NUMB - Judy Colella (good beach reads txt) 📗

girl matching Atarah’s description had been a patient there, but that she’d run away several months earlier, and despite the doctor’s best efforts, had never been found.

Celia and Bryson weren’t sure how to tell Jett about all this – what a horrible, complicated mess it had turned out to be! As for the doctor whose sick obsession had started it all, no charges were brought because there was no proof that he had behaved in an illegal or illicit manner. Chara confessed to a logical fear that if her daughter eventually surfaced and it became publicly known, Kobienko would do something violent.

So far, the media knew nothing about Atarah, other than the old report of her untimely death (Celia hated that expression – when on earth was someone’s death ever “timely,” unless one was speaking of Hitler or some other evil individual?) so there had been little activity from the paparazzi in her neighborhood over the past six months. But now Jett had gotten well enough to come home. She was sure that if any of the reporters saw him, every news-shark in the country would be at her front door within hours.

“What about his emails?”

“What do you mean, Ajax?”

“Never mind.” He gave his mother a brief smile and disappeared into Jett’s room.

The clinic had arranged transportation to bring her son home later that day, and a final check on Jett’s room had been made to be sure nothing was there that would cause any major mental trauma. It looked the same, of course, but with some obvious exceptions – the wedding photo, Atarah’s clothes, her toiletries, the magazines with articles about her work and their marriage, and her small marble sculptures that had decorated several surfaces, all had been taken away and stored in plastic bins in the attic. But emails?

A moment later, she realized what Jax had meant, and went downstairs, leaving him to it. “Got enough on the old plate, eh?” she murmured. “Like making some food…”

 

*****

 

Leaving his mother to figure out whatever it was she had to do on her part to make things comfortable for Jett, Jax went to his brother’s computer and turned it on. The emails he thought he should hang on to for informational purposes he forwarded to his own in-box, then deleted everything that made reference to Atarah. All communication from the Johanans, a few from friends congratulating him on his marriage or making jokes about the wedding night, emails from everyone asking him where the heck he was – these were easy to find and delete, having been sent during the first few months after Jett went to the Foundation, but dwindling as time passed and eventually stopping altogether.

When he was done, it occurred to Jax that Atarah probably had a bunch of emails, too, and was pretty sure Jett could access them. The trouble was, he had no idea how to get into them himself. Frowning, he tried to remember the name of his sister-in-law’s best friend, the one who had been her Maid of Honor at the wedding. A tiny, delicate thing, he remembered thinking she was beautiful, but didn’t bother pursuing her because of his own lifestyle and the fact that he lived so far away.

He shut off the computer and went downstairs to find his mother. She was in the living room, checking, he assumed, for any objects related to Atarah that she might have missed.

“Did you take care of everything?”

“Sort of. Mom, do remember the name of ‘Tarah’s Maid of Honor?”

“I do. Ondine. I don’t recall her last name, but I have the program from the church with everyone’s name in the wedding party.” She pursed her lips, looking off to the side. “Hmm. Where did I put that?”

“You still have it?”

“I’m pretty sure I do. Come along.” After giving him a brief, odd look, she went past him and trotted up the stairs. “All right, let me think.” She opened her bedroom door, ushering Jax in ahead of her as she continued. “The day of the wedding, after making sure Jett and ‘Tarah had successfully escaped the crowds following them to the airport…hmm. We came home – I was exhausted – and I wanted nothing more than to get out of that dress and into something soft and comfy. Now what did I…tossed my dress purse into a box in the closet…I know I didn’t bother to empty it...” Her gaze refocused and she nodded at her son.

“You remember?”

“Of course. I’m may dodder once in a while, but I’m not senile yet.” She opened the closet door, and pointed at the shelf over the clothing rod. “Would you pull that box down for me, please?”

Grasping the pretty floral hatbox, he slid it off the shelf and handed it to her. “I know. It’s nice having tall children.”

Celia smacked his arm, grinning, then took the box to the bed. From its padded interior, she removed a satin purse and opened it. “All right, let’s see. Lacy handkerchief I’d never use to blow my nose, lipstick I won’t use again because it only matches the outfit I wore to the wedding and nothing else in my wardrobe, and…ah, yes. The program.” After unfolding it, she ran her eye down the facing page, eyes narrowed as she read the list of the wedding party members. “And… there. Ondine St. Michele.”

            “Thanks, mom. I appreciate you doing this.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I’m hoping she can help me access ‘Tarah’s email.” He bit his lip. “Trouble is, I don’t know how to explain my request without letting on that her best friend might not be dead. I also don’t know how to contact her. I don’t suppose Mrs. Johanan would have that information?”

