“I’m from out of town,” I tried again, “and it’s very important that I locate Creed Lindsey. The man who lives here, or at least I think he lives in this house. Can you help me?”
“Whadyou want thar fer?” Her voice was high- pitched and reminded me of banjo. strings. I knew I would have a hard time understanding a word of what she might have to say.
“I need him to help me,” I said very slowly. She moved several steps closer, her eyes never leaving mine. They were pale and crossed like a Siamese cat’s.
“I know he thinks there are people looking for him,” I went on with deadly calm.
“But I’m not one of them. I’m not one of. them at all.
I’m not here to cause him harm in any way. ”
“What’s thar name?”
“My name is Dr. Kay Scarpetta,” I answered her. She stared harder at me as if I had just told her the most curious secret. It occurred to me that if she knew what a doctor was, she might never have encountered one who was a woman.
“Do you know what a medical doctor is?” I asked her. She stared at my car as if it contradicted what I had just said.
“There are some doctors who help the police when people get hurt. That’s what I do,” I said.
“I’m helping the police here. That’s why I have a car like this. The police are letting me drive it while I’m here because I’m not from these parts. I’m from Richmond, Virginia.” My voice trailed off as she looked silently at my car, and I had the disheartening feeling that I had said too much and all was lost. I would never find Creed Lindsey. It had been incredibly foolish to imagine for even a moment that I could communicate with a people I did not know and could not begin to understand.
I was about to decide to return to my car and drive away when the girl suddenly approached. I was startled when she took my hand and without a word tugged me toward my car. She pointed through the window at my black medical bag on the passenger’s seat.
“That’s my medical bag,” I said.
“Do you want me to get it?”
“Yes, get thar,” she said. Opening the door, I did. I wondered if she was merely curious, but then she was pulling me out onto the unpaved street where I had first seen her. Wordlessly, she led me up the hill, her hand rough and dry like corn husks as it continued to grasp mine firmly and with purpose.
“Would you tell me your name?” I asked as we climbed at a brisk pace.
“Deborah.” Her teeth were bad, and she was gaunt and old before her time, typical in the cases of chronic malnutrition that I often saw in a society where food was not always the answer. I expected that Deborah’s family, like many I encountered in inner cities, subsisted on all the high empty calories that food stamps could buy.
“Deborah what?” I asked as we neared a tiny slab house. It appeared to have been built of trimmings from a sawmill and covered with tar paper, portions of which were supposed to look like brick.
“Deborah Washbum.”
I followed her up rickety wooden steps leading to a weathered porch with nothing on it but firewood and a faded turquoise glider. She opened a door that hadn’t seen paint in too long to remember its color, and pulled me inside, where the reason for this mission became instantly clear.
Two tiny faces too old for their very young years looked up from a bare mattress on the floor where a man sat bleeding into rags in his lap as he tried to sew up a cut on his right thumb. On the floor nearby was a glass jar half filled with a clear liquid that I doubted was water, and he had managed to get a stitch or two in with a regular needle and thread. For a moment, we regarded each other in the glare of an overhead bare light bulb.