ratted me out?”

“Who do you think gave her your number?” He laughed and drained Maria’s milk glass. “She thought you were working for us.” I poured him another glass and got Maria another slice of cake.

“Did you ever find out anything about the other guy?” I asked him. “The tall one in the park?”

Martinez waved my question away. “I think you—hey, kids, slow down.”

He snagged Nicholas with one arm as he came careening around the corner, Christine in tow. Both children giggled, then came over and climbed into their mothers’ laps. Christine reached over and dug her finger into her mom’s icing.

Martinez looked at me. “You must’ve made that guy up, Dylan. No one else in the entire park saw him.”

“Saw who?” Christine asked.

“Nobody, sweetie,” Liz said.

Christine furrowed her brow. “You mean Earl?”

“Earl what?” Liz said.

“No one else in the park saw Earl?”

“Earl wasn’t at the park, Punkin,” I said.

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, he was.”

We all looked at one another.

“Earl was in the park?” Liz asked. “How do you know?”

“I saw him.”

“Where was he?” I asked.

“Cutting the trees,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Nobody was cutting down trees, honey,” Liz said. “I think you might be letting your imagination run away with you.”

“Maybe she means the gardener,” I said. “The one cutting the shrubs.”

“What gardener?” Liz asked.

Maria chimed in. “I don’t remember any gardener.”

“He was clipping shrubs with clippers and raking up the leaves,” I said. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice him. I haven’t seen anyone use a rake since Jimmy Carter was president.”

“There was no gardener,” Liz said.

Martinez went to the car and came back with a notebook opened to a diagram of the park. “Where was he?”

I pointed at the map. “Clipping the shrubs on the far end of the park—here. About twenty yards away from the tennis courts. East of
the swings. You guys don’t remember that? He was the only black person in the whole park. Pretty hard to miss.”

“They can’t see him,” Christine whispered to me.

I leaned down and whispered back. “Maybe they just didn’t notice him.”

She was emphatic. “No! They can’t see him. It’s just us.”

Martinez was thumbing through pages. “No one else mentioned a gardener. And no one admitted to seeing the tall guy at the soccer game.”

“He’s mean,” Christine said.

“The tall man? You saw him, Christine?” I asked.

She nodded. “Super-duper-duper mean.”

I looked around the table. “None of you saw this guy? You’re kidding me. We can’t be the only ones.”

We all stared as the possibility settled in.

Maria’s eyes were wide. “You think the tall guy …”

“… knows Peter Terry?” Liz finished the sentence.

Martinez whistled.

I shook my head, not believing it. “If he does, it looks like Googie got there just in the nick of time.”

That evening at eight sharp, David Shykovsky pulled up in front of my house, walked to my front porch, and knocked politely. I answered, equally politely (so as not to seem eager), and we stood awkwardly in the entryway.

He wasn’t wearing the Italian cologne.

“It’s a college-acceptance-letter moment,” I said.

“Come again?”

“You know, the envelope test. If the envelope’s thin, you got rejected. If it’s fat, you got in.”

“So what’s the parallel?”

“If you ask me if I want to sit down, it’s a rejection letter. If you ask me where I want to go to supper, I’m in.”

“Wrong again, sugar pea.”

“Aha! A nickname.” I smiled knowingly. “Early admission.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“You’re blowing my theory.”

“I realize that.”

“So. What’s your plan?”

“My plan is that I’d like to know what that incredible smell is.”

I sniffed the air. “What smell?”

“Cinnamon.”

I grinned wickedly. “I baked.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You never bake.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I didn’t before.”

“But you do now?”

“I do.”

“Why now?”

I winked at him. “Bribery.”

His face lit up. “What’s the currency?”

“Snickerdoodles.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Tell me you didn’t call my mother.”

“I didn’t call your mother.”

“No, seriously. When did you talk to her?”

“I didn’t. I swear. Why?”

“Snickerdoodles are like heroin for me. I’m going to end up free-basing them in an alleyway someday, my life gone to ruins.”

“Morally and financially bankrupt?”

“Inevitably. I’m obsessed.”

“You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

I sighed deeply, sinking for a moment under the weight of my regrets. “I didn’t, did I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m on a self-improvement plan.”

“Is this the same as your Thigh Recovery Program?”

“Exactly the same, yes. Which worked, by the way.”

“I did notice that.”

“I’m going to take a systematic approach to my personality problems.”

“And your plan is?”

“I’m going to knock out my list of Top Ten Terrible Traits, one by one.”

“Sounds a little ambitious,” he said skeptically.

“I should be done by the time I’m, oh, eighty-five or so. About fifteen minutes after I die.”

“And in addition to that ambitious goal, apparently you intend to bake.”

“Not often. But occasionally. Now and again.”

