The Other Side of Dark (7 page)

I nearly stumble, trying to keep up with him. The corridor turns, and I begin to realize that we’re going in the wrong direction. We’re heading toward what must be a back door to this building because in the upper half of the door is one of those crinkly-looking opaque glass windows, and I can see light shining through the window.

I grab his arm with my other hand, tugging and yelling, “Stop!”

When we’re almost at the back door, he does stop, so suddenly it throws me off-balance. I bang into the wall, and the only reason I remain upright is that he’s still hanging onto my arm. His eyes dart to each side as he nervously looks at the row of closed doors. “Don’t make so much noise,” he says.

“Let go of me!” I try to kick his leg, but he jumps aside.

His face is close to mine. I can smell the salty sweat on his forehead. “Hey, hold on. You’ll get me in trouble if you don’t shut up.”

As I open my mouth wide to scream he claps a hand over it and in a low voice says, “Listen to me, will you? I’ll get twenty bucks from one of the reporters if I bring you to the back door. The guy just wants to ask you a couple of questions and get a picture of you. That’s all. You don’t have to say much if you don’t want. Okay? I mean I can really use the twenty bucks.”

He takes his hand away from my mouth, and I spit and rub the back of my left hand over my lips, trying to wipe away the taste of his fingers.

“Well?” he asks.

“I don’t think a reporter would do that.”

“Look, who asks questions? Twenty bucks is twenty bucks.” He smiles, as though he were trying to put me at ease; but his eyes narrow, and for an instant he looks away. I think he’s lying.

Suddenly the knob of the back door rattles, and I look up to see a shadow through the glass. The door is locked, so the person on the other side gives up and presses against the glass, trying to see through it. The
glass distorts his face into a monstrous blob with squashed nose and two dark spots for eyes. Can he see me? Those dark spots shift and seem to be staring in my direction. The doorknob rattles again.

I yell at the top of my lungs, and now my kick connects with one of Monty’s shins. He shouts an obscenity and grabs his leg. Two doors fly open, and people crowd into the corridor, squeezing behind and around each other, squishing Monty against the wall, where he squirms and struggles like a beetle on its back.

Maybe I don’t make much sense, but I shout at everyone about what happened. The policeman arrives and dashes through the back door, but he comes back to say that whoever was at the door has got away. He grips the back of Monty’s neck and marches him off.

Someone has an arm around my shoulders and is trying to calm me down. People are demanding, “What did she say? What happened?” But a loud, firm voice shatters the confusion.

“Now!” Mrs. Montez says, clapping her hands into the silence. “We are already well off schedule, and I will have no more of this silly chitchat in the corridor. We will all get back to work. Stacy, you come with me.”

I follow her through a room that connects with one of the major hallways. Rubbing my arm where the orderly had held it, I ask, “If the man outside the door was
a reporter, he would have stayed, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have run.”

“Don’t think about it,” Mrs. Montez says without breaking her rapid pace. “That is the policeman’s job. Your job is to pay close attention to what I will show and tell you.”

We march into a room that is like a small health club with all sorts of exercise equipment, some of which I recognize, some of which I’ve never seen before.

“Did I use any of this?” I ask her.

“Of course,” she answers. “How does your hip feel?”

“Alice says it looks good.”

“I didn’t ask how it looks to Alice. I asked how it feels to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Very good, Stacy. Then hop on the bicycle.”

There is no question but that she should be obeyed. I can’t imagine anyone ever questioning her authority. I begin to pedal, and she sets a timer. She acts like the queen of the world, but she’s really not so bad. I can tell that she’s made a shell to hide in so that people can’t see that she really cares. But I look at the warmth in her eyes, and I know she does care. I pedal a little faster and glance at her and smile.

And I do pay close attention to what Mrs. Montez tells me. She’s arranged for the loan of an exercise bicycle and insists that I also walk at least a mile or two a day. Believe me, I’m going to keep doing the exercises and stay in good shape because I’ve got a lot to do. First on my list: As soon as I can see the face of the guy with
the gun and they catch him, I’m going to make sure he’s convicted of murder.

