| |
––––––––
SEPTEMBER NAVIGATED the sharp turn toward Gentry Park, watching for Pam’s Jeep. Her cell phone rang in her pocket, and she swerved to a stop. If it was April, she could always ask about the bloody clothes. Yeah, right, like that will happen. More likely it was Lizzie with more threats, but while she was wishing, why not hope they’d found Steven.
She dug for the phone without shedding her gloves. September fumbled Steven’s empty prescription bottles before she found the phone. Caller ID said Humphrey Fish.
“Give me a freakin’ break.” She didn’t need his crap, so she answered the call before it could go to voicemail and immediately disconnected. September tossed the phone next to the pills and laptop in the seat, pulling back onto the street.
The phone rang. Fish again. “Sheesh, can’t you take a hint?” This time she let it go to voicemail. She’d delete it later.
The phone rang a third time. She needed a clear line for important calls. She punched the Phone, waited for the connection and yelled, “It’s not a good time. Quit calling.” September hung up before he could say a word.
The phone rang again immediately.
“Am I speaking Norwegian? What does a bad time mean to you?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“You’re tying up the phone.
“Did you find Steven?”
She paused. “No.” She didn’t have time to explain, didn’t want him involved. There was no time to waste, especially with a headlines-grabber like Fish. “I need to keep this line clear.”
“I called your sister’s house, and a cop answered, somebody named Officer Combs. So cut the bull. If you’re in trouble, let me help. I’ve only got another minute or so, I put on a long-play record and told the engineer I needed a potty break.”
She watched the rear view mirror for police cars, but the roads remained deserted. “What do you want, Fish? How can you help from the radio station?”
“The cops want you, September. They didn’t know about you before. My bad.”
“What do you mean, they didn’t know about me?” So Doug Childress would come late to that party, if Fish had already outed her. Combs. . . why was that name familiar? “What did you tell them?”
“Just that you got a call during the radio show from your sister about the lost kid.” He couldn’t mask the delight in his next words. “The phones rang off the hook after that. I could use more on-air drama like that.” He hesitated. “That’s not to say I’m not genuinely worried about the little fella.”
What a bozo. “Nice chatting but I’m seriously busy.” She started to cut the connection.
“September, don’t hang up. You need me. Let me help.”
She held the phone up to her ear. “You just want the scoop, Fish. And that’s low even for you.”
“You got me all wrong. Sure, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings to bump my image. Heartland isn’t exactly a primetime market. Radio’s dead anyway. It’s a starter-job, or you land here at the end of a career. I need a facelift, a ticket out.”
“And Steven’s story would be your ticket.”
“Shit, don’t be that way. I care about kids, too. And small, furry Disney-esque creatures.”
She didn’t have time for this crap.
“Who went to bat for you for your little animal show? Sure wasn’t the big muckity-mucks. We needed some warm and fuzzy and you were just the ticket.”
“You? No way.” She pulled back onto the road.
“Way. Listen, you need help, don’t deny it. I’m sitting here toasty while you play slip-n-slide with the cops.”
Her tires skidded as if to confirm his taunt. Fish had a point. And he wasn’t the police. Sure, the man always had an angle, but if their different goals had a mutual benefit, what could it hurt?
“Okay, Humphrey. I’ll give you the story if you give me a hand. But you have to promise not to take this public. Or go to the police.”
“You’re killing me.” He sounded like a child threatening a tantrum. “What if they come to me? You already opened that door bailing in the middle of the show. Listeners already heard that.”
“What’s done is done. But not another word unless I give you the okay. You could get someone killed.”
“Killed? Really? Don’t tease.” He sounded delighted, and then the teasing lilt disappeared. “Wait, you’re not joking? Jesus-frog, September, what the hell is going on?”
September inhaled sharply. “What did the police say?”
“Nothing much. I’ve listened to the scanner, though. They found a woman dead at your sister’s house.” He hesitated, his concern real. “Tell me it’s not your sister.”
“No, not April.” She squeezed the steering wheel and pressed harder on the gas. “The babysitter. Wilma.” She glanced at the car clock, and guestimated she was still five minutes away from the park. Time stopped for nobody. “No more questions. You’ll get all the details later, I promise.”
“Sure. I’ve heard that one before.” He sniffed. “Where are you, anyway?”
“Why? So you can broadcast my location?” She glanced at the seat at April’s laptop and Steven’s pills. “If you want to help, do a search for me on your computer.” She caught up one of the pill bottles.
“Is that all?” She heard his footsteps echo, shoe lifts clip-clopping like Old Bessie. “Okay, I’m set. Google’s raring to go, what d’ya got?”
“Type in Henry F. Pottinger, Ph.D.” She spelled the last name.
Fish said nothing for several moments, making her antsy. “Well? Did you find anything?”
“Too much. He’s affiliated with something called NeuroRealm. It’s the research arm of a pharmaceutical company. They focus on neurological stuff, brain disorders, chemical brain imbalances affecting behavior, that sort of thing.”
“Research? Drugs?” That made sense if he was Steven’s doctor. “What do they treat? Does it say?”
“Let’s see. Whole section on cancer. Something on Parkinson’s, another on Alzheimer’s. Then there’s schizophrenia, ADD, OCD, they got all the popular initials. There’s links to journal articles, you could get lost in all this frog-icity. Lots of money behind this group.”
“What about autism?” September’s pulse quickened. That had to be it. April hadn’t been able to contain her excitement about Steven’s recent improvements.
“Uh...don’t see it here.”
Damn, it had to be there. With an effort September refrained from urging him to look harder. The park was just ahead, and time for fishing had run out. “Is there any contact information, a phone number or name? Search the news or media page.”
“Here you go. The public relations person, Martha Freemantle, has an email.” He read the address quickly. “Got that? The NeuroRealm general number is 817-555-3421.”
“Wait. Let me get something to write on.” She coasted to a stop in front of the park and grabbed a pencil from the dash. When she couldn’t find anything to write on, she grabbed the pill bottle again, and found a number was already printed on the bottle. “817-555-3421. Is that it?”
Gotcha. Lizzie spoke in riddles. So she’d bypass Mrs. Claus and go to the top.
“So—what’s the deal? What does NeuroRealm have to do with you being in trouble?”
NeuroRealm had some by-damn explaining to do, and once they found out about gun-totin’ grandma and her ghostly-goon, they’d pull Lizzie’s fangs. She’d see to it. “Thanks for your help, Humphrey. I’ll be in touch.”
“Hey, I did my part. You can’t leave me hanging.”
“Have to run. I do appreciate it.” September cut him off mid-whine. She knew her luck had truly changed for the better when she saw Pam’s Jeep on the other side of the park. She took a deep breath. Time to find Steven.
