Mutation

8 Thursday Morning

Wondering how the other people put up with it on a daily basis, Victor suffered the congested traffic of a normal Boston rush hour.

Once he got on Storrow Drive heading west, traffic improved, only to slow down again near the Fenway. It was after nine when he finally entered the busy Children’s Hospital. He went directly to Pathology.

“Dr. Shryack, please?” Victor asked. The secretary glanced up at him and, without removing her dictation headset, pointed down the corridor.

Victor looked at the nameplates as he walked.

“Excuse me. Dr. Shryack?” Victor called as he stepped through the open door. The extraordinarily young-looking man raised his head from a microscope.

“I’m Dr. Frank,” Victor said. “Remember when I stopped in while you were autopsying the Hobbs baby?”

“Of course,” said Dr. Shryack. He stood up and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you under more pleasant circumstances. The name is Stephen.”

Victor shook his hand.

“I’m afraid we haven’t any definitive diagnosis yet,” Stephen said, “if that is what you’ve come for. The slides are still being processed.”

“I’m interested, of course,” Victor said. “But the reason I stopped by was to ask another favor. I was curious if you routinely take fluid samples.”

“Absolutely,” Stephen answered. “We always do toxicology, at least a screen.”

“I was hoping to get some of the fluid myself,” Victor said.

“I’m impressed with your interest,” Stephen said. “Most internists give us a rather wide berth. Come on, let’s see what we have.”

Stephen led Victor out of his office, down the hall, and into the extensive laboratory where he stopped to speak to a severely dressed middle-aged woman. The conversation lasted for a minute before she pointed toward the opposite end of the room. Stephen then led Victor down the length of the lab and into a side room.

“I think we’re in luck.” Stephen opened the doors to a large cooler on the far wall and began searching through the hundreds of stoppered Erlenmeyer flasks. He found one and handed it back to Victor. Soon he found three others.

Victor noticed he had two flasks of blood and two of urine.

“How much do you need?” Stephen asked.

“Just a tiny bit,” Victor said.

Stephen carefully poured a little from each flask into test tubes that he got from a nearby counter top. He capped them, labeled each with a red grease pencil, and handed them to Victor.

“Anything else?” Stephen asked.

“Well, I hate to take advantage of your generosity,” Victor said.

“It’s quite all right,” Stephen said.

“About five years ago, my son died of a very rare liver cancer,” Victor began.

“I’m so sorry.”

“He was treated here. At the time the doctors said there had only been a couple of similar cases in the literature. The thought was that the cancer had arisen from the Kupffer cells so that it really was a cancer of the reticuloendothelial system.”

Stephen nodded. “I think I read about that case. In fact, I’m sure I did.”

“Since the tumor was so rare,” Victor said, “do you think that any gross material was saved?”

“There’s a chance,” Stephen said. “Let’s go back to my office.”

When Stephen was settled in front of his computer terminal, he asked Victor for David’s full name and birth date. Entering that, he obtained David’s hospital number and located the pathology record. With his finger on the screen, he scanned the information. His finger stopped. “This looks encouraging. Here’s a specimen number. Let’s check it out.”

This time he took Victor down to the subbasement. “We have a crypt where we put things for long-term storage,” he explained.

They stepped off the elevator into a dimly lit hall that snaked off in myriad directions. There were pipes and ducts along the ceiling, the floor a bare, stained concrete.

“We don’t get to come down here that often,” Stephen said as he led the way through the maze. He finally stopped at a heavy metal door. When Victor helped pull it open, Stephen reached in and flipped on a light.

It was a large, poorly lit room with widely spaced bulbs in simple ceiling fixtures. The air was cold and humid. Numerous rows of metal shelves reached almost to the ceiling.

Checking a number that he had written on a scrap of paper, Stephen set off down one of the rows. Victor followed, glancing into the shelves. At one point he stopped, transfixed by the image of an entire head of a child contained in a large glass canister and soaking in some kind of preservative brine. The eyes stared out and the mouth was open as if in some perpetual scream. Victor looked at the other glass containers. Each contained some horrifying preserved testament to past suffering. He shuddered, then realized that Stephen had passed from sight.

Looking nervously around, he heard the resident call. “Over here.”

Victor strode forward, no longer looking at the specimens. When he reached the corner, he saw the pathologist reaching into one of the shelves, noisily pushing around the glass containers. “Eureka!” he said, straightening up. He had a modest-sized glass jar in his hands that contained a bulbous liver suspended in clear fluid. “You’re in luck,” he said.

Later, on the way up in the elevator, he asked Victor why he wanted the tissue.

“Curiosity,” Victor said. “When David died my grief was so overwhelming I didn’t ask any questions. Now after all these years, I want to know more about why he died.”

Marsha drove VJ and Philip through the Chimera gates. During the drive VJ had chatted about a new Pac-Man video just like any other ten-year-old.

