Megan's Cure (2 page)

Chapter 3

San Francisco

AS HE CAME through the door, Enzo Lee heard the click of the automatic switch and then the fluorescent fixtures in the hospital room snapped on flooding the room with light.

“God,” he thought.
 
“How does anyone sleep in here?”

Yet, the two small mounds curled up under the pale blankets in each of the two beds in the room were proof that you could, at least if you were sufficiently sick.
 
The curled shape nearest the door was Lee’s grandmother.
 
The other was another woman, also in her 80s and Chinese, as were virtually all of the patients at this facility in San Francisco’s Chinatown.

 
Christian missionaries had founded the Chinese Hospital in the early 1900s when the denizens of Chinatown were banned from San Francisco hospitals – even during epidemics of bubonic plague and other serious diseases.
 
Those racial restrictions had lapsed over the decades but the facility survived as a mainstay of the community, particularly for the elderly with limited English and little experience with modern western medicine.

At first, Lee’s grandmother’s symptoms had been hard to distinguish from the aches and pains of old age.
 
But finally, the weight loss, fragile skin that bled from minor scratches and the recurrent fevers had convinced his grandmother at Lee’s urging to seek advice beyond that offered by Chinese pharmacists and acupuncturists.
 
The blood work quickly confirmed what her internist had suspected from the outset.
 
She had leukemia and the cancer was already starting to spread to her lymph nodes, spleen and liver.

Over the past two months, he had witnessed her battle with all of its swings: Feeling energetic and upbeat one day and then exhausted, nauseous and depressed the next.
 
Lee had seen her lose her hair, even more precious weight and, at times, perhaps even her desire to live.
 
He had often questioned why they were struggling so hard to keep her alive when the net result in all probability was giving her just a few more months of painful life.

But then she would wake up one morning with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.
 
She was her old self.
 
Master Chu, Lee’s long-time tai chi instructor who had married his grandmother 18 months ago, would join them for a walk outside in the fleeting warmth of the San Francisco afternoon.
 
Lee would push the chair and he could see his grandmother lean her head back as she soaked up the sunlight like a malnourished houseplant.
 
Then he knew he would do everything he could to keep her with him as long as possible.

A lean six-footer with wavy black hair carrying the first traces of gray, Lee was still getting accustomed to listing his age with a “4” at the beginning. He had spent his entire working career as a newspaper reporter, moving from job to job on the East Coast before returning to his hometown four years earlier.
 
His mother was Chinese.
 
His father, Scottish-Italian, had died when Lee was young.
 
His mother, who raised him in Chinatown, had passed away six years ago.
 
Now he considered his grandmother and Master Chu his only close family.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and caught the familiar scent.
 
Mostly floral – maybe jasmine – with a hint of musk.
 
He knew the smell well now and it made him smile as he turned and saw Dr. Ming Wah Choy, trim in her white lab coat and stylish pumps, standing beside him in the doorway.
 
She was in her mid-30s with shoulder-length hair, prominent cheekbones and the most perfect lips he had ever seen on a woman.
 
Lee liked the way Choy’s eyes smiled when she grinned at him.

“You’re here early,” she said in her slight British accent, a holdover from her Hong Kong roots.
 

“So are you,” said Lee.
 
“I’m driving to Napa for an interview this morning.
 
What’s your excuse?”

“Softball practice,” said Dr. Choy.
 
“The first of the season so I need to leave on time tonight.”

“I play softball,” said Lee.
 
“What’s your position?”

“Pitcher,” said Dr. Choy.
 
“Sorry.
 
It’s a women’s league.
 
You can come and watch us though.”
 
She shrugged her shoulders apologetically as she stepped across the room and stood next to his grandmother.
 
She inspected the intravenous line and bent down to get a closer look at the displays on the monitors behind the bed.

As if sensing her presence, Lee’s grandmother stirred, stretching out her legs a little.
 
She blinked sleepily a few times and then was able to focus on Dr. Choy as the physician moved closer to her and bent her face down.

“Mrs. Chen,” said the doctor.
 
“Good morning.
 
Look who is here.
 
Your grandson.”

Lee stepped closer to the bed as Dr. Choy moved back until they were standing side by side in front of Lee’s grandmother.

She looked at them for several moments, lifting her head off her pillow.
 
