Never Come Back

Chapter Forty

In the ICU of St. Vincent’s, Paul and I were allowed to spend fifteen minutes with a still unconscious Ronnie. He looked like hell, make no mistake about it. An IV line dripped a clear liquid into his arm. His skin looked ashen, his cheeks sunken. If not for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the slow rise and fall of his chest, I would have thought he was dead.

I leaned in next to his bed. I gripped his hand in mine. His skin felt cool and clammy, giving me a chill of my own. I remembered touching my father’s hand as he lay in his casket. His skin felt rubbery and fake. So did Ronnie’s.

But I didn’t let go.

I grasped Ronnie’s hand and squeezed, exerting just a small amount of pressure. I didn’t want to hurt him or startle him. I had no idea what effect the contact might have on him. Nothing happened, so I squeezed again. This time he returned the gesture. I felt the slightest bit of pressure returned against my hand. He was there. Ronnie was still there.

Paul walked out of the room by my side, his arm around my shoulder. No matter what, I had the two of them. A long road stretched ahead, but at least the three of us were still there.

I asked Paul if he minded staying at St. Vincent’s for a while so that I could take care of some other things. He told me he didn’t mind at all.

“What else is an old retired guy going to do on a Saturday?” he said.

He was clearly just as relieved as I was that Ronnie was alive. Maybe more so.

“You know, we need to remember…” He didn’t finish the thought, but I knew where he was going.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” I said. “I get it.”

And we didn’t say what really hung between us about Ronnie: even if he got through this, he still faced the prospect of a murder charge.

Some things were better left unsaid.

In the hospital parking lot, I pulled out my phone. I hadn’t had any luck searching for Elizabeth Yarbrough. But now I had a different name to try.

I typed in a search for “Elizabeth Baxter” in Haxton, Ohio.

Nothing came up.

I tried again, adding the word “missing” to the search. Again nothing. I added “missing person” and then “disappear.” Still nothing.

Was it possible for someone, a fifteen-year-old girl, to disappear and for there to be no trace or record of it in the world? Did people just forget?

I sent a text to Neal Nelson. It took just seconds for him to call me. When I answered, he didn’t say hello or ask me how I was doing. He just jumped right in.

“I knew you’d need me,” he said. “What can I do for you, Teach?”

“I need you to find somebody,” I said. “And if you can, find out about somebody.”

“Teach, I love a good caper,” he said. “I imagine this has to do with your mom.”

“It does,” I said.

“Glad I can help. Just give me the name and whatever you happen to know about this person.”

“You know what?” I said. “Now that I think about it, I’m going to need you to look into two people for me.”