“Thanks for the lift, Mom,” he said, jumping out.

“Let Colleen know where you’re playing,” she said. “And I want you to stay away from the river. You saw what it looked like from the bridge.”

Philip got out from the back seat. “Nothing’s going to happen to VJ,” he said.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go over to your friend Richie’s?” Marsha questioned.

“I’m happy here,” VJ said. “Don’t worry about me, okay?”

Marsha watched VJ stride off with Philip rushing to catch up. “What a pair,” she thought, trying to keep last night’s revelation from panicking her.

She parked the car and headed for the day-care center. As she entered the building she could hear the thwack of a racquetball. The courts were on the floor above, in the fitness center.

Marsha found Pauline Spaulding kneeling on the floor, supervising a group of children who were finger-painting. She leaped up when she saw Marsha, her figure giving proof to all those years as an aerobics instructor.

When Marsha asked for a few minutes of her time, Pauline left the kids and went off to find another teacher. After she returned with a younger woman in tow, she led Marsha to another room filled with cribs and folding cots.

“We’ll have some privacy here,” Pauline said. Her large oval eyes looked nervously at Marsha, who she assumed had come on official business for her husband.

“I’m not here as the wife of one of the partners,” Marsha said, trying to put Pauline at ease.

“I see.” Pauline took a deep breath and smiled. “I thought you had some major complaint.”

“Quite the contrary,” Marsha said. “I wanted to talk to you about my son.”

“Wonderful boy,” Pauline said. “I suppose you know that he comes in here from time to time and helps out. In fact, he visited us just last weekend.”

“I didn’t know the center was open on weekends,” Marsha said.

“Seven days a week,” Pauline said with pride. “A lot of people here at Chimera work every day. I suppose that’s called dedication.”

Marsha wasn’t sure she’d call it dedication, and she wondered what kind of stress such devotion would have on family life that was already suffering. But she didn’t say any of this. Instead, she asked Pauline if she remembered the day VJ’s IQ dropped.

“Of course I remember. The fact that it happened here has always made me feel responsible somehow.”

“Well, that’s plainly absurd,” Marsha said with a warm smile. “What I wanted to ask about was VJ’s behavior afterwards.”

Pauline looked down at her feet, thinking. After a minute or so, she raised her head. “I suppose the thing I noticed the most was that he’d changed from a leader of activities to an observer. Before, he was always eager to try anything. Later, he acted bored and had to be forced to participate. And he avoided all competition. It was as if he were a different person. We didn’t push him; we were afraid to. Anyway, we saw much less of him after that episode.”

“What do you mean?” Marsha asked. “Once he finished his medical work-up, he still came here every afternoon after preschool.”

“No, he didn’t,” Pauline said. “He began to spend most of the time in his father’s lab.”

“Really? I didn’t think that started until he began school. But what do I know, I’m just the mother!”

Pauline smiled.

“What about friends?” Marsha questioned.

“That was never one of VJ’s strong points,” Pauline said diplomatically. “He always got along better with the staff than the children. After his problem, he tended to stay by himself. Well, I take that back. He did seem to enjoy the company of the retarded employee.”

“You mean Philip?” Marsha questioned.

“That’s the fellow,” Pauline said.

Marsha stood up, thanked Pauline, and together they walked to the entrance.

“VJ may not be quite as smart as he was,” Pauline said at the door, “but he is a fine boy. We appreciate him here at the center.”

Marsha hurried back to the car. She hadn’t learned much, but it seemed VJ had always been even more of a loner than she had suspected.

Victor knew he should go to his office the moment he reached Chimera. Colleen was undoubtedly inundated by emergencies. But instead, carrying his latest samples from Children’s Hospital, he headed for his lab. En route he stopped at the computer center.

Victor looked for Louis Kaspwicz around the malfunctioning hardware, but the problem had apparently been solved. The machine was back on line with lights blinking and tape reels running. One of the many white-coated technicians said Louis was in his office trying to figure out a glitch that had occurred in one of the accounting programs.

When Louis saw Victor, he pushed aside the thick program he was working on and took out the log sheets that he was saving to show Victor.

“I’ve checked over the last six months,” Louis said, organizing the papers for Victor to see, “and underlined the times the hacker has logged on. It seems the kid checks in every Friday night around eight. At least fifty percent of the time he stays on long enough to be traced.”

“How come you say ‘kid’?” Victor asked, straightening up from glancing at the logs.

“It’s just an expression,” Louis answered. “Somebody who breaks into a private computer system could be any age.”

“Like one of our competitors?” Victor said.

“Exactly, but historically there’s been a lot of teenagers that do it just for the challenge. It’s like some kind of computer game for them.”

“When can we try to trace him?” Victor asked.

“As soon as possible,” Louis said. “It terrifies me that this has been going on for so long. I have no idea what kind of mischief this guy has been up to. Anyway, I talked the phone company into sending over some technicians to watch tomorrow night, if it’s all right with you.”

