Gray Matter

The magnitude of that sacrifice had bothered the young Malenko early on. Here he was a physician attempting to bestow benefits on human life, not eliminate them. But the reality was that each of the prisoners had been scheduled for execution; so, in effect, they were making heroic self-sacrifices for the state. And after his fifth or sixth transplant, he was too absorbed in his quest to be bothered by higher moral issues. His concern was enhancement not ethics.

Within the last two years of his tenure in the Ukraine, and while the Communist system was beginning its death rattle, Lucius Malenko made his ultimate breakthrough—and one which would carry him to this day.

The reasoning was exquisite in its simplicity. As had been empirically evident, the transplantation of embryonic tissue had failed to establish specific nerve pathways because they were too new to take cues from the existing host brain to produce cells and connections in those areas associated with intelligence. Likewise, mature brain matter was too old to reseed target sites. That left the inevitable option.

“This one’s a goddamn little tiger.” Phillip turned his head to show the scratches on his cheek and neck.

“Occupational hazard,” Malenko said. “How’s she adjusting?”

Across the hall, Oliver pulled up the blinds on the one-way glass to another dormer. “As good as can be expected.”

Her name was Lilly Bellingham, and she was sitting on the bed staring at a piped-in video of Roger Rabbit. She was wearing Farmer John bib blue jeans over a yellow T-shirt, and her long yellow hair was held back in a ponytail. Because of the sedatives, she was docile. On the table beside her sat a tray of macaroni and cheese, salad, milk, and chocolate cake—all untouched.

As Malenko watched her, he thought how at seven Lilly was still at the optimum age. In spite of popular claims, the turbo production of brain-nerve cells did not decrease after the third year of life, creating a permanently hardwired organ. On the contrary, the gene that stimulates axonal growth—that increases communication throughout the brain—is active up to age eleven. After that, the ability to make gross anatomical changes diminishes—which is why a prepubescent child can still learn a foreign language without an accent while his parents can’t, though they might learn fancier vocabulary. Because children of higher intelligence possess brains of greater neuroplasticity, they have a greater capacity to learn, better memory storage, and better access to those memories.

At this very moment, behind those big green eyes, little Lilly Bellingham’s cortex was busily wiring itself for increased neurotropic functions, making of itself a faster, smarter CPU while her hippocampus, like the hard drive of that computer, was organizing that memory for easy access—and all the while taking in the foolish antics of Roger Rabbit.

“She’s not eaten,” Malenko said.

Phillip shook his head and showed him the clipboard schedule of meds, feedings, and her vital signs. Malenko studied the charts then slipped the board into the tray by the window. “If she doesn’t by this evening, we’ll have to go with the drip.”

Phillip nodded. “She wants her daddy. When he shows, she’ll eat.”

She had been picked up last week at a swimming hole in upstate New York. Phillip and Oliver had done well. They had snatched her from a beach using as decoy one of the other children from the camp, effectively fooling the mother long enough to make the switch.

Were she to grow to maturity, Lilly would be brilliant. But she was dirtpoor. And in spite of good Samaritans and all those financial-aid programs, chances were that dear sweet Lilly would end up filled with drugs and booze and living on welfare, festering at the bottom of the social compost heap, raising trailer-park brutes. What good was genius when tethered to the bed, the bassinet, and the kitchen stove?

Besides, she was also worth a million dollars.

Malenko took the clipboard. Lilly Bellingham. Age seven. From Henley, New York. Forty-eight inches tall. Forty-three pounds. And she had an IQ of 168.

And tomorrow, little Amber Bernardi.

Malenko bid a silent night-night to little Lilly and moved down the corridor to the window at the end.

Travis Valentine. He was asleep on his bed, a book on butterflies lay open beside him. The TV monitor flickered mindlessly.

According to the tests and functional scans, he had very high language proficiency—ninety—ninth percentile, in fact. Left-brain incandescence. He would probably grow up to be a first-rate writer or lawyer.

And if the parents decided not to keep him a dim bulb, so might young Dylan Whitman.

43

Because he was now on night shift, Greg didn’t get to bed until around seven A.M. So he was in a deep sleep when the phone rang at nine-thirty that Wednesday morning.

A female identifying herself as Patty Carney from the medical examiner’s office in Boston said she had read his bulletin from last Thursday. Greg was still too furry with sleep to register the name. The forensic pathologist.

“We had a homicide victim two days ago. You probably read about it. A kid from Hawthorne, killed by his mother who then killed herself?”

“Yeah, sure.” The story was all over the media.

“Well, we did an autopsy on the kid, and when we removed his brain we found that he had the same skull perforation clusters as in your bulletin. Thirteen along the left side of his head from the frontal cortex above the eyebrow to over the ear. But there’s a difference from the others. He had eight other holes on the right side of his head, too. And they were clearly done in a medical neurological procedure, probably when he was very young, from the healing signs. But I can’t tell you what for.”

“What’s his name?”

“Julian Watts. The obit’s in today’s paper. The funeral’s tomorrow.” She gave him some of the details. “I sent you a scan of the photo taken from the inside of his skullcap. I don’t know what they’re from, but I thought you’d be interested.”

Greg was suddenly very awake, and his heart was pounding. He thanked the woman, saying that he would get right to his computer for the scan.

“Oh, yeah. One more thing,” Patty said before hanging up. “His brain was over one point six kilograms.”

“Is that significant?”

“Well, the normal fourteen-year-old male’s brain weighs one point four kilos. His brain was nearly half a pound heavier.”

“How do you explain that?”

“I can’t.”

44

Brendan sat by himself at the rear of the Hawthorne Unitarian Church trying not to lose his mind.

He recognized several people from the Dells and the surrounding towns, getting lost in naming each of them and their family members, addresses, the kinds of cars they drove, golfing handicaps, and other biographical junk. That was the danger of large crowds, and the reasons why he hated function nights at the club. To stem the data tide, he tried boxing himself into a single distraction, such as the organ music—except he found himself visualizing the score until the inside of his skull was a running video of endless musical staves and prancing notes. If he took any more medication, he’d go to sleep. What he needed was something in the moment to focus on and cut out all the noise.

He couldn’t flip through the hymnal because he’d only get stuck in lyrics which would play in his head the rest of the day. He tried to think of Vanessa and Julian Watts lying in their coffins, but he began to imagine their state of necropsy, how their bodies had been drained of blood—what was left of it after the police had found them—and replaced with embalming fluids, and how in a few days they would begin to turn dark, and shrivel, and the fluids would begin to leak from their orifices.

He then ran through the capitals of the world, as stupefyingly boring as that was, then moved to the most populous cities including their populations according to the latest World Book of Facts.

What snapped him back was Nicole.

She had entered the rear of the church with her parents. Before they could move to a pew, he put his backpack on his seat and got up. “I have to see you,” he said, pulling her aside.

She gave him her blue-ice look. “Leave me alone.”

“Look, it’s v-v-very important.”

She started after her parents without response.

“Please.”

When her mother looked back, Nicole flashed her face to him. “Later,” she said through her teeth. Then she moved down the aisle.

Brendan returned to his pew and watched her move to the front of the church to join her parents. She was dressed in a simple dark blue sundress with white trim and dark blue pumps—an ensemble that projected a nautical motif, as if she were some kind of naval recruit. As he watched her settle, his mind slipped to that tattoo she wore.

While he worked on that for the hundredth time, he spotted Rachel Whitman walking in with her husband. Nicole had said that they had been on a parent tour of Bloomfield, which didn’t make sense.

A few minutes later Sheila MacPhearson came down the aisle with her daughter, Lucinda, who was carrying a Palm Pilot. They took seats beside the Whitmans. The women were friends—Rachel Whitman of 224 Morningside Drive and Sheila MacPhearson of 22 Willow Lane.

Mrs. MacPhearson’s husband, Harry, had lost all his money in a dot-com venture, then died of heart failure a year ago. According to rumors circulating at the club, he had left his wife with considerable debt, which might explain why she was always hustling off to show a property.

Lucinda fascinated him. She was clever, cunning, and very authoritarian with other children. He once caught her sticking a pin into the head of the rabbit in play school. She also knew how to turn on the charm, winning over Miss Jean and other Dellsies. Her mother, she wore like an engagement ring.

The two caskets lay side by side at the altar.

Rachel sat between Martin and Sheila MacPhearson. They had left Dylan with a sitter for the morning. However, Sheila had brought Lucinda, who was pressed beside her and working on a small computer—probably calculating the flaws in the unified field theory, she thought sickly. Rachel felt the urge to grab the damn thing out of her hands. She also was irritated that Sheila let her click and poke away at the keys while people filed in solemnly.

Rachel was sick at the sight of the two caskets with the twin wreaths of white roses. Such a tragic waste. Last week the world appeared to be Vanessa’s oyster. Then, in a matter of hours it was all over. Apparently the public humiliation had driven her to the brink. But why take Julian with her? How could she kill her own son? And a son she had been so proud of. Something clearly had snapped—and now there was a dead mother and son. Nothing was as it seemed.

Nobody could explain where the incriminating videotape came from or how it had gotten switched for the original. Apparently no fingerprints were found on the cassette. A Hawthorne policeman had come by to ask if Rachel knew of any enemies of Professor Watts since it was clear that somebody had been out to get the woman. Rachel knew of none. In fact, she barely knew Vanessa. He also asked if she knew any possible motives for her killing of her son. Rachel had no idea.

The newspapers had carried an interview with Joshua Blake who said he had been alerted to the plagiarism anonymously while on sabbatical in Western Samoa. He said that he had been encouraged to make the videotape to discourage Professor Watts from going ahead with the publication. He explained that he had just set up his own video camera, taped the interview, then overnighted the cassette to an anonymous post office box in Boston. He had also sent a copy to Vanessa’s publisher by airmail, which explained why her editor at the party was unaware of the plagiarism. He added that he had no idea who was behind the expose.

Sheila was sniffling into her handkerchief and checking her watch as the service began. When Rachel could see that she was not going to stop Lucinda from playing with her Palm Pilot, she leaned across to her and in a dead flat voice said, “You can put that away now.”

Lucinda looked up at her with chilling menace. Before another word was exchanged, Sheila snapped the thing out of her daughter’s hand and stuffed it in her purse.

While her parents were huddled by the gravesite, Brendan nodded to Nicole to come over. When she disregarded him, he started toward her—and that got the expected reaction. She came over not out of interest but because she did not want her parents and all their friends to think that golden-girl Nicole DaFoe was pals with the local weirdo—which is how everybody saw him: a creep to shield their children from, a schizoid basket case who talked to himself and suffered poetry seizures; the idiot savant who could recite the script of any movie he had seen. The kid nobody wanted their kids hanging with. Brendan LaMotte, goblin of Cape Ann.

“Make it fast. I’m going back to camp.” She followed him to a spot behind a large gaudy obelisk that blocked the view of the others.

From his backpack he pulled out a folder, saying how he had found it buried in his cellar. “I-it’s a WISC standard intelligence test taken when I was five.” He pointed to some numbers. “My IQ was seventy-seven.” Then he showed her another test taken two years later. “Same test, but intelligence quotient one hundred thirty-nine. That’s practically double. My verbal went from forty-three percentile to ninety-nine.”

Something slithered across her face. “I have to go.”

“N-no, there’s more.”

He then pulled out a photocopy of two canceled bank checks for three hundred thousand dollars each, made out to cash and signed by Brendan’s father, Eugene LaMotte. The dates were two weeks apart and about six months before the date of the second WISC test.

Nicole put her dark glasses on and started away.

“Wait. I also found MRI scans of my b-b-brain,” he said. “They operated on me. They did s-something to make me smarter.”

In the distance, her mother was waving her over. “Be right there,” she called.

She walked away, but Brendan caught up to her. “Nicole, listen to me. They did the same thing to you.”

She looked at him, her face appearing as rigid and white as the nearby headstone.

“Here, look.” In his hand he was holding a slip of paper—a piece of personalized stationery with the address and name of her father, Kingman DaFoe. Written in pen on it was a telephone number with an old exchange.

And the name Lucius Malenko.

Greg sat through the double funeral service at the Hawthorne Unitarian Church. He had removed his weapon and badge from his belt and he tried not to look conspicuous as he made mental notes of family members and close friends. He also tried not to think of what T.J. Gelford would say if he knew Greg was here. But that wouldn’t happen.

At the cemetery, he receded into the background and watched through dark glasses. It was a tasteful and dignified event, where a woman minister gave a moving eulogy before the matching bronze caskets poised above their plots. A large hushed crowd of mourners surrounded them, and a niece read a poem she had written. Greg spoke to no one.

From the newspaper obits, he got the names of the immediate survivors—Bradley Watts, the husband, and Lisa, the daughter. Watts was a tall patrician-looking man in his fifties with streaks of white around his ears, and a tanned angular face. His daughter was a pretty sandy-haired girl with a white full face and red eyes. The girl was not doing well and kept breaking down, so that Watts kept his arm around her throughout the ceremony.

When the service was over, people laid flowers on the coffins and paid their final condolences.

Greg pulled closer. At one point he overheard somebody agreeing with Brad that getting away was the best thing. He thought he heard someone mention Oregon.

Because of the awful circumstances of their deaths, there was no postfuneral dinner. That was unfortunate, because he wanted to speak to Bradley Watts in a more appropriate venue. The gravesite was definitely not the place, but he and his daughter could be departing for Oregon tomorrow, maybe even that night.

As Watts and his daughter started away from the grave toward the limousine, Greg pulled him aside. He expressed his sympathies and introduced himself. The daughter, whose eyes were still wet, stood there limply.

Watts thanked him and looked at the card. “Zakarian, good Albanian name.”

Greg didn’t bother to correct him. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m wondering if we could set up a time to ask you a few questions.”

“What about? I’ve already spoken to the police.”

“I realize that, but there are some things I’d like to ask about Julian that may shed light on other cases I’m investigating. Maybe we can meet tomorrow or the next day, at your convenience?”

“I’m taking my daughter to camp tomorrow, and I’m going to the West Coast and won’t be back for a few weeks.” He again glanced at Greg’s card. “Sagamore?”

“I can explain,” Greg said. The daughter looked distraught. So, to show her some interest, he asked, “Where are you going to camp?”

“Allegro Music Camp outside Toronto.” She seemed to perk up a little.

“You must be quite a musician. What do you play?”

“Violin,” she said. Then she added, “Julian was supposed to go to the Nova Children’s Center camp at Lake Tarabec, but …” She trailed off into a choke.

“I’m very sorry,” Greg said. “From what I read, he was a very bright young man.”

Watts gave her a comforting squeeze. “Maybe when I return,” he said.

“I’d rather we talk before you left,” Greg said.

Mr. Watts sighed and told his daughter to get in the limo, that he’d be right there. The girl slumped away to the waiting car.

“Officer Zakarian, I’m taking my daughter home where we’ll try to relax as best as the medication will allow. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning we are out of here. So if you have any questions I’ll take them now.”

This was not how Greg wanted it—standing just feet away from his wife’s and son’s caskets.

“And, please, be brief and to the point.”

Greg nodded. “According to the autopsy report on Julian, clusters of scars were found on his skull. You’re no doubt aware of them.”

Watts’s eye twitched ever so slightly. But he did not respond.

“You do know what I’m talking about?”

Watts’s expression seemed to stiffen. “I’m listening.”

“Can you tell me how they got there?”

“Why are you asking me this, Officer?”

Briefly Greg mentioned the two other cases. He would have preferred to do this in the man’s house or office, but he pulled out the schematic of the skull with holes.

The man glanced at the drawing then looked at Greg. “Julian was treated for epilepsy as a child. He had a severe case.”

“So you’re saying he had some medical procedure.”

“Yes,” Watts said. He gave Greg a saucer-eyed look that seemed to blot out any suspicions that what he said was not the absolute truth.

“Was Julian right-handed or left-handed?”

Watts hesitated for a second, no doubt wondering about the odd question. “Left.”

“Can you tell me the name of his doctor?”

“Daaad?” It was his daughter calling him from the limousine.

“Good day, Officer,” Watts said, and he walked away to the car and got in.

Epilepsy.

Greg looked around. The place was emptying out. People were walking to their cars, and cars were moving in a slow caravan toward the exit. Nearby he spotted a big kid with a black ponytail showing something to an attractive tall blonde behind a monument.

Greg watched the limo pull out of its spot by the edge of the grass. Lisa was sitting at a rear window. He gave a little wave and watched the car pull down the lane.

Nova Children’s Center. The words spread through his mind like a crack.

45

The Whitman home was located in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Hawthorne where stately Colonials and Tudors reminded Greg that he was an outsider.

On Friday afternoon around two, he pulled in front of a handsome brick garrison with a slate roof, two stately chimneys, and black shutters with white trim. A gold Maxima was parked in the driveway. Because it was next to an open lot, he could spot an elaborate wooden play structure in the backyard. He had a mental flash of the Dixon place with its redbrick box, front yard of scrub and dirt, the tire swing. It was this place, but a couple decimal points to the left.

A bed of daylilies and groundcover neatly lined the flagstone walk to the front door. He rang it and a woman who looked to be in her thirties answered. She was very attractive with shoulder-length shiny black hair, and jagged bangs, and large amber eyes. He had seen her and her husband yesterday at the Wattses’ funeral.

“Mrs. Whitman?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Greg Zakarian. I’m a detective from the Sagamore Police Department.” He handed the woman his card. She looked instantly concerned. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Vanessa and Julian Watts case.”

“But I’ve already spoken to the police.”

“I understand, but there are some elements in the case that may have bearing on another case.” Understandably she looked puzzled but let him inside.

He followed her through the living room, attractively decorated in bright colors and oriental rugs. On the coffee table sat copies of The New Yorker and The Quarterly Review of Wine.

She led him to a screened-in porch that was furnished in white wicker and floral cushions. Large pots of red geraniums sat on the floor. Some children’s books were piled neatly on a chair. From the porch he could see that the backyard climbing structure was an elaborate redwood system with ropes, hang rails, and a large yellow sliding tube. Not your basic tire swing. A little boy sat digging in a nearby sandbox.

Mrs. Whitman offered him some coffee or a soft drink, but Greg declined. She glanced at his card as she sat down. “Eench bess ess?” she said.

“Shad lav em,” he replied in Armenian to say he was fine. “I’m impressed. You’re the first person in two weeks who hasn’t take me for a space alien.”

The woman smiled. “My roommate in college was Armenian—Sue Ekezian. Lovely people and wonderful food. I still on occasion go to Watertown for the rolled grape leaves, the lamejuns and pastries.”

“Eastern Bakery has wonderful paklevah.”

“Yes, and my son just loves that,” she said, smiling. And she glanced toward the little boy.

“Handsome boy. What’s his name?”

“Dylan.”

“Am I hearing things, or is he really singing ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame’?”

Rachel laughed. “Yes. His father has a collection of Broadway shows. I’m afraid the lyrics aren’t very liberated.”

