Cry Mercy

NINE

We're going to find a new house today,” Chloe sang as she climbed onto the bench seat at the restaurant in the lobby of the hotel where they'd been staying since their arrival in Conroy earlier in the week.

“I don't know if we'll find one, but we are going to look.” Emme turned to the waitress who approached with a coffeepot in one hand and a booster seat in the other. “Good morning, Marjorie. I think we're going with the same old, same old this morning. Unless Chloe wants pancakes instead of waffles.”

“Waffles.” Chloe nodded as Marjorie slid the booster across the seat for her. “And bacon. And juice.”

“Okeydokey.” Marjorie poured coffee into Emme's cup then wrote the order down. “Mom?”

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

“I'll be back in a jif.”

“She always says that, every day.” Chloe wiggled into the seat. “‘I'll be back in a jif.’”

“She means she'll be back very soon.” Emme fixed her coffee and took a sip. “Jif is short for jiffy.”

“I thought that.” Chloe nodded and rested her elbows on the table. “Will our new house be big?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. I don't think we need a very big house just for the two of us, do you?”

“But we would for us and a dog.”

“We don't have a dog, sweet pea.”

“We could have a dog if we had a house. With a yard.”

“We'll see what houses the Realtor has to show us today. It may take us a while to find something we like, you know.”

“But we could find something we like today.”

“Yes, we could. And in the meantime, we have our nice room upstairs here, and we have Marjorie to be our waitress every morning for breakfast.”

“We're going to look for a new house today,” Chloe told Marjorie as their juice was served.

“You are?” Marjorie wiped up a tiny spill. “Well, I'd certainly miss seeing you every morning, Miss Chloe.”

Inside Emme's bag, her phone began to ring. She retrieved it and held it to one ear and used one hand to cover the other ear to block out the ongoing conversation between her daughter and the waitress.

“Emme? Nick Perone.” Without giving her a chance to return the greeting, he plowed on. “As you suggested, I went through those boxes of Belinda's that the sorority housemother sent a few months ago.”

Emme sat up straight, her interest immediately piqued.

“I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you found something you thought I should know about.”

“If you think the call records from Belinda's old cell phone are something you'd like to know about, then, yeah, I did.”

“I thought the police already had the records for her cell phone.”

“They have the records for the phone she'd been using this year. But she'd gotten a new one last summer. Different model, different carrier.”

“But they transfer the call records when you get a new phone, right?”

“If you keep the same number with the same company. Belinda wanted a new number because she'd been getting calls from a guy she used to go out with who didn't seem to understand what ‘Stop calling me’ means.”

“Wait a minute. Who's this guy? Where is he? Why didn't the chief know about him?”

“The guy is in school in Montana, and she hadn't heard from him since she switched phones, according to Belinda's roommate from last year. She said that the guy wasn't threatening, wasn't abusive, he was just a pain in the butt.”

“Had she told the police about this?”

“The police never contacted her. She opted not to join a sorority, and she and Belinda just drifted apart this year. But she did give me the name of the kid who'd been calling, Clifford Steck.”

“Had she ever mentioned him to you?”

“No. This is the first I've heard of him.”

“I need to call him.”

“I already did. He says he hasn't spoken with Belinda since last June, there's been no contact there at all. Offered to send me copies of his phone bills. And I went one better than just calling Steck. Between last night and this morning, I called every one of the numbers Belinda called or received calls from over the past two years.”

“That's a lot of calls.”

“You're telling me. A lot of the numbers were repeats, some were to college friends, a couple were to old friends from high school, that sort of thing. At first the number of long distance calls seemed odd, but then I remembered that most kids brought cell phones to school that have their home area codes. There were calls to me, to my home, my business, my cell. Several of the numbers had been disconnected. A few may have been wrong numbers. I say may have been because after I dialed and the calls were picked up, I got several versions of the same story. The person who answered the phone insisted they'd never heard of Belinda Hudson. Or they just hung up. Odd, since each of those numbers appeared more than once, and the calls lasted as much as an hour.”

“Maybe someone other than the person who answered had used the phone.”

“I thought of that. Or they were outright lying. Or it could have been someone who'd gotten spooked when the police called the number right after Belinda disappeared.”