“Fine,” Victor said.

That settled, Victor continued on to his lab. He found Robert still absorbed in sequencing the DNA of the inserted genes.

“I’ve got some more rush work,” Victor said hurriedly. “If you need to, pull one of the other techs off a project to help, but I want you to be personally responsible for this work.”

“I’ll get Harry if it’s necessary,” Robert said. “What do you have?”

Victor opened the brown paper bag and removed a small jar. He extended it toward Robert. His hand trembled.

“It’s a piece of my son’s liver.”

“VJ’s?” Robert’s gaunt face looked shocked. His eyes seemed even more prominent.

“No, no, David’s. Remember we did DNA fingerprinting on everyone in my family?”

Robert nodded.

“I want that tumor fingerprinted, too,” Victor said. “And I want some standard H and E stains and a chromosome study.”

“Can I ask why you want all this?”

“Just do it,” Victor said sharply.

“All right,” Robert said, nervously looking down at his feet. “I wasn’t questioning your motives. I just thought that if you were looking for something in particular, I could keep an eye out for it.”

Victor ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for snapping at you like that,” he said. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“No need to apologize,” Robert said. “I’ll start work on it right now.”

“Wait, there’s more,” Victor said. He removed the four stoppered test tubes. “I’ve got some blood and urine samples I need assayed for a cephalosporin antibiotic called cephaloclor.”

Robert took the samples, tilted them to see their consistency, then checked the grease-pencil labels. “I’ll put Harry on this. It will be pretty straightforward.”

“How is the sequencing coming?” Victor asked.

“Tedious, as usual,” Robert said.

“Any mutations pop up?”

“Not a one,” Robert said. “And the way the probes pick up the fragments, I’d guess at this point that the genes have been perfectly stable.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Victor said.

“I thought you’d be pleased with that information,” Robert said.

“Normally I would,” Victor said. He didn’t elaborate. It would have been too hard for him to explain that he was hoping to find concrete evidence that the dead children’s NGF gene differed from VJ’s.

“So here you are!” a voice called, startling both Victor and Robert. They turned to see Colleen standing at the door, legs apart and arms akimbo. “One of the secretaries told me she saw you creeping around,” she said with a wink.

“I was just about to come over to the office,” Victor said defensively.

“Sure, and I’m about to win the lottery,” Colleen laughed.

“I suppose the office is bedlam?” Victor asked sheepishly.

“Now he thinks he’s indispensable,” Colleen joked to Robert. “Actually, things aren’t too bad. I’ve handled most of what has come up. But there is something that you should know right away.”

“What is it?” said Victor, suddenly concerned.

“Perhaps I could talk to you in private?” Colleen said. She smiled at Robert to indicate she did not mean to be rude.

“Of course,” Victor said awkwardly. He moved across the lab to one of the benches. Colleen followed.

“It’s about Gephardt,” Colleen said. “Darryl Webster, who’s in charge of the investigation, has been trying to get you all day. He finally told me what it was all about. Seems that he has uncovered a slew of irregularities. While Gephardt was purchasing supervisor for Chimera a lot of laboratory equipment vanished.”

“Like what?” Victor questioned.

“Big-ticket items,” Colleen said. “Fast protein liquid chromatography units, DNA sequencers, mass spectrometers, things like that.”

“Good God!”

“Darryl thought you should know,” Colleen added.

“Did he find bogus orders?”

“No,” Colleen said. “That’s what makes it so weird. Receiving got the equipment. It just never went to the department that was supposed to have ordered it. And the department in question never said anything because they hadn’t placed the order.”

“So Gephardt fenced it,” Victor said, amazed. “No wonder his attorney was so hot to cut a deal. He knew what we would find.”

Angrily, Victor remembered that the note around the brick referred to a deal. In all likelihood, Gephardt had been behind the harassment.

“I assume we have the bastard’s telephone number,” Victor said with venom.

“I guess,” Colleen said. “Should be in his employee record.”

“I want to give Gephardt a call. I’m tired of talking through that lawyer of his.”

On the way back to the administration building, Colleen had to run to keep up with Victor. She’d never seen him so angry.

He was still fuming as he dialed Gephardt’s number, motioning for Colleen to stay in the room so she could be a witness to what was said. But the phone rang interminably. “Damn it!” Victor cursed. “The bastard either is out or he’s not answering. What’s his address?”

Colleen looked it up and found a street number in Lawrence, not far from Chimera.

“I think I’ll stop and pay the man a visit on the way home,” Victor said. “I have a feeling he’s been to my house. It’s time I return the call.”

When one of her patients called in sick, Marsha decided to use the hour to visit Pendleton Academy, the private school that VJ had been attending since kindergarten.