“Now and again? You were really moving up in the rankings there for a minute.”

“It’s tough love, David. I mean, I don’t want to be an enabler. You’ve got an addiction. You need help.”

“I can’t believe you baked snickerdoodles. Of all the possible cookie choices out there. Are these alleged snickerdoodles for me, or is there, like, a bake sale at church?”

“They’re for you,” I said indignantly. “I made them personally, in my own oven. From scratch. With a recipe and everything.”

He took my hands. “Who told you I like snickerdoodles?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Let’s just say the information came from a reliable source.”

We stared at each other for an awkward moment.

“So,” he said at last.

“So?”

The two of us stood there for an eternity, looking at each other, the terrible unspoken question hanging in the air between us. Finally, he opened his arms, and I stepped into them. I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of him, and had my answer.

Tide with Bleach Alternative. Clean Breeze scent.

I was in.

An enterprise as unwieldy as a novel necessarily involves legions of supporters, most of whom I hope to thank here. I will inevitably forget someone, and for that, I blame myself and the mercury.

I’m indebted again to the good people of the Dallas Police Department Crimes Against Persons Division (CAPERS), Homicide Section, for their time and generosity. These are exceptional people, and I feel both privileged to know them and grateful that our city is in such capable hands.

Sergeants Larry Lewis and Eugene Reyes were kind enough once again to allow me access to their squads. Detectives Phil Harding, Robert Quirk, and Eddie Ibarra—fine professionals and even finer gentlemen—let me follow them around, answered hundreds of pesky questions and bought me lots of club soda at the dugout. I’m also grateful to Officer Chantell West of the Highland Park Police Department for letting me button-hole her and grill her for information. Any authenticity in the police-related elements of this story is due to the help of these wonderful individuals. Deliberate inaccuracies are mine, for the sake of the story.

Lieutenant Commander Doug Halter (U.S. Naval Reserve) provided details about airplanes, flight patterns and travel times. Pam Lindsay, MD, lent her medical expertise to the details of this story. Again—the authenticity is theirs, the mistakes mine.

I’m indebted to my agent, Lee Hough of Alive Communications, whose regard for my work and faithful advocacy on my behalf humbles me and spurs me forward. Lisa Taylor, my publicist—who has become my champion and my friend—is relentless in her quest to help my books find their way into the public eye. The good folks at Waterbrook-Multnomah, in particular Tiffany Lauer, Joel Kneedler, and Ken Peterson, stepped in at just the right moment to support this book. For that
I am deeply grateful. Mark Ford, who designed the cover, also deserves a mention, genius that he is. And Anne Buchannan, who edited this novel, has an eye for detail that I can only envy. Her time line alone had me slack-jawed. Thanks also to Julee Schwarzburg and Amy Partain for herding this book through the process. Good shepherds, both.

Dennis Ippolito (perhaps the most patient human in the universe) once again read and reread the manuscript as it evolved over time, offering his usual incisive suggestions. His endless forbearance and insight (and his enormous vocabulary—
fungible
, indeed) have been invaluable. Trish Murphy, a fellow writer and my sister in the fight, continues to supply encouragement, kinship, and plenty of fried chicken on the awful journey of the creative life. Our writing trips remain the lifeblood of my projects. I’d be lost without the synergy her winsome presence in my life provides.

The indefatigable members of the Waah Waah Sisterhood have listened to me whine for years now and yet remain steadfast, loyal friends. The staff at LifeWorks keeps the ship running while I’m absent or preoccupied with book-related tasks. Particular thanks to Harry Cates and Abbie Chesney for their efforts toward this end.

Thanks to Elizabeth Emerson and Christine Carberry for countless editing and proofing insights. Again their capacity for detail stuns me. (E-beth, will you organize my closet for me, please?)

And much thanks to my readers, who always seem to shoot me an encouraging e-mail just in the nick of time.

It should never be perfunctory, a writer’s thanks to the people who have helped a novel along its way. To those individuals mentioned here, much gratitude and Godspeed.

Here’s an excerpt from the first
Dylan Foster novel from Melanie Wells,
When the Day of Evil Comes
.
Available now
.

S
OMEONE SAID TO ME
that day, “It’s hotter than the eyes of hell out here.” I can’t remember who. Looking back, I wonder if it meant something, that phrase. Something more than a weather report. But as it was, I let the remark pass without giving it a thought. It was hot. Hotter than the eyes of hell. That was true enough.

If I’d known enough to be afraid, I would have been. But I was a thousand years younger then, it seems, and I didn’t know what was out there. To me, it seemed like an ordinary day.

I was making a rare appearance at a faculty event. I hate faculty events. Generally, truth be told, I hate any sort of event. Anything that involves pretending, in a preordained way, to like a bunch of people with whom I have something perfunctory in common. Faculty events fall into this category.