“Gee, why would you think that?”

She laughed as the boy reached the finale, which he belted out with amazing gusto and dramatics:

There ain’t a thing that’s wrong with any man here

That can’t be cured by puttin’ him near

A girly, womanly, female, feminine dame!

Greg quietly applauded. “Bravo, bravo,” he called out to the boy.

Dylan, who was wearing huge sunglasses and a crooked Red Sox cap, looked toward the porch, then, grinning widely, he rose to his feet and took a dramatic bow, still standing in the sandbox. Then he went back to his digging.

“A spirited little guy.”

“Thanks … and a born ham,” said Mrs. Whitman, beaming.

His instinct was to look away, to get to business, but he couldn’t help staring at her. The feathery black eyebrows, the jagged spikes of hair on her brow, the warm spark of light in her eyes, the high cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth. She was very attractive.

“How old is he?”

“He just turned six. Do you have children, Officer?”

“No. My wife died before we could have kids.” As soon as his words hit air, Greg wished he could have edited them out. A simple no would have done it. In fact, he did not know why he had said that. Widowerhood was not how he identified himself to others. He almost never mentioned losing Lindsay if for nothing else than to avoid the mood slump and obligatory condolences. But for some reason, he wanted this woman to know.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

The mood lightened when outside, Dylan had switched to The Sound of Music and his rendition of “My Favorite Things.” As he listened, it struck Greg just how good a singer the little boy was. Not only did he have a beautiful voice, but he also had a fine ear. With remarkable accuracy he had captured Julie Andrews’s delivery, right down to the British dialect and inflection. In fact, Greg couldn’t help but comment on the boy’s talent.

Mrs. Whitman got up to refill her coffee and Greg agreed to a cup of black. When she returned they chatted some more about Dylan and his interest in Little League. His first game of the season was this coming Saturday.

While Mrs. Whitman described how excited the boy was in anticipation, Greg listened with admiration. She was engaging, her manner was open and warm. And regarding her son, she was manifestly devoted and adoring. When the boy passed through the porch for a cookie she could not help but pull him to her and plant kisses on his sandy red cheeks.

As he watched her, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He quickly snapped off the thought.

“My name is Greg,” he said to Dylan and put out his hand.

Dylan slapped him five. “Do you like ca-ter-pil-lars?”

The boy’s enunciation was measured, and he flashed a glance at his mother who smiled and nodded approval. Maybe he had just learned the word. “Caterpillars?” Greg said. “I love caterpillars.”

The boy smiled and handed Greg a jar with some leaves and a bright orange caterpillar inside. “That’s good. You can have her and watch her grow wings.”

“Thanks. That’s very nice of you. But what do I feed her?”

“Leaves and butter.” With that, Dylan went into the house for his cookies.

Mrs. Whitman looked at the jar in Greg’s hand. “Lucky you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, staring at the length of orange fuzz. “We’re going to be fast friends. Leaves and butter. That makes sense.”

Mrs. Whitman made a puzzled smile. “Yeah, I guess it does. In fact, I never quite noticed the butter in butterflies before.” And she laughed to herself.

“There may be a lesson here about how kids see the world.”

She made a curious expression and nodded. “I guess.”

Greg could have gone on chatting with Mrs. Whitman. She was easy to talk to, and he also liked looking at her as they conversed. She was beautiful, and her large expressive eyes were flecked with gold, making them appear as if in kaleidoscopic motion, drawing him dangerously in as she spoke. He opened his notebook. “I hate to downshift, but I do have some questions,” he said, trying to feel cop-professional again.

“Of course.” She glanced through the porch screen. Dylan was back outside eating a cookie.

“How well did you know Vanessa Watts?”

“Really, not well at all.” She explained that they were members of the same country club, having seen each other only on occasion. But, yes, she had attended the party on that tragic night.

“Did you know her son?”

“I had met him once.”

“Can you tell me a little about him—what he was like?”

She hesitated at first, measuring her response. “Well, as I said, I really didn’t know him. But he was very smart and a talented artist.” And she went on to describe his ability to create images of photographic exactness and how he had taught himself Italian and Spanish by listening to speeded-up language tapes.

“Did you know anything about his medical condition?”

Instantly her expression clouded. “Medical condition?”

“That he had epilepsy.”

“No. I didn’t know he was epileptic.”

“Then you weren’t aware that he had seizures.”

“No.”

“Or that he had had medical operations as a child to alleviate the condition?”

“Operations? No.” Her face was full of concern. “Officer, may I ask what this is all about?”

Greg pulled out the schematic and briefly explained the circumstances of the two sets of skeletal remains. “One was six when he was kidnapped, the other about the same plus or minus a year.”

“And you think they all had epilepsy?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

“I didn’t know epilepsy was treated with surgery.”

“Neither did I, but I guess a small percentage of cases necessitate the removal of lesions.”

“Then how are they connected to Julian?”

“I’m not sure they are,” Greg said. “I was just curious about the configurations on the skull. And why the remains of two missing children with similar drill holes showed up in Massachusetts coastal waters.”

“I wish I could help you.” She glanced at her watch.

“Would you know any other friends or acquaintances of the Watts family that I might speak to?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Not really.”

“How about your husband?”

She made a flap of her hand. “He wouldn’t know.”

There was something dismissive in her gesture. “I was just wondering if he was a friend of Mr. Watts and might have some useful insights.”

“No. He’s very busy with work and not around much. I know he doesn’t know Brad Watts and only met Julian once.”

“By the way, what does your husband do?” The question had nothing to do with the investigation, and they both knew that, Greg thought.

“He has a recruitment company.”

“And what do you do?”

She smiled. “I’m Dylan’s mother.”

“And from all appearances, doing a fine job.”

“I hope so,” she said, and looked into the backyard again. Dylan was on the swing singing to himself.

Greg knew the question was a long shot and out of line, but he asked anyway: “This being a small town, I’m wondering if you’d know who Julian Watts’s pediatrician was.”

“His pediatrician?” Her eyes suddenly took on a curious cast. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a clue.” She glanced at Dylan then her watch again.

It was Greg’s cue to wrap things up. Greg got to his feet. “I know this is off the wall, but would you know if Julian was right-handed or left-handed?”

She thought for a moment. “I remember he did his pictures with his left hand.”

Greg nodded. “One more question, if I may.”

She hesitated. “Okay.”

“Have you ever heard of the Nova Children’s Center?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “No.” But there was something in her eyes.

He thanked her for her time and waved good-bye and thanks to Dylan for the caterpillar.

Some time later, while he was driving back to Sagamore, Greg’s cop instinct kept bringing him back to that final look in Mrs. Whitman’s eyes—a look that said she was lying.

46

“Brad told him Julian was treated for epilepsy,” Rachel said to Martin.

“We don’t know that he wasn’t.”

“I called Dr. Rose. Only a small percentage of epilepsy patients have surgery, and those are extreme cases.”

“So?”

“It may just be a cover story.”

It was later that evening, and Rachel was in the kitchen fixing a dinner of lamb shish kebab, bulgur pilaf with toasted pine nuts, and a string bean, onion, and tomato stew. She hadn’t cooked Armenian for years, but meeting Officer Zakarian earlier had inspired her. She had even dug up a gift cookbook her old roommate had sent her one Christmas.

As usual, Martin had gotten home late. Dylan was in the family room watching a video of A.I. that Martin had picked up. Rachel had not seen the movie and asked if it was appropriate for Dylan, vaguely recalling that it was something of a downer. Martin said it that was age-appropriate, a robot version of Pinocchio—nothing to worry about.

“If it is a cover, it makes sense: He’s honoring the nondisclosure agreement. Besides, Julian’s medical history is none of the cop’s business, or anyone else’s.”

“That’s not the point. Two other children with the same holes were kidnapped and murdered.”

“Rachel, that’s pure coincidence. The holes were probably from being in the sea so long.”

“And what if they weren’t?”

“Like what?”

“What if they were enhanced also?”

“But you don’t know those holes came from enhancement.”

“Malenko said it was an invasive procedure using stereotaxic needles.”

“Lots of people have stereotaxic surgery—kids included—and they aren’t enhanced. It’s an established neurological procedure to get into the brain for a thousand different reasons.”

His explanation was facile and unsatisfying. Still, he may have been right—that it was all a coincidence. But what were the odds of that?

“Did the cop give you his name?”

“His card is on the counter.”

Martin picked it up. “Wasn’t your roommate Iranian?”

“Armenian.”

“Whatever,” he said. Then he lowered his voice so Dylan couldn’t hear. “If he comes around again, you know nothing about Julian’s enhancement. Just play dumb. It could compromise our chances if Malenko hears some cop’s snooping around.”

The suggestion grated on a nerve. And, yet, she had yielded to that same protective instinct earlier when Zakarian had asked her if she knew Julian’s doctor or had heard of Nova Children’s Center.

She had later chided herself for not being forthcoming. Yet, Malenko had made it clear that he could get into an ethical imbroglio were the procedure to become public. And, as Martin said, if a police detective showed up at his door asking about holes in the skulls of dead children, that would be it for Dylan.

And, for all her misgivings, she still kept her foot in that door.

A little before nine on Saturday morning, two hours before Dylan’s baseball game and six hours before Rachel was scheduled to fly to Phoenix, Lucius Malenko telephoned.

He said he was out of town and called to wish her mother a full recovery from her operation. He expressed his condolences for the death of her friend Vanessa Watts and her son. “Unfortunately, I didn’t hear until after the funeral. Otherwise, I would have gone,” he said. “It was certainly shocking. Julian was a remarkably accomplished child. Such a waste.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I had not seen the boy for some time,” he added, “but when last he came in, he was doing very well. Top in his class and giving piano recitals. I had also heard that his paintings were on exhibit at his school.”

“Yes.” She did not want to talk to Malenko.

Martin was still asleep. Across the kitchen, Dylan sat at the table eating a bowl of Alpen muesli and studying the photo of a missing child on the side of the milk carton.

“Have you seen me?”

Because she had to leave town, they would postpone their next meeting with Malenko until she returned—maybe the middle of next week if all went well with her mother.

Martin had marked the calendar that sat on the wall above the phone. He had circled it in black. That was when they were to give their final decision on enhancement: Friday July 3. The date hovered in her mind like some doomsday raven.

“We’ll call when I return,” she said, and walked over to the table where Dylan was eating. It was a little boy from New London, New Mexico. At the bottom was an 800 number and a Web address for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

“That would be helpful since, as you may suspect, such a procedure requires considerable planning of material and staff.”

“I understand,” she said. “We’ll do our best to come to a decision, but I still have reservations, as you know.”

Her eyes rested on the carton photo—a little towhead with a bright smile and a missing front tooth.

And what if we go through with it and in a year he turns into a total stranger—brilliant, but no one I recognize?

“I understand, but as I’ve explained, we have an accomplished team and the finest equipment. And you have seen the evidence.”

“Yes, but I still need time to think it over.” She wanted to get off the phone. She did not want to corrupt the day with more anxiety.

“Of course. And while you do, please ask yourself what’s important to you as a parent: If you want to increase your son’s chances of having a full and productive life.”

The man was putting pressure on her and she did not like it. “I really have to go, but we’ll call when I get back.”

“I don’t mean to be so blunt, but don’t you think your husband deserves a smart son, Mrs. Whitman?”

“That’s not exactly how I view it, Dr. Malenko. In fact, I find your implication offensive.”

“I apologize, but under the circumstances, I believe you owe it to him to strongly consider the option.” He then said good-bye and hung up.

“you owe it to him”

The bastard. She had confided in him the most painful secret in her life, and now he was using it against her like a cattle prod.

She put the phone down and went over to Dylan and kissed him on the head.

“Who’s this little boy?” he asked.

“His name is Sean Klein.”

“But how come his picture’s on here?”

“Well, he’s missing. He got lost.”

“He got lost?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But, Mom, you wouldn’t get me lost, would you?”

She put her arms around him. “Never, never.”

“Cuz then I couldn’t sing for you.”

47

They came for Lilly about ten that morning.

There were three of them. Because of the sedative they had given her, she was fuzzy-headed. A man and a woman.

Vera. Her name was Vera. The man was Phillip.

Phillip had a dark mole on his cheek. Every time he came in, she could not help staring at it. Phillip also had a big head and short black hair combed straight forward.

They picked her off the bed and put her on a stretcher with wheels like the kind they use in ambulances, and they took her out of the room and down the hallway.

She was glad to be leaving that room. There were no windows, the door had no handle and it was always locked. And the lights were always on. She also didn’t like all the stupid cartoons, because they kept playing over and over again. Also, the toys were old and some were broken. But she liked the big blue stuffed elephant because it had straps for your feet and hands so you could dance with it. But it was strange looking since it didn’t have big blank elephant feet but actual hands like people have. And arms. Four of them. It was kind of creepy. Like an elephant centipede. His name was Mr. Nisha.

As they wheeled her into the hall, she hoped that they were taking her outside. The day when she arrived, she had spotted some kids in a playground. She had only gotten a glimpse through the van’s window, but she saw two kids on a jungle gym and two other kids at a nearby picnic table playing computer games on laptops. Which made four. She wondered who they were.

She had also noticed that they were beside a big lake with a real seaplane. Wouldn’t that be fun? she thought. She had never been on a plane. Mom said they were too expensive. When she asked Oliver yesterday, he said he would take her for a ride in it. Tonight.

She hoped they were wheeling her outside to play with the other kids. And no more tests. Maybe somebody was going to explain what she was doing here. Maybe this was the day she would go home, and that when they took her outside, her mom and dad would be there, and Bugs, her dog. Maybe.

Eeeep, eeeep. Eeeep …

One of the wheels on the gurney squeaked, and she tried to look down. It sounded like mice in a cage. She once had mice in a cage at home. They weren’t hers, but belonged to the school. One Christmas vacation she had volunteered to take them home for the break. Her mom didn’t like the idea because they were too close to rats, and rats were mean and filthy animals, Mom had said. But Lilly convinced her that these mice were clean and cute and wouldn’t be any fuss. By the end of the vacation, Mom got to like the “little critters.” She also got a kick watching them run through the Styrofoam structure the kids had made in class.

The gurney squealed down a corridor that seemed to be a long bright tunnel with rows of windows with venetian blinds pulled down. That was strange.

They took a hard turn to the right and pushed their way into a big bright room.

Inside she saw lots of fancy equipment—machines with wires, dials, and lights, some computer equipment, a sink, and more drip bottles. She had not been in a real hospital since she was born, and she didn’t remember that; but this looked like one of those operating rooms in the hospital shows her mom watched.

She closed her eyes again to doze off. But that did not last long because something snapped them open.

A buzzing sound.

Like the electric clippers her mom’s hairdresser used. Sure enough, she felt somebody from behind run it across her scalp. For a moment, she just let the buzz fill her ears, as the cool metal mowed its way across her head. Then she looked down to see large chunks of her hair land on the ground.

“Don’t take so much off,” she insisted.

“Don’t worry,” somebody said. “It’s not going to hurt.”

Because there was no mirror in front of her, she couldn’t tell how much they were cutting—but her head suddenly felt cool. Naked. She tried to raise her hands to feel, but they were clamped to the sides.

Hands brushed away the hairs from around her. Then the sound of somebody vacuuming the floor under her.

Then it was quiet, but for feathery-soft voices and the squeal of the wheels as she was rolled across the room.

Somebody said something, and she felt herself being lifted off the gurney and onto a table under a huge round dome with lights blazing down on her. She could feel their heat.

Then she was being cranked up a little. She looked down the length of her body and saw lots of the machines with colored lights and screens with orange squiggles going across, and some people moving about. But the light was too bright, and her mind was too fuzzy to make them out clearly. They seemed so small and far away, as if the world had gone to miniature.

Hanging over her was a large television, but there was no picture—just bright blue with what looked like ruler lines making a cross right in the center—like looking through the scope of her father’s rifle. On another screen next to it were black-and-white pictures of a skull with numbers and lines drawn through it.

All around her, she heard the soft hum of the machines and the murmur of voices. She tried to move, but her hands were tied for the new IV somebody taped onto her arm. Then she felt herself lifted up as a pillow was placed under her neck.

“Lilly, how do you feel?” she asked.

She knew that voice: Vera.

She didn’t like Vera. She was a fake. She would pretend to be friendly so Lilly would take her medicine or eat the food or do the tests. She said things like how they had her locked up like a jailbird—such a shame. But if she ate and took her meds, Vera would talk to Phillip to let her outside. But she lied. They brought her outside only once—to dance with Mr. Nisha.

“Fine.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

Silly question, they all knew her name. “Lilly Bellingham.”

“Good,” Vera said. “Oh, look, it’s Lilly dancing.”

Lilly opened her eyes again, and there on the television was a video of her dancing with Mr. Nisha.

“And who’s dancing with you, Lilly?”

“Mr. Nisha.” Why were they asking such dumb questions? Nothing like the tests.

“Good girl.”

Lilly kept her eyes fixed on the video, trying not to doze off. Suddenly she felt something on her head. From behind her, a hand drew marks on her scalp. Four marks—two on her forehead just above the hairline, another two at the back of her head just above the ears.

“These are where the screws will be inserted,” said a man with a soft voice.

He had a funny accent—“broken English,” as her mom would say.

“Since the brain itself is not sensitive to pain, only the surface requires local anesthetic.”

“Lilly, how you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Good girl. And when this is over, Oliver is going to take you for an airplane ride. Would you like that?”

“Yes, I would,” she said. She couldn’t see any faces because everybody was wearing green masks and caps. Just eyes staring down at her. And hands.

“Nurse Cooper is going to put a little cream on your head so you won’t feel anything,” the man with the accent said. “Dermal analgesic, please.”

Hands spread some cool sticky stuff to her head.

“An equal mixture of lidocaine and prilocaine,” the man continued, “the substance works subcutaneously and is one hundred percent effective. We’ve used it for years. As you’ll notice it has a strong almond odor.”

Lilly could smell the stuff, although she didn’t know what almonds smelled like. Then she felt some dull scratching on her head.

“We make four small incisions for the screw supports of the frame,” the man said to the others.

She felt someone dab her head in places.

“This is going to keep your head still. So, make Mr. Nisha happy and don’t try to move. Okay?”

“’Kay.”

Movement. Lilly forced her eyes open. Gloved hands had clamped a heavy metal frame to her head while somebody turned the screws. There was no pain—just a dull squeezing across the top of her skull.

When they were through, her head was frozen in place. And all she could see was the thick metal bar across her eyes—and hands turning knobs and moving things.

For a brief spell, she closed her eyes, and …

She was at Crescent Lake Beach with her mom and dad. Her mother was saying not to go out into deep water.

“Lilly, don’t fall asleep. We need you to be awake to talk to us, okay? Just watch the video.”

“‘Kay,” she said. On the television monitor she was still dancing with Mr. Nisha. She looked so silly with him attached to her like that, his big fat trunk swaying with the music.

