Marcia Muller: Locked In

“Okay. There’re two of them, both cases where the SFPD dropped the ball. Haven Dietz was the victim of a violent knifing attack a year ago that left her disfigured and with only partial use of her right arm. The other clients are the Peeples, Judy and Thomas. Their son, Larry, was gay. He disappeared suddenly six months ago. No satisfaction from the cops in either matter.”

Hy asked, “What’re the red flags?”

“Dietz and Peeples were friends, lived in the same building. He cared for her while she was recuperating. She was the one who recommended us to the parents. I sense there’s something she’s not telling me-about Peeples or her attacker.”

Adah said, “Let’s move on. Mick?”

“Have you heard of Celestina Gates?”

Hy shook his head.

“Identity-theft expert. Had a syndicated column and regularly appeared on national talk shows advising people how to safeguard themselves. Trouble is, two months ago her own identity was stolen. When the media got hold of the situation, they ridiculed her, questioned her credibility. The syndicate canceled her column, a book deal fell through, and the talk-show offers stopped coming in. Red flag is that I sense something wrong with the whole situation.”

“That’s it?” Hy asked.

“That’s it. But Shar would feel the same. When something’s off, we have similar instincts.”

Hy couldn’t debate that. Sharon had a shit detector that seldom failed her.

“Rae?” Adah said.

Rae Kelleher, the then-assistant whom Sharon had brought with her from All Souls Legal Cooperative when she established her own agency. Red-haired, freckled, blue-eyed, and petite. A part-time operative and author of three crime novels. Married to Mick’s father, Ricky Savage. Ricky and Rae were Hy’s and Sharon’s closest friends. No way she wouldn’t wade into this mess, ready to do anything she could to help.

“The Bay Area Victims’ Advocates is the client,” she said, looking directly into Hy’s eyes. “They’re concerned with getting solutions to unsolved crimes against women. This one’s a homicide, back-burnered by the SFPD. I’ll give you a copy of the file.”

“Thanks.”

Adah said, “Craig-your turn.”

Craig Morland was Adah’s significant other. A former special agent with the FBI, he’d become disillusioned with the federal agency and was eventually lured away from DC to San Francisco by Adah. When they’d first met, Craig had been a buttoned-down, shorn, and shaven man with-as Hy had characterized him-a stick up his ass. No one would confuse his former persona with that of the easygoing, tousled-haired, mustached man of today.

“I’m looking into corruption at city hall. Big-time chicanery, but I can’t yet figure out on whose part. My informant is very close with the information. Till I’ve gone into it further, I’d rather not reveal details.”

Hy said, “Hey, man, we’re talking about my wife getting shot.”

“And if it’s connected to this case, we’re talking about maybe more people getting shot. People close to us.” Craig paused. “I need a couple more days. Okay?”

Hy shrugged, suddenly feeling bone-tired.

The meeting broke up then, people standing and gathering their things as if on cue. Rae’s hand pressed his arm. “Come to our house and spend the night,” she said. “I know it’s hard to go home-especially with John there. John is not soothing when he’s angry.”

“That’s understating it.”

She urged him to his feet. “Lasagna and a feather bed-that’s what you need.”

“The hospital-”

“Will call you if there’s any change. Right now you come with me.”

He went. Lasagna and a feather bed sounded good. It would be better if he could share both with Shar, but that wasn’t going to happen.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

They had removed the tube from my mouth for good yesterday, and now were disconnecting the patches that connected me to the monitors from my arms, legs, and chest.

God, those are my lifelines! They’re going to kill me!

The voiceless scream rose. Subsided when someone said, “Okay, let’s get her onto the gurney.”

Being lifted. Moved sideways. Down onto a harder surface. Tugging of blankets. Clicking of strap connectors.

Where are they taking me? More tests?

I struggled to make my vocal cords work. Couldn’t.

I tried to raise my arm. Couldn’t.

Clumsy maneuvering through a door. Then swift forward motion, wheels bumping over uneven spots on the floor. Acoustical ceiling and fluorescents passing overhead. Automatic door noise, and then…

Fresh air. Cool and faintly salt-tinged.

I’m outside!

Another voice: “We’ll take her from here.” A face appeared above me-male, smooth, young. “Ms. McCone,” he said, “if you can hear me, I’m Andy with the Sequoia Ambulance Service. We’re taking you to the Brandt Neurological Institute.”

Oh, right. Where Hy told the doctor he was having me transferred. The terror subsided, and I blinked my eyelids, but Andy had looked away. “It’s only a twenty-minute trip,” he added, “and we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

Why does he sound as if he doesn’t believe I can understand a word he says?

Will somebody please look at me and see I’m still here?

Weariness washed over me and I slept.

Cool light. Blue walls. Scent of fresh-cut flowers. A window. And beyond it a thick stand of eucalyptus.

I love eucalyptus. I wish the window were open so I could smell them. But this floral scent… what…?

I tried to look around, but from the way the bed was positioned I couldn’t see much more of the room. Looked up. Suspended from the overhead track was a stainless steel contraption that looked like an elaborate, multi-barbed fishhook. An IV bag was suspended from it, as well as a container of a brownish liquid.

Alone? Yes, I can tell by the quality of the silence.

Tired. So tired. Was it yesterday that Hy said it had been ten days? Ten whole days since I’d been in a coma, then weak and helpless?

No, admit it-paralyzed.

But not in a coma. I can think, see, hear, breathe, and feel. I just can’t move or speak.

Just? That’s everything!

Got to find some way to let them know.

Got to!

Someone coming into the room. Hand on my forehead. Hy.

“We’re at the Brandt Institute, McCone,” he said. “I just met your new neurosurgeon. They’re going to do everything they can to help you.”

Don’t stand over to the side. Look at my face!

“It’s a nice place, out on Jackson Street, near the Presidio. Nice people, too.”

Look at me, dammit!

“First thing tomorrow they’re going to run some more brain scans and try to get an accurate diagnosis. Then…” He fell silent for a few seconds.

“Hell, McCone, if you could hear me, you’d know I’m clutching at straws here. There’s so much they don’t know about the brain, and I know even less. God, I can’t…”

He was crying. I’d seldom known him to cry.

He moved around, bent over, and buried his face on my shoulder. His body shook and his tears wet my hospital gown. I wanted to hold him, and I couldn’t move. Comfort him, and I had no words.

After a moment, he raised his head and looked straight into my eyes.

I blinked at him, moved my eyes up and down.

He drew back, astonishment and hope brightening his drawn features. Gently he reached out to touch my face.

“You’re here with me!” he said.