Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  “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.

&nbs
p; 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 ne
uro 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.