Someplace in the background she thought she heard the squealing of the gurney.

“Because the brain is completely encased in bone, reaching surgical targets is more difficult than for surgeries on other parts of the body. And the reason, of course, is that critical structures or vessels limit the choice of possible trajectories. But that’s not our concern here.”

Then Lilly heard another voice. “Doctor, the first target is two millimeters below the midcommissural line and twelve millimeters laterally which locates us in the subthalamic nucleus.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “This halo structure has major advantages over conventional stereotaxic frames for determining coordinates,” he continued, although Lilly had no idea what he was saying. “It’s precisely calibrated with little stopples to prevent the probes from straying or probing too far. It’s one of the wonders of finely tooled machines—the ultimate in precision drilling.”

She closed her eyes. Someplace in the fog she heard, “Don’t be afraid. It’s not going to hurt.”

Small voices. Kids blurred on the beach behind her as she waded into deeper water. “Not too far.” She tried to look back at the beach, to her mother sitting on the blanket. She could hear her calling her name, but because of the big metal thing on her head, she couldn’t turn.

“Lilly, look at the movie and tell me your name.”

“Lilly Bellingham.”

“Good girl.”

She closed her eyes and was back at the lake, now in waist-deep water. Voices on the shore fading, and her mother calling her name. “That’s far enough.” Suddenly she heard something that snapped her eyes open.

Zzzzzzrrrrrrr.

She tried to turn her head, but it was anchored in place.

Zzzzzzrrrrrrr.

The sound was right behind her. On top of her.

“Lilly, do you feel anything?” Miss Vera.

“Uhnnn.”

“What’s that?”

“No, I don’t.” Her words sounded clear.

“Good. What’s your name?”

“I told you it’s Lilly Bellingham.”

The buzzing was louder, almost as if there were some kind of bug in her head trying to get out.

“How you doing, Lilly?”

“Fine.”

More buzzing at the other side of her head. And a funny tingling sensation deep inside as hands worked away on the instruments.

Suddenly the drilling stopped.

“Lilly, how you doin’?”

“Fine.”

She started to doze off, when the same man in the green mask said, “First hollow needle, please.”

“Localization?”

“Target.”

“Good.”

Out of the crack of her eyes, she saw a hand with a large hypodermic needle full of cloudy pink stuff.

“Lilly, tell me your name.”

“Lilly Bellingham.”

She waded farther into the water up to her chest. Strange, the water was turning cloudy. She tried to look back to shore, but could not turn her head. She heard her mother’s voice.

“Needle.”

A little later, somebody said something. “Lilly, tell me your name.”

“Lil-ly Bell-ing-ham.”

“Good girl. Needle.”

The water was turning pink. A milky pink. Like calamine lotion.

“Lilly, what’s your name?”

“Lilbingum.”

“What’s that?”

“Lilbingum.”

“Good girl. Needle.”

Lilly moved deeper into the water which she knew was not a good idea because her mother said not to go in past her waist especially after eating, and she had just eaten a sandwich what kind she forgot but she just could not stop moving away from shore and the funny thing was that the water became cloudier as she moved deeper—cloudy pinkish-white and bright as if it were blending in with the blank white clouds on the horizon or as if the water were turning into milk which was so strange because it was dark brownish-green earlier when she walked into it and she could see her feet through it but now it was cloudy white like the sky ahead and above—just a big white mass.

“Lilly!” Her mother, calling from far away.

She opened her eyes.

“Needle.”

So many needles.

“Lilly, tell me your name.”

“Libum.”

“What’s that?”

“Lib.”

“Needle.”

Lilly could barely hear her mother calling her. She wanted to call back and tell her mom that she could not stop and that she had to come and bring her back before it was too late—but the strange thing was she could not answer her.

“Lilly? Are you okay? Tell me your name, Lilly.”

Lilly opened her eyes.

The woman’s face was right above her. And behind her on the television monitor was a picture of a little girl. She could see it clearly and she could hear her words.

“Your name, Lilly. Tell me your name.”

She had no idea.

48

Saturday was a stunningly beautiful day. The air was light and sultry, the sky was a delft-blue with cumulus puffs rolling overhead, and a full face of the moon hung above like a silver wafer. The mid-morning sun lit up the Charles Tracey baseball field with stereoscopic clarity. The red clay diamond, etched into the brilliant expanse of green, seemed to blaze as if lit from within. In the distance, beyond the trees, spread the Atlantic like a vast sheet of amethyst all the way to the horizon where it merged with the sky into a seamless blue vault.

The teams were gathered along the sidelines—Dylan and his mates in their bright blue Beacons T-shirts and caps, and the Lobsters, of course, in red. It was the first day of actual intramural T-ball, and Dylan was beside himself with excitement. Last weekend and on a couple afternoons, they had practiced hitting, fielding, and running the bases. Now was the “Great Big Game,” as he had called it. All week long he had been talking about it. “I’m gonna hit a big one for the ole Mama Rache,” he had promised. The ole Mama Rache. She didn’t know where he got that from, but she loved it.

From the little grandstand along the first base line, she and Martin watched the coaches try to calm the kids for instructions. For the first time in weeks, Rachel let herself relax into the moment—a moment that she would give her life to hold on to forever.

When they were ready, the Beacons took to the field. Luckily Dylan started and was sent to left field because the coach said that he had a strong arm.

Dylan waved at Rachel and Martin as he trotted off with his glove, looking back to the coach who signaled where to stand.

The first Lobster got up to the plate holding a fat plastic bat almost as big as he was. Laughing to himself, one of the coaches brought him a smaller one and showed him how to choke up. The head coach served as pitcher, gently lobbing the balls underhand to the batter. The first boy struck out. The second sent a dribble to the third baseman who overthrew as the batter made it to first, and the crowd in the opposing grandstand cheered him on. In a less than ten minutes, the sides retired and the Beacons came in. Rachel and Martin didn’t know where Dylan was in the lineup, but the inning was over with the fifth batter. And Dylan was sent back to left field.

Rachel was thoroughly enjoying the game and letting the sun soothe her spirit. Yet, observing the other parents even at this level of play, she could sense a competitive tension—one that she imagined would evolve into one of those sharp-edged things as the years progressed. While she could not imagine Hawthorne Little League parents coming to fisticuffs, something just below the surface made her uncomfortable. A nearby couple appeared to take it hard when their son struck out or when a batter from the opposing team scored. The woman two rows below cried “Oh, shit!” when her Clayton was tagged running home. And downbench from them people were keeping a running tally as if this were the Red Sox and Yankees.

At the bottom of the second inning, Rachel spotted Sheila MacPhearson approaching the grandstand, and her stomach tightened. Rachel didn’t want to talk to Sheila. She didn’t want to be distracted from the pleasure of watching her son. She did not want to share the moment with anybody other than Martin.

Sheila waved and climbed up toward them. “I saw the blue uniforms,” she said, settling next to Martin. “So I knew you guys would be here. There he is,” she chortled, fluttering her hand in Dylan’s direction even though he was looking the other way. “He looks adorable. I love the blue on him,” she said as if she were a favorite aunt.

“Aren’t you working today?” Rachel asked.

“I will be,” she said and checked her watch. “So what’s the score?”

“Seven to three, Beacons,” Martin said.

Rachel looked at him. He too had been keeping score. Like it mattered!

“Good for them,” Sheila said. “I hope they whip their butts.”

“How are sales?” Martin asked.

Sheila rocked her head. “Mezzo mezzo. With the economy, things are slow even with price drops. People don’t have the money they used to. It’s gotten tough.”

Rachel nudged Martin. Dylan moved up to the plate. He tapped his sneakers with the bat like the pros and took a few practice swings. Rachel’s heart flooded with love.

“You’re a hitter, Dylan,” Martin called.

“GO DYL-AN!” Sheila shouted.

Rachel felt her insides clench. All she wanted was for him to feel good about himself, and that meant just one little hit, even if he popped out or got tagged. Just for him to feel the ball crack against the bat.

The first ball went by him almost without his notice. They weren’t counting balls and strikes. Dylan let four perfect pitches go by. When the fifth one passed him and he still hadn’t taken a swing, Rachel began to wonder if he was scared or wasn’t sure what to do. The coaches kept up a constant litany:

“Come on, Big D!”

“You’re a hitter, Dylan.”

“Nice easy swing.”

“Keep your eye on the ball.”

“Is he okay?” Sheila asked.

Before Rachel could answer, Dylan smashed the next pitch.

Instantly she was on her feet, jumping up and down and cheering as the ball shot past the second baseman on a fly and toward center. The outfielder missed the catch and took off after it. By the time he got the ball, Dylan was bounding toward third base while the coaches waved him on and the crowd cheered.

Rachel was so excited she heard herself hooting. The second baseman threw the ball to the shortstop, backed by the kid from third. But the throw was high, and while the coaches shouted for Dylan to slow down as he rounded third, that he’d be safe, he didn’t stop but made a dramatic slide home in a cloud of dust just as he had seen on TV. Instantly, the coaches and Beacons were all over him with pats and high fives.

Rachel’s heart was pounding, and her eyes were wet. “Way to go, Dylan!”

Beaming at them, Dylan waved, then he pointed his finger at her. “A big one for the ole Mama Rache.”

Thank you, God.

Now she didn’t care what happened for the rest of the game.

When the shouting died, Martin leaned to Sheila. “How’s Brad doing?”

“Well as can be expected, what with a double death.” Then she pressed into a conspiratorial huddle with Rachel. “I don’t know him well, but I think he’s in shock. He went to his sister’s in Oregon.” She then shook her head. “She was a driven woman. And sometimes under pressure you do careless things. It’s not like she was a dummy and couldn’t write her own book. But there’s a lot of pressure to produce, and she fell to temptation. What can I say?”

With one eye, Rachel was watching the kids below. She wished Sheila would stop yapping, but she went on.

“The humiliation was just too much for her, and she snapped. It’s horrible.” When Rachel looked away to watch Dylan, Sheila nudged her. “Julian was his pride and joy. And what a loss. Not just a brilliant artist, but he got a perfect score on his math PSATs, an eight hundred, and seven hundred seventy in verbal. Top sophomore at Bloomfield.”

Rachel nodded.

Martin, who sat to Rachel’s left, pressed closer to Sheila. “What a tragedy.”

“No doubt he would have gotten a free ride through college even with their income. Absolutely brilliant, is all.”

The boy’s dead and she’s talking about his damn PSATS, thought Rachel.

“Could have been a rocket scientist.”

I don’t bloody care what he could have been, Rachel shouted in her mind.

“No doubt,” said Martin. “A terrible shame.”

One of the kids hit a grounder past shortstop into left field. Dylan raced for it and scooped it up like a kid twice his age. He paused for a moment not sure where to throw it. One runner who had been on second was heading home. Rachel froze. The other runner was rounding first base with no intentions of stopping.

Second! Rachel screamed in her head. Throw to second!

People were yelling, cheering on the runner, cheering on Dylan. The coaches were shouting to Dylan to throw it. Throw it anywhere.

Rachel shot to her feet and pointed. “Second!” she shouted.

Whether or not Dylan saw or heard her, he fired the ball with all his might toward home. A giant “Whooooa” rose up from the stands. The ball bounded on the third base line in front of the runner and into the catcher’s mitt which surprised the catcher as much as the crowd. The runner fell on top of the catcher just two feet from the plate, and was called out.

In left field, Dylan didn’t know the call until he saw Rachel bouncing on her feet and cheering. Then he started yowling and jumping up and down. Rachel knew she was no doubt overreacting, but it was a glory moment for Dylan, and she just didn’t give a damn.

“You know,” Sheila said, when the noise died down, “Bloomfield has a terrific baseball team. They were second two years in a row in the Indy school regionals.”

Rachel looked at her blankly. Damn her, she was stealing the moment from them. “Beg pardon?”

“The Bloomies. Maybe … you know, in a few years …”

Sheila was trying to be encouraging, but Rachel was offended. She wanted to say, Fuck you and the Bloomies, but she only nodded politely.

“Anything’s possible,” Martin said.

“Depends what’s important to you as a parent,” Sheila said.

“I didn’t realize they were such a sports school,” Martin said.

“Absolutely,” Sheila said, latching onto Martin’s interest. “You know what I’m saying? With his arm, he could be a superstar there. Lucinda’s going to be starting two years from September. Maybe they’ll be classmates.” And she winked at Martin.

Martin made a promising smile. “Maybe so.”

Then she dropped her voice. “By the way, if some Sagamore cop comes by asking about Julian, my advice is to tell him nothing.”

“Of course,” Martin said.

“Oops! Gotta go,” Sheila said, checking her watch.

Rachel muttered a silent prayer of thanks.

“By the way,” Martin said. “Would Lucinda want a couple of gerbils? Dylan’s just had a bunch of babies. About the size of a peanut.”

Sheila’s face seemed to harden. “No, that’s all right.”

“How did the kitten work out?” Rachel asked.

“Ran away. The mailman left the back door open. C’est la vie. What can I say?” She slung her bag over her shoulder to go. “By the way,” she said, pressing into a huddle again. “Turn on your TV Sunday night at nine. A special edition of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? for kids under eighteen. I’m not supposed to tell, but a boy named Lincoln Cady’s going to be a contestant.”

“Who?”

“Lincoln Cady. A black boy from Detroit.” She made telling wide-eyes.

“You mean … ?” Martin began.

Sheila nodded and winked.

Enhanced, thought Rachel.

Sheila stood up. “I know nothing about him, but he’s supposed to be something else.”

“We won’t miss it,” Martin said.

And she whispered, “And mum’s the word.” She fluttered a good-bye and climbed down the stand.

Rachel watched her cross to the parking lot to her car, thinking that her visit was not by accident.

49

Martian and Dylan dropped Rachel off at the Delta terminal at Logan Airport a little before two that afternoon. They pulled up to the entrance where cars and busses were double- and triple-parked.

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re glad I’m going?” Rachel said as Martin waved for a redcap to take her luggage.

“Why do you say that?” He looked at her in partial dismay. Perspiration made a beaded mustache band under his nose.

“I don’t know. You seem anxious. That’s all.”

Martin looked at Dylan. “It’s just that we’re going to do some guybonding today, right, champ?” And he tousled his son’s hair.

“But you know what, Mom? Me and Dad, we go the movies.”

Rachel knelt down and hugged Dylan. “That’s a great idea.”

“You wanna go, too?”

“I’d love to, but I have to visit Grammy. When I come back you take me, okay?”

Dylan nodded. “And you know what? I sing you a new song.” And he gave her a big hug.

She held him for a long time.

“Mom, are you crying?”

“Only because I miss you already.”

Dylan stared at her with a dreamy concern. Then he asked, “Mom, where are my Gummy Bears?”

“In your backpack.” She opened the rear door of the car, and Dylan slid in and began to search through his backpack.

Martin checked his watch. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “My love to everybody.”

He kissed her good-bye and started to pull away toward the car, but she caught his arm. “Martin, promise me something.”

“What?”

“If Malenko calls again—”

“Rachel, he’s not going to call again.”

“But he may. He’s pushing us, and I don’t like it.”

Martin sighed. “It’s because he has a deadline, and you know that.”

“It’s not his son!” she snapped.

Dylan looked up at her from inside the car, and his eyes locked on hers.

She lowered her voice, and in a grating whisper, she said, “If he calls again, just tell him that you’re not going to discuss it until I return. Not until next week. Period.”

Martin made a face of exasperation. “Okay, okay.”

“Promise me.”

“Yeah, okay.” His eyes were perfect clear orbs. “I promise.”

Dylan climbed out of the car. He came up to Rachel and put some Gummy Bears in her hand.

“What are these for?”

“To make you feel better. The green ones are the best. They make you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Rachel said and pulled him to her. “I love you, little man.” She hugged him for a brief spell, then let him get into the car. The traffic behind them was piling up.

“Love you, too.”

Rachel watched as Martin strapped Dylan into the front passenger seat. “Have a nice flight,” he said and walked around to the driver’s side and got in. As they pulled away, Dylan waved out his window at her. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

Please, dear God, let me do the right thing.

Around three-thirty, Rachel boarded the plane. She had booked a window seat because she liked the view of Boston, especially when the plane took the northwest corridor, which gave her a full shot of Cape Ann and Big Kettle Harbor just under Hawthorne. But with the low cloudbank, there would be no view today.

Because of a last-minute change of schedule, Bethany had been operated on that morning. According to her brother, the surgery went well, and her mother was on a respirator in the ICU recovery with a new biological valve made from pig tissue. Amazing what they could do in modern medicine, Rachel thought.

Inside her seat pocket was a copy of The Miami Herald that somebody had left. The flight had originated in Atlanta where connecting Miami passengers would have boarded. Several of the stories were about Florida affairs and politics, some directed at the elderly. There were pieces about retirement portfolios and how water bans from the latest drought were affecting South Florida golf courses. How brushfires were plaguing the state. About the latest local security measures against terrorism.

But it was the story on page 9 that caught her eye.

“Searchers Abandon Hope of Finding Okeechobee Boy.”

The story went on to describe the all-out efforts of police, sheriff’s deputies, scuba divers, neighbors, and other volunteers to find six-year-old Travis Valentine who was last seen nearly two weeks ago in his backyard near Little Wiggins Canal. All that was found of the boy was a shoe and his butterfly net at the water’s edge. Divers had scoured the canal for over a mile, while hundreds of volunteers had searched the woods and canal banks all the way to the next town. “‘I hate to say it but my best guess is a gator got him,’” claimed the local sheriff. According to the article, there had been more than a dozen alligator attacks of children over the last eight years. “‘They hover below the surface out of sight. A dog or a child comes by, and whamo! They can shoot out of the water like a rocket.’

“Several large alligators have been killed over the last two weeks, but none containing the remains of the child.”

“Just last month young Travis was among five county children who had passed a qualifying test from the University of Florida that would guarantee him a full four-year UF scholarship should he graduate high school. The program is part of the SchoolSmart campaign to encourage children to stay in school …”

Eaten by an alligator, Rachel thought. God! How far removed their lives were from such horrors.

50

Oliver banked over Casco Bay and headed straight eastward on a course that would take them to the northern end of the Gulf of Maine. Until recently, he had vectored a southerly route toward Wilkinson Basin, about eighty kilometers off the coast—a quick ride out. While Jordan Basin in the gulf was farther by fifty kilometers, the floor fell down to more than two hundred and fifty meters, twice the depth—and where storm surges couldn’t reach and the currents were northeasterly toward Nova Scotia, not the other way. It was a longer flight, but less risky. And great foraging ground for bottom feeders and sharks.

The cloud ceiling was eight thousand feet, and visibility five miles. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow, but they would have no trouble tonight. And a good thing it wasn’t Sunday, or he’d miss the quiz show.

When they were about an hour out, Oliver cut the engine speed.

