With a violent tug, the window opened its mouth, fresh air licking their faces.
Nola raised her leg, straddling the windowsill. Halfway in, halfway out.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Zig offered.
He was wrong about that.
The doorknob clicked with a new sound. Roddy picking the lock.
“They didn’t take anything out,” Nola said.
“They wha—？” Zig asked.
“Grandma’s Pantry. The break-in. Whoever did it, they weren’t trying to take something out of the warehouse,” she said as she ducked down and slid outside. “They were trying to put something in.”
62
St. Anthony’s Medical Center
Elkton, Maryland
“MR. SOULE!? IS THAT YOUR WIFE!?”
“No, do it louder,” Nurse Sandie said. “MR. SOULE!? IS THAT YOUR WIFE!?”
“Hmhmm,” Robert Soule said, nodding in slow motion, his head barely bobbing, as though his chin were so heavy, it was hard to lift his head.
Like many men in their nineties, Soule had a face that puckered toward his lips, his blue eyes cloudy with cataracts and his jowls sagging like a hound dog’s. After sixteen years in a coma, muscle atrophy took the hardest toll. Still, there was a sweetness to him, reminding Waggs of an interview where Anjelica Huston said that when you get older, you get the face you deserve.
“Th-that’s my wife, Rochelle,” Soule said, his hand shaking as he pointed to the picture frame next to his bed. “We got married in . . . in . . . in . . . in . . .”
“IN TORONTO!” Waggs said.
“In Toronto,” Soule said. It was the fourth time he’d been asked about the black-and-white photo, which showed him and his wife in their early twenties, both of them holding Cincinnati Reds pennants. As the nurse explained, talking about Soule’s wife was the surest way to give him a kick start.
“My pretty bird,” Soule said, smiling and revealing just a few bottom teeth that were left. “Big baseball fan. Kept her own box score.”
“THE REDS WERE HER TEAM?!” Waggs asked, also for the fourth time.
“Hm-hmm. Mad for ’em.”
“Okay, try now,” Nurse Sandie whispered to Waggs.
“WHAT ABOUT THIS GIRL?” Waggs asked, holding up a photo of Nola. Again, for the fourth time.
Soule’s chin was still down by his chest. He looked up with just his eyes. “Pretty bird, too,” Soule said, clearly excited.
“HER NAME IS NOLA BROWN. DO YOU REMEMBER NOLA COMING TO SEE YOU?”
Soule stared at the photo, his eyes slowly drifting sideways. Four times now, this was where he petered out, never able to verbalize an answer. Waggs eyed the scar on his left temple. According to Soule’s file, he had what they called a “penetrating injury”—a pointy branch had stabbed him through his frontal lobe, on his left side, which explained why his language was so impaired. For the first time, though, his smile was still on his face.
“DO YOU REMEMBER HER COMING TO SEE YOU!?” Waggs repeated.
“He’s really trying,” Nurse Sandie said. “It’s just hard for him t—”
“I-I saw her,” Soule blurted.
“You did? That’s wonderful,” Waggs said.
“THAT’S WONDERFUL, MR. SOULE!” the nurse corrected.
“DO YOU REMEMBER ANYTHING SHE SAID?” Waggs added.