The campus was beautiful even though the trees were still bare and the grass a wintry brown. The stone buildings were covered with ivy, giving the appearance of an old college or university.

Marsha pulled up to the administration building and got out. She wasn’t as familiar with the school as she might have been. Although she and Victor had made regular Parents’ Day visits, she’d met the headmaster, Perry Remington, on only two occasions. She hoped he would see her.

When she entered the building she was pleased to find a number of secretaries busy at their desks. At least it wasn’t a vacation week for the staff. Mr. Remington was in his office and was kind enough to see Marsha within a few minutes.

He was a big man with a full, well-trimmed beard. His bushy brows poked over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.

“We are always delighted to see parents,” Mr. Remington said, offering her a chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, and balanced a manila folder on his knee. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m curious about my son, VJ,” Marsha said. “I’m a psychiatrist and to be honest with you, I’m a bit worried about him. I know his grades are good, but I wondered how he was doing generally.” Marsha paused. She didn’t want to put words into Mr. Remington’s mouth.

The headmaster cleared his throat. “When they told me you were outside, I quickly reviewed VJ’s record,” he said. He tapped the folder, then he shifted his position, crossing the other leg. “Actually, if you hadn’t stopped by I’d have probably given you a ring when school reopened. VJ’s teachers are also concerned about him. Despite his excellent grades, your son seems to have an attention problem. His teachers say that he often appears to be daydreaming or off in his own world, though they admit if they call on him he always has the right answer.”

“Then why are the teachers concerned?” asked Marsha.

“I guess it’s because of the fights.”

“Fights!” exclaimed Marsha. “I’ve never heard a word about fights.”

“There have been four or five episodes this year alone.”

“Why hasn’t this been brought to my attention?” Marsha asked with some indignation.

“We didn’t contact you because VJ specifically asked us not to do so.”

“That’s absurd!” Marsha said, raising her voice. “Why would you take orders from VJ?”

“Just a moment, Dr. Frank,” Mr. Remington said. “In each incident it was apparent to the staff member present that your son was severely provoked and that he only used his fists as a last resort. Each incident involved a known bully apparently responding childishly to your son’s... er, uniqueness. There was nothing equivocal about any of these incidents. VJ was never at fault and never the instigator. Consequently, we respected his wishes not to bother you.”

“But he could have been hurt,” Marsha said, settling back in her chair.

“That’s the other surprising thing,” Mr. Remington said. “For a boy who doesn’t go out for athletics, VJ handled himself admirably. One of the other boys came away with a broken nose.”

“I seem to be learning a lot about my son these days,” Marsha said. “What about friends?”

“He’s pretty much of a loner,” Mr. Remington said. “In fact, he doesn’t interact well with the other students. Generally, there is no hostility involved. He just does ‘his own thing.’ ”

That was not what Marsha wanted to hear. She’d hoped her son was more social in school than at home. “Would you describe VJ as a happy child?” she asked.

“That’s a tough question,” Mr. Remington said. “I don’t feel he is unhappy, but VJ doesn’t display much emotion at any time.”

Marsha frowned. The flat effect sounded schizoid. The picture was getting worse, not better.

“One of our math instructors, Raymond Cavendish,” Mr. Remington offered, “took a particular interest in VJ. He made an enormous effort to penetrate what he called VJ’s private world.”

Marsha leaned forward. “Really? Was he successful?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Mr. Remington said. “But the reason I mentioned it was because Raymond’s goal was to get VJ involved in extracurricular activities like sports. VJ was not very interested even though he’d shown an innate talent for basketball and soccer. But I agreed with Raymond’s opinion: VJ needs to develop other interests.”

“What initially interested Mr. Cavendish in my son?”

“Apparently he was impressed by VJ’s aptitude for math. He put VJ in a gifted class that included kids from several grades. Each was allowed to proceed at his own pace. One day when he was helping some high school kids with their algebra, he noticed VJ daydreaming. He called his name to tell him to get back to work. VJ thought he was calling on him for an answer and, to everyone’s amazement, VJ offered the solution to the high schooler’s problem.”

“That’s incredible!” Marsha said. “Would it be possible for me to talk with Mr. Cavendish?”

Mr. Remington shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Mr. Cavendish died a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marsha said.

“It was a great loss to the school,” Mr. Remington agreed.

There was a pause in the conversation. Marsha was about to excuse herself when Mr. Remington said, “If you want my opinion, I think it would be to VJ’s benefit if he were to spend more time here in school.”

“You mean summer session?” Marsha asked.

“No, no, the regular year. Your husband writes frequent notes for VJ to spend time in his research lab. Now, I am all for alternative educational environments, but VJ needs to participate more, particularly in the extracurricular area. I think—”

“Just a second,” Marsha interrupted. “Are you telling me that VJ misses school to spend time at the lab?”

“Yes,” Mr. Remington said. “Often.”