Below the ocean was a vast black void. Not a ship light in sight. Nor any other planes. At a hundred feet, Phillip unlocked the door. They had rigged a chute from an old plastic playground slide and fit it across the rear seats. They also had devised a crank mechanism to open the door at high speeds.

“Approaching the mark,” Oliver said into his speakerphone.

Phillip finished his beer and got into position.

“Okay.”

Phillip began to crank open the door. The sound of the sucking air filled the cabin. Oliver could feel the cool rush. When it was partway open, Phillip tossed out the beer can.

Oliver steadied the plane against the turbulence, keeping his eyes on the dials.

Usually they would put them to sleep, but Phillip had forgotten the phenobarbital. It made no difference anyway. She didn’t have a clue.

Lilly lay groaning under a sheet. She was naked except for the polyvinyl chord around her arms and legs and fastened to a cinder block. Her head was a scabby mess, and she struggled feebly against the ropes. Her eyes were open, but they looked dead.

“Mark,” Oliver said, checking his instruments.

At one hundred feet, he would bank fifteen degrees to the right and let gravity do the trick. The sheet would stay because that was traceable. The rope they got in Florida, and wouldn’t connect in a million years.

“Now!”

And Lilly slid out feet first.

51

“But how come they have to kill them?” Dylan asked.

Martin and Dylan were watching an animal show about elephants and ivory poachers when the telephone rang.

He had expected to hear Rachel’s voice, telling him how her mother was finally out of ICU and had been moved to her own room. Yesterday when she called, Bethany was still recovering and barely alert, but the doctors said that she would soon be off the respirator and moved to her own room.

“For money,” Martin said, and grabbed the portable phone.

It was Lucius Malenko.

He had called to express condolences about Vanessa Watts and Julian just as he had to Rachel yesterday. The sentiment struck Martin as a little strange since they barely knew the family. Yet it was very considerate of him.

Malenko also happened to mention that he had a friend who had graduated from MIT the same year Martin had. He didn’t recognize the name. Before they said good-bye, Malenko reminded him of the time element. “This is not like having a tonsillectomy. There are considerable preparations to attend.”

“I’m aware of that,” Martin said.

“Even more critical are the time constraints. I’m leaving the country in a couple weeks and won’t be back for a month, which means that it may be another ten weeks before we can set up another time. And, frankly, Mr. Whitman, we’re running out of time.”

“I understand, believe me.”

“I’m not sure exactly why,” Malenko added, “but your wife seems to have reservations.”

“Yes, she has.”

He didn’t say it, of course, but Rachel had a tendency to let irrational concerns grow to paralyzing proportions. It was habitual: She’d worry things to death and end up getting nothing done. When Dylan was three, a New York textbook publisher with a Lexington office called her to say they were looking for an English editor with her experience and track record. They had hoped to woo her out of retirement with a handsome salary. For days she agonized over whether to pursue the opportunity or stay home with Dylan. Martin had pushed her to go for it. It would have been good for her; she was good at it. And they could have gotten great day care for Dylan. Not to mention how they could have used the extra salary. But no! She couldn’t let go. Dylan needed her—which was a lot of bullshit guilt. So somebody else got the job, and she remained your basic hausfrau.

“We’ll work on it,” Martin said.

Before Malenko hung up, he said, “You know, it would be very nice, of course, if Dylan could follow in his father’s footsteps. Schools don’t get much better than MIT.”

“I hear you, Doctor.”

Dylan was still spread out on the couch. Martin went back to his chair. It was nine o’clock.

“Time for bed,” Martin announced.

“But I not tired,” Dylan whined. “I wanna stay up with you and watch TV.”

“Well, then how about we watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”

“I don’t like that show. It’s stupid.”

Stupid.

“Well, Daddy wants to watch it.”

“I wanna see the elephant show.”

“But the elephant show is all over.”

With the remote Martin switched channels. The camera closed in on Regis Philbin who announced the special show for teenage contestants, eighteen and under.

“You’re mean.”

Martin felt a blister of petulance rise. “I’m not mean. I just want to watch this.”

“You don’t like me,” Dylan mumbled.

Martin muted the commercial. “What did you say?”

“You don’t like me.”

“Of course I like you. I even love you.”

“How come I had the dream?”

“What dream?”

“The dream about you gave me away.”

“Gave you away? That’s silly. I wouldn’t give you away.”

Dylan looked at him. “Me take stupid pills, that’s why.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Lucinda says.”

“Well, Lucinda is wrong.”

Dylan pouted and buried his face in the pillow.

Maybe he’ll fall asleep.

Martin recalled what Malenko had said about sedatives to calm him down, to minimize the trauma, to delete all memory of the event. Ketamine, or something like that.

The commercials ended, and Philbin announced the qualifying round. The camera showed ten young people, four females and six males, at their consoles with their hand controls waiting for the question. One of the boys was black.

The question was to place four foreign capitals in order from east to west. Before Martin could register the question, the buzzer went off, and five kids had gotten the correct order, the fastest time going to Lincoln Cady—in 3.8 seconds, which was nearly two seconds faster than the next fastest answer.

While the audience applauded, Cady moved to the console across from Philbin.

He was a pudgy serious-looking boy with thick glasses. He did not seem the least bit nervous. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm.

He and Regis Philbin chatted briefly to warm him up. The boy spoke in a soft even tone, his words enunciated precisely and deliberately. He seemed like a sixteen-year-old going on forty.

The first five questions were the usual throwaways.

In no time, Lincoln Cady had reached the $32,000 mark without having to use a single lifeline.

“Do you read a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you. You have remarkable recall.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you hope to study at Cal Tech next year?”

“Computer engineering.”

Regis nodded. “You did so well on the medical questions that I’d think you’d be interested in studying medicine.”

Lincoln raised his eyebrows. “I’m more interested in machines than people.”

Regis smiled. “I have days like that, too.”

The audience laughed, and they went on to the next question, which he got, then the next.

Throughout the exchange, it struck Martin that the boy didn’t appear to blink.

The next question: “What was the occupation of Albert Einstein when he published his theory of relativity: (a) teacher; (b) mathematician; (c) office clerk; (d) student.’”

The kid deliberated a bit, but Martin was certain that he had been told to draw things out in order to heighten tension. Then he said, “Office clerk.”

“Is that your final answer.”

“Yes.”

Regis Philbin cocked his head. “You got it for a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The audience exploded. The boy smiled and fixed his glasses calmly. There was more perfunctory chitchat then the next question.

“Who hit the first Grand Slam in World Series history?” The choices were: (a) Charlie Peck; (b) Eddie Collins; (c) Frank Baker; and (d) Elmer Smith.

Martin had no idea what the answer was, and Lincoln Cady said he did not know sports and would have to call a friend, a classmate at his school named Robert. Philbin called, Cady read the question, and the young male voice at the other end said, “Elmer Smith.” Cady offered that for his final answer, and Philbin congratulated him for reaching the $250,000 mark.

After the applause and more small talk, they moved to the half-million-dollar question. When Philbin asked him what he was planning to do with whatever money he won, Cady said he would give it to his parents to help pay off some debts, then put the rest toward college. Philbin liked that, and the audience approved.

The next question lit the screen: “When three celestial bodies form a straight line, what is the phenomenon called?” And the answers listed were (a) syzygy; (b) string theory; (c) Lineation; (d) synapogee.

Cady still had two lifelines left, but he said he didn’t need them.

Syzygy, thought Martin.

“Syzygy,” said Lincoln.

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You just won yourself half a million dollars.”

“YES!” shouted Martin, and the audience went crazy.

There was a cut for a commercial break, and Martin turned off the audio, thinking how in grade school he was a stutterer. He remembered vividly all the shit—how they had called him “Muh-Muh.” The running joke was: Hey, Martin, try to answer this in under an hour: “What’s your name?” In English class when they got to poetry, they said Martin was an expert on alliterations.

He supposed it was funny, looking back. But at the time it was hell. People thought that stuttering meant you were stupid. He could still recall the raw humiliation, the mortification he felt when he couldn’t get out what he wanted to say, just a vicious staccato of syllables—“Wha-wha-wha-wha …” At that age, kids are brutal. Once they see a spot of blood, they will peck at it until you’re bled of self-esteem.

He was not going to put his own son through that. Life’s hard enough … but …

(go ahead! Say it …

it’s harder when you’re stupid)

Suddenly his mind was a fugue.

He heard Rachel: But he won’t be the same person.

Then another voice: Maybe not, but he’s not the same person he was with pigeontoes. He’s better, more capable. Look how high he was when he slid home yesterday. Imagine his ego growing up without a mental handicap.

And Rachel again: What about accepting him as he is?

Not if we can do better for him.

But what if he loses his interest in music and sports? Or if his personality changes?

Not going to happen. Malenko said so. Look at Lucinda. Look at all the nameless enhanced kids in Harvard at fifteen. Look at this kid on the screen. Calm, cool, collected. Brilliant.

Martin glanced at Dylan lying on the couch, his eyes drooping. He hated that mushroom haircut. It made him look like a young Bluto. But it was what all the kids on the team sported. And Dylan wanted to be like them.

We can change that for him. A chance of lifetime.

It was time for the million-dollar question. Philbin and the audience were charged. Lincoln Cady looked as if he might start yawning. The kid was remarkably impressive. Cool incandescence.

“Okay, here goes. For one million dollars.”

The screen lit up with the question and the four choices: “What 1959 novella was the basis for the 1968 movie Charly?”

The four answers given were: (a) Odd Man Out, (b) A Case of Conscience, (c) Flowers for Algernon, (d) The Duplicated Man.

Cady nodded as he scanned the answers. He hesitated as the music played up the tension. Then, after several seconds, he said: “The answer is (c) Flowers for Algernon. Final answer.”

Regis Philbin looked teasingly at the camera then back to Cady. Then he beamed: “You just won yourself one million dollars.”

And the audience went wild. Lincoln Cady smiled thinly and shook Philbin’s hand as the applause continued and confetti rained down on the set.

Dylan had slept through the whole drama.

Martin muted the set and dialed Rachel on her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Did you see the show?”

“Some of it. The nurses had it on. And in case you’re interested, my mother’s doing fine.”

“Great. Give her my love. Jack, too. So, what did you think? I mean the kid—Lincoln Cady. Is he a whiz, or what? I mean, talk about photographic memory.”

“He was very impressive,” Rachel said.

“Impressive? That doesn’t come close.” Her lack of enthusiasm was so typical.

“He also looked as if someone had shot him with a tranquilizer dart.”

“What does that mean?” Martin couldn’t disguise his defensiveness.

“Just what I said. He looked stiff, robotic.”

She was purposely downplaying a spectacular performance, and Martin was getting more irritated by the second. “How about it was just cool confidence. I mean, the kid’s a genius.”

“Martin, can we change the subject, please?”

Christ! he thought.

“Because she’s doing so well, I’ll probably be coming home Tuesday. How’s Dylan?”

“He’s fine.” There was a pause. “Rachel, you’re aware that Dr. Malenko has got to know pretty soon.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

“Well, I’m just saying. He’s pressed for time.”

“Look, stop pressuring me. This isn’t something I’m going to rush into.”

“We’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I mean, how much more time do we need?”

Her voice tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve got enough on my mind.”

Shit! “Well, think fast because he’s leaving the country in a couple weeks.”

He looked across the room at the sleeping figure of his son. It struck Martin just how much he looked like him when he was young. In fact, he could have passed for seven-year-old Martin on a pony in the photograph sitting on the fireplace mantel.

“Then if we do it, it’ll have to be when he gets back.”

Martin did not say anything more about it.

According to Malenko there would be a three-to-four-week recovery period, which meant that if they waited too long, Dylan would miss the first weeks of school in the fall. But if they did it soon, he could stabilize and miss nothing. Then over the next few months, he would begin to show signs of improved cognition. It would be subtle and progressive, which meant that by next year at this time, Dylan would have begun to plateau. Then by the fall of that year, they could enroll him in a different school where nobody would know his academic history, which, in this state, was confidential—a fancy private school whose entrance exam he’d ace. Not like what he did on the Beaver Hill qualifiers.

As Malenko had said, he would by then have grown into his own new mind.

And what happens when he’s suddenly brilliant and Uncle Jack, Aunt Alice, and Granny come to visit? How are you going explain the fact that Dylan’s a little whip? How he’s reading Dr. Seuss on his own when just last year he couldn’t get through the alphabet? Whatcha gonna tell them, huh? That his new tutor is something else? Or that the school he’s attending has some great new breakthrough strategies on learning? Or that they put him on an all-ginkgo biloba diet?

None of that.

Well, you see, we found out about this secret little brain operation that jacks up IQs?

Not that either, because Dylan was still young. And because Jack and Aunt Alice and Granny knew little about his cognitive status. Rachel had mentioned how Dylan hadn’t passed the Beaver Hill entrance exams, but she hadn’t gone into detail. She had not told anyone his IQ. It wasn’t anybody else’s business, even family. So all they knew was that Dylan was a sweet, handsome little boy who hit a mean T-ball and who sang like a bird. Sure, he had some language problems, but many kids do. And he just grew out of them like millions of other slow starters, that’s all. Like his old man, for instance.

After they hung up, Martin walked over to the couch and looked at his sleeping son for a long moment. Even his profile resembled Martin’s. Like father, like son.

Yep, just grew into his own mind.

52

It was almost too easy how Greg found the Nova Children’s Center.

He got the name from information and discovered that it was located in Myrtle, Massachusetts, just twenty minutes northwest of Hawthorne.

Around noon on Monday, he drove to the place, which was a grand old Gothic Revival building with turrets, a dunce-cap roof, and fish-scale slate shingles. He wouldn’t have known that from Disney, except that Lindsay had been interested in architecture.

He went inside, uncertain what he was looking for, uncertain if he was pursuing a bona fide lead or more white rabbits. His only certainty was his suspension if Lieutenant Gelford learned he was here. And that was the reason he didn’t contact the local police. If he asked the investigator on the Watts case to keep their exchange quiet, that would make the officer suspicious of Greg’s credibility.

The receptionist said the person to speak to was Dr. Denise Samson. However, she wouldn’t be back until after lunch, about one. That was cutting it close, since it would take him almost two hours to get back to the office, and for this week he’d been rescheduled to start at three because of vacation absentees. Unfortunately, he’d be about half an hour late.

So he sat in the waiting room and thumbed through magazines. At onethirty, Dr. Samson called the secretary to say she’d be late. That made Greg’s stomach leak acid. With the traffic, he wouldn’t get to the department until after four. That would not look good.

At two-fifteen, Dr. Samson came up the stairs. She was a tall stately woman with short reddish hair and dressed in a moss-green dress. He asked to speak with her in private, and she led him to her office.

He did not tell her about the skulls. Instead, he mentioned how one of his cases involved a child who had been evaluated on a SchoolSmart test, and wanted to know about that.

“Well, in addition to offering tailored learning programs, we have a diagnostic service that designs, administers, and evaluates tests used in different school systems nationally. SchoolSmart is one of them and is sponsored by private benefactor organizations as well as some colleges and universities that offer scholarship incentives to extremely gifted children from low-income families.”

Greg noted that on his pad.

“As you can imagine, many such kids either quit school at sixteen to work or, if they graduate, they take the first job that comes along and almost never go on. What SchoolSmart offers is full-tuition scholarships for select students if they remain in school through the twelfth grade. And we administer the tests as early as the first grade.”

“An incentive to remain in school.”

“Exactly, and a just reward.”

“And the only qualifications are smart and poor.”

Dr. Samson smiled. “That’s putting it bluntly, but yes. And that they complete their schooling,” she said. “But I should add that our tests are not the standardized group intelligence tests, but ones specially designed as individualized evaluations for young children identified by their teachers as gifted. They’re more accurate, and we make certain they’re administered by licensed psychologists.”

She would have gone on, but Greg cut to the chase. “I’m wondering if you could check your database for a Grady Dixon.”

Her fingers flew across the keys. “Grady Dixon … Yes, from Cold Spring, Tennessee.” And she gave the date of his evaluation.

Greg felt a little electric thrill run through him. He was tested just three months before he was kidnapped. “Can you tell me where exactly he was tested and who administered the test?”

The woman looked a little flustered. “Well, I can tell you he was tested at his school, the Michael Lowry Regional, and the local psychometrician was Dr. Maxwell Barnard from Signal Mountain, Tennessee.”

That did not seem helpful. “Can you run a database cross-reference to see if this Dr. Maxwell Barnard conducted tests on any other SchoolSmart candidates?”

Dr. Samson started the search when she suddenly stopped. “I can do that, Officer, but I’d like to know why you’re asking. I’m concerned that we’re going to violate a contractual agreement with our clients.”

He saw that coming. “Dr. Samson, I’m looking into a possible connection between some past kidnappings and children who might have been tested by your organization.”

Dr. Samson looked worried all of a sudden. “You mean a criminal investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure you understand, but I would have to consult with the directors before I can divulge any more information—unless, of course, you have a court order.”

He didn’t, and he had her against a wall. Without a warrant, any more nudges could push her behind a legal blind. “Of course, but maybe you can tell me if his files contain any record of neurosurgery?”

She seemed tentative. “Well …” she began.

“Doctor, Grady Dixon has been dead for three years and it’s presumed he was kidnapped and murdered.” He was hoping the drama of that would override protocol.

“I see. Neurosurgery?” She glanced at the screen. “Well, no, nor would we have any record of that sort unless he had been a patient of ours. That’s a completely separate entity from what we do on site. Besides, I’d imagine the parents would have consulted neurospecialists in Tennessee.”

“Of course. And just who are the neurosurgeons here?”

“Actually, we have two: Dr. Stephen Kane and Dr. John Lubeck.”

He took down the names. “Is there a Julian Watts in your database?”

“Julian Watts. Why is that name familiar?” she asked. Then her expression contorted. “He wasn’t the boy murdered by his mother last week, was he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, how horrible. I read about that.”

“Can you check if he had taken a SchoolSmart test?”

She slowly turned to the computer again and tapped a few more keys. “Oh, my! He’s in the database … but he was not a SchoolSmart candidate.” She hit a few more keys. Then she sat back and stared at the screen, a look of surprise on her face. “He’s listed as a patient of Dr. Malenko.”

“Dr. Malenko?”

“Yes, he’s one of our neurologists. Dr. Lucius Malenko.”

“Do you have any idea why Julian was seeing Dr. Malenko?”

“I don’t, but even if I knew I couldn’t give you that information. Besides, Julian was one of his private patients.”

“Private patients?”

“From his private practice.” Then she glanced back at the screen. “I’m just surprised he didn’t mention the boy’s … what happened.”

Greg filed that away. Then he pulled out the schematic and showed her. “Any idea what kind of neurological procedure would have produced these holes?” He briefly explained the origin of the drawing.

She shook her head. “I’m a psychologist, not a neurologist.”

“Could they have been the results of some surgical treatment of epilepsy?”