“Meaning those numbers were on the phone records for Belinda's new phone as well as the old one. People she contacted last year and was still in contact with up until the time she disappeared.”

“Yeah. Seems like an inordinate number of misdialed calls, but we'll let that go for now. There was one number that appeared several times over a two-week period in April of last year, then not again. I called it last night and got a recording. I called again this morning because I wasn't sure I'd heard the recorded message correctly.”

“What was the message?”

“Thank you for calling Heaven's Gate Fertility Clinic. Our hours are nine AM to six PM…”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. That was my reaction, too. A fertility clinic outside of Reading. I looked it up on the map. It looks as if it's about twenty or thirty miles from where you are. Does that sound right?”

“I don't know. I'm new to the area. But why would Belinda be calling a fertility clinic?” Emme poked her fork into the waffle Marjorie had just served. “Maybe she needed money. I've read that some girls are selling their eggs to clinics to help pay for college. They're worth a lot of money to infertile couples. Maybe Belinda thought that was a good way to pick up some extra money to help pay her tuition?”

“Wendy left Belinda very well off. Money was not an issue.”

“On the day she disappeared, she borrowed twenty dollars from Deb.”

“I'm sure she just hadn't gotten to the ATM. I've seen her bank statements. She gets an automatic deposit monthly.” He added, “And yes, I've checked the recent statements. The deposits are still being made, but nothing's been withdrawn.”

“So she wasn't selling her eggs for the money, but maybe she thought it was a humanitarian thing to do, you know, to help out some infertile couples who wanted children.”

“Belinda was a great kid, but I just don't see it.”

“Then what's the connection?”

“That's what I'm going to find out on Monday morning. Are you in?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I'm in. I'm the investigator, remember? As a matter of fact, I think I should probably go by myself. I can call you and-”

“Uh-uh. I'm Belinda's legal guardian. Wendy was my sister. It's likely they won't tell you anything.”

She signed heavily. “All right. Give me the address. I'll meet you there.”

“Give me your address, I'll pick you up. No point in us both driving out there. Besides, you're on my way.”

Emme hesitated. She didn't know how Robert would feel about one of their clients being directed to his home. She gave Nick the address of the hotel instead.

“I'll see you at nine on Monday,” she said before hanging up.

Having finished her breakfast, Chloe had patiently passed the time until her mother finished her call by making lemonade in her water glass.

“How many packets of sugar have you put in there?” Emme asked.

After counting the empty paper packs with an index finger, Chloe announced, “Six.”

“You think that might be enough?”

“Lemons are very sour,” Chloe told her solemnly. Then without missing a beat, she asked, “Mommy, what's an infertile clinic?”

Emme searched for an age-appropriate response. “It's a place where people go when they need help having a baby.”

“Like the hospital when you got me?”

“No, it's-” Emme paused. Chloe never brought up the fact of her adoption. She'd been told but had never wanted to talk about it. “What made you think about being adopted?”

“My friend Lily at school said I must be adopted because we don't look alike. ′Cause I'm very dark and you are very light,” Chloe related matter-of-factly Before Emme could respond, Chloe had already moved on. “Isn't Lily a pretty name? I think I would like to be called Lily, too.”

“Wouldn't that be a bit confusing for your teacher with two Lilys in the class?”

“Uh-uh. There are two Madisons,” she held up two fingers on her right hand, then two fingers on her left, “and two Ryans.”

“Maybe you ought to ask Lily how she'd feel about sharing her name.” Emme smiled and handed Marjorie the check and its payment. “No change needed. Thanks, Marjorie.”

“We'll see you tomorrow.” Chloe extracted herself from the booster chair.

“And you can tell me if you found yourself a new place to live.” The waitress patted Chloe on the head as the child bounced past.

“I will,” Chloe said, and headed for the door.

“Chloe, wait up,” Emme called to her.

“I'm not Chloe,” Chloe said over her shoulder. “I'm Lily.”

“Got yourself a live one there,” Marjorie told Emme.

“You're telling me.”

She caught up with her daughter at the door. “Wait for me, please.”

“Lily.” Chloe turned to her. “Wait for me, please, Lily.”

Emme sighed and took her hand. After having convinced her daughter that it was okay for them to change their names, she couldn't very well lecture her now.

“I'm Lily,” the little girl insisted.