“That’s news to me,” Marsha admitted. “I know VJ spends a lot of time at the lab, but I never knew he was missing school to do it.”

“If I were to guess,” Mr. Remington said, “I’d say that VJ spends more time at the lab than he does here.”

“Good grief,” Marsha said.

“If you feel as I do,” Mr. Remington said, “then perhaps you should talk to your husband.”

“I will,” Marsha said, getting to her feet. “You can count on it.”

“I want you to wait in the car,” Victor said to VJ and Philip as he leaned forward and looked at Gephardt’s house through the windshield. It was a nondescript two-story building with a brick façade and fake shutters.

“Turn the key so we can at least listen to the radio,” VJ said from the passenger seat; Philip was in the back.

Victor flipped the ignition key. The radio came back on with the raucous rock music VJ had previously selected. It sounded louder with the car engine off.

“I won’t be long,” he said, getting out of the car. He was having second thoughts about the confrontation now that he was standing on Gephardt’s property. The house was set on a fairly large lot, hidden from its neighbors by thick clusters of birches and maples. A bay window stuck out on the building’s left, probably indicating the living room. There were no lights on even though daylight was fading, but a Ford van stood idle in the driveway so Victor figured somebody might be home.

Victor leaned back inside the car. “I won’t be long.”

“You already said that,” VJ said, keeping time to the music on the dashboard with the flat of his palm.

Victor nodded, embarrassed. He straightened up and started for the house. As he walked, he wondered if he shouldn’t go home and call. But then he remembered the missing laboratory equipment, the embezzlement of some poor dead employee’s paychecks, and the brick through VJ’s window. That raised Victor’s anger and put determination in his step. As he got closer he glanced at the brick façade and wondered if the brick that had crashed into his house was a leftover from the construction of Gephardt’s. Eyeing the bay window, Victor had the urge to throw one of the cobblestones lining the walk through it. Then he stopped.

Victor blinked as if he thought his eyes were not telling the truth. He was about twenty feet away from the bay window and he could see that many of the panes were already broken, with sharp shards of glass still in place. It was as if his retribution fantasy had become instant reality.

Glancing back to his car where he could see the silhouettes of VJ and Philip, Victor struggled with an urge to go back and drive away. There was something wrong. He could sense it. He looked back at the broken bay window, then up the front steps at the door. The place was too quiet, too dark. But then Victor wondered what he’d tell VJ: he was too scared? Having come that far, Victor forced himself to continue.

Going up the front steps, he saw that the door was not completely shut.

“Hello!” Victor called. “Anybody home?” He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

Victor’s scream died on his lips. The bloody scene in Gephardt’s living room was worse than anything he’d ever seen, even during his internship at Boston City Hospital. Seven corpses, including Gephardt’s, were strewn grotesquely around the living room. The bodies were riddled with bullets and the smell of cordite hung heavily in the air.

The killer must have only just left because blood was still oozing from the wounds. Besides Gephardt, there was a woman about Gephardt’s age who Victor guessed was his wife, an older couple, and three children. The youngest looked about five. Gephardt had been shot so many times that the top part of his head was gone.

Victor straightened up from checking the last body for signs of life. Weak and dizzy, he walked to the phone wondering if he should be touching anything. He didn’t bother with an ambulance, but dialed the police, who said a car would be there right away.

Victor decided to wait in the car. He was afraid if he stayed in the house any longer he’d be sick.

“We’re going to be here for a little while,” Victor shouted as he slid in behind the wheel. He turned the radio down. The image of all the dead people was etched in his mind. “There’s a little trouble inside the house and the police are on their way.”

“How long?” VJ asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe an hour or so.”

“Any fire trucks coming?” Philip asked eagerly.

The police arrived in force with four squad cars, probably the entire Lawrence PD fleet. Victor did not go back inside but hung around on the front steps. After about a half hour one of the plainclothesmen came out to talk to him.

“I’m Lieutenant Mark Scudder,” he said. “They got your name and address, I presume.”

Victor told him they had.

“Bad business,” Scudder said. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match out onto the lawn. “Looks like some drug-related vendetta — the kind of scene you expect to see south of Boston, but not up here.”

“Did you find drugs?” Victor asked.

“Not yet,” Scudder said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “But this sure wasn’t any crime of passion. Not with the artillery they used. There must have been two or three people shooting in there.”

“Are you people going to need me much longer?” Victor asked.

Scudder shook his head. “If they got your name and number, you can go whenever you want.”

Upset as she was, Marsha could hardly focus on her afternoon patients and needed all her forbearance to appear interested in the last, a narcissistic twenty-year-old with a borderline personality disorder. The moment the girl left, Marsha picked up her purse and went out to her car, for once letting her correspondence go to the following day.

