A Keeper's Truth (27 page)

“Son, this
woman is five-foot-eight, one-hundred-thirty pounds, and has long dark hair and
green eyes.” He’s describing the flesh-and-blood Tess, and it steals my breath
like I’ve been hit by a truck.

“There is
more,” Dad says. “She, this Jane Doe, is alive but badly beaten: broken bones,
burns, bite marks.” The line falls quiet, rocking my soul to its core. “This
has lost soul written all over it, Son.”

Gravity
pulls the phone to the floor.

I need to
get to Paris.

Now.

“
P
itie-Salpetriere
Hopital
.
Rapide
!” I say, slamming the door of the Bentley my
dad arranged to meet me at the airport. He wanted to be here with me, but I
insisted he stay away. This is going to be difficult enough.

The driver
steps on the gas. “
Etes-vous
bien
,
Monsieur?” he asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

“No, I’m
not all right.”

I catch a
glimpse of myself in the window. I look like shit. My eyes have burrowed into
my skull, and my olive skin exudes stress, a shade greener than Oscar the
Grouch. I haven’t shaved in days, and I’ve ripped the sleeve of my leather
jacket somewhere between my front door and the runway tarmac. No wonder airport
security gave me such a hard time. If I hadn’t been boarding a charter jet, I
doubt they’d have let me through.

Intuition
insists the Jane Doe is Tess. The entire flight I fought this feeling, hoping
beyond hope that I’m wrong. Maybe our past, the pasts I’ve shared with Tess’s
soul, have me jaded, convinced this is our only destiny. I shake this and
concentrate on Abby. Lost souls of this kind seldom hurt children, especially
kids with new souls. Children have nothing they want. But this particular lost
soul has been unpredictable. I close my eyes and make a silent wish, hoping
Abby is safe with Tess’s brother, Stephen. Wherever he is.

Brother.
Thomas. I sigh and reach for my cell. For once, Thomas answers my call. The
conversation, if you can call it that, is short. I tell him about Dad’s call
and he doesn’t say a word. When I say I’m in Paris he hangs up.

“Nous
voici
, Monsieur,” says the driver, pulling the car under a
sign announcing the hospital’s emergency entrance. He leans to open his door.

I tap him
on the shoulder and shove my cell in my coat pocket.

“Merci.” I
leap from the Bentley.

Once a
gunpowder factory, the
Pitie-Salpetriere
was known
for its criminally insane prisoners and even crazier rat population. In 1656,
Louis XIV appointed architect Liberal
Bruant
to build
the world’s largest hospital in place of the factory, located in the heart of
Paris. My soul had come here in 1792, trying to help a lost soul who had been
tossed into the guts of the hospital along with over three hundred other
prostitutes swept from the streets of Paris. But I was too late. Two weeks
later the hospital was stormed by a mob, and all three hundred women were
dragged, still in chains, into the street and killed. The lost soul had found
the peace she’d craved.

I hesitate
at the entrance. I’ve stepped foot in a hospital only once in my lifetime, when
Sofia was born. I’ve had even less experience with doctors. Bypassing the nurse
at the desk, I head straight for the elevators, ignoring inquisitive eyes. I
search the directory: cardiology, radiology, maternity. Intensive care, fourth
floor.

The creaky
elevator rises in slow motion, pausing at every floor. Each time the door
opens, the odor that meets me turns my stomach. The police are bound to be
watching the door. Will they let me see her? Do I qualify as her boyfriend, her
lover . . . her anything? The elevator doors open and there
aren’t any officers in sight, so I search for the nurse’s station. A plump
woman in her early fifties looks up from her paperwork. She takes in my face.
Then the tear in my jacket.

I decide
to speak in English, in case she knows Tess isn’t French.

“There is
an unidentified woman here. She’s been,” I can hardly say it, “beaten.” Without
taking her eyes off me, the nurse lifts the phone and presses a red button.
This can’t be good. “I think the Jane Doe might be Tess Morgan, a friend. Can
you tell me what room she’s in?”

The nurse
lowers the receiver and points to the hallway on the right.
“Four-twenty-eight,” she says in English. Her mind is full of doubt. She’s not
sure if she should be afraid of me or feel sorry for me.

I round
the corner to three armed men in uniform. A fourth, hospital security, stops me
mid-stride. “May I help you?” His English is brutal. One hand rests on the club
at his side.

“I’m here
to see Tess Morgan.” I pray they tell me there is no one here by that name. It
takes all my restraint not to bowl these men over.

A police
officer steps forward. “Are you a relative?” he says. He’s short but wiry. His
thoughts tell me what I don’t want to hear. He wants to know how I know Mrs.
Morgan.

“No,” I
answer, clutching the bottom of my coat. I swear the earth might open and
swallow me whole. How do they know her name? Has she come to? Is she speaking?
“I’m her . . . I’m a friend.”

I fell
asleep on Valentine’s Day thinking I was more, that Tess and I were beyond mere
friendship. But she left without a word. Would she still call me a friend?

“Relatives
only,” says the officer.

“I need to
see her.” I push toward the door. An officer, the youngest of the three, pulls
his gun. I search his mind. He wants to know how I know the woman in the room
is Tess Morgan when the media is still referring to her as Jane Doe.

My voice
is low when I say, “I need to see she’s all right.”

“You won’t
be seeing anyone until you answer questions,” says another officer, his English
rough. “Identification.” He leans in, peeking inside my coat as I reach for a
pocket. I slap my passport into his palm. “You are not Canadian,” he says,
flipping pages.

“No.”

“How do
you—”

“Please,”
I plead. “Tess has a five year-old daughter named Abby. Do you know where she
is?” All three officers glance at each other, suddenly sympathetic. The hospital
security guard walks away. “Where’s Abby?” I demand, too startled to be
diplomatic.

The room
door opens, and a young man steps out, his face red, eyes bloodshot. The first
thing I notice is his clothes; he’s not dressed like a doctor. Then I spot the
hair, the exact same shade as Tess’s. “Ce qui se
passe
?”
he says.
What’s going on?

“Stephen?”
Part of me wants to pull this kid into a hug. He’s here, which means Tess isn’t
alone. Part of me wants to throw a fist into the concrete wall. Stephen’s here,
which means the woman in that room, the woman almost beaten to death, is really
Tess.

The
instant Stephen looks at me he knows who I am. “Bryce?”

I pluck my
passport from the officer’s fingers and pass it to Stephen. The officer starts
to protest, but Stephen raises a hand, studying my passport photo. He’s
thinking that I look exactly like Tess’s description. “How did you—”

“Where’s
Abby?” I say, grabbing his shoulder.

“She’s
with a neighbor,” he says, turning toward the door. “I can’t bring her here.”

I sigh in
relief. Abby is safe. Stephen takes a step back, and I realize I’ve been
gripping his shoulder hard. Even if I couldn’t read his thoughts, I could see
them churning in his eyes. He wants to know how I learned Tess was hurt. How I
got here so fast. Why I screwed his grieving sister.

I look
away. Tess has obviously told her brother about us. I make a move for the door,
stopping when Stephen asks, “How did you know my sister was here?”

I stare at
the police officer, the young one with the gun in his hand. Stephen isn’t the
only one waiting for my response.

“I
didn’t,” I say, lying. “My niece and Abby are in the same class at school.
Their teacher mentioned Tess had taken Abby to Paris. I had business in Paris
today and happened to catch the news while grabbing coffee at the airport. The
description of the woman beaten at the park sounded an awful lot like Tess. I
couldn’t leave Paris not knowing for sure.” I’d rehearsed these lines on the
flight over. I’m not worried about the officers. My dad has my alibi covered.
Its Stephen’s approval I want.

Stephen
feigns a smile, obviously relieved someone is here to help him through this,
and I’m struck by how young he looks. “I haven’t been here long,” he says. He
can’t be a day over twenty-one. “My parents are on break in Rio. I’ve been
trying to get in touch with them. Meyer’s grandparents are catching the next
flight from Florida.”

I can’t
stand another minute in this hallway. I nod toward to the door. “May I?” I look
to Stephen. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

In my mind
I’d envisioned rushing to Tess’s side, holding her hand, maybe kissing her
forehead. Now, with her before me, I’m paralyzed three feet from the bed. Her
bloated face is several shades of black, blue, and purple, her eyes difficult
to locate. Separating the bruises are pieces of white gauze, most spotting
thick gobs of blood. A thin cloth is wrapped around her scalp, arched rows of
staples peeking through the mesh. Her hair falls in a dull, tangled mass.

A monitor
beeps.

I step
closer, reaching for the bed. Layers of blankets form over strange lumps barely
distinguishable as body parts. Tubes and wires run from bandages to machines
and bags. Her lips are swollen and stitched.

I want to
touch her. I want to hold her. To do either would hurt her.

A tortured
whine pulls my stare from Tess. Stephen’s entire body trembles as he crumbles
into a chair, face buried in his hands. I know I should say something,
anything, but I’m at a loss for words. I round the bed and stand beside
Stephen, awkwardly patting his back. His despair is so profound I struggle to
block his thoughts.

I focus on
Tess, trying to read her, to feel her. The silence is chilling.

“The cops
think that whoever attacked her had some sort of dog or animal,” says Stephen,
voice choked. His stare locks on his sister’s hand. The red nail polish has
been removed, nails torn short. Taped bandages attempt to cover cuts and
blood-stained needles that run fluids into her veins. Her skin is dark and
distorted. These hands look nothing like the hands I know. Tess’s hands are
beautiful, delicate, and capable of bringing me to my knees. I mumble something
unintelligible, not even trying to be discreet.

“Tess, can
you hear me?” I lean over her tender form. Her cheek twitches and I catch a
train of thought. She knows it’s me, knows I’m here. Her mind flips scenes and
I snap to attention.

She’s in a
park, its dark, cold, but she doesn’t mind. Sitting on a rock under her
favorite tree, a man approaches her. He steps into the moonlight. His eyes
glimmer a strange blue hue. She drops her pen and the letter she was writing to
me, gaping at the man before her, the lost soul from the café.

This is
how I die, she thinks. This is how I always die.

Beeping
sounds cut through the connection in my head, and I pull away, glaring at the
machine beside the bed. Red lines jump then fade, the tenor quickening. I turn
back to Tess, attempting to concentrate on the flashes of memory playing out in
her head.

The
predator paces, a feline stealth working a man’s body. Tess slides from the
rock and stands tall, fists at her sides. She’s afraid, but not afraid. And the
lost soul knows it. His chin-length hair falls in reckless curls around his
face, the light catching intricate tattoos that trace down his neck, into the
folds of his white silk shirt. Tess can smell him, an intoxicating blend of
honeysuckle and mandarin that wafts from his skin. He grins.

Out of the
corner of my eye, I witness Tess’s fingers inch closer to mine. I search her
hand, desperate to find an unmarked spot to touch, to grasp, but the entire
surface is discolored and taped. I should have been there. I should’ve
protected her. I should have known she’d run from me. I shift my bodyweight,
veiling my shame in shadows.

Tess
sees
this man, sees his soul. He knows she sees and he’s pleased. She steps to the
left and he mimics her movement. She glides to the right and he follows her
lead. Not a word is spoken. This is the dance of death. Tess halts, bone still,
her chest the only body part in flux. It rises and falls, every breath rallying
control. Her eyes lock with his. A breeze rustles the tree’s bare branches and
her hair blows across her cheeks. The lost soul reaches, gently tucking wisps
of hair behind her ear. Her lip quivers, and he smiles.

“The
doctor should be here any minute,” says Stephen, shattering my connection with
Tess. “The nurse said he checks her every hour.” He fidgets beside me, avoiding
his sister’s face.

“I think
she needs something for pain,” I say, worried. She needs drugs to dilute these
traumatic images, something to help her forget so she can heal. I need her to
get better. “She needs to rest.”

The lost
soul touches Tess’s cheek and she flinches, ever so slightly. He’s got her
mesmerized, stunned, but she’s trying to suppress the sensation of concrete
drying around her. His fingers follow the contour of her chin, her lips. She
suppresses a whimper as something inside her tugs and pulls toward his touch, a
magnetic anomaly. A wicked smirk ignites his face, and a hum lingers at the
base of his throat. Her body quakes, fighting the urge to give her soul freely.