The policeman comes by to report. Whoever was at the back door of the clinic was probably an inexperienced reporter who chickened out when the fuss began. Lots of apologies that I was upset, and please don’t worry. No real problem, except for the orderly, who was in big trouble with the clinic manager.

I nod and make all the right answers, but something at the back of my mind keeps nagging uncomfortably that the orderly’s answers were too easy. I don’t believe it was a reporter. Why would a reporter use such sneaky tactics to meet me? But who else would it be?

Dad arrives to check me out soon after I get back to my room. Dr. Peterson joins us, and Alice comes in to help me pack. I am starting to get a little shaky, thinking about what it will be like to be back in our own house without Mom there too, when the phone rings. It’s Detective Markowitz.

“They told me you were checking out. Will you be able to come downtown this morning to look through some mug shots?”

“Do you think that will help me remember?”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Then, I’ll be there.”

“Ask your father,” he tells me, so I do.

Dad takes the receiver and talks to Markowitz. Then he turns to me. “Are you up to all this, Stacy? It’s going to be an emotional strain.”

I stand as tall as I can. “I can do it. I have to do it. I hate him.”

“Hate isn’t the answer, Stacy. It won’t solve anything.”

“It will send the murderer to prison. That’s all I care about.”

“There are other things to care about,” Dad says, but then Norma and one of the other nurses crowd into the room to say good-bye and interrupt him. I hear Dad tell Markowitz he’ll take me home first, then bring me to the downtown station. I gather up the rest of my things, wad them into a small suitcase Dad has brought, and say good-bye to the nurses and to Dr. Peterson.

“Take it easy, Stacy,” Dr. Peterson says, and suddenly wraps me in an awkward hug.

I wish he hadn’t. When he releases me, I stare at the floor and hope nobody notices my cheeks are hot. “He hugged me. Really!” I’ll tell Jan, who thought he was gorgeous. But I suddenly remember that the Jan I want to tell doesn’t exist anymore.

I just stumble close to Dad and hang onto his arm as Dr. Peterson smiles and says, “I’ll see you in two weeks, Stacy. Just change the gauze pad on the incision each day, and call me if you have any problems.”

We’re met outside the front door of the clinic by a couple of reporters and cameramen. For a moment I can only stare at them.

“Not now,” Dad says. He makes a shooing motion with the arm I’m not clinging to. “Stacy has nothing to say to you now.”

We make a dash for the car.

Dad and I don’t talk much on the way home. I can tell that he’s trying hard to think of just the right things to say, and I am, too, so our wary words back off and
circle each other. We make sense, but that’s all you can say for our conversation.

I enter the front door of our house and walk past the living room back to the den. For a few moments I stand with one hand braced against the top of Dad’s reclining chair. Everything looks the same. I wish it had changed. I wish someone had painted the walls blue, or bought a new chair, or put flowered pillows on the sofa—anything to make it different. It’s just the way it was when Mom was here. Only Mom isn’t here now, and she won’t be back.

I glance around the room. “Where’s Pansy?”

“Oh,” Dad says, “I guess I forgot to tell you. Pansy just, well, disappeared last year. She was getting old. She—” He gulps, looking miserable, and quickly adds, “The Coopers have a cat that’s going to have kittens soon. Maybe you’d like one of her kittens. We could ask. People usually want to get rid of—”

“Who are the Coopers?”

“They live next door, in the Hadleys’ house. The Hadleys moved to Dallas a little over a year ago. You’ll like the Coopers. They’re a nice family. Three little girls.”

I move to the window, studying the backyard, which is deep in the ragged color of spring. The grass needs mowing, and the althea bush is spewing limbs of lavender blossoms with abandon. The pink and white geraniums have overgrown their bed, and the confederate jasmine vine on the back fence waves loose tendrils in the breeze as though it were deranged.

In the large oak rests the funny little shack of boards, with its open door and oddly shaped windows,
that Donna and I so carefully hammered together—with a little help from Dad. It had been my sanctuary, my quiet place, so many times in the past. I suddenly want to climb the oak and curl up in the tree house now. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in the tree house,” I murmur to myself.

But Dad is standing next to me and hears. “Don’t climb up there, Stacy. It isn’t safe now. One of the supporting limbs broke off in a storm, and the whole thing could come crashing down. I should have taken it apart long ago, but I just don’t seem to have enough time.”

I take his hand. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s not your fault, honey!” He suddenly brightens. “I’ve been talking to Donna and Dennis, and well, how would you like it if we set a date for all of us to drive down to Padre Island for a weekend? We know how much you always loved Padre Island. Remember? We used to go every year. I think it will be nice to have a family outing, don’t you?”

The last thing I want to do is go to Padre Island. It holds too many memories, but Dad is looking so uncomfortable, so hopeful, that I smile and say, “Sure.”

A worry wrinkle flickers on and off across his forehead as he asks me over and over again if I’m sure I’ll be all right.

“I’m fine. Honest, I’m okay,” I tell him. “Let’s go see those mug books. The sooner the better.”

It doesn’t take long to get to Riesner Street, and on the way I gawk out the car window like a tourist. Downtown Houston is a collection of sharp-edged, shining
new buildings which stretch high over their old, ornate brick neighbors like a collection of slender giants and chunky munchkins. Much of what I see is new to me, but the police station squats in a very old part of town and looks as though it had been there forever. Dad parks in the lot in front of the station. I climb from the car and stand there, staring at the building. All sorts of people are bustling in and out of the front doors.

“Would you rather go home?” Dad asks, and I realize that I’m visibly trembling.

I just shake my head and, clutching Dad’s hand, blindly follow him into the building and across the lobby with its olive green asphalt-tile floors. There is a sudden crush of bodies as we enter the central room. Someone pushes against me. The shoulder of his plaid shirt is damp and sour with sweat as it rubs against my cheek. A woman who is bulging in her faded cotton dress follows the man, swinging sharp elbows and talking all the while in rapid Spanish. She treads on my toes.

“Ouch!” I mutter, and stare after her, but she’s unaware of anything but her own problem. Beyond her two men are talking. A man in a business suit has his back to me, and a tall, light-haired guy, who is probably close to my age, faces me. For a second our eyes meet, but a fat character in khakis, puffing, muttering, and pushing between us, follows his protruding stomach through the crowd. An elderly woman and man come through one of the doors, clinging to each other, looking terrified. Are all these people here because they’re in some kind of trouble?

“This way,” Dad says. He leads me into the elevator
and up to the second floor. Just down the hall is the homicide room and Detective Markowitz’s office.

Markowitz tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his face. “Air conditioner went out yesterday. Hot weather, even for Houston. Feels like midsummer already.” He gives me one of those searching looks and asks, “Ready to get to work, Stacy?”

“I’m ready.”

Markowitz seats me at a table at one side of the room and places five huge scrapbooks in front of me. Dad sits at the table next to me. “Take your time,” Markowitz says. “Look at each face carefully. I’ll be working here in the room most of the time. If you think you recognize the face in one of those photos, just call me.”

“Okay,” I tell him, and open the first scrapbook.

At first I’m hopeful, but by the time I’ve gone through the third book I’m discouraged. When I finish the fifth, I slam it shut with a groan.

Markowitz comes to the table. “No luck?”

“His picture’s not in those books.”

“Maybe it’s there, but you can’t remember him.”

Dad stands up, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor. “I think this is enough for now. Stacy needs to get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” I insist, but Markowitz looks at Dad and nods.

“She might need a little more time,” he says. “Let’s put it on the shelf for a few days.”

“I’m going to remember,” I tell them.

“I’m counting on it,” Markowitz says. “But I’d like
to wait and have you remember the face naturally, instead of forcing your memory.”

“How do you mean,
forcing
it?”

He looks at Dad again, then back at me. “Well, for one thing, I’ve given some thought to trying hypnosis.”

“That’s a great idea!” I grab Dad’s arm. “Can you do it?”

“We’ve got some people in the department who are trained to hypnotize, and there are a number of M.D.s who can do it. But there’s a big problem, and that is, it doesn’t always hold up in court.”

“But if I could remember—”

He shakes his head. “I’d like to catch this guy and see that he’s put away so carefully there won’t be any technicalities for a sharp lawyer to use like a key to get him out. Understand?”