I like working in ERs. I don’t like being in ERs. Bad memories like to visit because what else do you have to do when you’re in a cold room alternately alone and scared or with a bunch of medical pros and even more scared.
At the moment I was alone and could not, absolutely could not stop thinking about my mom and her stroke, my cousin Tiny and his stabbing, my broken bones, Dad crying in the bathroom after Mom’s stroke, and a multitude of patients that I watched die since graduating nursing school. I tried my therapist’s breathing techniques for anxiety and Dad’s for a crisis situation. Neither did a thing to stop the images.
So far, I’d had a CT, X-rays, and bloodwork. I had six heated blankets because I couldn’t get warm because of the shock, which wasn’t helped by a tech who tried to convince people that I needed a catheter, which he’d be happy to install. For a second, I thought it was going to happen and I would have to make a break for it somehow, but Dr. Harris stepped up and yelled at him. The tech slunk out the door with a sad backward glance, saying, “I was only trying to help.”
Had everyone gone insane? Maybe I had and none of this crap was happening. I’d almost convinced myself that this was a nightmare when Dr. Harris came in with my chart and a hangdog expression.
“I’m sorry about that, Mercy,” she said. “May I call you Mercy?”
I didn’t say anything and she got concerned. “Miss Watts?”
“So that really happened?” I asked.
She sighed and said, “It did. I’m afraid Jordan lost his mind when he saw you. We don’t get a lot of celebrities here at St. Joseph’s.”
“I’m not a celebrity.”
She tilted her head to the side and a lock of dark brown hair with grey roots fell across her cheek as her brow furrowed. “Can you tell me your name, your full name?”
“I don’t have memory loss. I’m just not a celebrity.”
“You sing with Double Black Diamond,” she said.
“Not on purpose. Trust me, that was not the goal.”
The furrows got deeper because who ends up singing and posing for album covers for a world-famous band by accident? “Please tell me your name.”
It was my turn to sigh, but I gave her all my vital statistics.
“When can I leave?” I asked.
“We’ve decided to keep you overnight as a precaution,” she said.
I didn’t like it, but it was the right decision. I had a pretty good concussion, a cranking headache, and I still had blurry vision.
“It may be longer,” she said.
“Why?” I asked slowly as my stomach tightened and my shivering got worse.
Dr. Harris called out the door for another blanket and forcefully told someone they couldn’t come in yet.
“Is that my family?” I asked.
“No, but they are here in the waiting room.” She smiled. “Your father’s signing autographs.”
“For crying out loud.”
“He’s a charmer.”
“So they say.”
A nurse came in and put another blanket over me that didn’t help one bit and then suggested peppermint tea for my stomach. I agreed so she would leave and the doc would tell me the bad news.
“So?” I asked.
“So your attacker used a substance on your face.”
“I remember. What was it?”
“We don’t know, but it’s being analyzed. We are concerned by the mask-like pattern of welts it left on your face. I’ve never seen anything like it and your bloodwork is off. I’m concerned it’s gotten into your system.”
“When will it go away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Long term effects?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said.
I pulled my hands out from under the blankets and accepted the tea that the nurse kindly offered. “Do you have any good news?”
“Well, you survived a vicious attack. That’s good and your nose isn’t broken.”
“Swell.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything more concrete, but we’ll get you up to a room and your family can see you. You’ve got quite a collection.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She showed me a picture of the waiting room and there they were, my family, everyone from Dad to the Troublesome Trio to Fats and Tiny.
“We’ve had a hard time holding them back, but the detectives insisted,” she said.
“Detectives?” My head was hurting so bad I had a hard time thinking of why there were detectives.
“They’re pressing hard to come in for an interview and I’m going to have to let them in.”
“Can I have something for my head?”
“I already ordered it. It’ll be up from the pharmacy any second.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you ready for them?” she asked.
“As long as it’s not Dustin,” I said.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” I sipped my tea. “Let ‘em in and let’s get this over with.”
“They want to help,” said the doctor.
“That remains to be seen.”
She was puzzled, having most likely lived a life free of law enforcement. When you grow up with my dad and have as many run-ins as I have, a wait and see approach is best. You never know who’s going to walk through that door. But that time I had a sneaking suspicion that it would be Dustin the blamer. It was that kind of day and I wasn’t wrong.