“I suppose.”

The woman looked as is she were becoming uncomfortable with the interrogation, knowing full well that she didn’t have to proceed without a warrant. “One more question, if you don’t mind,” he said, without giving her a chance to respond. “How many people here have access to your database?”

“The entire professional staff.”

“I see.” He thanked her and left.

On the way out, he stopped at the reception desk again. “I’m wondering if I could speak to Dr. Malenko.”

“I’m afraid he’ll be out of town for a few days. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Do you have a number I can reach him at?”

“I can give you his other office. You can leave a voice message.”

“That’ll be fine.”

She jotted down the address and number on the back of the center’s card and handed it to him.

As he returned to his car, he noticed the slot for L. Malenko. Greg wasn’t sure what he had: two dead six-year-olds—one from Tennessee, the other from parts unknown. Two teenagers—one dead known teenager, one alive unknown teenager—both from the North Shore of Massachusetts. Except for the live one, they were all murder victims, one by his mother. The only commonality was their gender and the fact that each had neurosurgical bore holes in the skull. Two were connected to Nova Children’s Center. And two points determine a straight line.

He looked at the little white reserved parking sign. L. MALENKO.

Greg didn’t know why, but he had the prowling suspicion that this L. Malenko might connect a couple more points.

53

“Going back up there is outright insubordination, and you know that, Greg.”

Because of the traffic, he didn’t return to the office until nearly five. And the dispatcher said that Gelford wanted to see him in his office immediately.

Again, Gelford was not alone, but flanked by Chief Norm Adler and Internal Affairs Officer Rick Bolduk. Something told Greg that they were not here because of tardiness.

Gelford, of course, was ripped because Greg had gone against his notice to drop the Sagamore Boy case—which meant that this was a mano a mano thing—a personal offense against his supervisor who prided himself on running his ship on uncompromised discipline. But Gelford would hear him out first.

“I realize that, but I’m telling you, there’s a connection. What I need is a court order for that database.”

“And what’s that going to do?”

“It’s going to let me cross-reference missing children from three and four years ago with kids who were part of the SchoolSmart program.”

“Because one of your skull kids happened to take a test?”

“Yeah, and because three dead kids had similar holes in their skulls and two of them are linked to the Nova Children’s Center. And two of the three kids were very smart, and a fourth unknown and still alive has the same kind of holes. And I want a court order to obtain his identity and check his medical records. He too could be in their files.”

“Before you go banging on some judge’s door, you’ve got to have evidence that a crime’s been committed,” Rick Bolduk said. “All I’m hearing is circumstantial evidence.”

“I’ve got the testimony from two doctors who are convinced that these kids might have undergone some experimental procedure. And one of those kids, Grady Dixon, was kidnapped and possibly murdered. So was the Sagamore kid. That’s evidence enough for me.”

“They’re not our jurisdiction. None of them. We don’t own them,” Gelford said, his face turning red again. “One kid’s from Tennessee. The Sagamore kid is from God knows where.” He picked up the schematic of the North Shore boy’s X rays. “And this kid’s still wearing his head. There’s no goddamn crime.”

“There’s one more thing,” Greg said. “Two neurophysicians say that these patterns trace the areas of the brain associated with intelligence and memory.”

“So?”

“It’s possible some kind of experiment is being done on kids’ brains, maybe tampering with intelligence or memory. I don’t know, but I think it’s something nasty and should be investigated.”

All three of them stared at Greg as if he had just reported the landing of Martian spaceships.

Gelford, who was nearsighted, removed his glasses and picked up a fax lying on some other papers. “While you were gallivanting around the North Shore today, a Reed Callahan was severely beaten up and hospitalized by Mr. Ethan Cox. And in case you don’t recognize the latter’s name, he was assigned to you last week on the school break-in, and had you done your job and questioned these kids and brought him in as you were supposed to, Cox would have been behind bars before he tried to shut up the Callahan boy who’s now in the ICU of Cape Cod Hospital with a fucking concussion.” Gelford’s face was purple with rage.

“I got held up in traffic.”

“Maybe you were, but something tells me your distraction with this skull shit has compromised your attention, your efforts, and your abilities to fulfill your assigned duties. This Callahan kid may not come out of his coma. He might also die because Cox took a baseball bat to him, and you could have stopped him because he’s got three previous assaults on his record and two B and Es. He’s a fucking animal, and you didn’t go after him but flew off to Cape Ann to look for skulls.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am, because you’ve disobeyed orders and turned a blind eye to everything else on your desk, and a kid’s in a coma as a result.”

Gelford then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a letter and handed it to Greg.

Greg felt his heart slump. He didn’t have to ask its contents. He was being suspended.

“I wish it didn’t have to come to this,” Gelford said. “But you were put on notice, you were given a verbal and written reprimand, and you chose to violate department policies.”

“How long?”

“One month with pay until a hearing on a determination of guilt.” Then Gelford added, “As corny as it may sound, we live by discipline in this department, and you pissed on it.”

Greg looked at the letter, aware that they probably viewed him as a crazy man on a mission, a cop who saw things that they discounted as patently foolish. It was possible that they even suspected that he had made it all up about the doctors and Nova Children’s Center.

Technically, Gelford was right: They were not bound to crimes in another jurisdiction, especially when it was questionable that a crime had been committed. His lone hunches weren’t enough. The long and the short of it was that he was no longer credible or reliable in their eyes. Possibly even psychotic.

“Sorry, Greg,” said Chief Adler. “You have a right to a hearing, of course, but in the meantime I must ask you to clean out your locker and turn in your badge and weapon.”

Greg got up. He unstrapped his weapon and his badge and laid them on the desk. He felt half-naked.

Gelford rose to his feet. “I think this might be for the best,” he said. “I think you need to decompress, maybe get away for a while. Get off this thing. Chill out.”

Greg nodded.

“And I think in the meantime you should see somebody—a professional. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Greg nodded again and headed for the door with his suspension letter in hand.

“One more thing,” Gelford said. “I need not tell you there are laws against impersonating a police officer. Furthermore, if you keep bothering those people up there, you could be arrested for harassment and disturbing the peace.”

Maybe that’s how it would end, Greg thought. He thanked them and left.

54

Brendan was thinking about love and death when the phone rang.

“I have to see you.” It was Nicole.

Brendan felt mildly shocked. The last time he saw her, she all but wished him to disappear. “What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you,” she said. Her voice was its familiar neutral.

“C-can’t it wait? I’m in the middle of something.”

“I’m going back to camp tomorrow. It’s about the stuff you told me last week. We have to talk.”

“Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

“No. It’s too important. Please.”

Please was not a Nicole word. Brendan felt his resolve slip. “W-w-where you want to meet?”

“In the parking lot on Shoreline Drive at eleven.”

That was just outside Hawthorne, about eighteen miles from Brendan’s house. He had no desire to jump in his truck and drive all that way. Maybe she had some information about all this. Maybe she remembered stuff. Maybe she had decided to fess up.

“Okay.”

He hung up and stared at his hands for a long moment.

“Death is the mother of beauty.” Wallace Stevens again. The line had hummed in his head all evening. Even before Richard had gone to bed.

Brendan got up and stepped out of his room to the second-floor landing. There was a wall mirror hanging between his room and Richard’s. In the overhead light he studied his face.

I’m going to kill my grandfather, he said to himself.

Nothing.

Time to get off the bus.

He pressed his face closer. No change of expression. No dilation of pupils. No look of horror. No shock. No fear. No pleasure. No pounding of his chest.

Nothing.

He had hoped to detect some shift in his features, some microexpression to betray the flat featureless landscape of his face. Yes, he had been prepping for this for weeks, so it was no surprise. But still. Murder.

God! I could be a terrorist, he thought. Except even terrorists have passion, misdirected as it is.

I’m half-dead. A zombie.

He had no intention of hurting Richard. This was not an act of cruelty. In fact, he knew he was not a cruel person. He never entertained fantasies of hurting anyone. He was not into torturing animals. He did not get off looking at pictures of train wrecks or dead people.

In fact, he liked Richard. And he knew murder was a morally wrong act, but Richard was near death anyway. Why prolong his misery, and he suffered daily debilitation and pain. Euthanasia is not murder. He’d be Richard’s own Jack Kevorkian.

An act of mercy. I’m a moral being.

Then another voice cut in: You’re twisting logic to arrive at a preordained conclusion.

No.

Brendan had worked out all the details, thought through the consequences of Richard’s death. Because he was a legal eighteen, Brendan would not have to contend with guardians or foster homes. And because he was sole beneficiary of Richard’s estate, he would inherit the house, the contents, the truck; the old man’s meager savings would be his; and he would collect on a small life insurance policy. With his job at the Dells, he could support himself just fine.

As for Richard’s death, there’d be no telltale signs. Richard had a long history of heart disease, so the coroner’s report would be pro forma: heart failure. Brendan had read someplace that unless there were suspicious circumstances, people who die over the age of seventy-five are almost never autopsied. And there would be no suspicious circumstances.

Besides, he had an alibi. He spent the evening with Nicole DaFoe.

He tilted the mirror to change angles.

Am I insane?

Richard was near death anyway. Why not wait?

Because he could linger for months. Wasn’t that more cruel?

Brendan knew full well why he was doing this: He simply hoped that Richard’s death would release the emotional blockage. To let him know love and sorrow.

And what if there’s nothing? a voice asked. What if you kill him and you’re still made of wood?

There’s the shotgun in the cellar.

Brendan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tensed his muscles into a tight crouch and squeezed with all his might against the maelstrom raging in his brain. He held firm and pressed until it swirled into a pinpoint and blinked itself out.

Silence.

Brendan straightened up and opened Richard’s door.

The hinges let out a rusty squeal, but Richard did not stir.

The interior of the room was very still. The hump of Richard was slashed with moonlight through the blinds. Because of the arthritis, Richard always slept flat on his back.

Brendan moved closer. Richard’s mouth was slightly open and a hand rested under his chin. His eyes looked fused.

A pillow had fallen to the floor. He picked it up. It was thick enough to do the job.

Without an autopsy, suffocation would pass as heart failure.

In his head, Brendan ran through the moves, almost feeling the old man’s bony frail frame under him. He wondered how much Richard would struggle. That would be the hardest part. He hoped not much. He might even die of fright.

Brendan stood over Richard’s sleeping body, the pillow in his hands.

He felt as if he were trapped in a tale by Edgar Allan Poe.

I can do this.

I can.

He stopped for a moment to gauge his feelings, putting his finger to his own carotid artery to feel his pulse. He checked his watch. Sixty beats per minute. Normal. Cold-blooded normal.

His eye fell on the contents of the bed stand: a glass half-full of water and three prescription vials. Old-man meds. Crazy-boy meds. The same amber vials.

Richard’s disheveled white hair looked like a scattered cloud above his head. Brendan bent over him until he could smell the mustiness. Brendan held his breath.

Richard was not breathing.

Brendan lowered his ear to Richard’s mouth. No wheezing. No scrapping air. No flutter of his uvula.

Brendan peeled back the covers to see if he could detect movement of his chest. Nothing.

Jesus! He’s already dead. He had not expected this.

A sensation rippled inside his breast and he dropped down on his knees.

“Richard?”

Nothing.

He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder and gave a little shake. “Richard!”

Still nothing.

“Richard?”

Richard’s body jolted. “Wha-what? What’s the matter? What’re you doing?” His eyes were no longer gummed with sleep but huge with alarm. “Why you holding that pillow? What the hell’s going on?”

“It f-f-fell off the bed. It’s okay,” Brendan said. “I d-d-didn’t think you were breathing.”

Richard was now fully awake. “Well, I am … for what it’s worth.” Richard rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up onto his pillow. “Why, you worried I wasn’t?”

“I guess.”

Richard humpfed. “Hell, I’ve got a few breaths left in me still.”

Brendan was full of words, but he could only nod.

Richard looked around the room. “So, what are you doing in here? Is something wrong?”

To see if I’m human.

To see if Death is the mother of beauty.

“To g-g-get the truck keys. You left them in your p-pants when you moved it.”

Richard craned his neck to see the clock radio. “Jeez, it’s after ten. Where the hell you going at this hour?”

“To g-g-get some air.”

Richard humpfed again. “Well, I hope it’s female air.” Then Richard gave Brendan an odd look. “You were really worried about me, huh?”

Brendan nodded and moved toward the doorway. In the light he could see Richard smiling.

“Be back before midnight. And careful driving, for cryin’ out loud. Lotta drunks on the road at this hour.”

“Yeah.”

“You take your meds?”

“Yes, I did.”

Another thing he was always after him about. That, eating right, and going back to school. What was left of his life’s checklist.

“Good boy. You need some money?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Before Brendan stepped out, he looked back at his grandfather with his cotton-wispy white hair and face so pale it seemed to glow in the dark. “Good night, Richard.”

“Good night, kiddo. And thanks for looking out for me.”

“Mmm.”

Then as the door was closing, Richard added, “Hey!”

Brendan stopped. “Yeah?”

In the strip of light, Brendan could see Richard’s mouth lopsided with emotion.

“I love you, Brendy Bear.”

Brendan could hear the catch in his grandfather’s throat. And for a moment, he was unable to breathe for the small glow in his chest. Then in a barely audible voice he muttered, “Thanks.” And he clicked the door shut.

But Brendan did not bound down the stairs as usual. Instead, he put his hand on his chest and gazed into the mirror again.

His heart was pounding. And his eyes were wet.

It was about eleven-thirty when Brendan pulled into the lot—a small tartopped parking area on the bluff hanging over the town beach. The only other car was Nicole’s mother’s SUV. She swung open the passenger door to let him in.

“W-w-what’s up?”

Nicole was dressed in white jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. “I want to go down to the beach.” With that, she got out of the car, tugging a shoulder bag.

Brendan didn’t like beaches. He couldn’t swim. He didn’t like trudging in sand. He didn’t like the fishy brine. In the daytime, it was too hot and bright, at night it was dark and forbidding. But he followed her down the serpentine steps to the sand.

There were no lights on the beach, and the nearest residents were a mile away. The only illumination was a white crescent moon, which rocked in the sky about thirty degrees above the eastern horizon like a rib bone.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch.”

It was a night of surprises. Brendan could not believe she was actually apologizing. Such a sentiment seemed antithetical to her nature. “N-no problem.”

“It’s just that what you said about getting a head operation freaked me out.”

Nicole didn’t freak out, he thought. “Your parents knew my parents. That’s what got to me—that note.”

“Did you ask them?”

“My mother said I got seizures when I was small. Maybe that’s what it was all about. I had chicken pox too. I don’t know.” She turned her face toward him so that the moon cast shadows across her eyes. “Do you really think they made you smarter?”

“I’m n-not sure, but that’s what the tests and the X rays s-suggest. Maybe I was au-autistic or had a t-tumor or something and they got me fixed. That’s what I don’t know. Whatever they did, I think it s-s-screwed me up big time. And I’d like to find the people who did it to me.”

Nicole said nothing.

“Did you ask them about that doctor—Lucius Malenko?” The name meant nothing to Brendan.

“Just that he’s some kind of specialist. I don’t want to talk about it.”

She took his hand.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to jump on you.”

He was grateful for that.

“And I don’t think you’re a fag.” She brushed the hair out of his eyes. “It’s just that I wish I turned you on.”

“Sorry, b-but it’s not you.”

They were quiet for a while; still holding his hand, she pulled him up.

“How’s camp?”

“It’s okay. We just play a lot of head games.”

“It’s a g-g-genius camp, right?”

“There are lots of geeky kids there, if that’s what you mean.”

“What kinds of things do they have?”

“Computer workshops, physics, astronomy, math workshops, bio lab—stuff like that. It’s fun. Besides,” she added, “I want to go to med school someday, so it looks good on my record.”

“I’m s-sure you won’t have any p-p-problems there.”

“Whatever,” she said, then tugged on his hand. “I want to go swimming.”

“S-s-swimming?”

“Yeah, I’m warm.” She slipped off her sandals.

He watched her, but said nothing. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t swim, but decided against it. She peeled out of her clothes, and, thankfully, she was wearing a bathing suit. A black one-piece.

“Come on.”

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“I d-d-don’t have a bathing suit.”

“You don’t need one. Nobody’s around for miles. Or go in your underwear if you’re so modest.”

“No, that’s okay.”

But she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and began to pull his shirt over his head. But he stopped her and took it off himself.

“Come on, the rest of it.”

Reluctantly he lowered his pants to his boxers. He did not like this. He did not want to get wet, but she was pushing him. It crossed his mind that she might have been nervous about going in the water alone. The waves weren’t very high, and were breaking a good distance out.

She pulled him into shallows, the initial shock, sending spikes through his body. It was also not a smooth sandy bottom, but one carpeted with large round rocks that made the footing precarious. He could feel sharp things between slimed rocks—shell fragments and seaweed clumps. They felt awful, especially to his tender feet.

But that did not seem to bother Nicole who bounded ahead, kicking up her long muscle-tight legs.

“This is as far as I go,” he announced.

“You’re being a wimp.” And she turned and splashed him.

The chill cut through him. “There m-might be an undertow, r-r-rip currents.”

“Not here,” she said, then dove in and came up in the foam of a breaker. With her slicked-back hair and black suit she looked like a seal.

She dove in again and surfaced beside him. “Come on,” she said, and grabbed his hand and pulled him in to his waist.

He began to feel nervous. It was deeper than he liked and he could swear he felt a current pull against his legs.

He stood in place with his feet firmly planted and watched Nicole cavort in the waves ahead of him. The cool air made his skin a sheet of goose rash, and he began to shiver.

The wind had picked up, and the breakers came in long even rows, cresting and crashing maybe thirty feet ahead of him in lines of foam running down the shore.

He tried not to think of what the water looked like from underneath. He tried not to think of the kinds of creatures that lurked just below the surface—schools of blues and leg-sized stripers. He tried not to think of those opening scenes from Jaws. He wished he were back on shore. He wished he had never answered the phone.

He turned, and his truck in the lot looked so far away; and on shore, in the dim glow of the sky, he could see his pants lying on the sand, the leg holes still opened, as he had left them, beckoning him to step in and pull them back up.

Behind him, another long breaker arched against the gloom like a small tsunami and crashed no more than twenty feet ahead. The rush of foam rose up his chest and sprayed him about the neck and face. They were coming closer and growing higher with the incoming tide. With each wave, he could feel the tug at his legs—the push toward shore, then the brief slack followed by an unnerving pull outward as the next wave sucked itself up into a black hump coming down at him like some faceless predator.

Nicole.

She was nowhere in sight.

“Nicole!” he said.

He looked upbeach and saw only the black water and whitecaps—downbeach, more of the same. No long slick body. No head bobbing at the surface. No body flying in with the surf.

“Nicole?”

Nothing but the crash and grating roar of the waves against the pebbles.

“Nicole!”

Nothing.

“Oh God, no.”

He moved out a little farther, scanning the surface in all directions. “Oh, please,” he muttered to himself, feeling an electric wire of panic begin to glow in his chest.

He turned back toward shore. The beach was an unbroken stretch of sand—not a soul in sight.

She could have gotten sucked under or driven headfirst into the rocks by a crashing wave, he told himself.

What the hell would he do? What would he tell her parents? That they came out for a midnight swim and that she just drowned while he wasn’t looking?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a line of foam cresting behind him. He was about to turn when a huge wave crashed over him, pushing him off his feet and curling him under.

Suddenly he was completely disoriented, being rolled and punched into the stone-cased sandbar. When he finally got a foot planted, he pushed up, panic bursting inside. But instead of shooting to the surface, he felt himself suddenly gripped from behind and pulled under.

Reflexively he sucked in air, only to take in a throatful of water.

He spasmed instantly, choking and coughing, and sucking in more water.

Legs.

Nicole’s tight muscular legs had clamped around him like an anaconda, and the weight of her body pulled him back so he could not get his head above water.

His mind shut down for an explanation because he was too busy trying to catch his breath and uncurl her legs, which were locked in a death hold and making it impossible to right himself.

But he could not get leverage. And the more he flailed his arms, the more he spent himself, all the while trying to hold his breath until he could get his face out of the water.

She must have needed air herself, because for a split second Brendan felt her grip slacken as she rode up his body from behind. But instantly she relocked her legs around his chest and gripped him in a headlock with her arms. She was choking him and trying to keep his head underwater.

With panic flooding his brain, his neck feeling crushed, and his diaphragm wracking for air, Brendan concentrated every scintilla of awareness on Nicole’s arms, found a hand, and sank his teeth into her thumb.

Instantly her limbs flew up, but not before she horse-kicked him in the spine.

He shot to the surface in chest-deep water, coughing and choking and trying to open an air passage before he passed out.

Vaguely he sensed where Nicole was, and he turned toward her in case she tried to jump him again.

She had surfaced maybe fifteen feet in front of him. She was holding up her hand. “It’s bleeding.”

He bobbed in place not taking his eyes off her, madly sucking in air as if he’d drain the atmosphere. He could not talk and could barely see, but he kept her before him, struggling to suppress coughing while filling the air-starved pockets of his lungs.

“I can’t bend it,” she said in dismay. “I can’t bend it.”

“Y-y-y-y-you—” he began.

“I’m going to need stitches.”

“—tried to drown me.”

She continued to study her thumb, as if he weren’t even there. “Maybe a cast.” Her voice was a little-girl high, thin whine. “Wha-wha-what did you d-do that for?”

In the moonlight, he could see her eyes saucer and a strange look contort her face. Without another word or a glance his way, she turned and plowed her way to shore as fast as she could.

Brendan trudged his way across the stones, still gasping for air, his throat constricted, his windpipe feeling as if it had been permanently pinched.

He barely noticed Nicole get dressed and run off. He just flopped down when he hit the beach, his diaphragm still fluttering like a small trapped animal. He rolled onto his knees and regurgitated a bellyful of brine and most of his dinner.

For several minutes he remained on all fours with his head down, strings of bile hanging from his mouth, his heart throbbing at an impossible rate, the air scraping into his lungs in little yelps.

Someplace in the distance he heard the sound of a car engine.

Still panting he looked up to see Nicole peel out of the parking lot.

When his head cleared, he stood up and stumbled up the sand to his clothes. He flopped down beside them. The towel she had brought was gone, as were her clothes.

While he worked at catching his breath, all he could think, while staring blankly out to sea, was: Why does Nicole DaFoe want me dead?

55

“You what?” Rachel wasn’t sure Martin had actually uttered the words or that she was stuck in a nightmare from last night.

“It’s the best thing.”

“Where is he? WHERE IS HE?”

“Stop getting hysterical. I dropped him off with Dr. Malenko.”

“Oh, God! Where did you drop him off?”

“His office.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Out of sheer reflex, she pounded him on the chest. “Goddamn you!” She felt so disoriented that she couldn’t find words for her outrage and horror. She had just been dropped off by the taxi and walked in the house only to discover Dylan was gone.

“We’ve already been through this.”

“You just dropped him off? You didn’t stay with him?” She suddenly felt faint from the thought of Dylan traumatized by strange people in some clandestine medical facility.

“We weren’t allowed to stay with him. You know that. We’ll pick him up in a few days. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? I don’t want him operated on,” she said, trying to steady herself. “I decided against it.”

“Well, I haven’t,” Martin shot back. “If there was nothing we could do, that would be different. We would raise him as he is and love him unconditionally. But there is something we can do to make his life better.”

“I want him back the way he is. Do you understand? I want my son back.”

“Rachel, calm down. You’re going to get your son back, and he’ll be better for it.”

She ran to the desk in the kitchen and snapped open the address file box. Sitting in the mail inbox on the desk was a pink receipt for a bank check. Five hundred thousand dollars. What he had paid Malenko. While she was gone, he had cashed in mutual funds, sold stocks, and God knows what else so he could put a down payment on his son’s IQ.

But money was the least of her concerns.

Her mind was so jammed, that for a moment she didn’t know what name she was looking up. She just kept fumbling for the M tab, then couldn’t remember if she had filed it under Malenko or Nova Children’s Center. When at last she found it, the number looked nonsensical—like hieroglyphics—as her mind fought off images of Dylan someplace—God knows where!—having his head shaved.

Martin came in to help her, but she hissed at him and punched the number.

When the secretary answered, she took a deep breath to get her center. “This is Rachel Whitman. I need to speak to Dr. Malenko. It’s an emergency.”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Malenko isn’t in today. May I take a message?”

“How can I reach him?”

“I’m not sure. He’s out of town for the next few days.”

Another bolt of horror crashed through her. “Out of town?” Martin was flashing her hand signs, warning her not to mention enhancement. She turned her back to him.

“He’ll be back next Thursday,” the secretary said.

“But I have to speak to him. It’s urgent.”

“Well, I can take your number, and when he checks in I can have him call you.”

“Can’t you contact him directly? He’s a doctor. You must have some emergency number.”

There was a pause at the other end. “I can give you his voice mail and you can leave him a message.”

Martin made a move to take the phone from her, but she backhanded his arm.

“I don’t want his voice mail.” She was about to say “He’s going to operate on my son!” when Martin pulled the phone cord out of the wall.

“What are you doing?” she screamed.

“You’re getting hysterical, Rachel. Now cool it!”

By reflex she swatted his hands away.

“Rachel, you’re just keyed up because of your mother’s condition.”

“My mother’s condition has nothing to do with it. He’s going to operate on our son’s brain—”

“It’s what we agreed on.”

“We didn’t agree on anything. I DIDN’T AGREE.” She was almost blind with rage. “We were going to talk about it when I got back. You took him without telling me.”

“And I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t done all that shit.”

Rachel’s mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. He told me. ‘TNT for dynamite sex. Get off with a bang.’”

“That bastard.”

“Yeah, well, that bastard’s a godsend. He’s going to undo the damage you did, and he’s going to do it before it’s too late.”

“You don’t know that. YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.”

“He showed me the studies—a forty percent chance. We’re just lucky he wasn’t born brain-dead,” Martin said. “Whatever, next year at this time we’ll be burning candles to Lucius Malenko.”

Without a word, Rachel grabbed her purse.

“Where are you going?”

But she didn’t answer. All she could think was how she hated Martin at that moment. And herself.

She dashed into her car and shot down the street. Martin did not follow her. He wouldn’t. He’d wait until she cooled off and came whimpering back.

She drove without direction, telling herself not to panic. To get a bearing. That such a procedure would need several days of preop preparation.

Preop. Jesus Christ! And she fought down images of what they might be doing to him.

It was twenty after four, and the offices of Nova Children’s Center closed at five. Because of the rain, the traffic was thick and slow, and there were no shortcuts. She kept one eye on the road, the other on the digital clock readout, watching the numbers tick by, feeling the pressure building in her chest—hoping that she would not have a stroke before she reached the place—thinking if she found it closed, she’d probably smash the windows in.

It was five minutes to five when she pulled into the lot. No red Porsche, of course.

But there were a few staff cars.

She parked and dashed around to the front entrance, the rain soaking her. The receptionist was the same woman, Marie, who had answered the phone. “I called you earlier. I have to reach Dr. Malenko. It’s an emergency.”

“Yes, Mrs. Whitman. I’m sorry, but he still hasn’t called in.”

“Is Dr. Samson here?”

“No, she’s out, too.”

“Isn’t there anybody here who knows where he is?”

“Lemme check,” she said, and she punched a few numbers. “Hi, it’s Marie. Yeah, I know, it’s really coming down. Well, I have Mrs. Whitman here and she needs to speak to Dr. Malenko. Any idea where he might be reached? Oh, okay. Thanks. Yeah, you, too.” She hung up and looked at Rachel. “Sorry. He’s gone for the week.”

“You must have some emergency number, a cell phone or some way to reach him.”

“Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe in cell phones—he thinks they’re dangerous. But he calls in frequently for messages.”

“Maybe you can tell me if Dr. Malenko has any surgeries scheduled within the next few days?”

The woman gave her an incredulous look. “Any surgeries?”

“My son is supposed to have a neuro procedure done, and I’m just wondering when Dr. Malenko will be doing it.” It was an outside shot since maybe nobody here knew about enhancement.

“What kind of procedure?”

For an instant she could hear all the caveats about secrecy. But fuck it. “Enhancement.”

“Enhancement?” The woman’s face scrunched up. “What’s that?”

Rachel studied the woman. There was no sign of guile in her manner. She really had not heard the term. “Some kind of surgical procedure.”

“With Dr. Malenko?”

Rachel was on the verge of screaming. “Yes, with Dr. Malenko.”

Marie made a grimace of dismay. “There must be some mistake. Dr. Malenko doesn’t do surgery.”

“What?” For a split instant Rachel felt as if she had passed into some demented Alice in Wonderland dimension. “He’s got plaques on the wall from the American Neurosurgery Society.”

“Well, those are kind of old, frankly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s retired from surgery. In fact, he hasn’t done surgery for over ten years.” The woman made a kind of self-conscious expression and raised her fingers to her face. “His vision.”

“His vision?”

“He’s blind in one eye.”

Rachel looked at her blankly, exerting every ounce of will to prevent herself from cracking. “What about the other neurosurgeons here?”

“There’s Dr. Kane and Dr. Lubeck,” she said, checking a folder. “But they’re not scheduled for any medical procedures with your son.”

Rachel nodded. She didn’t know the names.

“Would you like me to make an appointment with Dr. Malenko when he returns?”

“I have to find him now.”

“Sorry. But you can leave a message with his answering machine.”

Rachel nodded and wrote down her cell phone number in case Malenko called. She then headed out, thinking that if Malenko didn’t perform the surgery, who did? Who was his staff? And where were they?

And where is my son?

As she headed for her car, it crossed her mind to go to the police, but what would she report? What was the crime? Martin had dropped off his own son to the man.

Then a darker thought cut across her mind: If she called the police and Malenko found out, he might hurt Dylan. Or deny he had him.

He wouldn’t do that, a voice in her head protested. You’re working yourself into a full-blown panic.

Halfway down Main Street, she pulled over and dialed Sheila on her cell phone. She got the answering service and left a message to call her ASAP. She then called Sheila’s office, getting the number from information because her mind was too chaotic to remember it. Sheila was on the road, her officemate said.

“SHIT!”

Who was left? Suddenly, all her deepest fears about this whole bloody thing rushed up: There was nobody else to contact. They had put their trust in people she didn’t know and turned over their son to some clandestine medical operation that was outside the circle of professional ethics and practice—and this was the consequence.

She turned down Magnolia and headed north to Cobbsville. She was halfway there when her phone rang. It was Martin, who wanted her to come home.

“When you dropped him off, what did he say about contacting him?”

“Nothing, just that he’d call when it was over.”

“Jesus! He didn’t give you a number?”

“No.”

“How long would it take?” she shouted.

“Three or four days. Rachel, cool it. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He had dropped him off yesterday. “I don’t care. I don’t want him to have this. I don’t want him changed.”

“But it’s the best thing for him. You said so yourself.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Before he could argue back, she said: “Do you know where they brought him?”

“No, but he said he’ll call—”

Rachel clicked him off. The sky had darkened over the highway, and storm clouds looked like bundles of steel mesh rolling in.

A few minutes later, her phone rang again. She braced herself for Martin’s insistence that she cool it and return home. But it was Marie, the receptionist at Nova. “Dr. Malenko called and left a number for you,” she said.

Thank God.

Rachel fumbled in her purse for a pen and wrote it down on her hand. She then dialed the number and held her breath.

On the third ring, she heard a click. Then: “Hello, Mrs. Whitman. This is Lucius Malenko. Your husband informed me that the bypass surgery for your mother was successful and that she’s recovering nicely, I am happy to hear. Dylan is doing fine and will be coming home in a few days. Enjoy your weekend.”

Click. Then the hum of the dial tone.

She redialed the number, but got no answer. No outgoing voice message. Nothing but endless ringing. The message automatically erased itself so as not to leave evidence.

Rachel let out a groan and drove on.

It was after six when she reached the small white ranch. The place was dark as if abandoned. Except for a couple of vehicles parked along the street, the area looked deserted. The driveway beside the house was empty. No Porsche. No lights in the windows.

She went up to the entrance. The interior was dark, but she rang the bell nonetheless. Nothing.

She felt frantic. “DYLAN!”

She cut around the back, knowing she would find nobody. The rain was in a steady downpour. She pulled open the storm door and went inside the small rear foyer and banged on the door. Of course, there was nobody inside. She thought about kicking in the door, but if the guy had a secret locale where he did his enhancements, it wouldn’t be tacked to the wall. Nor would it be in any of his files. He was too smart for that.

The rain pelted her face as she dashed around front to her car.

She drove northward on the main road that cut through small rural towns this side of the New Hampshire border. But after a couple miles, she realized that she had no idea where she was heading. Soon she came to a sign that said that she was entering Carleton Junction. She had never been to Carleton Junction.

She pulled over, and as the rain pattered dismally against her car, she opened her glove compartment for the map. In the light, she saw a small silver tape recorder. She had never seen it before. She was sure it wasn’t Martin’s; besides, he almost never used her car. She opened it up and there was a tape inside, rewound. She pushed the play button and turned up the volume wheel.

“Rachel, this is Vanessa Watts. I don’t know what condition I’ll be in when you get this, but I could not live with myself if I didn’t tell you that you’d be making a mistake if you bring your son to Lucius Malenko. I’m sure his intentions were noble enough, but he ruined my Julian’s mind. Yes, he’s smart, but he’s very troubled He’s been diagnosed as obsessive-compulsive. But that doesn’t come close to the horror of his condition. He’s possessed by his rituals—his painting and music and science projects. He has no other existence. He barely sleeps. He doesn’t have any social life or friends. He spends his days and nights working—and counting. He counts everything he does—every bite of his food, the steps he takes throughout the day, every point he taps on a picture. It’s horrible, but he can’t help it. He’s been on a dozen different kinds of medication for years, and his condition is getting worse. They tell me he would have been this way without the operation. But I don’t believe them—not for a minute. They did something to his brain when they stuck that shit in. I don’t know what, and they’re not talking. But don’t do it to your son. It’s not worth the chance. Julian’s not the boy I gave birth to. He’s not my son …”

Her voice cracked.

“There’s Something else. Julian remembers something about the operation … something about another … I have to tell you in person. It’s just too … I’ll call you.”

Then she clicked off.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Rachel said aloud. These might have been the last words Vanessa had spoken before taking their lives.

Rachel dialed home, but she got the answering machine. She called Martin’s cell phone and got another voice message saying that the party was not responding. She left him a message to call her immediately—that it was urgent—and she summarized what Vanessa had said on the tape. About the last unstated bit, she only said that Vanessa wanted to tell her something that might have been too alarming even for a tape message.

She continued driving, still not certain where she was heading. The rain kept coming down hard. She had no idea where Martin was. Again, she thought about going to the police, but what could she tell them?

She passed through the center of Carleton Junction, following a sign to 1-95 South that would take her back to Hawthorne. Maybe Martin would be back.

As she rounded a bend in the road, headlights filled her rearview mirror. She pulled over to let the car pass, but it stayed on her tail. Because of the rain and dimming light, she could not make out the driver, but she was beginning to think that he was playing some kind of game with her.

She took the next turn, still following signs for I-95. But the car stayed right behind her.

A coincidence, she told herself.

At the next juncture, she took a right onto a wooded road, hoping to shake the tailgater. But the vehicle stayed with her. With a shock, she realized she was being followed. Out of instinct, she accelerated—and so did the car behind her, filling the mirror with lights.

Goddamn it! her mind screamed. She put her hand behind her seat and pulled up the club wheel lock. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. She had no idea who’d be following her or why, and she didn’t know the road or where the next gas station might be, or how much farther to the interstate. So with a sharp turn of the wheel, she pulled over and grabbed the steel rod.

But in the rain she didn’t see that the cut in the side brush was a washout, and the car slid down the bank and hit a tree with a jarring thud. The engine died, but she was not hurt. She looked back. The truck had pulled over.

The same truck that was outside Malenko’s house.

Before she knew it, a large man in black pulled open her door just as she reached back to lock it. But that made little difference since he could easily have smashed the window.

Because of the tightness of the interior, she couldn’t swing the rod, so she held it in front of her like a small lance ready to drive it into the man’s face.

It was Brendan LaMotte.

A blinding rain was coming down when Greg found Lucius Malenko’s Cobbsville office. It was not what he had expected, which was some kind of fancy complex of physicians’ quarters. Instead, the man’s private practice was housed in a small, nondescript ranch with no shingle distinguishing it from any other of the modest residences on the street.

The place looked closed. No light burning in any of the front windows. No cars parked in the driveway. A black pickup truck was parked across the street.

From his cell phone, Greg had called the number the receptionist had given him yesterday. But he only got an answering machine and an accented male voice asking for the caller to leave a message. He didn’t do that.

It was about five-thirty, and he didn’t have to be at work for another month. And here he was sitting in the rain waiting for nothing and wondering at what a mess he had made of his life, not to mention some kid lying in a coma. How he had followed one hunch behind another into a suspension, humiliation, and a burning urge to get blinding drunk.

Just as he was thinking about the taste of beer and heading home to do something about it, a gold Maxima pulled up in front of the Malenko place and out jumped Mrs. Rachel Whitman.

She was alone.

Without bothering with an umbrella, she dashed to the front door of the ranch house and rang the bell then started banging the knocker. She looked frantic. Not getting any response, she ran around back. He heard her calling. A few moments later, she came around then got back into her car and screeched down the road.

Greg started the car. Maybe it was something, maybe not. But it was more interesting than watching the rain make streaks down his windows.