All the way home she kept going over her conversation with Remington. Either Victor had been lying about the amount of time VJ was spending at the lab or VJ had been forging his excuses. Both possibilities were equally upsetting, and Marsha realized that she couldn’t even begin dealing with her feelings about Victor and his unconscionable experiment until she had found out how badly VJ had been harmed. The discovery of his truancy added to her worries; it was such a classic symptom of a conduct disorder that could lead to an antisocial personality.

Marsha turned into their driveway and accelerated up the slight incline. It was almost dark and she had on her headlights. She rounded the house and was reaching for the automatic garage opener when the headlights caught something on the garage door. She couldn’t see what it was and as she pulled up to the door, the headlights reflected back off the white surface, creating a glare. Shielding her eyes, Marsha got out of the car and came around the front. Squinting, she looked up at the object, which looked like a ball of rags.

“Oh, my God!” she cried when she saw what it was. Shaking off a wave of nausea, she ventured another look. The cat had been strangled and nailed against the door as if crucified.

Trying not to look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue, she read the typed note secured to the tail: YOU’D BETTER MAKE THINGS RIGHT.

Leaving her car where it was but turning off the headlights and the engine, Marsha hurried inside the house and bolted the door. Trembling with a mixture of revulsion, anger, and fear, she took off her coat and went to find the maid, Ramona, who was tidying up in the living room. Marsha asked whether she’d heard any strange noises.

“I did hear some pounding around noon,” Ramona said. “I opened the front door but nobody was there.”

“Any cars or trucks?” Marsha asked.

“No,” said Ramona.

Marsha let her go back to her cleaning and went to phone Victor, but once she got through, the office said he’d already left. She debated calling the police, but decided Victor would be home any minute. She decided to pour herself a glass of white wine. As she took a sip she saw headlights play against the barn.

“God damn it!” Victor cursed as he found Marsha’s car blocking the garage. “Why does your mother do that? She could at least keep her heap on her side.”

Angling the car toward the back door of the house, Victor came to a stop and turned off the lights and the ignition. He was a bundle of nerves following the experience at Gephardt’s. VJ and Philip were blithely unaware of what had happened there, and they didn’t ask for an explanation despite the fact that they had had to wait in the car for so long.

Victor got out slowly and followed the other two inside. By the time he closed the door he could tell that Marsha was in one of her moods. It was all in her tone as she ordered VJ and Philip to take off their shoes, get upstairs, and wash for dinner.

Victor hung up his coat, then entered the kitchen.

“And you!” said Marsha. “I suppose you didn’t see our little present on the garage door?”

“What are you talking about?” Victor said, matching Marsha’s testy tone.

“How you could have missed it is beyond me,” Marsha said, putting down her wineglass, flipping on the courtyard light and brushing past Victor. “Come with me!”

Victor hesitated for a moment, then followed. She marched him through the family room and out the back door.

“Marsha!” Victor called, hurrying to keep up with her.

She stopped by the front of her car. Victor came up beside her.

“What are you...” he began. His words trailed off as he found himself looking at the gruesome sight of Kissa, brutally nailed to the garage door.

Marsha was standing with her hands on her hips, looking at Victor, not at the cat. “I thought you’d be interested to see how well you ‘laid it on the line’ with the problem people.”

Victor turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at the dead, tortured animal, and he couldn’t face his wife.

“I want to know what you’re going to do to see that this is stopped. And don’t think you’ll get away with a simple ‘I’ll handle it.’ I want you to tell me what steps you’re going to take, and now. I just can’t take any more of this...” Her voice broke.

Victor wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take either. Marsha was treating him as if he was to blame, as though he’d brought this down on them. Maybe he had. But he’d be damned if he knew who was behind this. He was as baffled as Marsha was.

Victor slowly turned back to the garage door. It was only then he saw the note. He didn’t know whether to be angry or sick. Who the hell was doing this? If it were Gephardt, at least he wouldn’t be bothering them again.

“We’ve gone from a phone call to a broken window to a dead pet,” said Marsha. “What’s next?”

“We’ll call the police,” Victor said.

“They were a big help last time.”

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” Victor said, regaining some composure. “I did call the three people I suspected of being behind this. By the way, the list of suspects has been reduced to two.”

“What does that mean?” Marsha asked.

“Tonight on the way home I stopped at George Gephardt’s,” Victor said. “And the man was—”

“Yuck!” VJ voiced with a disgusted expression.

Both Victor and Marsha were startled by VJ’s sudden appearance. Marsha had hoped to spare her son from this. She stepped between VJ and the garage door, trying to block the gruesome sight.

“Look at her tongue,” VJ said, glancing around Marsha.

“Inside, young man!” Marsha said, trying to herd VJ back to the house. She really never would forgive Victor for this. But VJ would have none of it. He seemed determined to have a look. His interest struck Marsha as morbid; it was almost clinical. With a sinking feeling she realized there was no sorrow in his reaction — another schizoid symptom.

“VJ!” Marsha said sharply. “I want you in the house now!”

