Seraphim by Jon Michael Kelley

documents, talking quietly to one another; whispering. They both looked up as Kincaid ushered him and Rachel by, their eyes following them down the gleaming corridor. By their grim, round-eyed expressions, Duncan supposed that they’d just brought in the lurid remains of a homicide victim, or something equally gruesome.
    They checked in at the security desk, a mandatory procedure.
    The guard, a retired cop (Duncan could spot them a mile away), ran his finger down the computer screen. “Amy McNeil, you said? Admitted within the last hour or so?”
    “That’s right,” Duncan said, launching sarcastically into cop rhetoric: “Adolescent Caucasian female, ten years old, approximately four-and-a-half feet tall, reddish-blond hair, greenish blue eyes, usually has in her possession at least one item with a Barbie logo.”
    The guard looked up, not amused. “She’s not showing up on my—”
    “The child from Jefferson Elementary,” Kincaid reminded, stepping out from behind Duncan. “I arrived shortly after the ambulance. I’m her principal.” He pointed to the visitor badge affixed to the lapel of his modish jacket. “Surely you remember me .”
    “‘Course I do,” said the guard, swiveling the monitor around. He pointed to the screen. “But the girl you’re referring to was registered as Katherine Bently, not Amy McNeil.”
    Duncan and Rachel exchanged bewildered glances.
    Kincaid sighed. “A mistake, sir, just as I authenticated initially. And one which you obviously failed to correct in the interim. Now please, these are her parents—”
    “Alright, alright, I believe you,” insisted the guard, smiling now. After retrieving the necessary information, he issued Duncan and Rachel visitor badges.
    “Bay four,” said the guard. “It’ll be the second door on your right.”
    “‘Bay’ four?” Duncan said, insulted for his daughter. “What, is she getting her tires rotated?”
    The guard shrugged, brandishing another impish grin at Kincaid as he walked by, as if the man were a drag queen instead of a self-respecting principal.
    They paused in the doorway. Amy lay on a bed, appearing to be asleep. A male nurse was standing over her, adjusting a saline drip that had been inserted into her right hand.
    The nurse saw them in the doorway and motioned for them to enter.
    “I’ll leave you folks alone,” Kincaid said. “If someone should need to speak with me, I’ll be in the waiting area.” Then he disappeared down the hallway.
    “You must be Katherine’s parents,” the nurse said with an appeasing smile. “She’s going to be fine. Probably just had the wind knocked out of her.”
    Rolling her eyes, Rachel said, “Her name is Amy.” She reached into her purse and removed a pen. “Here,” she said to the nurse, “you might want to scribble that down somewhere.”
    Taking in the scene, Duncan was beginning to wonder if Amy’s situation might be a little more serious than they’d been led to believe.
    He followed Rachel to the bed, then bent down and kissed Amy’s cheek. “Hey, baby cakes,” he whispered in her ear.
    Rachel, worry sagging from her face, softly placed a hand upon her daughter’s forehead.
    The nurse was reading the admission form. “Well, there’s obviously some mistake. She’s been registered as Katherine Bently.” Hunching his shoulders, he looked up at them. “Name ring a bell?”
    Disgusted, Rachel shook her head.
    Although the name wasn’t arousing any carillons in Duncan’s belfry, he had to admit that it was giving the rope a slight tug.
    “Being her parents and all,” Duncan said, “we’re almost positive her name is Amy McNeil.”
    The nurse studied the admission form some more, then the papers beneath. “Well, what obviously happened is the people at admissions copied the information straight off the medic’s report. The ambulance driver just got his names mixed-up,” he said, as if that kind of cute little blunder happened all the time. He made some