The young doctorwas dead.
He’d been partof it, but still, there were bodies on the ground, and Adele hadn’t been ableto prevent it. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to Ms. Jayne orExecutive Foucault. She could only imagine what Agent Paige would say.
She looked at theempty cooler next to a pile of dirty clothes. She shivered again and lookedaway, in the direction of the open doors from which the sound of sirens grewlouder and louder. Adele swallowed, suppressing the rising bile in the back ofher throat. John held the hand of the homeless man on the table, murmuringquietly to him. She watched as John turned and crouched next to the man’sclothing. For a moment, she thought perhaps he was checking the cooler.
But then, whenhe regained his feet, Adele noticed the bulge of money he’d stolen from Franciswas no longer in his pocket. She frowned, and glanced toward the victim’sclothes.
Adele sighed andturned away, her thoughts spinning as the sirens approached, stopped, and thescatter of rapid footfalls came near to the warehouse. Backup had finallyarrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The small redjalopy trundled down the street, observing every speed limit, using the turnsignal when necessary and coming to a full stop at every sign. The driver ofthe red jalopy whistled quietly as he drove, his eyes fixed ahead, his handsten and two.
“We’ll be theresoon enough, Daddy, just hang on,” he said quietly over his shoulder.
He glanced upinto the mirror, smiling at his father in the back seat. The old man hadn’taged in a year. He still had the same dusting of gray hair around a baldinghead. Wise eyes peered out from a face creased with smile lines. The drivernoticed similar crow’s feet forming around his own eyes in the mirror.
Wrinkles are asmall price to pay for smiling. That’s what his father often said.
“Are you feelingokay?” the driver asked, still glancing in the mirror. After a moment, heturned his attention back to the road, putting on his blinkers as he mergedinto the left lane and continued up the street. He kept his eyes fixed on thestreet signs, trying to keep track.
His father oftenteased the younger generation glued to their phones and GPS. The driver of thered jalopy didn’t want to be like everyone else. He spent a lot of time readingmaps, studying streets. He knew six of the seven streets down this stretch ofroad alone by name.
He hoped tomemorize all the streets in Paris in time for his father’s seventieth birthday asa bit of a surprise.
“It’s been anice day,” the driver said with a nod. “If you’d like, we can stop by thatbakery you enjoy.”
His father justturned, glancing out the window. His father didn’t speak much anymore. Notafter his health had begun to decline the previous year. The young man frowned,then just as quickly tried to smile.
“If you’d like,I could sing that song you enjoy,” he said. “The one we used to sing beforebedtime.” He again looked in the mirror toward his dad.
His father stilldidn’t speak, but instead inclined his head and gave the faintest of nods.
The young manbegan to hum beneath his breath, picking up volume as he did. He’d always beenable to carry a tune. A skill he had learned from his mother, before she hadleft them. A delighted expression curled his father’s lips as the driverhummed.
The young manbegan to hum louder, whistling in between, the red jalopy filling with theswell of music. A modicum of peace settled in the young man’s chest. These weretrying times for their family. His father could be saved, of course. The driverknew enough about physiology to know what was wrong. They’d confirmed it withdoctors. But the medical professionals hadn’t seemed to think surgery would besuccessful.
The son’s smilebegan to fade, turning into a scowl, but just as quickly, he corrected hisexpression. There was no point in alarming his father. He continued to whistle,considering the words of the doctor from the previous year.
“I’m afraid hewon’t make it. No, not even with a kidney transplant.”
“Dialysisworked,” theson had replied, desperate. “If you look at his levels—fluid retention isdown. The swelling around his ankles diminished. That has to be a good sign.CKD is moderate—shows signs of dropping. I’m sure it will work!”
The doctor hadlooked surprised at this. “Did you read that somewhere?”
The young manremembered the doctor’s office, the way the walls had seemed to close in,constricting his breath. He had wanted to hum then too, but hadn’t found thenerve.
“No,” he had told thedoctor. “I’m a medical student. Or, at least, I was. I dropped outlast month to take care of my father. You have to understand, this isimportant. The surgeries can work.”
But the doctorhad just shaken his head and repeated the same word, “No.”
The young mangripped the steering wheel, staring through the window. He set his teeth, wantingto shout.
“It’s fine,” hesaid, preempting his father. The old man began to open his mouth, noticing thefrown on his son’s face. “It’s fine,” he said, a bit more calmly now. “We’regoing to figure this out. Trust me.”
Three moredoctors. Three more refusing the transplant. They hadn’t even consideredputting him on the list. They said it would be a failure of a surgery. But whatdid they know? The young man had been top of his class at medical school. He,of course, planned to go back and finish, once all of this was put behind them.Once his father was okay.
“Look,” he said,pleasantly, “we’re here. This is where the nice girl lives.”
The old man inthe backseat raised his eyebrows.
“I know, I know,”the driver said, shaking his head at his father. “It’s uncomfortable. But thereare genuinely good people in this world.” He turned around, reaching out,holding his father’s hand. It was tender to touch. He thought back to when he’dbeen growing up an only child. His mother had left when he was only eight. Hisfather would sing him to bed, every night. He thought of the way his fatherwould hold his hand, or rub the back of his shoulders when he was sick.
“There are kindpeople,” he repeated. “She’s kind. I