The doctor walked out and two detectives in wrinkled suits walked in. One was all gentle concern. The other wasn’t. Dustin, of course.
“Miss Watts, I’m Detective Joe Campbell and this is my partner, Detective Dustin Rich,” said the concerned one.
“We’ve met,” I said, blowing forcefully onto my tea.
Campbell glanced at Rich and said, “Oh, right. At the scene.”
“Yeah, at the scene of my abduction.”
Concerned, Campbell shifted his feet and to give himself something to do, he got out a notebook. “I have to say we were shocked that it was really you.”
“Can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Miss Watts?” said Rich.
“It’s not a conscious choice,” I said.
“Really?”
“We all make choices,” said Rich.
“Not me. Not today.”
Both detectives tilted their heads to the right. It was a cop thing, also a Dad thing. If you were in trouble, you did something, however small, to put yourself there. Complete innocence was not an option. I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen it happen before, particularly to rape victims I treated in the ER, but I’d never seen anyone quite so blatant as Dustin Rich.
“What’s it been?” he asked. “Three weeks since St. Sebastian?”
“Does that matter?” I asked. “I was attacked by a stranger in broad daylight.”
That got the desired result, even Rich seemed a bit cowed. I was a real person, a real victim, not a headline. They shuffled around and got a couple of chairs while keeping their faces averted.
Fine. Look away. You’re still a douche.
“Alright, Miss Watts,” said Campbell with exaggerated kindness. “Are you okay to talk to us now?”
“My head feels like it’s being split open with an axe, but sure, why not?”
On cue, the nurse came in with a syringe and I got a much-needed painkiller right in the IV. Thank God for small favors.
The detectives waited and it hit almost instantly taking the edge off.
Campbell leaned forward and asked, “Do you recognize the name Anton Thooft?”
“Is that him?” I asked, leaning back on the pillows and taking a breath. Anton Thooft. Anton Thooft tried to kill me. People tried to kill me before, but I usually had a clue who they were.
“Do you know the name?”
“No.”
“Is it familiar at all?” asked Rich with a surprisingly even tone. Somebody decided to do his job.
“No.”
“Think about it for a minute,” said Campbell.
As requested, I thought and sipped my tea, but it wasn’t necessary. “I’m not going to forget a name like Anton Thooft. Is he the guy?”
“You have a head injury. Doctor says you may have memory issues,” said Rich, more harshly than he should have, and Campbell shot him a look.
“I don’t know him. I’d tell you if I did,” I said.
“You’ve been known to hold information back from authorities,” said Rich.
Douchebags love that word, authority. I rolled my eyes and the pain just about knocked me out. “And the authorities have been known to screw over my family. In this case, I never heard of Anton Thooft. Now is he the guy?”
“Miss Watts, we’ve heard about the problems with the FBI and—”
“Can you just tell me? Is this a State secret or what? The guy is dead, isn’t he? You shot him.”
“Yes,” said Rich. “The man in the car is dead.”
There was something in the way he said it, like there’s the guy in the car and maybe some other guy. I took another sip of tea and let the painkiller percolate in my bloodstream for a second before I said, “Was there another guy?”
“You tell us?” Campbell poised his pen over his pad and waited expectantly.
My head had stopped thumping and what I wanted most in that moment was them out and my mom in. “Fine, but you’re not going to be happy.”
“What’s happy got to do with it?” asked Rich.
I smiled at him for the first time and it was genuine, believe it or not. “Exactly. Thank you.”
Rich was taken aback by my smile and whatever had iced his soul against me melted a little. “Tell us what happened.”
I did and I was right. They weren’t happy. I didn’t know crap. I didn’t even get a good look at the guy. Here’s what I had. Male. Bigger than me. Deep voice. No accent. In other words, nothing.
“So is Thooft the guy you shot?” I asked.
“He is,” said Campbell. “We were trying not to taint your memory.”
It was a weird approach, but whatever. “Alright. Are we done?”
“I’m going to show you a picture.”
“If it’s of the body, no thanks I’m good,” I said.