“Do you think Kissa was dead before she got nailed to the door?” VJ asked, still calmly, trying to look at the cat as Marsha pushed him toward the door.

Once they were inside, Victor went directly to the phone while Marsha tried to have a talk with VJ. Surely he had some feelings for their cat. Victor got through to the North Andover police station. The operator assured him they’d send a patrol car over right away.

Hanging up the phone, he turned into the room. VJ was going up the back stairs two steps at a time. Marsha was on the couch with arms folded angrily. It was clear she was even more upset now that VJ had seen the cat.

“I’ll hire some temporary security until we get to the bottom of this,” said Victor. “We’ll have them watch the house at night.”

“I think we should have done that from the start,” Marsha said.

Victor shrugged. He sat down on the couch, suddenly feeling very tired.

“Do you know what VJ told me when I tried to ask him about his feelings?” Marsha asked. “He said we can get another cat.”

“That sounds mature,” Victor said. “At least VJ can be rational.”

“Victor, it’s been his cat for years. You’d think he would show a little emotion, grief at the loss.” Marsha swallowed hard. “I think it is a cold and detached response.” She hoped she could remain composed while they discussed VJ, but as much as she tried to hold them back, tears welled in her eyes.

Victor shrugged again. He really didn’t want to get into another psychological chitchat. The boy was fine.

“Inappropriate emotion is not a good sign,” Marsha managed, hoping at last Victor would agree. But Victor didn’t say anything.

“What do you think?” Marsha asked.

“To tell you the truth,” Victor said, “I am a little preoccupied at the moment. A little while ago before VJ appeared I was telling you about Gephardt. On the way home I went to visit the man, and I walked in on a scene — you just can’t imagine. Gephardt and his entire family were murdered today. Machine-gunned in their living room in the middle of the afternoon. It was a massacre.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I was the one to call the police.”

“How awful!” she cried. “My God, what’s going on?” She looked at Victor. He was her husband, after all, the man she’d loved all these years. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Oh, I’m hanging in there,” Victor said, but his tone lacked conviction.

“Was VJ with you?” she asked.

“He was in the car.”

“So he didn’t see anything?”

Victor shook his head.

“Thank God,” Marsha said. “Do the police have any motive for the killings?”

“They think it’s drug-related.”

“What a terrible thing!” Marsha exclaimed, still stunned. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine?”

“I think I’ll take something a bit stronger, like a Scotch,” Victor said.

“You stay put,” said Marsha. She went to the wet bar and poured Victor a drink. Maybe she was being too hard on him, but she had to get him to focus on their son. She decided to bring the subject back to VJ. Handing the glass to Victor, she began.

“I had an upsetting experience myself today — not anything like yours. I went to VJ’s school to visit the headmaster.”

Victor took a sip.

Marsha then told Victor about her visit with Mr. Remington, ending with the question of why Victor hadn’t discussed with her his decision to have VJ miss so much school.

“I never made a decision for VJ to miss school,” Victor said.

“Haven’t you written a number of notes for VJ to spend time at the lab rather than at school?”

“Of course not.”

“I was afraid of that,” Marsha said. “I think we have a real problem on our hands. Truancy like that is a serious symptom.”

“It seemed like he was around a lot, but when I asked him, VJ told me that the school was sending him out to get more practical experience. As long as his grades were fine, I didn’t think to question him further.”

“Pauline Spaulding also told me that VJ spent most of his time in your lab,” Marsha said. “At least after his intelligence dropped.”

“VJ has always spent a lot of time in the lab,” Victor admitted.

“What does he do?” Marsha asked.

“Lots of things,” Victor said. “He started doing basic chemistry stuff, uses the microscopes, plays computer games which I loaded for him. I don’t know. He just hangs out. Everybody knows him. He’s well-liked. He’s always been adept at entertaining himself.”

The front door chimes sounded and both Marsha and Victor went to the front foyer and let in the North Andover police.

“Sergeant Cerullo,” said a large, uniformed policeman. He had small features that were all bunched together in the center of a pudgy face. “And this here is Patrolman Hood. Sorry about your cat. We’ve been tryin’ to watch your house better since Widdicomb’s been here, but it’s hard, settin’ where it is so far from the road and all.”

Sergeant Cerullo got out a pad and pencil as Widdicomb had Tuesday night. Victor led the two of them out the back to the garage. Hood took several photos of Kissa, then both policemen searched the area. Victor was gratified when Hood offered to take the cat down and even helped dig a grave at the edge of a stand of birch trees.

On the way into the house, Victor asked if they knew anybody he could call for the security duty he had in mind. They gave him the names of several local firms.

“As long as we’re talkin’ names,” Sergeant Cerullo said, “do you have any idea of who would want to do this to your cat?”

“Two people come to mind,” Victor said. “Sharon Carver and William Hurst.”

