David Jackson - Pariah

‘I don’t understand,’ the nurse says.

Doyle keeps the phone and ID, and tosses the rest back into the tray. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. You’ve been had. We’ve all been had.’

He heads out of the room, Nadine once again following at his heels like an adopted puppy.

‘Cal, wait. If that’s not Rachel, then where the hell is she?’

He has no answer. The relief he feels is tempered by the fact that he still doesn’t know that Rachel and Amy are safe. His mind races to come up with ideas for locating them.

His cellphone rings. He removes it from his pocket and looks at it. It’s not a number that’s stored in the phone’s address book. He answers it.

‘Hello?’

‘Cal? Is that you?’

He stops, Nadine almost crashing into his back.

‘Rachel? RACHEL?’

‘Cal, where are you?’

‘I. . I’m at Bellevue Hospital.’

‘Yes, but where? And why have you got your cellphone? Are you okay? You sound-’

‘Yes, I’m okay. Where are you?’

‘I’m at Bellevue too, but I can’t find you. I’ve had everyone looking for you.’

Doyle brings his free hand to his forehead. This conversation is making absolutely no sense to him. Why shouldn’t he have his cellphone?

He looks up at the people milling around him. A short bald man carrying flowers and trying to figure out which way to go. A young man pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. A small child in a fur-trimmed duffel coat, a pink balloon tied to her wrist.

‘Cal?’

The little girl stares at him, smiles. .

‘Cal? Are you there?’

. . and then she runs. She comes straight at him. Her face radiates sunshine and daisies and moonbeams and castles and fairies as she dodges around the short bald man and the old lady in the wheelchair, and she is opening her mouth and shouting something, one word over and over, a word that means everything to Doyle, a word that puts the world back on its axis and the stars in their rightful places, and that word is. .

‘Daddy!’

He bends at the knees, ready to scoop up the incoming human missile, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of somebody else at the payphones. A woman, turning to check on her child, staring in disbelief at what she sees. Such a familiar figure to Doyle. Such a part of him.

Rachel!

And as he gathers Amy up into his arms and whirls her around, he checks his wife on each rotation, sees her come closer and closer, until she too becomes swallowed up in the maelstrom and they all spin around together, hugging and kissing and laughing and crying and oblivious to what is beyond their reach.

When they settle, when they calm, and some of the love has been doled out to Nadine too, there are answers to be sought.

Rachel says, ‘God, Cal, I thought you were dead. When they couldn’t find you-’

‘Who? Who couldn’t find me?’

‘The nurses. I was told you were in the ICU, but they didn’t know anything about you. They tried the operating rooms, and there was no sign of you there either. I didn’t know what to-’

Doyle takes hold of her upper arms. ‘Slow down, Rach. Rewind this a little. Who told you I was in the ICU?’

Rachel takes a breath. ‘I got a phone call tonight. It was a really crackly line, and the guy sounded foreign — Indian or Pakistani or something — so it was really hard to understand what he was saying. He said he was a doctor at Bellevue, and that you’d been brought in with gunshot wounds to the chest. He said you were in a pretty bad way, that it was touch and go whether. . whether. .’

She breaks down then. Doyle wraps her in his arms, whispers reassurances to her as she sobs into his chest. Over her shoulder, he looks at Nadine, then nods toward Amy and the hospital exit. Nadine gets the message, takes Amy by the hand and starts to lead her out of the building.

Amy says, ‘Why is Mommy crying?’

Nadine answers, ‘She’s just happy to see your Daddy, sweetie. Come on, let’s go see if we can find the car.’

When they have gone, Rachel surfaces again. ‘What’s this all about, Cal? Did someone make a mistake?’

Doyle shakes his head. ‘It was deliberate. Somebody’s idea of fun. I was told you were hurt too. Bastard beat up an innocent woman and left these on her.’ He takes the cellphone and driver’s license from his pocket.

Rachel gapes at the items. ‘I’ve been looking for those! I was convinced I put them in the car’s glove compartment this morning. When I went to get them later on, they were gone. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.’

‘He must have broken into the car somehow, looking for things that belonged to you.’

‘Who, Cal? Who the hell would play such a cruel trick on us?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

‘What about the woman? The one who got beat up? Couldn’t she tell you anything?’

Doyle looks at her, biting his lip. His vision suddenly blurs, and he blinks it away.

Rachel says, ‘Oh, God, Cal! She’s dead? And you thought it was. . Oh, Jesus!’

She latches onto him again, pulling herself as close as she can get. He savors the intimacy while he can. There are other things he needs to say to her.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

They head toward the exit, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her safe against him, wishing he could be her protector forever.

She doesn’t suspect yet, he thinks. She doesn’t know what’s coming.

He hears footsteps hurrying along the corridor behind him.

‘Mr Doyle! Mr Doyle!’

He turns, and Rachel turns with him. He takes her hand in his, and waits for the caller to catch up with them.

Nurse Lynley stops in front of them. Her eyes slide to Rachel, then back to Doyle.

‘This is-’

‘My wife, yes.’

The nurse nods at this final and undeniable confirmation of the mistaken identity. ‘Mr Doyle, I’m so sorry. We try to be as careful as we can about identifying victims. It’s just that-’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re not to blame. I don’t plan to file a complaint or sue the hospital or anything.’

In gratitude, she flashes the briefest of smiles. ‘Mr Doyle, would I be right in thinking that you’re a detective?’

Doyle stares back into her green eyes, looking for a hint of mysticism that helped her divine that particular piece of information.

‘Yes, I am. How did you. .’

‘There was something else on the victim. It fell from her clothing when she was brought in. An orderly left it at the reception desk.’

Nurse Lynley dips into a capacious pocket on her uniform. Doyle knows what her hand will contain even before it’s withdrawn.

A white envelope. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ on its face.

Doyle takes the offering, thanks the nurse. He feels the familiar turmoil in his stomach.

She says, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here, and maybe you’d prefer not to tell me. Maybe you’d prefer not to talk about this to anybody. But there’s a woman back there who is now a murder victim. The thing you need to know is-’

‘The hospital has to make a police report, I know. And you’ll have to mention my connection with all this. I understand.’

She shows another hint of a smile, grateful to him for not making this difficult for her.

‘I’m glad you’ve found your wife. Goodbye, Detective.’

She turns then, and goes briskly back to her business. Doyle gazes down at the envelope, knowing that he can’t delay in opening it.

‘What is it?’ Rachel asks.

‘The son of a bitch has been sending me anonymous messages. This is his latest. His chance to gloat.’

Doyle rips open the envelope and unfolds the note it contains.