And Lily she remained, through the seven houses they looked at that day, and nine the next, all of which were unsuitable or unappealing or unaffordable.

“We'll look again next week,” Emme assured her as they headed back to the hotel after leaving the Realtor's office. “Maybe we'll find something then, Chloe. Er, Lily.”

“Olivia.” Her daughter strapped herself into her car seat.

“What?” In the process of closing the back door, Emme paused.

“Olivia. Like the Realtor.” Chloe smiled. “I think I'll be Olivia.”

This too shall pass, Emme reminded herself. And it did. By Monday morning, her daughter was Chloe again. But only because she couldn't decide between Olivia and Chelsea, a name she'd heard on television the night before.

Emme dropped Chloe off at school and stopped by her office to bring Mallory up to date.

“You could have had him pick you up here,” Mallory told her.

“I wasn't sure if Robert would object.”

Mallory shrugged. “It's not like this is some undisclosed location. Robert even held his press conference here, if you recall.”

“I'd forgotten.” Emme swung her bag over her shoulder. “I'll let you know what we find today.”

“It's certainly intriguing.” Mallory's phone rang and she turned to answer it. “What do you suppose Belinda Hudson wanted with a fertility clinic?”

“With any luck, we'll have the answer to that in a few hours.” Emme waved before leaving the office.

Ten minutes later, she had parked her car in the lot at the motel, and was walking toward the lobby, when she heard her name called. It always took her a split second to respond to Emme, to forget that she was Ann. Then again, she reminded herself, she wasn't even sure that Ann was the name she'd been given at birth, if her mother had bothered to name her before abandoning her in St. Ann's.

Move past it. You're Emme Caldwell now. That's the only name you need to know from here on out.

Nick Perone had pulled up to the entry to the motel lobby, opened the door of a red Firebird, and stood beside it.

“It's been a while since I saw one of these.” She approached the passenger's side.

“Ah, you recognize it, then.” He smiled and raised one eyebrow.

“I know it's a Pontiac Firebird.” She rested one forearm on the roof on her side. “No clue on the year, but I know the make and model. Do I get points for that?”

“A few.” He opened the driver's side door and got in. “It's an ' 87.”

She got in and slammed her door, and took a long look at the interior.

“What, no four on the floor?”

“This particular engine only came with automatic trans.” He turned the key in the ignition. “It was the only carbureted V8 used in an F-body.”

“Too much information.”

Nick laughed and drove from the lot, making a right into traffic.

“So where in your background would we find an '87 Firebird?”

“A year or two ago, I arrested a pimp who drove a car exactly like this one.”

“Ouch.”

It was her turn to laugh.

“So is this machine yours, or does it belong to one of your customers?” She settled into the bucket seat.

“You can adjust the seat,” he told her.

Her hand under the seat, she nodded. “Found it. Thanks.”

“The car's mine, to answer your question. I always say she was my first love. I worked on every inch of her. Replaced every part.”

“Well, I'm sure she appreciates it.”

“Purrs like a kitten every time I turn her on.” He patted the console.

“Have you always been interested in cars?”

“For as long as I can remember. My granddad was a farmer but his big love was classic cars, collecting them, restoring them. I used to spend my summers with him and my grandmother. We'd do farm work from six in the morning till around three or four in the afternoon, then we'd head to the garage and work on his latest project till dinner. We'd stop and eat, then head back to the garage again.”

“I'll bet you wrote some interesting ‘how I spent my summer vacation’ papers when school rolled around.”

“Hey, I was the envy of every guy in my class. The other kids would talk about two weeks at the beach, or a week in the mountains, but I'd had the entire summer to play mechanic with some very cool automobiles.” He glanced at her again and added, “Best years of my life.”

“Are they still farming? Your grandparents?”

“They both died years ago. They left the farm to Wendy and the cars to me. When Wendy died, the farm passed to Belinda.”

“Did she live there when she wasn't in school?”

“No. She stayed at my place in Khoury's Ford when she was on break. The farm's too far off the beaten track for a kid. You know, nothing to do, no one to see. There's another farm nearby, and the couple who own it keep an eye on the place for us. In return, we let them plant the fields.”

“What do they plant?”

“Mostly corn. Some years soybeans, some years potatoes, but mostly it's always been a corn farm. There's a small orchard there, a pond. It's a great place.”

