On Fire by Dianne Linden Page A

going.
    â€œWe’re looking for a young, white male from the Blackstone Village area,” he said to the woman at the desk. “Amnesia. Possibly in a state of agitation.” He said the same thing when we asked at the community hospital. It’s amazing how you can put everything about a person in a few sentences like that.
    â€œAre you related to this person?” the woman asked. She didn’t look up.
    â€œYes,” I said before Marsh could open his mouth. I wasn’t going to get caught being unrelated a second time.
    â€œYou would be . . . ?”
    â€œHis cousin,” I said, quick off the draw again. “Matti Iverly.”
    I didn’t look at Marsh’s face when I said that. I fastened my eyes just below his chin and watched his Adam’s apple move up and down when he swallowed.
    â€œAnd the person you’re looking for would be Iverly as well?”
    â€œI . . . yes,” I said. “But he might not know that because of his . . . ”
    â€œFirst name?”
    â€œWe call him Dan.” That part was the absolute truth.
    â€œDan Iverly,” the woman said under her breath. She clicked the keys on her desk top computer and moved her head up and down. Then she stopped, frowned and began moving it from side to side.
    â€œI have no one by that name, of course, but I may have something. A young man — a John Doe, was brought here by the police. He’d been originally picked up in your general area.”
    She clicked and read again. “Search and Rescue were alerted by a Mrs. Laverdiere that she had found him in her house in Cato City and that he was in distress.”
    â€œThat’s him.” I said. “That’s my cousin. Cato City is just across the lake from us. And I know who Mrs. Laverdiere is.”
    â€œIt also says he was uncooperative.” The woman looked up at me then like she wanted an explanation.
    â€œIf somebody tied you up and flew you away in a helicopter,” I said, “I imagine you’d be uncooperative too.”
    While she did some more checking, we waited in a little room about the size of a chicken coop. It was the opposite of fancy. The floor was bare grey linoleum. The chairs had hard, wooden seats and there were no magazines to read, although I wouldn’t have been able to settle into reading anyway. I was nervous and ticcing.
    The way Marsh was looking at me didn’t help. It wasn’t like he was angry. More like I’d hit him over the head with a board.
    â€œMatti,” he whispered. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’re not related to him.”
    â€œYou have to be family to find out anything,” I said. “Isn’t that what they told us at the first hospital?” Marsh massaged his forehead the way I’ve seen him do before when he had a headache coming.
    â€œBesides, what’s a little thing like a lie when a friend’s in trouble?”
    â€œPerjury,” Marsh said.
    The woman from registration came back into the room then. “Dr. Charon will see you now,” she announced.

8

A D ANGER TO H IMSELF AND O THERS
    I DIDN’T EXPECT D R . C HARON’S OFFICE to be any fancier than the waiting room, and I wasn’t disappointed. He had a huge desk, empty except for his hands on top of a file folder. A bookcase behind him overflowed with books.
    That was it except for two wooden chairs like the ones in the waiting room, facing his desk. It didn’t seem like you were supposed to get too comfortable or stay too long.
    â€œI understand you think you’re related to one of our John Does?” the doctor said. He was small with an oddly shaped head. I thought his voice was way too high to be coming from a man.
    He didn’t ask us to sit down, but we did. I figured that’s what the chairs in front of his desk were for.
    â€œYes,” I said. “His name is Dan Iverly and we’d like to take him home