She wore a pink and blue knit hat that looked as if someone had stitched the top of a French beret to the bottom of a ski cap. Lee knew the hat was more to hide her baldness than for warmth.
 
His grandmother returned her head to her pillow and smiled at them dreamily.
 

“Such a pretty couple,” she said, closing her eyes.

Lee and Dr. Choy looked at each other.
 
Lee winked and flashed a quick smile.
 
His grandmother had been trying to set him up with her oncologist for the past two months.
 
He knew that it was a good sign whenever her matchmaking instincts kicked in.
 
It meant she was feeling better – more energetic.
 
She probably was in for a couple of good days.

“You’ve slept too long, Grandma,” said Lee.
 
“Ming Wah and I are married and have three children.
 
The oldest is only five and has already been accepted to Yale.”

“He’s such a brat,” said Dr. Choy, playing along.
 
“But, a very smart one.
 
Jonas will make a very good doctor.”

“Writer!” said Lee. “And his middle name is ‘Faulkner.’”

Her eyes still closed, Lee’s grandmother smiled happily as she slowly shook her head and drifted back to sleep.

Chapter 4

THE TRAILER HAD started out pure white but was covered now in a thick layer of brown-red dust.
 
Two identical trailers stood nearby in a lot that had been cleared of debris just a day or two before FEMA brought in the temporary living quarters.

Chief Davidson walked up the four steps to the landing of the small, movable staircase.
 
It was made of plywood and painted gray.
 
His footsteps sounded like muffled drumbeats.
 
The silver metal door was ajar.

Through the opening, a small child popped into view.
 
The little boy stood a couple yards back from the doorway.
 
Skinny, tanned and clothed only in a disposable diaper in the afternoon’s damp warmth, the kid tilted his head curiously at Davidson as he sucked steadily on a pacifier.
 
His mouth was hidden by the white plastic circle with a raised yellow button in the middle.
 
Maybe it was supposed to represent the sun.

The kid looked so focused and serious that Davidson almost directed his first question at him.

“C’mon.
 
Get serious,” the police chief said to himself.
 
“He’s barely two.
 
Still in diapers.”
 
Plus, it looked as if it would take a crowbar to pry the pacifier loose.

Instead, Davidson gave the metal door three sharp raps with his knuckles.

“Hello,” he said in a loud voice.
 
“Missus Kim?
 
Police department.”

He heard footsteps.
 
Then, the door was pulled open by a slight Asian man wearing a white undershirt and old khaki pants a size too big.
 
He looked in his early 30s.
 
His teeth were a mess.
 
Davidson immediately thought of his son, a junior at Ole Miss.
 
Six extractions, three years in braces and $8,000 had fixed him.
 
This guy probably needed a lot more than that.

“Chief Davidson,” he said, gesturing to the badge on his shirt.
 
“And, you are?”

“Billy Kim,” the man said.
 
“Her cousin.
 
I live here, too, with my family.”
 
He nodded at the boy in diapers who had retreated two steps but still regarded Davidson with an impressive intensity.

“I get,” said Billy Kim.
 
He opened the door further, gestured toward a small dining table just inside the door with four chairs around it and padded down a hallway covered in thin blue carpeting toward the opposite end of the trailer.
 
Davidson had been in a few of them and knew the basic layout.
 
Two bedrooms and a single bath with a shower.
 
Fake wood paneling everywhere.
 
It was designed for four but you could squeeze in six without camping out in the living room if you didn’t mind sleeping with your kids.

Davidson heard them at the other end of the trailer.
 
Was it Cantonese?
 
At least it sounded similar to the various Cantonese dialects he occasionally heard.
 
But what did he know? Linguistics weren’t his strong point.
 
He liked to say he spoke Southern and non-Southern.
 
It could have been Vietnamese or Laotian for all he knew.
 

The woman who trailed Billy Kim was thin and looked tired.
 
She wore white polyester pants and a red short-sleeved shirt with a diamond pattern.
 
Her hair was long and hung straight down.
 
The left side of her face was lightly scarred, perhaps from acne when she was young or some other skin disease.
 
Her knuckles were red and her hands worn.
 
Davidson guessed she was someone who had worked hard all of her life.
 
She looked over 40 but could have been closer to 30.