“Any chance Belinda's been hiding there all this time?”

“None. For one thing, the neighbors would have seen her, they'd have let me know. For another, she didn't really like to be there by herself. She said the place was creepy and haunted.”

He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“Here's the map I printed off the Internet.” He handed her the paper. “See if you can figure out where we get off the highway.”

She unfolded the paper and skimmed the directions. “It's the next exit. You'll go left at the stop sign and then straight for another 3.3 miles.”

“Thanks. Would you mind navigating from here? I seem to remember there are a few more turns between the interstate and the clinic, but I'm not sure of the names of the roads.”

“Sure. According to this, you're good for another few miles before we get to the exit.”

“You know, if you hadn't asked about Belinda's stuff from school, I don't know how long it would have been before it occurred to me to look in those boxes.”

“Well, I'm sure that sooner or later…”

“Later might have been too much later.”

“Was there anything else in the boxes that gave you a clue to what Belinda might have been thinking back then?”

“There was a lot of stuff there. Honestly, I don't know if I'd recognize a clue unless it was pretty obvious. Like the phone bill. Other than that, all I can tell you after going through those boxes is that that girl had a hell of a lot of clothes.” He ran long fingers through his hair and she watched them glide, front to back. “I don't know how nineteen-year-old girls think. I don't know what's meaningful to them, or what she might have had in her possession that might have led me to something else.” He paused and turned to her. “Am I making any sense?”

“You're not sure if any of her belongings have any relevance to her disappearance or to the investigation.”

“Yeah. That's what I mean.”

“Would you mind if I took a look through the boxes?”

“Not at all. You just say when.”

“Oh, our exit's coming up on the right.”

He made the turn. “Left at the stop sign?”

She nodded. “Then straight for 3.3 miles, at which time you will”-she referred to the directions-“make a right onto Howard Road. The clinic will be on the right, about five miles down the road.”

They drove in silence for a mile or so. Emme watched Nick fidget, first tapping his fingers on the side of the steering wheel, then on the shift.

“Are you concerned about what we might learn at the clinic?” she asked.

“I'm more concerned that they won't tell us anything. If she was treated there or… whatever it is they actually do there, they're not going to tell us without a release signed by Belinda, right? There's a law about confidentiality, isn't there?”

“There is.”

“That's what bothers me. What if the key to the whole thing is here, and we can't get to it?”

“Well, if I was still a cop, and I believed there was information in the records that could help find a missing person, I'd ask a judge for a subpoena. But in this case…” That's exactly what she'd do. If she was still a cop. “Oh, there's Howard Road.”

He made the turn.

“Mallory Russo at the foundation has a friend who's a detective. Maybe we could get him to help us.” There were jurisdictional issues and issues of probable cause, but there was no reason to go into all that now. “Let's take it one step at a time.”

She watched the scenery change from hilly farmland to strip malls. “Did you make an appointment with anyone?”

He shook his head. “I didn't bother to leave a number, so I didn't get a call back. I figured we'd play it by ear when we got here.”

Moments later, the clinic-unmistakable with its monster-sized sign-came into view. Nick parked in the nearly-empty lot and turned off the engine. They got out of the car and followed the walk to the front of the building.

“There you go.” Nick touched her elbow and pointed to the sign just inside the door. “Heaven's Gate Fertility Clinic. Dorothea G. Drake, PhD., Executive Director.”

He held the door for her. “That's who we ask to see.”

“And if she isn't here? Or she's booked up?”

He gestured in the direction of the parking lot. “There were four cars out there besides mine. I'm thinking she's free. Think positively.”

The receptionist sat at a half-round desk twenty feet back from the front door. At the sound of Nick's voice, she looked up and looked them both over.

“Good morning. Mr. and Mrs. Fields? You're early.” The woman smiled brightly.

“Ah, no. We're here to see Dr. Drake.” Nick began.

The receptionist looked at the appointment book that lay open on her desk and frowned.

“You are?…”

“Nicolas Perone and Emme Caldwell.”

“You don't seem to have an appointment.” She made a point of turning to the next page, ostensibly to check the next day's listings.

“No, we don't.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“It's personal.”

“Mr. Perone, everything that happens here is personal.”

“Tell her it's extremely important that we speak with her today about my niece, Belinda Hudson,” Nick told her.