They chuckled, even Rich.
“It’s a work photo.” Campbell got out his phone and brought up a picture, holding it out to me. “Ring any bells?”
I tried. I really did. It was a picture of a balding, blond fifty-something white guy with good bone structure that had gotten kinda jowly. I could’ve seen him before, but he wouldn’t have made a huge impression.
“No. Sorry. He had a hood up. So that’s him?”
“It appears to be,” said Rich with a touch of sarcasm.
“What does that mean?” I asked with more than a touch of irritation.
“It means that it’s hard to believe this guy attacked and kidnapped you.”
If you are implying that I wasn’t attacked, I will flipping scream until your eardrums burst.
“I was attacked and kidnapped,” I said.
“Yes,” said Campbell hastily. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“Ya think?”
“I don’t know…exactly how that happened, but we are here for you to get answers preferably before the press descends.”
“Or my father,” I said.
“Him, too.”
I laughed and relaxed completely. Painkillers are good. “He’s the least of your worries.”
“Is that a threat?” asked Rich sharply.
Paranoid much?
“It’s a fact. I know a lot of people and they’re all weird.”
The detectives leaned back and relaxed for the first time. They should relax. It was a solved crime, a gimme. Campbell held up his phone again. “You’re sure? Not hanging around your apartment, the grocery store?”
“To be honest, I haven’t been out much since St. Seb.”
“Where have you been?”
I told him and it was a depressingly short list. I wasn’t living it up and both detectives looked faintly astonished that my life included such excitement as going to my parents’ house, the Bled Mansion, and my therapist. The grocery store hadn’t even happened. Chuck did all the regular stuff so I could rest and I didn’t have a real job anymore. My biggest thrill was a baking marathon that I couldn’t really do.
“Kinda a bummer, eh?” I asked.
“I thought…you’d be doing something,” said Rich.
“If you think I’m what’s on those DBD album covers, you’re dead wrong.”
He blushed and it was the tiniest bit adorable. With the red hair, he reminded me of my dad without the charm. “It’s not that.”
We looked at each other for a second and I had the weirdest feeling Rich knew a lot about me and he wasn’t thrilled about it. “So…are you going to let me in on the big secret of Thooft?”
“Huh?” Rich asked.
Campbell glanced back and forth between us and then said, “He was a teacher. High school civics, AP government. Fifty-four years old, unmarried, no children. Originally from Whiskey Ridge. Now living in Germany.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Unless he has some kind of doppelgänger, Anton Thooft, a boring, middle-aged teacher, flew from Germany to St. Louis for no other reason than to kill you.”
“I…I don’t see why that would happen,” I said.
“We don’t either,” said Rich. “Have you ever been to Stuttgart, Germany?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
I asked for more tea and the nurse brought it in with a wary eye on the cops that they felt and it made them uncomfortable. It made me happy. At least I wasn’t the only one.
“So Stuttgart,” said Campbell.
I picked up the teabag string and bobbed the bag up and down in my cup. “How much do you know about me?” I asked.
Campbell rattled off a few facts, not very specific and nothing about The Girls.
“I’m Millicent and Myrtle Bled’s goddaughter,” I said.
“Is that significant?” asked Rich harshly.
“Only if you want to know about Stuttgart.”
“We do,” said Campbell with his soothing voice, but I saw the edge in his eyes and it wasn’t for me. Neat.
I decided to throw the guy a bone. His partner was an asshat, but it wasn’t his fault. “They’ve taken me all over the world searching for Holocaust survivors,” I said and then explained about the Bled Collection, specifically about the Stella pieces.
“You’re saying they’re really looking?” asked Rich.
“I don’t know why you would ever doubt that,” I said. “Or do you believe the press implicitly?”
“I don’t,” he said. “It’s just doubtful that a family like the Bleds would—”
I sat up straight. “Let me stop you right there. The Bleds give away millions a year to charity and I wasn’t kidding when I said I was in the middle of a three-day baking marathon for the Children’s Hospital. We do it every year and all Bleds in St. Louis pitch in. Veronique Bled was making a gingerbread house when I left to go get kidnapped.”
“Isn’t she the CFO?” asked Rich.