When she sat down with her cousin across from Davidson, Mary Kim positioned herself to face Billy and stared down at her hands.
 
She shrank away from the police chief as if he was a bright flame throwing off too much heat.
 
If he made a sudden move, Mary Kim looked as if she might jump out the window.

Davidson had gotten accustomed to similar reactions over the past few weeks.
 
It had started when the federal immigration agents began periodic sweeps through the bars, restaurants, seafood plants and even selected homes in the area.
 
They were mainly looking for immigrants with criminal records but the sweeps had terrified anyone who had padded the truth – even if just adding a non-existent job skill – on their applications to enter the country.
 
Davidson suspected many if not most of the Asian immigrants in his town fell into this category.
 
The police chief had nothing to do with immigration but he was the face of law enforcement.
 
Lately he’d seen people turn and disappear into the trees when they saw him coming.
 

 
“Missus Kim,” began Davidson.

“Mary,” she said, still looking away from him.

“Mary,” repeated the chief.
 
“You know why I’m here.
 
It’s about your daughter, Megan.”

Billy Kim translated rapidly and Mary Kim nodded toward her cousin as he spoke.

“We’ve searched the neighborhood and interviewed the people who live in the immediate area,” said Davidson. “No one saw her leave or saw anyone suspicious…or a stranger…except for her friend, Lucy.”

He waited for the translation and Mary Kim’s slight nod.

“Lucy thinks Megan was talking to an older man, a white man maybe in his 50s,” he continued.
 
He noticed that Billy Kim used “American” to describe the mystery man.

“He had white hair, sort of sticking out.”
 
The police chief put his hands on either side of
 
his nearly hairless head and made a motion as if pulling out tufts.
 

“Lucy thought maybe he had on a blue work shirt and brown pants,” Davidson said. “She wasn’t sure.” He waited for the translation and another nod.

“Do you know anyone who looks like that?” he asked.
 

A head shake.
 

“Do you know why Megan would willingly leave school to go with someone like that?”

 
Another head shake.

Davidson waited for a few moments.
 
He flipped through his notebook as if looking for something.
 
But, he was really just delaying.
 
He had found that the best information often spills into an awkward silence when people get uncomfortable and search for something to fill it.

Mary said something to Billy.
 
It took several seconds.
 
Billy nodded his head as she spoke.
 
Then, he turned to Davidson.

“She says Megan is very smart,” he said.
 
“Very smart for her age.
 
Not just in school but outside, too.
 
She not leave with stranger.
 
Only if reason.
 
Very good reason.”
 
Mary nodded as Billy finished.

Davidson got the best phone numbers for Billy and Mary Kim.
 
Hers was at a nail salon in nearby Mobile where she worked during the days.
 
As he stood up to leave, she looked at him directly for the first time.
 
For a moment, at least, parental concern overrode her fear of the lawman.

“Please,” she said in English.
 
“Please.
 
You go.
 
Find Megan.”

“I’ll try, Missus Kim,” he said.
 
“I’ll try.”
 
As he said it, Davidson was counting the hours since Megan Kim had disappeared from her school.
 
At least five.
 
Within the first two hours she could have left Alabama and been in Louisiana or Mississippi to the west, or Florida to the east.
 
By now, she could even be in Georgia or near the Tennessee border.
 
She could be a mile away or 300.
 

He had already sent out an initial bulletin to all the law enforcement agencies in the area.
 
He would expand the reach now, adding more details about what Megan was wearing.
 
He had a photo from the school he could include.
 
Where had she gone?
 
Why had she gone?
 
If she had fought, some other kid in that school yard would have seen it.
 
He prayed she still was alive.

“Where the hell are you, Megan?” said Davidson softly as he steadied himself on the handrail and clumped down the stairs from the trailer door to the red dirt crisscrossed with hardened tire tracks.
 
He got to his cruiser and then turned back.

The little boy in the diaper was standing on the landing facing him.
 
Suddenly, the pacifier shot out of his mouth and arced in Davidson’s direction for a fraction of a second before falling toward the ground.
 
The kid stared at Davidson.
 
He looked mad.
 
The chief half expected the kid to flip him the bird.
 
Instead, both of his hands shot up in the air and he shrieked.

“Eeeee.”

Then, he spun around, raced back into the trailer and slammed the door.
 
It hit so hard it made the trailer shake.