Cerullo dutifully wrote down the names. Victor didn’t mention Gephardt. Nor did he mention Ronald Beekman. There was no way Ronald would stoop to this.

After seeing the police out, Victor called both of the recommended firms. It was apparently after hours; all he got was recordings, so he left his name and number at work.

“I want us both to have a talk with VJ,” Marsha said.

Victor knew by the tone of her voice there’d be no putting her off. He merely nodded and followed her up the back stairs. VJ’s door was ajar and they entered without a knock.

VJ closed the cover of one of his stamp albums and slipped the heavy book onto the shelf above his desk.

Marsha studied her son. He was looking up at her and Victor expectantly, almost guiltily, as if they’d caught him doing something naughty. Working on a stamp album hardly qualified.

“We want to talk with you,” began Marsha.

“Okay,” VJ agreed. “About what?”

To Marsha he suddenly looked the ten-year-old child he was. He looked so vulnerable, she had to restrain herself from leaning down and drawing him to her. But it was time to be stern. “I visited Pendleton Academy today and spoke with the headmaster. He told me that you had been producing notes from your father to leave school and spend time at Chimera. Is this true?”

With her professional experience, Marsha expected VJ to deny the allegation initially, and then when denial proved to be impossible, to use some preadolescent externalization of responsibility. But VJ did neither.

“Yes, it is true,” VJ said flatly. “I am sorry for the deceit. I apologize for any embarrassment it may have caused you. None was intended.”

For a moment Marsha felt like someone had let the air out of her sails. How she would have preferred the standard, childish denial. But even in this instance, VJ varied from the norm. Looking up, she glanced at Victor. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“My only excuse is that I am doing fine at school,” VJ said. “I’ve considered that my main responsibility.”

“School is supposed to challenge you,” Victor said, suspecting Marsha was stumped by VJ’s utter calm. “If school is too easy, you should be advanced. After all, there have been cases where children your age have matriculated into college, even graduated.”

“Kids like that are treated like freaks,” VJ replied. “Besides, I’m not interested in more structure. I’ve learned a lot at the lab, much more than at school. I want to be a researcher.”

“Why didn’t you come and talk to me about this?” Victor said.

“I just thought it would be the easiest way,” VJ said. “I was afraid if I asked to spend more time at the lab, you’d say no.”

“Thinking you know the outcome of a discussion shouldn’t keep you from talking,” Victor said.

VJ nodded.

Victor looked at Marsha to see if she was about to say anything else. She was thoughtfully chewing the inside of her cheek. Sensing that Victor was looking at her, she glanced at him. He shrugged. She did the same.

“Well, we’ll talk about this again,” said Victor. Then he and Marsha left VJ’s room and retreated down the back stairs.

“Well,” Victor said, “at least he didn’t lie.”

“I can’t get over it,” Marsha said. “I was sure he was going to deny it.” She retrieved her glass of wine, freshened it, and sat down in one of the chairs around the kitchen table. “He’s difficult to anticipate.”

“Isn’t it a good sign that he didn’t lie?” Victor asked, leaning up against the kitchen counter.

“Frankly, no,” said Marsha. “Under the circumstances, for a child his age, it’s not normal at all. Okay, he didn’t lie, but he didn’t show the slightest sign of remorse. Did you notice that?”

Victor rolled his eyes. “You really are never satisfied, are you? Well, I’m not convinced this is so important. I skipped a bunch of days back in high school. I think the only real difference was that I was never caught.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Marsha said. “That kind of behavior is typical of adolescent rebellion. That’s why you didn’t do it until you were in high school. VJ is only in fifth grade.”

“I don’t think forging a few notes, especially when he is doing okay in school, means the boy is going to grow up to a life of crime. He’s a prodigy, for God’s sake. He skips school to be in a lab. The way you’re acting, you’d think we’d discovered he was on crack.”

“I wouldn’t be concerned if it were just this. But there’s a whole complex of qualities that are just not right about our son. I can’t believe you don’t see—”

A crashing sound from outside froze Marsha in mid-sentence.

“Now what?” said Victor.

“It sounded like it came from near the garage,” Marsha answered.

Victor ran into the family room and switched off the light. He got a battery-driven spotlight from the closet and went to the window that looked onto the courtyard. Marsha followed.

“Can you see anything?” Marsha asked.

“Not from in here,” Victor said, starting for the door.

“You’re not going outside?”

“I’m going to see who’s out there,” Victor said over his shoulder.

“Victor, I don’t want you going out there by yourself.”

Ignoring her, Victor tiptoed onto the stoop. He felt Marsha right behind him, holding on to his shirt back. There was a scraping sound coming from near the garage door. Victor pointed the spotlight in the direction and turned it on.

Within the bright beam of light, two ringed eyes looked back at Victor and Marsha, then scampered off into the night.

“A raccoon,” said Victor with relief.