As he pulled onto the road thinking about T.J. Gelford’s warning about impersonating an officer of the law, it occurred to him what name the Whitman woman was yelling. Dylan.

Her six-year-old son.

The huge body filled the door opening.

“Brendan!”

He didn’t respond.

“Why are you following me?”

Brendan’s hair was plastered to his head from the rain and his eyes looked wild. His mouth was moving as if he were reciting something without sound. Crazy. This kid is crazy. She knew the rod was useless with the roof and steering wheel blocking an effective swing. But, she told herself, if he reaches for me, I’ll claw his damn eyes out, so help me God.

“I know where your son is.”

“What?”

“I heard you c-call his name back in Cobbsville,” he said. “C-can I get in?” The rain was pouring off him.

“Yes, yes.” She tossed the rod in the back seat and watched him come around. The car dipped as his big body settled in the passenger seat. He wiped his face staring straight ahead.

He was muttering something rapid-fire under his breath … something she couldn’t catch. A crazed rambling as if he had lapsed into a weird trance.

What if this was some kind of hideous trick? she wondered. Get her to let him in then work himself up to attack her.

“Wind and rain and little boy lost …”

She caught a scrap of verse of some kind.

“Brendan!”

He snapped out of it and looked at her.

“My son. What do you know about my son?”

Before he could answer, the figure of a man came down the banks to the car. “Is everything okay here?”

For a second, Rachel could not place the man’s face. “Officer Zakarian.”

He came up to the window.

Rachel instantly felt on guard. “Yes, everything is fine, she began. “My car just skidded off the road.”

“So it appears.” He looked at Brendan suspiciously.

“This is Brendan LaMotte,” she said, trying to affect an air of control. Although he seemed liked a nice man, she did not need him or the police involved in this. All she wanted was for him to go so Brendan could tell her where Dylan was.

Zakarian reached across her and shook Brendan’s hand, no doubt wondering what he was doing tailing her up here in the woods. “I was just leading Brendan to the highway back home. He’s not familiar with these roads.”

Brendan gave her a quick look. “I’ll g-g-get the chain,” he said and dashed back to his truck.

Zakarian walked around her car in the rain to assess the situation while she waited inside trembling. He stuck his head in the window. “I don’t see any damage. Try starting it.”

She turned the key, and the car started up.

“You’re sure everything is okay, Mrs. Whitman?”

“Just a little rattled, but I didn’t get hurt. I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “I just want to get back on the road is all.” She felt that at any moment she would begin to scream.

“We’ll get you back,” he said.

Brendan returned with the chain, one end of which Zakarian attached to the underside of the Maxima, while Brendan connected the other end to the hitch. Then Brendan maneuvered the truck into position and pulled the car back up onto the road with Rachel still inside.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said, trying to force a smile. “That was very considerate of you.” He was soaked from the rain. “We’ll be on our way now.” She hoped he would take the hint.

His head was at her window, and the rain was pouring off him onto his yellow Sagamore PD slicker. Again he asked, “You’re sure everything’s okay?” This time he looked back at Brendan who was out of earshot. He was asking if she felt threatened by the boy.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Brendan’s a family friend. I’m just leading him back to Hawthorne.” She could hear the edge in her response.

“Well, you showed up at Dr. Malenko’s office looking pretty upset earlier.”

Her mind went numb for a moment. How had he seen her? And what was he doing at Malenko’s? And why was he following her? She had to play down the connection—play it cool. “My husband brought my son for a five o’clock appointment, but I got there late—the weather and all.” She knew it was a feeble answer. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not, and at the moment, she really didn’t care. She just wanted him to leave.

“Your son’s a patient of his?”

“Yes. Look, Officer, I appreciate your help, but I really have to get home.” Her heart was pounding so hard, she was certain she’d go into cardiac arrest.

“I was waiting to see him because I had some questions to ask about the Nova Children’s Center. Julian Watts was a patient of his also.”

“I see.”

Brendan sat waiting for her in his truck. Zakarian’s hands still rested on her door. She stared at them to ask if he was going to let her go. If he didn’t, she knew she would lose it.

He studied her for a brief instant, trying to read her manner. Then he backed away. “Okay. Maybe we can talk soon.”

She nodded and put the car into gear.

Through her rearview mirrors, she watched Zakarian move to his car, which was a black SUV—which, for a split instant, struck her as odd. Didn’t police use squad cars?

“By the way,” he called back. “The highway is that way,” he said, pointing north. Her car was facing south. Then he waved to Brendan in his truck and got back into his own car and drove off, heading south.

Rachel nearly broke down with relief as she watched the car disappear into the distance. When he was gone, Brendan got back into Rachel’s car. “If he’s a c-c-cop, how come he d-didn’t have a badge or gun?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe he’s off duty,” she snapped. “Where’s my son?” Her voice was trembling.

“In Maine near Lake Tarabec.”

“Maine? How do you know?”

“Because I followed him there. I saw your husband come to the doctor’s office with your son yesterday. Thirteen minutes later he left. Twenty-two minutes after that, Dr. Malenko left with your son in his car, a red Porsche, New Hampshire plates, WMD 919. I followed them for three and a half hours.”

“Do you remember the way?”

“Yes.”

Thank God, she whispered silently. “Brendan, I want you to take me there. I’ll pay you anything you ask—but I must find my son.” She did not want to go up there on her own.

He nodded that he would.

She tore open the glove compartment for a pad and pen. Brendan wrote down directions to Camp Tarabec from memory just in case they got separated. He put his hand on the door to go to his truck. “Were you waiting for me there?”

“No, Dr. Malenko. Since this morning. He’s supposed to have office hours here today.”

“Why did you want to see him?”

“Because I w-w-want to know what he did to me.”

“What?”

He took off his cap and clicked on the interior light. Then he lowered his head, parted his hair, and showed her a cluster of small round scars under his hair on both sides of his head and above his ear.

They looked like drill holes.

Then he told her his story.

When she was on the road, she called Martin. He still wasn’t home, so she left a message about how she had found out where Malenko had taken Dylan and recited the directions. Then she followed Brendan to the center of Carleton Junction where, gratefully, there were signs to 1-95 northbound. She had just crossed the state line when her cell phone rang. It was Martin. “What do you mean you’re going to get him?”

“I told you what Vanessa said—they ruined her son.”

“How do we know he wouldn’t have been that way without enhancement? We don’t.”

“That’s right, and I’m not going to take that chance,” she said.

“What the hell does Brendan have to do with this?”

“He had the procedure ten years ago, and he now wants to know what they did to him. He wants help. Don’t you get it? This thing has problems Malenko never told us about.”

“So you’re saying he lied to us?”

“Or he didn’t tell us the whole truth.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” he said.

“Fuck off,” she said. He was rubbing her nose in it. “Are you with me or not?” she screamed.

“Rachel, Dr. Malenko is not lying or covering up failures or whatever. He explained to me that it’s the only thing that can be done for him—grafting new cells where the damage is. It’s done all the time with brain disorders. He said that his particular malformation makes him a perfect candidate for the procedure. Besides,” he added, “we already paid for it.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” she screamed. Suddenly electronic crackling filled the phone. “Goddamn it, I’m losing you,” she shouted. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you.” His voice was distant and fragmented.

“I’m going to get him with or without you,” she shouted.

“Rachel, don’t—” he began, but the connection was lost.

She put the cell phone on the console next to her, feeling more alone than ever.

Greg drove in the rain, thinking about Mrs. Whitman.

At Malenko’s place, she had appeared frantic, banging on the doors and calling for her son. Half an hour later he found her stuck in a ditch, looking as if she were about to explode while claiming everything was just dandy, that she had just slid off the road while leading home the big ponytailed kid Greg had spotted in the cemetery the other day with the good-looking blond girl—the same kid who was currently driving a black Ford pickup—the same black pickup that had followed her from Malenko’s Cobbsville office.

Points were connecting.

And he smelled the proverbial rat.

Clearly something else was going on with Rachel Whitman—something she did not want to share with the police. Certainly, there was no crime in that, and he was convinced that the LaMotte kid posed no threat to her since Greg detected no equivocation in her denial, nor did the boy project an aura of aggression or offense. But the woman was noticeably at the edge, and Greg was positive that it had nothing to do with sliding off the road or getting home late for supper.

Although he admired her, Greg did not, of course, know Rachel Whitman, having spent only half an hour with her the other day. But he could swear that those golden-brown eyes staring up at him from the driver’s seat were dilated with fear.

Greg reached over to his jacket and removed his cell phone. Because it was after six, he punched Joe Steiner’s home number. His wife answered on the third ring and gave the phone to her husband.

“Joe, I need a favor,” Greg said.

“Why should you be any different?” he said. “Can it wait until I finish dinner?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Greg, you make me yearn for telemarketers.”

Greg chuckled. “Sorry. But as you know, I’ve been granted thirty consecutive personal days.”

“And unsolicited, I understand.”

“Yes, how considerate of them.”

“And you’re calling to ask for a list of good books and videos to fill your time.”

“That and a rundown on somebody: an eighteen-year-old male from Barton. His name’s Brendan LaMotte. Anything you can find on him—criminal record, school activities, employment—”

“Any known terrorist ties,” Joe said, cutting him off, “plus his favorite color, books, dog names, TV sitcoms …”

“You got it,” Greg said.

“And all within the next ten minutes.”

“No rush—take fifteen.” He could hear Joe snicker. “One more thing while you’re at it: any recent hospital admissions.”

“Uh-huh. And where exactly are you enjoying your persona-non-gratahood?”

“Having high tea at the Ritz.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you.”

Greg gave Joe his cell phone number and told him where exactly he was on 95. But before he hung up he asked, “How’s Sarah doing with the driving?”

“Eleven days, and nobody’s revoked her license yet. Yippeee!”

“And did we find her a car?”

“My wife’s was falling apart, so we tried to find one that would also be safe for Sarah. Unfortunately, everybody was out of used Sherman tanks, so we settled on a ninety-eight Volvo. But I’m saying kaddish for it, in advance.”

Greg laughed, and they clicked off.

About forty minutes later Joe called back. Greg was still on the highway. The traffic was moderate. The rain was beginning to let up, and the sky ahead looked bleached under shredded clouds.

“What do you have?”

“The kid lives in Barton with his grandfather.” Joe gave the address and telephone number and said that Brendan LaMotte had quit school and was working at the Dells Country Club as a waiter. He also said that his parents were dead, that he was very bright and had some serious personal problems—information he had gotten from the boy’s high school guidance counselor. Joe had also called the Dells, the Barton PD, the state police, the local newspaper, and other places.

“All that in less than an hour. You’re pure magic, pal.”

“It was worth it. I love cold chicken.” Then Joe added, “One more thing I think you’ll find interesting: On the evening of June twenty-three, he was brought into the Essex Medical Center ER with a head injury. Apparently he slipped and fell headfirst into a glass door. He was released two hours later after cleanup and X rays.”

“My, my.”

56

Nearly three hours later, Brendan pulled over.

He had led Rachel to a heavily tree-lined dirt road. A small sign on a post said: CAMP TARABEC—PRIVATE PROPERTY.

Brendan got out and came around to her window. “This is the place,” he said. “He t-turned down there, but I didn’t follow him.”

It was the understated entrance to a campsite. “How long did you wait?”

“A f-few minutes because the security guard came and told me to leave. I d-d-didn’t have official business.”

“We have now,” she said. “Get in.”

Brendan looked hesitant, but he got in. “There are s-security cameras in the trees.”

She nodded and drove down the drive through the woods. After about a quarter mile she came to a crossroad, also dirt. Signs with arrows pointed right to THE BEACH, THE DOCK, and BOATHOUSE; left to THE LODGE, CHAPEL, CABINS among other places.

She turned right. The rain had stopped miles back and there was enough light left to make out some cabins with the lake in the background through the trees. At the end of the road was a boathouse and a small dock with a large white outboard and two smaller boats. But no people or cars.

She turned around and returned to the intersection but proceeded straight, this time passing an open area with more log cabins on the right and playing fields and a tennis court to the left. On the far side of the fields, she spotted some kids at a picnic table with an adult. None looked like Dylan, but the sight of them made her feel better—all so normal and innocent. But her mind was racing trying to connect all this to Malenko. Why a campsite? Is this the right place? Where is my son?

The lodge was a handsome log structure with a porch and steps and screen door with a WELCOME sign next to it.

Brendan waited on the porch while Rachel went inside.

At a reception counter was a man in his forties dressed in a bright green pullover with a monogram saying CAMP TARABEC and a name tag saying KARL. A computer sat on the desk next to him. On the wall were camp notices and group photos of smiling teenage campers. To the side was a small private office. Again all normal and innocent looking. The man appeared to be alone in the building.

He looked up. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Rachel Whitman, and I’m looking for my son, Dylan. He was brought here yesterday by Dr. Lucius Malenko.”

The man stared at her blankly, then slowly shook his head. Without taking his eyes off her he said, “What’s your son’s name again?”

“Dylan. Dylan Whitman.”

“That’s not a name I recognize.” He made no effort to check his computer or a printout list.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “Nobody here by that name.”

“But you didn’t check.”

“I don’t have to check. I know all the children here by name. There’s no Dylan Whitman. Sorry.”

Rachel was feeling faint. “What about Dr. Lucius Malenko?”

“Nope.”

The flat abruptness of his answer said that she could leave now. After a few blank seconds, she turned to leave.

“By the way, how old is your son?”

“Six.”

The man’s face softened. “Well, you’ve definitely got the wrong place. We have twelve-year-olds and up. You might check Camp Ossipago about ten miles up 123.”

She shot a look to Brendan outside. God, was it the wrong place? How could that be? The kid was supposed to have a flawless memory. Or maybe Malenko didn’t come here after all. Maybe he just turned off the road to relieve himself in the woods.

On the wall hung a bulletin board with large letters: CAMP DISCOVERY: HANDS-ON WORKSHOPS. Memos and notices were tacked up as well as a sign-up list for classes on computer programming, Web design, robotics, and interfacing ergonomics. There were announcements about lectures on cloning, stem cells, black holes, and observational astronomy. The place was a summer camp for child geniuses.

Rachel thanked the man and headed outside, feeling the panic rise again. “It’s the wrong place,” she said to Brendan, as they headed back to the car. “They never heard of Dylan or Lucius Malenko.”

“It’s n-n-not the wrong place,” Brendan insisted. “I saw him drive down the road with him. He brought him down here.”

There was nothing in his manner that suggested doubt.

Rachel looked around. It was a bona fide camp with climbing structures, playing fields, tennis courts, water activities, et cetera—and clearly for very bright older children. So, what would Malenko be doing here with Dylan? Unless he just made a short stop for some reason.

“Wait a minute,” she said as Brendan opened the car door. Across the road was a building with a sign: INFIRMARY/FIRST AID. She headed for it.

She entered a small foyer to an examination room. A young woman stepped out in a white smock. A name tag said MARYELLEN STAFF NURSE.

“May I help you?”

Rachel explained that she was looking for her son.

“We have nobody here by that name. Did you check with Karl at the lodge?”

Rachel nodded. “Does the name Dr. Lucius Malenko mean anything to you?”

The woman repeated the name and shook her head. “Our camp doctor is Mark Walsh,” she added pleasantly. “May I ask what this is all about?”

Rachel shook her head. “Are there any other medical facilities around here? An infirmary, hospital, clinic?”

“This is the only infirmary we have. What are you looking for?”

Rachel took a deep breath to steady herself. “If a child got seriously injured—say a concussion or worse, where would you send him?”

The woman gave her a puzzled look. “Well, there’s the Coburn Medical Center in Barnstead about eight miles from here.” And she rattled off the directions.

“That’s the closest?”

“Yeah. If we have a serious problem, that’s where we’d take them. May I ask …?”

Rachel thanked the woman and left.

She stood on the porch for a moment. It had begun to drizzle, and the sky was darkening. In an hour, it would be night. She had been up since early that morning, exhausted from the flight, then the ride up here. On top of that, fear and despair were filling her up.

Brendan was in the car. She started toward it, her mind racing to decide what she should do. She cut across the road to the parking lot, when out of the gloom she heard a child’s voice.

“Mommy!”

Rachel turned around, and before she knew it a little boy wrapped his arms around her middle.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

For a split instant Rachel’s heart swelled with joy. Suddenly she gasped in horror. It was not Dylan.

Still clinging to her, the child said, “I love you, Mommy! I love you, Mommy! I love you, Mommy!”

A woman rushed up to her. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said and tried to peel the child off Rachel. But he would not let go, and Rachel struggled to keep from being toppled.

Suddenly the boy began to wail as the woman tugged at his arms.

“Daniel, no! Let the lady go. She’s not your mommy.”

But the child fought her, pulling with one hand at Rachel’s blouse. Finally, the woman grabbed both of Daniel’s hands and yanked him free.

He continued to blubber and grasp at Rachel. As the woman apologized and pulled him away, Rachel noticed that the boy was wearing a red plastic band on his left wrist. And there was an awful vacant look in his eyes as the woman held him back, explaining that Rachel was not his mother. In the confusion, the baseball cap he had been wearing fell off, and instantly the woman put it back on his head. But before she did, Rachel noticed the boy had no hair.

Cancer, she thought. The poor child has cancer. He is also clearly retarded.

“Sorry,” the woman said, and led the little boy to a dark van.

Rachel returned to her car, and through the windshield she watched the woman put the child inside. She was probably an aunt or guardian, and they were up here to visit an older sibling, Rachel told herself.

For a brief moment before she got in herself, the woman looked over her shoulder at Rachel. For a second, Rachel felt something pass between them. Then the woman got in and drove away.

Rachel started the car, shaking as if the drizzle had turned to sleet. “Brendan, think again. Are you sure this is where you followed him? Are you sure this is the road he turned down, not some other dirt road?” From the main road, they all looked alike.

Brendan looked at her solemnly. “It’s the right road. I r-r-remember the sign.”

She pulled out of the campsite and up the drive to the main road.

“Where we going?”

“I don’t know,” she said. God, help me find him.

“You’re almost out of gas.” The dashboard warning light was on. “There’s a self-serve M-Mobil station we passed about two miles up the road.”

Brendan was right about the gas station. After a few minutes Rachel pulled up to the pumps. While Brendan got out and pumped the gas, she called the number for the Coburn Medical Center. When the operator answered, Rachel asked if they had a recent admission named Dylan Whitman or a Dr. Lucius Malenko on staff. There was a promising pause, then the operator said there was no record for either name.

Her body began to shake again, and tears flooded her eyes. Any moment she might begin screaming and not stop.

“Mrs. Whitman?” Brendan’s head was at her window.

She rolled down the window and handed him a wad of money then began to raise the window.

“Mrs. Whitman, I think Dr. M-M-Malenko just drove by.”

“What?”

He nodded in the direction they had come. “It was hard to tell, but a red Porsche j-just went by.”

“Get in! Get in.”

“B-but … the g-gas?”

