“What do you mean?”
“Let’s not open that door, doctor.”
She starts to leave.
“Rose!”
She turns to face me.
I say, “Where am I going to find the right one?”
“Where you least expect to.”
“Well, if the right one’s anything like you, I wish you’d send her my way!”
Rose smiles. “There’s no one like me, Dr. Box.”
No shit.
She says, “Can we meet in your office tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Absolutely! Why?”
“I want you to meet someone. It’ll help you understand my situation.”
“It’s a date,” I say.
“It’s an appointment,” she clarifies.
Two hours later I exit the cab in front of my building and notice a pretty young lady standing near the entrance with a large, red suitcase by her side.
She doesn’t hail my cab.
Is she waiting for a limo?
I don’t think so. The quality of her wardrobe and suitcase suggest she isn’t accustomed to riding in limos. Not that it matters in the least, since I know this woman.
I approach her tentatively.
“You’re a long way from home,” I say.
“You said you might be able to help me.”
“Yes.”
She looks sad. Vulnerable.
“You said you might be able to help me,” Willow repeats.
“Yes.”
“What did you mean by that?”
31
“I’ve heard of guys having foot fetishes,” Willow says. “But you get off on old, rotten shoes?”
We’re in my penthouse on West 64 ^th. She’s viewing the photographs that line the wall of my living room.
“Not at all.”
“Then why do you have like, twenty framed pictures of old, beat up shoes?”
“There’s only a dozen. One shoe per photograph.”
“Oh,” Willow says. “That explains everything.”
She looks at me.
I sigh.
She says, “You don’t want to tell me.”
“I’m afraid you’ll think I’m creepy.”
“I already think you’re creepy. But I’m still here.”
“Why is that, by the way?”
She points to the photos and says, “You first.”
I say, “If you look closely, you might be able to see feet in some of those shoes.”
“Eew. Seriously?”
“Give it a try.”
She studies the first three carefully and says “This one?”
I nod.
Seeming pleased with herself, she studies the others. When she’s finished she points out two more.
“That’s correct,” I say.
“Do I win some sort of prize?”
“No.”
“Story of my life,” she says.
“Actually, all twelve shoes have human feet in them,” I say. “It’s just that you can’t see them from the angle.”
“Your worst fears have come true,” Willow says.
“What do you mean?”
“You turned out to be creepier than I thought.”
“These shoes washed up on the beaches of Washington state and British Columbia over the past five years. It’s a mystery that’s baffled police, scientists, oceanographers, and government officials for years.”
“Sounds like a serial killer who cuts his victim’s feet off and tosses them off a bridge.”
Something in my look makes her say, “Is that it? Did I get it?”
When I don’t answer immediately she says, “If I guessed right you absolutely must give me a prize!”
“You’re close,” I say. “But not close enough.”
She frowns. “Then tell me.”
“Fourteen feet have been found, representing twelve victims.”
“So two of the people had both feet show up on beaches?”
“That’s right. And several have been identified as possible suicides. At least one, and possibly all of them, jumped off the Pattullo Bridge that spans the Fraser River in Vancouver. The feet were protected by the shoes, and became disarticulated through submerged decay.”
“Disarticulated?”
“Just means the feet broke away from the body.”
“Why just the feet? Why not the heads or hands?”
There’s something charming about the way Willow’s getting into this.
I say, “Compared to most joints in the body, the ankle is relatively weak. Currents in that area are strong, and rubber-soled shoes are buoyant. When the feet broke away, the shoes rose to the surface, and the tides washed them onto beaches.”
“Heads and hands aren’t buoyant?”
“No.”
Willow thinks about it and says, “How long has that bridge been there?”
“I don’t know. Seventy, maybe eighty years. Why?”
I see tears on her cheeks.
The photographs moved her.
“It’s just so sad,” she says.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Willow pauses a moment, then says. “If twelve jumped off in five years wearing rubber-soled shoes, there were probably lots of others who weren’t wearing them.”
“Probably.”
“And if the bridge has been there all those years, there could be hundreds who committed suicide since it was built.”
“It’s possible.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Are you okay?”
She shakes her head. “I feel awful.”
