Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  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?”