“I'll see if she has time to see you. In the meantime, if you wouldn't mind waiting.” She gestured in the direction of a sofa and some chairs on the opposite side of the room.

The receptionist waited until Nick and Emme had taken seats before disappearing through a doorway behind her desk. Nick sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees, and stared at the floor. Emme sat in a club chair opposite him, her bag on the floor next to her feet. She picked up a copy of a travel magazine that sat on the dark wood coffee table and flipped through it absently before tossing it back. It landed atop another publication and she reached for the second magazine.

Emme scanned the cover, which had a picture of a sort of crazy quilt comprised of photographs of children. Donor Siblings Reach Out to Connect was written across the sea of faces. Curious, she paged through the magazine searching for the lead article, but was interrupted when the receptionist opened the door and called to them.

“Dr. Drake will see you now.”

“Thanks.” Nick smiled at the receptionist when he and Emme passed her, and she closed the door behind them softly.

“Dr. Drake.” Nick said, as he crossed the carpeted floor, his hand extended to the woman who stood next to a wide wooden desk. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I really appreciate it.”

“You said it was extremely important.” The woman was all business. Tall, in her midsixties, and blond going gray, Dorothea Drake motioned to them to sit before she leaned against the side of her desk. “Your names again?”

“Nicolas Perone. This is Emme Caldwell. I apologize for not calling for an appointment first, but we needed to see you today.”

“The extremely important part?” she asked impatiently.

“My niece, Belinda Hudson, has been missing for five months. I've gone through her phone records, and it seems she made a number of calls to this clinic last April. I was wondering if you could tell me the nature of her business with Heaven's Gate.”

Dr. Drake stared at Nick for a long moment, but before she could speak, he said, “If she had business with your clinic, as her legal guardian, I'd like to know what that business was.”

He stood and reached in his pocket. “Here. I have a picture of my niece. Maybe if you looked at it, it would refresh your memory.”

“No need, Mr. Perone. I remember your niece. She was here last spring.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Since she wasn't seeking medical advice from one of our fertility specialists, and she wasn't undergoing any procedures, I don't see why not.” Dr. Drake moved behind her desk and sat, her arms resting on the desktop. “She was hoping we could give her some information, but unfortunately, in her case my hands were tied. I could not give her what she wanted. I don't think she really expected me to turn over the file.”

“What file?”

“Her mother's file.” Dr. Drake tilted her head to one side.

“Her mother's file?” Nick repeated.

“Yes.” Dr. Drake appeared to Emme to be slightly confused. “She came here hoping to find out who her donor was, but of course, I could not give her that information. Our donors are guaranteed anonymity unless they choose otherwise, and the name would not have been in the file, so access to it would not have helped her.”

“Wendy was the patient, not Belinda,” he said, as the truth became apparent.

“Yes. She bought several vials of sperm from us twenty or so years ago, as I recall.” She stared at Nick. “You were not aware of this?”

“I never knew how my sister conceived Belinda. I assumed it was a relationship that hadn't worked out.”

“I'm sorry. I assumed you knew.” Dr. Drake appeared flustered.

Emme's attention was drawn to a small booklet on the corner of the desk. FAQ: What if my child asks if he/she has siblings?

“Donor siblings,” she murmured, recalling the magazine in the reception area.

She touched Nick's arm.

“D.S.,” she said softly. “Donor siblings.”

Dr. Drake nodded. “Belinda said she was the spokesperson for her siblings. They were trying to track down their father and were curious about any-”

“Wait a minute.” Nick leaned forward. “What are donor siblings?”

“Children who were conceived using sperm from the same donor,” Dr. Drake explained.

“How many of these… donor siblings did she have?”

“I can't really say.”

“Is that privileged information?” he asked.

“I can't say because I don't know for certain. I know how many live births attributed to that particular donor were reported back to us, but you have to understand, not every woman who successfully conceived and gave birth reported that birth.”

“So you could have had fifty women receive sperm from the same donor, and maybe all fifty of them conceived and had a child, but maybe only thirty of them told you of their success.” Emme thought aloud. “There would be twenty more children out there who were half-siblings to the other thirty. Theoretically.”

