by Gary Braver
“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?”
&n
bsp; “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.
&
nbsp; 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.
