Or Dallas.
From the look on Beecher’s face, he was terrified, still processing. Dallas wasn’t doing much better.
It was no different for the driver of the white van.
It had all gone so bad, so quickly.
But there was no choice. That’s what Beecher would never understand.
For a moment, the driver reached for the ignition, but then waited, watching as Dallas’s car coughed up a small choke of smoke and disappeared up the block.
This wasn’t the time to get spotted. More important, the driver wanted to see if anyone else was following.
For a full minute, the driver sat there, watching the street and every other parked car on it. No one moved.
Beyond the front gate, up the main service road that ran inside St. Elizabeths, there was a swirl of orange sirens. On-campus security. No doubt, Nico was already being medicated for whatever mess the barber’s panicking had caused.
The driver was tempted to go up there, but again, there was no choice.
There was never any choice.
Not until the one problem that had caused so many others was dealt with. The problem that she could only blame on herself.
Beecher.
By now, the black car was long gone, zipping toward its destination.
With a deep breath, Clementine pulled out onto the road and did her best to stay calm.
Beecher’s head start didn’t matter.
Not when she knew exactly where they were going.
95
The man with the black leather zipper case was never late.
He always came on Thursdays. At 4 p.m. Always right on time.
But as Clementine glanced down at her watch and saw that it was already a few minutes past four…
“Heya, Pam,” the older black man with the silver hair and silver mustache called out as he shoved his way through the swinging doors, approached the nurses’ station, and eyed one of the many open rooms. Like an ICU, the rooms of the Gero-Psych Unit didn’t have any doors. “How’s your Thursday?”
“Same as my Wednesday,” the nurse replied, adding a flirty laugh and crumpling up the foil wrapper of her California Tortilla burrito.
Over by the sinks, Clementine pretended to fill one of the cats’ water dishes as she watched the same exchange she’d witnessed the week before-and so many weeks before that. By now, she knew his patterns. That’s how she knew when to send her dad upstairs for more cat food. She knew the old black man wouldn’t be late. Like all barbers, he knew the value of keeping an appointment.
“They ready for me?” the barber asked.
“Not like they got much choice,” the nurse added along with another flirty laugh.
Dumping and refilling the same water bowl and strategically using the room’s pillars to stay out of sight, Clementine watched as the barber unzipped the leather case that held his sharpened scissors. It had been nearly two months since she first saw him enter the unit, saying he was there to give haircuts to patients. No reason to look twice at that-until Clementine noticed that although he rotated through a few of the rooms, he always finished with the exact same patient:
The guy with the tattoo of the eight-ball.
Clementine tried not to think about it. She didn’t want to be a suspicious person, or assume the worst about people. But as she learned when her mom was lying there in hospice and finally told Clemmi her father’s real name, there are certain traits that God puts in each of us. There’s no escaping them.
It’s who we are.
Indeed, when Clementine first peered across the unit and into the room, she couldn’t help but notice how the barber, with his back to her, was standing next to Eightball’s bed, clutching the bed’s guardrail as if he needed it to stand. He wasn’t cutting Eightball’s hair. His hands didn’t move… his shoulders were slumped. He was crying. And more than anything else, that’s what drew Clementine to take that first step toward them.
She told herself she wasn’t trying to pry-she was just hoping to console him-but as she neared the room, she heard those two words that made her stop midstep. The two words that forced her to cock her head and look twice at the barber, and that had her coming back week after week to fill in the rest of the story. Two simple words:
From that moment, Clementine knew she’d never mention it to Nico. She still hadn’t told him she was his daughter-and there were plenty of reasons for hiding that. So she certainly wasn’t going to tell him this. Indeed, over the next few months, as she eventually put together the full picture, Clementine knew that what she’d been witnessing was far more than just a simple visit from a barber. What she’d been given was a chance. A real chance to answer the original questions she’d come searching for-to find out the things even her father didn’t know.
With the changes in her body and everything she was going through-was it really such a sin to want to know the truth?
“Laurent here,” the barber said today, flipping open his cell phone and pacing back and forth in Eightball’s small room. “Yeah. I can do it tonight or first thing tomorrow. Just tell me when.”
Dumping and refilling the cat’s water bowl for the fifth or sixth time, Clementine listened carefully to every detail she could hear. She knew she was getting close. She knew about Wallace and his group of Plumbers, who were running errands for him. Of course, there was only so much one could get from eavesdropping. She had no idea what Minnie did with the baseball bat-or about how Palmiotti held Eightball down while Wallace worked on his face with his car keys. But she did know the Plumbers were helping him hide Eightball. No way could Wallace afford to let that get out. And best of all, after all this time, she knew where the barber was talking about.
“Same place?” the barber asked. “At the Archives?”
Ducking back toward the sink, Clementine had heard him mention the Archives before.
“I found a salmon flavor,” Nico interrupted, reentering the room with a big bag of Meow Mix cat food under his arm. “They like salmon flavor.”
Across the unit, the barber shut his phone, knowing better than to make eye contact with Nico. Clementine stayed by the sink, so as to not look out of place.
“Anything we’re forgetting?” Nico called out to Clementine.
“I don’t think so,” she replied, shutting off the water and stealing one last glance at Eightball’s room. She was definitely getting close. And as she thought about it, if she needed to, she even had a way to get into the Archives. That guy whose name she saw on the high school page. On Facebook.
Beecher.
For a moment, she felt that familiar pang of guilt. It didn’t last long. If she’d learned anything during this time with her father… There was no avoiding it. Or escaping it.
This was who she was-or at least who she had to be… if she wanted to find the truth.
“I think we’re set,” Clementine said, balancing the full bowl of water as she followed her dad back outside. “I’ve got everything we need.”
96
