The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(17)

The impossible phone call I’d just received was from Dr. Sheridan’s assistant, Henry. He said the director had “reconsidered” my “query,” and could I come in tomorrow night at six? I was assigned to Simon Gan, a physical therapy student who was earning independent research credits with three other grad students who met on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. in the otherwise empty lab. I could draw under his supervision unless my presence detracted from their research.

“I promise it will not,” I’d told Henry before he thanked me and hung up.

But now that the reality of what was—really!—happening settled in, my brain scrambled to see how this would fit in with Mom’s changing shifts and my work schedule. On top of all that, an unavoidable question loomed in my thoughts:

How had Jack done this?

Because, clearly, he’d done something. But what? Threatened to spray-paint four-letter words on the anatomy lab?

I won’t lie: The second he left Alto Market, I was on my phone, vetting him. I found his name in the usual places, but his profiles were set to private. I also unearthed a handful of comments made by one Jack Vincent of San Francisco on a couple of comic-book forums and a music venue on Potrero Hill that hosted some indie bands I’d never heard of. But the weirdest thing I found was his full name in a school picture from last year. The thumbnail was too small to see much, but “Jackson Vincent” was standing with a bunch of other kids. The reason I couldn’t pull up a bigger photo was because you had to be registered on the site to see it, and the site was a private high school in the Haight. A really expensive private school—like, one that costs more than forty thousand dollars a year to attend.

Who the hell are you, Jack?

I supposed it was possible that he didn’t actually go there and had just participated in some kind of activity the school sponsored; I’d had artwork displayed at other schools in regional competitions.

Either way, it didn’t explain how he’d changed my luck at the anatomy lab.

My mind jumped back to the reason Panhandler Will knew Jack—the so-called “lady friend” working at the hospital. Jack had admitted to visiting someone there and implied that they weren’t dating. Or had he? He sort of skated around that, and I hadn’t had a chance to call him out on it. But if he had a girlfriend, why was he showing up at my workplace and risking his neck to spray-paint irresponsible romantic gestures for me?

He and his “lady friend” could’ve broken up. Or maybe they were just good friends. But unless she volunteered there, she had to be older. He had said he liked older girls. Crap. Was he some young doctor’s boy toy? Was he diddling busty nurses in empty patient rooms? Mom said strange things happened during the graveyard shift; she once walked into a male doctor/male doctor/female nurse threesome a few years back. They were doing it right there on a hospital bed—one that a patient had died on earlier that night.

Super. Now my head was swimming with that image and Jack’s face, and all of it overlapped with one of Heath’s illegally downloaded gay hospital porn scenes—one that I’d accidentally stumbled upon when I used his laptop to look up a pizza delivery phone number. And sure, maybe I watched the whole thing, but it was only for the anatomy. (Sort of. Who could look away from all that dark furry hair? Apparently, the “doctor” just couldn’t help himself, either.)

Thanks to Heath’s music, I almost didn’t hear the doorbell ring. I tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole, praying it wasn’t Officer Dixon. It wasn’t.

After flipping open the lock, I was staring at an out-of-breath guy in black spandex pants and a bike helmet. “Beatrix van Ass?”

“Van Asch,” I corrected. “It’s Dutch.” And why in the world was he using my old last name? I’d legally been Adams for two years. Now I remembered why I didn’t miss it.

“Delivery,” he said, pulling a brown-paper-wrapped box out of a backpack strapped diagonally across his chest. “And I’ll need your signature.”

“Did you come by two days ago?”

“Yep. But hey, not my fault you weren’t here. That’s stated on the online form.”

Don’t think he realized I couldn’t have cared less. “What is it?”

“No idea.” He handed me a digital board to sign.

“Who sent it?”

He twisted his head around to read the board. “Uh, blank. That means the client wants to remain anonymous.”

“What if it’s a bomb or something?”

“It would’ve gone off already. Can you please sign?” he said irritably. “I’ve got other deliveries.”

I signed and exchanged the board for the brown box. He stuck around like he was waiting for a tip. I quietly backed up and shut the door in his face.

The box was about the size and shape of a loaf of bread. My name and address were printed on a small label, along with some other stickers from the bike service. I put my ear to the box and listened. No ticking. I shook it. Nothing rattled. So I sat down on the couch and unwrapped it.

Inside the paper was a plain corrugated box, and inside that, bubble wrap. I unrolled it, and a wooden object fell into my hand.

It was an articulated artist’s mannequin—you know, the poseable kind, standing on a base. Except this one didn’t have a smooth, blank spool for a head and flat disks for hands and feet. It was intricately carved with all the major muscles and tendons. Parts of the body were stained darker than others, and the eyes were painted glass.