“Yes, she is and furthermore, the hunt for survivors started in 1946 and it has never ever stopped. If you doubt me, you can come to the mansion to see the photos of me as a toddler having snacks in cemeteries and libraries and archives. We’ve got a certain Dr. Wallingford searching through the Kindertransport list right now trying to see if there are any fresh connections that got missed. Any questions?”
“So you might have a connection to Stuttgart?” Campbell asked.
“Like I said, probably, but it’s nothing recent. I’ve been all over Germany a dozen times.”
“And there’s that group,” said Rich quietly.
“What group?” Campbell asked.
“You know about The Klinefeld Group?” I asked.
Campbell wrote the name down. “Who’s that?”
I didn’t have to say anything. Rich told him that they were a not-for-profit group out of Germany that had tried to get ahold of the Bled Collection by several means, including smearing Stella Bled.
“I remember that,” said Campbell. “It was all BS, right?”
“Yes,” I said, very aware of how Rich was looking at me. He wanted more, but I wasn’t about to give it. This was about Anton Thooft.
“Are you involved in the search for survivors?” Campbell asked.
“I help. Nothing major.” I didn’t mention that it was pretty apparent that I was expected to carry on the hunt once The Girls were unable to. That responsibility was one of the reasons I had to know about The Klinefeld Group, my father, and what they were after. It was all linked to who I was to the Bleds and why I, of all people, would carry on the search.
“You’ve never come across the name Thooft in reference to the art?”
“Not that I remember. Was Thooft Jewish?”
“Evangelical Christian.”
I shrugged. “And from Whiskey Ridge. I don’t see a connection, but you never know.”
“You didn’t seem surprised when we asked about whether you’d seen Thooft around your apartment,” said Rich.
“I wasn’t.”
“Have you ever had a stalker or dealt with harassment before?”
I started laughing and the bloody hospital memories that had been lurking around the edge of my brain during the entire conversation vanished. “Every day, give or take.”
The detectives’ mouths dropped open and were quickly snapped shut. I guess they didn’t know me much at all. “You had a stalker?” Campbell asked.
“That’s plural. Stalkers.”
“How many?”
“I don’t keep track,” I said. “My uncle monitors my threats on the phone and social media.”
“So Thooft might’ve been stalking you online?”
“Sure. I just don’t recognize the face or name, but you should know that my stalkers are generally harmless.”
“Stalkers aren’t harmless,” said Rich in disbelief.
“Not everybody’s, just mine,” I said with a small smile. “They usually go away when they realize I’m boring and ordinary. If they don’t, the STLPD invites them to beat it.”
“And they leave?” asked Campbell.
“Pretty much. My boyfriend has had to have a few testy conversations to get the point across,” I said. “And sometimes they come in handy. Stalkers, that is.”
Rich and Campbell laughed until they realized that I wasn’t.
“Wait…are you telling me you like your stalkers?” Campbell asked.
“Not all of them. Did you hear about the City Museum situation?” I asked.
“It was more than a situation,” said Rich with a look like it was wholly my fault.
“Indeed,” I said. “My mother was held hostage, but the point is that one of my stalkers stepped in and tried to help. Jimmy Elbert. Sweet guy. A little nutty, but I’m not going to hold that against him.”
The detectives clearly didn’t know what to say to that. At least, Campbell didn’t know what to say. Training certainly said there wasn’t an upside to stalkers, but my life defied normal in more ways than one. Jimmy Elbert was a good example. He now emailed me once a week, happily telling me about his new job and general how ya doing stuff, and I was happy to reply. We’d become friends of a sort.
Detective Rich didn’t know what to say either, but his feelings flashed over his face in an odd, confusing way. He didn’t like me. He didn’t trust me. And he didn’t believe me. But I don’t think it had anything to do with Anton Thooft. I meant something to him. I hate to say it, but, like a stalker, he had an idea of me and it was now at odds with the person before him and he wasn’t happy about it.
Dr. Harris came in and said they had to get me up to a room because my family was about to rush security. Rich and Campbell reluctantly agreed to beat it after they asked me a few more questions, in the usual attempt to see if I’d change my story. It was a story in their eyes and they couldn’t quite believe it.