“I have no idea. Do you really need to do that, though?”

Jax sighed and sat on one of the small sofas near the window. “I don’t know. I’m just concerned that Jett will get it into his head to read her stuff for whatever reason, and I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to be able to do that.”

“Maybe not, but don’t you think he’d be furious if he realized you – well, what are you going to do once you get access, as you say?”

“Delete her account.”

“Oh, Ajax! What if she comes back! She’d be quite upset if you’d taken it upon yourself to mess with her personal information like that!”

“Even if she knew I did it to keep her husband sane until she was found?”

Celia sat beside him. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. This is crazy.”

They were silent for several minutes.

“I’ve thought of something.”

Jax raised his brows. “And?”

“And. Well. I remember Chara saying something about the art studio.”

“What do you mean?”

“She called to cancel the lease, and found out someone had been paying the rent.”

“Okay, and when was this?”

Celia got up and began pacing. “About two months ago. Apparently, the rent had never not been paid, and Chara muttered something about thinking it must be her daughter’s best friend, who spent almost as much time there as Atarah did.” She stopped. “The only person I know who qualifies as a best friend is this Ondine.”

“So you think I could find her there?”

“Seems possible.” She looked at her watch. “I doubt you could get there and back before Jett gets home, though.”

“No, probably not, considering her studio is…uh, any idea where it is? I don’t live around here, remember?”

She laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart. Of course you wouldn’t know that. I’m getting old. It’s downtown somewhere. I’ve been there once or twice, but never paid attention to the actual address.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. You aren’t old. Yet.”

She smacked him on the arm again.

“Anyway, I still think I should go find this Ondine. Tomorrow, maybe. I’m hoping Jett’s too tired or something to mess with emails the minute he gets in.”

“We’ll keep him plenty busy, Ajax. Besides, it’s a five-and-a-half-hour drive, and he’ll probably be bored to exhaustion by the time he’s dropped off.”

They said nothing more about it. The back door had opened and closed a few seconds after Celia’s remark, indicating Bryson had returned from his visit with Warren.

“Better let him know we’re here,” said Celia, rising. “Come downstairs soon, dear.”

Assuming there were no major traffic issues, Jax figured the youngest Kinsley would be home at last in another hour. Or, perhaps, the youngest known Kinsley.

*14*

 

 

How had she disappeared so completely, so quickly? No one at the clinic, including Kobienko, had managed to find a satisfactory answer to that. The grounds and building had been well-searched, and then the surrounding areas and towns. At one point, Interpol had gotten involved, had sent frightening individuals to the clinic to question the neurologist. He’d admitted nothing, knowing there was no proof that the girl had even been there. A few of the nurses had been tricked into admitting that someone fitting Atarah Johanan’s description had, in fact, undergone two surgeries in their OR and had been a resident patient of Dr. Kobienko’s for several weeks, but that she had left some time ago. No one knew why or where she had gone. Someone, however, had wandered off, they said, and had been the subject of some intensive searching. But since Kobienko had never told the staff who it was by name, they couldn’t say for certain that it was this Atarah, or the Narkissa the police were seeking.

The FBI had then arrived, and learned even less. By that time, Kobienko had had time to speak more specifically to his staff about the situation, and assured them that the girl they sought had never been at the clinic. He also told them that the purpose of the investigation had nothing to do with a missing person, but was being conducted in an effort to find reasons to close the clinic. It was, he confided, such a good one that the American medical community felt it would give too much competition in the world market. None of that made any sense, of course, but Kobienko’s staff, he knew, was loyal and believed everything he told them. He paid extremely well.

So the questions remained: how had she escaped? Where had she gone? Was she still alive somewhere? Had she given birth? On and on. Not wanting to be seen searching for her himself, since he was certain the authorities were still watching him from time to time, Kobienko had convinced Dr. Chevon – who had her own reasons for wanting to find Atarah – to continue looking, hiring whomever she thought would be effective and funding the entire endeavor out of his own funds.

Now, almost a year later, there was still no trace. Perhaps she’d fallen into a river, or a ravine, or…or maybe, without the medication he’d been giving her, her memory had returned and she was trying to get back home. He knew she had no passport, and that she spoke no Russian. But he also knew she was clever, creative, quick-witted, and capable of getting herself to safety. She had to know, though, that if she ever surfaced, she and everyone she knew would be in danger from him. As a doctor with an almost limitless supply of finances and access to any number of drugs,