Counting by 7s(27)

I tell Lenore Cole that I’ll be right back.

And the woman believes me.

I don’t go down the hall to the restroom.

Instead, I take an elevator up to the third floor, and then walk to the other wing of the hospital and use the back stairs to get to the cafeteria.

Once I’m there, I ask a grief-stricken woman (I know the look) wearing a fuzzy green bathrobe and ski boots if I can use her cell phone.

She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no.

And after an awkward amount of time where I just stare at her, she hands me her mobile device.

I dial the number for Mexicano Taxi and make a special request for Jairo Hernandez.

I know his taxi license number and give that to the dispatcher. I say I want to be picked up in front of Century 21 Premier Realty on the corner of Truxton and A Street.

That is one block from the hospital.

When I hand the phone back to the woman in the bathrobe, I notice that she has a hospital band on her wrist.

So she’s a patient.

Before everything in my life changed, I would have sat down to discuss her condition.

But now I just say in a voice that sounds automated: “Get some rest. It is critical to recovery.”

And I’m gone.





Chapter 24





Jairo was spooked.

This girl was some kind of mystic.

As she’d suggested, he’d been to see a doctor. And the mole on his neck had been removed that morning. He was now waiting for the report. The biopsy.

But the doctor had made it clear that the ugly black hunk of skin was something bad.

He hadn’t told anyone at work, and he had a scarf around his neck to cover the bandage.

He looked down at his right hand and realized it was shaking.

Jairo shut his eyes and mouthed a prayer. He never did that. But this was serious.

Even a non-believer would believe.

Now, as he pulled up to the curb, he could see that she’d been in some kind of accident, because she had a line of stitches between her eyes, which were both puffy and red.

It looked like she’d been doing a lot of big-time crying.

He wanted to know what happened.

Had someone hurt her?

He felt a wave of anger roll over him. If someone did this girl wrong, they would have him to deal with.

The undersized twelve-year-old got into his taxi, and in a whisper of a voice said that she did not have the money to pay for the fare.

She asked if she could get it to him later in the week, or by mail—whatever worked better for his schedule.

Jairo said yes, of course, he would take her anywhere.

No charge.

She wanted to go to Beale Memorial Library.

That was only a few miles away, but it was hot out and she said that she wasn’t up to walking anywhere.

Jairo asked if she was okay, and she only nodded and then shut her eyes.

He put on his turn indicator and pulled back out into the lane. He realized that he’d lived in Bakersfield for eleven years and he’d never been inside the library.

That was wrong.

It was for the public and it was filled with knowledge.

Jairo understood as he drove that he needed to stop listening to crazy guys yell at each other on sports radio and start thinking about something that had consequences that were real and important.

She was guiding him.

He knew that now.

Yes.

She was his angel.

As they neared her destination, Jairo glanced into the rearview mirror. The ghost/prophet/inspector/angel was gnawing some kind of plastic strip off her wrist.

A hospital band?

That’s what it looked like.

Why was he just now seeing that?

He was going to have to learn to be a better observer of all things.

But most especially of his own life.

When she got out of his taxi, she told him that he would hear from her.

He didn’t doubt that.

And then as he watched, she headed into the library.

In the backseat there was a small trash bag. Jairo reached inside and pulled out the plastic hospital scrap.

On the band was written:

Willow Chance I.D. number 080758-7

He would play those numbers at Lotto for the rest of his life.





Chapter 25





Yes, he worked for the Bakersfield Unified School System.

And, well, ah, yes, he’d heard—or rather—he knew that there had been an accident involving the parents of one of the children he was helping.

He had to concentrate. To focus. Fear had a way of scrambling his brain.

What was the woman going on about?

“The police report said that you brought her home . . .”

Dell was grinding his teeth as his jaw slid back and forth and his tongue sucked up into the roof of his mouth, forming a kind of foamy vacuum.

He was able to break it long enough to say:

“Yes, I’d been working with her. I’m a counselor. It’s just a tragedy.”

And then he heard:

“We’d like you to come down to Jamison. You could be part of the search.”

It was like the sun suddenly poked through a stormy sky. Everything changed color and tone and intensity.

“The search . . . ?”

The voice now replied: