Free Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

media anyway, so I can tell you this much. Merson opened the door to some one in a ski mask. The porch light had been shattered, and the house is set back from the street, so there wasn’t enough light for him to make out any distinguishing details. Then everything happened fast.”
    “But was the person in the mask tall or short? Was it a man or a woman?”
    “He doesn’t know. He couldn’t tell. As I said, it was dark and everything came down in a hurry.”
    “Do you have a policeman stationed there to protect him in case the robber comes back to keep Mr. Merson from identifying him?”
    “All Merson saw was the ski mask. Kristi, you watch too many cop shows on TV.”
    “Someone has to be with Mr. Merson.”
    “If Merson is concerned he can get the guy who works for him to hire a bodyguard. That’s up to him.”
    I visualize Merson as I saw him, wrapped in bandages, attached to tubes, and lying helpless in bed. I’m swept with a new surge of pity for him, even though I don’t really know who he is. “May I please come and visit Mr. Merson now?” I ask.
    “Not just yet. Give it a few days.”
    I feel strange about asking. My face grows hot as I mumble, “Did he … well, did he say anything about me?”
    “No, and I didn’t ask him. The doctor limited my time to ask questions.”
    “What hospital is Mr. Merson in?”
    Balker laughs again. “Nice try, Kristi, but it won’t work. As I promised, I’ll be in touch with you. I’ll take you and your parents to see Merson when the time is right. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
    “Okay,” I answer. There’s no point in arguing—especially not when I know how to find out the name of the hospital.
    I pick up the yellow pages again and turn to the hospitals section. I can’t believe there are so many hospitals in Houston.
    For a moment I’m angry with Detective Balker for not just telling me where Mr. Merson is. It would save me a lot of work.
    I take Jonathan’s drawing of a pear from my notebook and place it on the kitchen counter, near the phone, where it will be safe from splatters. Jonathan drew it. Jonathan gave it to me, so it doesn’t matter that the pear never had a chance to live. I’ll never bury it. Instead, I’ll tape it on the mirror in my bedroom.
    Mom and Dad arrive home. As I begin to dish up the spaghetti and the salad of mixed field greens that I’ve tossed together, Dad stops at the counter and picks up the drawing. “Callie! Look at this pear!” he exclaims, excitement in his voice. “This is great. This looks just like a real pear.” He beams at me. “Kristi, you don’t need art lessons. You’ve got a natural talent.”
    I ache inside. “It’s not my drawing, Dad,” I say quietly. “A friend of mine gave it to me.”
    “Oh,” Dad says. As he puts down the drawing, he looks embarrassed. “Well, your friend has real talent … too,” he adds.
    During dinner Mom and Dad try to talk to me about school and stuff that I’m doing, but I don’t feel like talking. There’s too much to think about. They’ve always made it easy for me to talk about anything with them, so I feel a little guilty that now I can’t. Finally they give up trying to reach me and discuss their clients’ tax problems. As soon asthey’ve finished eating and head for their home office and their computers, I sit down with the telephone and the yellow pages.
    I choose the biggest hospitals first, then move to some of the smaller private ones between River Oaks and the Medical Center. In each case I ask for the pediatrics department. When someone answers, I ask for Dr. Harvey Walters.
    It’s not until late the next afternoon, on my second try, that I get what I want. The receptionist nswers me by saying, “Dr. Walters has left Riverview for the day. Please call his office. Do you have that number?”
    “Yes, thank you,” I say quickly, and hang up.
    Riverview Hospital
. It’s on Woodway. I write down the address and tuck the slip