Dr. Drake nodded. “Exactly. And keep in mind, some women bought more than one vial of sperm. They may have kept the extras in the freezer until such time as they wanted a second-or third-child.” She stood and began to pace. “It's not unheard of that a woman might give her ‘leftovers’ to a friend. Those children would not be in our network.”

“Is that legal?” Nick asked.

“I don't know of any law against it,” Dr. Drake replied.

“How would Belinda have discovered that she had these donor siblings?”

“The Internet holds a wealth of information, Mr. Perone. It's all in knowing where to look.” Dr. Drake picked up a pen and wrote something on a Post-it note. “Try this website. I think you'll be able to find what you're looking for there.”

She handed the note to Nick. “It's a website where children go to find their half-siblings.”

“Half-siblings?” Nick frowned.

“Certainly. These children may have had different mothers, but they had the same fathers.” Dr. Drake sat back in her chair. “What would you call them?”

“I don't know.”

“If the same man had fathered children by five different wives, what would you call the children?”

“Confused, most likely.”

Dr. Drake smiled weakly.

“Of course they'd be half-siblings,” Nick said.

“Because they had the same father but different mothers,” Dr. Drake pointed out the obvious. “The same applies to these kids. Same father, different mothers. Therefore, half-siblings. Donor siblings.” She tapped the pen on the palm of her hand. “Keep in mind that most of these children will never know who their father is. That one entire half of them is missing. Half of their history is unknown. They know their mother's side of the family, they can see what traits they've inherited from her. But at the same time, there's this great void that may never be filled, this great unknown about that other part of them. By connecting with their half-siblings-other kids just like them, who were conceived with sperm from the same father-perhaps they can fill in some of those blanks.”

“All of their mom's family is tall and blond, but they're short and dark haired,” Emme thought aloud. “They'd want to know where that dark hair came from.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Drake nodded. “They see certain traits that they all share, possibly, and by knowing each other-”

“They'd know a little something about their father. A means to fill in some of the blanks. To understand where they came from, who they are,” Emme said thoughtfully. She understood exactly what questions Belinda and the other donor siblings might have, because her entire life, she'd been asking the same ones. In her case, however, there was no website she could go to, no half-siblings she could locate, to help fill in the blanks of her own story. They simply simmered and bubbled under the surface.

“Right again, Miss Caldwell.”

“So Belinda went on this website, and she asked-” Nick still appeared puzzled. “What would she have asked? How would she know her half-siblings from kids who were conceived from another donor's sperm?”

“You'd have to know the sperm donor's number,” Dr. Drake told him. “In this case, it would be Donor 1735.”

“How would they know the donor's number?” Emme asked.

“The number is no secret. The mothers would have had those. That's the only way the donors are identified. It's a number assigned by the clinic so we know which vial to give the clients. As a matter of fact, it's written right on the vial. The potential mothers choose their prospective donors by the traits they'd like passed on to their children. Dark hair or light, blue eyes or brown, tall or short. Some women want the donor to have a similar ethnic background, some are looking for athletes with high IQs.”

“So you sort of pick through the available data until you find a donor who has what you're looking for,” Emme said. “You want blond hair and blue eyes and a propensity for higher mathematics and when you find a donor on the list who has those traits, you say, I'd like donor number twelve?”

“That's right.” Dr. Drake nodded.

“So with just her donor number, and that Web address, Belinda could locate these other kids.” Nick pondered the possibilities.

“She could find her donor siblings, yes, Mr. Perone. There are almost twelve thousand donor offspring registered on that one website alone. I've been told that almost five thousand donor siblings have been matched already.”

“Five thousand?” Nick frowned. “How many of these donor kids are there?”

“The estimate is between thirty and forty thousand born every year. But again, because there are no regulations, no one really knows for certain.”

“And any one of those kids could be related to Belinda?”

Dr. Drake shrugged. “The sky's the limit, Mr. Perone. Donor 1735 was a popular guy. We sold a lot of his sperm.”

“Like how much?”

“Over fifty vials. That was back in the day before we starting limiting the number of reported births to eight from any one donor. But remember, every vial did not result in a birth. Some resulted in multiple births. Some vials were frozen and never used. Some were passed on to friends.”

“I get the picture,” Nick nodded.

“As I said”-Dr. Drake took a few steps toward the door to indicate, Emme assumed, that their time was up-“the sky's the limit.”