He had only put in a couple dollars’ worth. “We’ve got enough.”

Brendan lumbered into the station to pay as she turned the car around.

In a few seconds, they were on the road racing through the rain in the direction of the Porsche.

Brendan didn’t know if it was Malenko, but how many red Porsches were there in this part of Maine? And if it was Malenko, she prayed he wasn’t driving far, because she had barely a quarter tank of gas.

The pavement was slick, and she had to take care rounding the corners. After several miles, she still had not caught up, and less than a mile ahead was the cutoff for Camp Tarabec.

When she came to the entrance, she began to turn down when Brendan stopped her. “No. Straight. There aren’t any tire tracks in the mud.”

He was right. She backed up, leaving clear tracks, but the rest of the dirt road was unrutted mud. She shot back onto the street. Thankfully, there were no other driveways or side roads for a couple miles. But there would be more, so she accelerated in case he turned off.

After maybe another two miles of black woods, she saw red taillights flicker ahead of her. They passed a sign saying MARLON’S HEAD BEACH—3 MILES. They were heading for the coast.

“That’s him,” Brendan said.

A red Porsche.

The road opened up on either side, as the woods gave way to fields then to saltwater marshlands. In the distance, she could see the Porsche pull behind more cars, and just beyond it, about half a mile, was a bridge.

Suddenly, red and yellow lights began flashing ahead as bells clanged.

“Oh, God, no!”

Maybe a quarter mile ahead, the Porsche shot onto the bridge just as the gate came down. It was a drawbridge, which had opened to let sailboats pass. In the distance was the ocean.

Rachel came to a screeching halt before the gate. Three mast vessels lined up to pass through. It could take fifteen minutes before the bridge was passable again.

While the lights blinked, the first sailboat slowly glided through the opening. Holding her breath, Rachel watched the Porsche take off toward the shore road. In a matter of seconds, he would turn one way or the other and be gone.

But instead of proceeding to the beach, the car turned right into a parking lot maybe half a mile away. The taillights flared as it came to a stop.

Brendan got out. A moment later he stuck his head into the window. “Mrs. Whitman?” He handed her a large black pair of binoculars.

She got out and came around to his side. The rain was thin but steady.

Brendan pointed in the direction of the red car.

Rachel raised the glasses to her eyes, having to adjust one lens then the next. Rain had smudged the front piece, but through the dimming light she could make out the red car. There were two men, shaking hands. One with white hair. Lucius Malenko.

The other was Martin.

While the last of the three boats drifted through the channel, Rachel watched in disbelief as Martin waved good-bye to Malenko and headed for his Miata. Then Malenko took off toward the shore road with Martin behind him. They came to the stop sign at the end, the beach and the ocean spreading beyond them. The Porsche turned left, and the Miata turned right.

Shortly, the bells began to ring and the lights flashed as the gate was raised. Rachel and Brendan shot across the bridge and down the strip to the shore road. In the distance to the right, she saw the taillights of Martin’s car. To the left and rapidly disappearing was the Porsche’s lights.

For a frozen moment, she didn’t know which way to turn. Martin had probably tried to call Malenko to alert him that she was heading up here for Dylan. When that failed, he drove up here following the directions she’d left on the answering machine. Maybe by the time he arrived, Malenko had gotten his message and called him back. And this was their rendezvous. But she didn’t care about that. Malenko may or may not lead her to Dylan, and if she caught up to him he could stonewall her.

She turned right, not taking her eyes off Martin’s car, thinking how he had betrayed her.

About a mile down the shore road, they passed a sign to the Maine Turnpike. Martin’s business with Malenko was over; he was heading back home.

The Maxima growled after him. At about a quarter mile behind him, she began flashing her lights. At about a hundred yards, he slowed down probably thinking it was Malenko in his mirror. When he recognized her car, he pulled over and got out.

“What the hell are you doing?” Then he noticed Brendan in the car. “What’s he doing here?’

She got out. “He’s helping me find Dylan. Where is he?”

“Rachel …” he began.

She lurched at him and grabbed his shirt, ready to claw his face if he resisted her. “Where did they take him?”

“To his clinic.”

“Where? Where is his clinic?”

Martin looked startled by the intensity on her face. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”

“What were you doing in his car?”

“That’s where we met. He called me from the road and said to meet him.”

“You came up here to warn him about me.”

“Yeah, and to give him the rest of the money.”

“Christ! Get in. GET IN.”

“But my car.”

“GET IN!” she screamed.

Brendan jumped into the back seat as Martin got in front. Rachel squealed into a fast U-turn and raced back upshore. The lights of two cars burned in the distance.

Martin had no idea where they were performing the procedure, but it would happen within a few hours. “Rachel, I think we should talk, and talk privately.”

In the back seat Brendan had the map out. “The shore road connects back to 123,” he said to Rachel.

Highway 123. That leads back toward the camp, she thought.

If they didn’t intercept Lucius Malenko there, she’d call the police no matter what.

“Rachel, we’ve been through this. It’s the best thing.”

“Martin, I don’t want them to lay a finger on him, do you understand? It’s bad, it’s wrong, it’s lousy with problems.” Then she reached over and pushed the tape recorder from Vanessa Watts in his hands. “Listen to her. And when you’re through, listen to Brendan.”

Reluctantly Martin raised the tape recorder to his ear. After listening he said, “But she was half-crazed when she made that.”

“Goddamn you, Martin!” Rachel screamed. “She wasn’t crazed. She was pouring her heart out.” She looked into the rearview mirror. “Brendan, tell him what they did to you.”

And while she drove trying to keep from backhanding Martin, Brendan told him about his condition, about the torment of living in his own mind. About wanting to end his life. “Maybe I w-would have been screwed up anyway, m-maybe not. But I think I lost more than I g-gained.”

Martin listened, the skin of his face looking as if it had been stretched. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know.”

Rachel was too numb to respond. She raced back to Camp Tarabec. At one point, Martin said half to himself, “Maybe we can still get our money back.”

“Is that your only concern?” she asked.

“Of course not, but still …”

Nothing else was said, and twenty minutes later they arrived at the camp. By then, the sky was black.

Rachel stopped at the crossroad where the signs pointed left and right. She turned left toward the lodge. The lights were still on, but in the dark and rain nobody was outside. Slowly, she passed the lodge toward a small service road that led to some rear cabins and to the dead end. No red Porsche in sight. She turned around and headed back, passing the lodge.

Instead of taking a right back onto the entrance road, she continued straight toward the dock. Cabin lights glowed. But nobody was about. And no cars. Rachel continued all the way to the dock, the lightless boathouse on the left.

“There’s nobody here,” Martin said.

But Rachel wasn’t satisfied. She jumped out of the car and ran to the dock. Two small runabout outboards were moored alongside. The boathouse was black, so was the nearby dock shack. But for two exterior lights, the place was dead.

Under an opaque sky, the water spread before her like corrugated lava. In the distance, where the island sat, a dim yellow light glowed. She started back toward the car, when she stopped in her tracks. The large black structure of the boathouse pulled at her. She crossed to the front. The door was locked, but in the headlights from her car she could make out the interior. The red Porsche.

“He’s here,” she said.

“He is?” Martin walked over to her as Brendan headed to the dock. “So what are we going to do? There must be fifty cabins here.”

Rachel’s mind raced. Malenko had warned them that he wouldn’t tolerate any breach of confidentiality—which was probably why his people at the lodge back there denied recognizing his name. And Dylan’s. If they called the local police, what would they say—that their son was being illegally operated on by a neurosurgeon they had hired and paid and with whom they dropped off their son? Or that they changed their mind at the last minute? And what was the crime but their own foolishness? Besides, if the police showed up and word got out to Malenko wherever he was, he might harm Dylan. Or deny he had him?

Besides, the nearest police station could be miles from here. And they had no idea where Malenko had gone or where Dylan was.

“He t-t-took the boat.”

Rachel looked over to Brendan. “What?”

“There was a boat here earlier. A big white p-power boat with twin Mercury engines.”

Rachel glanced out over the water to the yellow light burning in the gloom. She could not hear any sound but the wind.

She moved to the dock. “What about one of those?” Two skiffs with small outboards attached to the transoms.

“We can’t just take it,” Martin said.

She got in and began to feel around the motor. “Does it need a key?”

“N-n-no. It’s got a p-pull cord.”

Martin stood frozen for a moment. “What are you doing? That’s private property.”

“Untie it, goddamn it,” Rachel snapped.

“This is crazy.”

“Then stay here.”

Martin looked at them for a moment, then removed the rope from the dock cleat. Rachel found the cord, hoping to get away before somebody discovered them. At the moment, nobody was around, and the nearest cabin was a hundred yards away.

But in the distance, she heard a car approach.

“Hurry.”

Brendan pumped the fuel bulb on the line a few times then pulled the cord. The engine started up instantly. And Rachel whispered a prayer of thanks and sat beside Brendan at the throttle arm.

From her bag she found her small penlight and gave it to Martin to guide them through to open water. He no longer protested and kept the flash low, as Brendan pulled them away from the dock.

They were maybe a hundred feet into the water, when the headlights of a car flickered through the trees to the dock. Suddenly its lights went out.

Martin killed the flash, though the sound of the motor filled the air. Brendan cut the motor.

But Rachel said, “No,” and took the throttle, pulling them into the black water, guided by the dim yellow light on the island and the pulse of her own heart.

57

They were soaked and cold by the time they reached the island.

Rachel throttled down to a low putter as they rounded the thick eastern flank. Through the growth, they could see lights from a small dock at the water’s edge. Roped alongside of it was the long white powerboat they had seen earlier at the camp dock. In the shadows beyond sat a twin-engine floatplane.

Rachel killed the motor as Brendan and Martin paddled to the dock.

Set back on a rise under a canopy of trees was a large two-story building, the interior lights burning. Every instinct told her that her son was here.

God, let us be in time.

They tied up to the dock then got out. Except for the wind in the trees, the only other sound was the water slurping under the dock like some demon beast licking its chops.

Slowly they moved to the house—a dark sprawling structure that was probably an old fishing lodge. A deep porch wrapped around the front with chairs and tables; a set of stairs led to the front entrance. In the open yard to the right was a small playground area with a set of swings, climbing structures, and a sandbox. Nearby sat what looked like a length of a child’s slide against a pile of cinder blocks.

As they approached the front stairs, twin spotlights snapped on from above, catching them in full glare.

“That’s far enough.”

A man stood in the shadows.

Because of the blinding lights, he appeared a clotted shadow. But as he got closer, Rachel could see he was tall. “This is private property.” He held a shotgun on them.

“We’re looking for Lucius Malenko,” Rachel said, hoping that the man would recognize the name and let them in. But he said nothing, nor did he move.

“He has our son.”

Still no response. And the only sound was the high wind and the rain pelting the building.

“Do you understand me?” she said. “Dr. Malenko knows us. We’re here to get our son.”

The man leaned the shotgun against a tree, then removed a pistol from his hip holster. He came up to Martin and poked the gun at him. “Turn around,” he said and snapped open a pair of handcuffs.

“Look, this isn’t necessary,” Martin protested. “Just tell the doctor that we’re here. The name’s Whitman. Martin Whitman.”

“Turn around.”

“Please, we’re friends,” Martin pleaded. “I was with him just an hour ago.”

“If I tell you again, I’m going to hurt you.”

Martin looked at Rachel and slowly turned around.

“Please, we didn’t mean to intrude,” Rachel said. “We’re just here for our son.”

But the man disregarded her and began to fix a cuff onto Martin’s wrist.

Suddenly there was the sound of movement, then a dull thwack—and the man plunged forward onto Martin, knocking them both onto the ground.

Rachel turned in disbelief. From out of shadows, someone had sprung on the guy and whacked him across the base of the skull with an oar.

Officer Greg Zakarian.

Martin pushed the guy off him. And Zakarian came down on the man’s back with his knee and snapped the cuffs on him. The man groaned half-consciously.

“Is Malenko here?” Zakarian asked.

“Yes. And he has our son.”

Zakarian removed the pistol from the guard’s grip then found some shotgun cartridges in his vest and stuffed them into his own pocket. He then rolled the guy over and found a set of keys in another pocket as well as a long metal tube.

“What’s that?” Rachel asked.

He sniffed it, then looked through the hole at the end. “A silencer.”

A silencer? Rachel thought. The man was prepared to shoot people and not be heard. And why out here on a remote island? She wondered. What the hell kind of people were they dealing with?

Brendan helped Zakarian drag the man to the swing set. With one of the keys, they recuffed him to one of the steel support poles. When he was finished, Zakarian took the shotgun from Martin. He opened the chamber to see if it was loaded. It was.

“Why do they have your son?”

“They’re going to do a brain operation.”

Zakarian nodded without surprise.

“Why did you follow me?” Rachel asked.

“Because I think this Malenko can tell us about some missing children.”

A shudder passed through Rachel. She wasn’t sure what he knew, but she said a silent prayer of thanks that he was here.

Zakarian pulled out his cell phone from a hip case and punched 911. But out here on an island surrounded by water and woods, he had difficulty making a connection. Several times he repeated his message, identifying himself as a Massachusetts police officer in an emergency situation. He gave their location—an island in Lake Tarabec offshore from the camp—and asked for backup. When he got off, he shook his head. “I don’t think I got through.” He cocked the shotgun. “I’m going to go in. The rest of you stay here.”

“Sure,” Martin said.

“Like hell,” Rachel said. Zakarian began to tuck the gunman’s pistol into his belt. “Let me have that.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am,” Zakarian said.

But she yanked it out of his belt. “My son is in there.” She held the gun with the barrel aimed at him.

He studied her face for a moment. “Have you ever fired a pistol before?”

“No.”

He looked to Martin and Brendan. “What about you?”

Martin shook his head, but Brendan said he had done some skeet shooting a couple times with his grandfather.

He nodded and gauged the look on Rachel’s face. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that, but if it does: two hands, aim, and squeeze.” And he showed her the stance.

She nodded and started up the steps, but Zakarian pulled them to the side of the building. Inside lamps glowed, but there was no sign of life—no—body peering out the windows, no shadows moving against the walls. But for the wind and light rain, the place was dead silent.

They cut around to a door at the rear of the building. They could see nobody inside. Martin opened the door as Zakarian led the way shotgun first.

They had entered an empty kitchen.

What immediately struck Rachel were all the children’s effects—plastic drinking cups with cartoon animals, a bunch of small toys and figurines in a box on the floor, cartons of kids’ cereal on the shelves, packages of cookies. But they all seemed like stagecraft. No crayon art on the fridge, no happy kids’ photos tacked up.

Off the kitchen to their left was a hallway leading to the front of the lodge, a dining room on one side, a library of sorts on the other, the living room making up the whole front of the house.

Zakarian led the way, with Rachel behind him and Martin and Brendan behind her. As they moved into the interior, Rachel could hear a deep hum, just above the threshold of awareness. It seemed to emanate from under the building.

Zakarian pointed the shotgun toward the back room. Rachel turned the knob, and he nodded her back, then kicked the door open. An empty mud room, but with another door that could only lead downstairs. It was locked. With the keys he had taken off the guard, Zakarian got the door to open.

Rachel’s heart was pounding so hard she half-expected her ribs to crack. Every fiber of her being told her that Dylan was here. And on some instinctive level she was drawn not into the house or upstairs but toward the source of that deep-bellied hum from below.

Zakarian slowly pulled open the door. A quick look with the shotgun. Nobody.

A dozen stairs led down to the bright interior below. Zakarian began to descend with Rachel, Martin, and Brendan in tow.

The humming became louder and the air became cooler as they descended.

The sight at the bottom was startling. In contrast to the dark, rustic interior of the lodge, they were in a large underground complex that ran off a brightly lit corridor with a clean tiled floor and fluorescent lights running the length of the place. At intervals along the corridor were dormitorylike rooms—twelve, six on a side—each with its own numbered door and viewing window, some with venetian blinds up, some down. Like diorama exhibits in a museum.

Slowly they made their way, following the steady low-grade electronic groan emanating from someplace at the corridor’s end.

The first room on the right was empty, but it was clearly designed for children. The walls were painted with cartoon figures, toys were scattered all over the place, and a TV monitor was playing some animal show, with no sound.

Brendan stopped for a moment at the first window, staring at a large stuffed elephant doll sitting on a beanbag chair. He seemed transfixed. “Mr. Nisha,” he muttered to himself.

Martin nudged Rachel. In the room across the hall was a little girl. She was sitting on the floor, her head bobbing. Although the door was closed, Rachel could faintly hear the girl grunting as she rocked in place staring blankly at the wall. She was tethered by one foot to a metal clip on the floor. On her shirt was a name tag: TANYA. Her head, which had been shaved, was speckled with scabs along the sides. She wore a red wristband.

Rachel wasn’t certain the child could see her, or if the glass was one-way, but for a brief moment, the child stared at Rachel. Her eyes were like burnt-out fuses.

“My God,” Zakarian whispered.

Across the hall, Brendan was looking at another child, a little boy whose head was also shaved and scabbed. Blood ran down the side of his face where he had picked. Like the girl, he wore a red wristband. He was sitting in the corner looking at a spot on the floor. His body was twitching and he was drooling on himself. It was not Dylan.

Rachel held her breath and moved down the hall beside Zakarian with Brendan and Martin behind.

The next four rooms were empty. But the last two rooms had a child in each. Through the window on the right, a little girl was staring blankly at the TV monitor. She wore a green wristband. In the room across the hall, a little boy was curled up asleep on the floor in his underpants. His head had been shaved, but it was not Dylan. A red wristband was fastened around his wrist. They were color-coded. A name tag lay on the table. DANIEL. The little boy from earlier this evening—the one who mistook Rachel for his mother.

Rachel groaned, feeling as if she were in the midst of something unspeakable.

The humming at the very end of the corridor pulled her away. Its source was on the right behind two swinging doors with narrow glass panels through which they could see bright lights.

“Stay behind me,” Zakarian said.

With the pistol firmly gripped and Martin and Brendan beside her, Rachel held her breath as Zakarian pushed their way through, shotgun poised.

They froze.

They had entered an operating room, humming with electronic equipment. Clustered under two separate domes of lights were two groups of people in green scrubs standing around twin operating tables, each supporting a body whose head was locked in heavy metal frames, above which were television monitors casting scans of their brains with coordinates and lines indicating the paths of the stereotaxic probes. A man in street clothes sat at one of the computers.

Rachel could not tell if the patients were boys or if one of them was Dylan because the faces were blocked by the apparatus attached to their skulls. But the child on the right was wearing a green wristband, the other a red one.

Besides the deep hum, the only other sound was a kind of high-pitched whirring—like that of a dentist’s drill. Two of them were positioned on stands with metal arcs, viewing scopes, and long probes aimed at the children’s heads.

Zzzzzrrrrrrr.

The sound of the drills shot through Rachel.

“Police! Don’t anybody move,” Zakarian shouted.