by Brett King
She immediately regretted saying anything.
“Who is this?”
Her heart drummed in her chest. Cori punched a button and ended the call.
Looking up, she saw a medallion cab switch lanes. The aging Crown Vic pulled up at the curb. Still shaking from the mystery call, Cori opened the door, but a hand grabbed her from behind and jerked her back. She saw a middle-aged man in a suit with a terse expression on his face.
“You think you need this cab, lady? Trust me, I need it more.”
He shoved a briefcase into the taxi’s backseat. His suitcase remained on the sidewalk next to Shay, a messenger bag looped over the pull handle. Cori was tempted to kick it.
She tugged on his arm. “Hey, this is our cab.”
“Not anymore.” Leaning inside the vehicle, he said to the driver, “Wanna pop the trunk here? I need to get to LaGuardia.”
Cori glanced down at the man’s messenger bag. She slid the dead man’s phone into a deep open pocket inside the bag. Shayna shot her a curious look.
The man grabbed the suitcase and messenger bag and placed them inside the trunk. He slammed the yellow lid, then scurried around and jumped inside the taxi. The cab pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic.
Cori looked down at the kid. “Saw that, huh?”
“You gave that mean man your phone? How come?”
“Wasn’t my phone.”
“Then how come you gave him someone else’s phone?”
She gave a weak smile. “Because I’m paranoid.”
Cori decided it was time to improvise.
Walking to the corner with Shay, she peered around the side of the Park Avenue apartment building. She spied black gates about three windows down from the side entrance to a medical office. At the gates, a custodial worker was hauling garbage bags out of the apartment building. The man’s phone rang and he dropped the bags to take the call.
It sounded intense.
“Listen, Janie, don’t talk about a divorce lawyer,” he said, kicking one of the black bags. “Don’t go there, okay? How many times I gotta say I’m sorry?”
Cori saw her chance when the man paced away from the door. Bringing Shay with her, she stayed close to the building as they passed the stack of garbage bags and slipped through the black gates. They ran to the closest side entrance and moved inside the apartment building.
Bad luck kicked in again when she glanced down the lobby and discovered a second doorman, who seemed like he was manning the phone. If they tried to take the elevator, the guy would notice. They skipped it and headed for a stairwell instead. Running up steep metal steps, they moved upstairs without being seen.
Cori lived in a fifth-floor walk-up on Amsterdam, west of Morningside Park. It was a decent place with hardwood floors and exposed brick, but it was nothing like Tina Resnick’s home. The sprawling three-bedroom apartment was ten times nicer than Cori’s place.
From what Shay said, the Resnick children were grown. By the look of things, though, grandchildren visited from time to time since Shay had discovered a small collection of toys in a guest bedroom. She busied herself with a Barbie doll dressed as a witch in Halloween colors.
As Shayna played, Cori tried to reach John Brynstone again. No luck. This time, she left a more detailed message, sharing that it was urgent and adding that her call involved Kaylyn and Shayna. That should get his attention. After ending the call, she wandered into a dimly lit study.
Bookshelves lined the east wall behind a mahogany desk. Each volume was color-coded and encased in tooled leather with a gold lining. The books looked amazing, but Cori wondered if anyone ever touched them. Other than a small gold chandelier, the only light came from a lamp positioned beside a computer on a green leather desk mat.
Fueled by curiosity, Cori was hit by an idea. She eased into the desk chair and grabbed the mouse. She was happy to discover that Resnick’s home computer wasn’t password protected. Cori searched the hard drive and found confidential material from the Brandonstein Center, including information on Shayna.
What she was doing?
She knew it wasn’t ethical.
Then again, today wasn’t about ethics.
Interesting stuff here. She read one report that outlined the decision to admit Shayna to the Brandonstein Center. John and Kaylyn Brynstone had attended couples counseling with Anne Bliss Niess, a licensed therapist with a practice on Fifth Avenue.
It looked like the Brynstone marriage had been collapsing for years, even before the fateful night when Cori had met Brynstone. During therapy, Dr. Niess had met with Shayna and had recommended testing for a gifted and talented program. A school psychologist named Kristyl Williams Boies had met with Shay and administered assessment instruments, including the Otis-Lennon School Ability Test and the Bracken School Readiness Assessment. Based on the data, Dr. Boies identified Shayna as a kid who would benefit from Brandonstein’s G and T program. Kaylyn Brynstone was thrilled. Her husband was more reluctant. John told the psychologist that he wasn’t a fan of testing. Cori sensed, somehow, that the truth went beyond that.
She found data comparing Shayna with other Brandonstein students. Something didn’t add up. Several kids had scored higher than Shayna, but she alone had received a full scholarship to their G and T program.
Someone had wanted her in that school; someone with connections had made it happen. That was Cori’s guess, anyway. Someone had placed Shayna in a controlled setting where researchers could keep the child under scientific observation.
Scanning data from test batteries and behavioral measures, Cori discovered that the school had given Shayna multiple tests, including the Wechsler Intelligence Scales, the Woodcock-Johnson Tests of Achievement, and the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. Scientists at Shayna’s school had also observed her interaction with other children in play-based behavior.
Shayna seemed to be a healthy, well-adjusted child with high energy and excellent language development. According to the report, she had a vivid and wild imagination, related well to adults, asked a lot of questions, and worried about things kids her age didn’t think about. A confirmed perfectionist, Shayna might grow frustrated if she was unable to complete a beloved task that met her high standards. She could be hard on herself, especially when she didn’t feel in control of a situation. If she thought it necessary, Shayna was good at controlling her emotions. On the MMPI scale, she showed a spike on the dimension measuring paranoia.
Cori guessed John Brynstone would show a similar score if he had taken the same personality test.
There was another document in Shayna’s files, this one bearing the title “Rapid Cellular Regeneration.” Cori read how scientists at the Brandonstein Center had documented Shayna’s ability to heal more quickly than normal from a variety of cuts, scratches, and bruises. Cori felt a chill burst up her spine. She had witnessed Shayna do the same thing when the girl was barely a year old.
The report took a disturbing turn. During a field trip, Dr. Resnick had staged an “accident” in which another researcher deliberately bumped into Shayna. Tripping, the girl had slammed onto rough pavement, scraping open her palm and forearm as she reached out to catch herself. Resnick had filmed the staged incident and had later made extensive notes about the “conclusive data regarding the subject’s rapid healing ability.” Resnick had added, “Within minutes, the two incisions on her right hand and arm had vanished.”
Cori rolled back in the chair, troubled with the idea. Shoving little girls to test a hypothesis? What kind of school is this?
There was more. According to the report, Shayna had developed a gift of some kind that the child had called “the Hollow.” Cori searched but couldn’t find additional information. Maybe it’s buried here somewhere. She didn’t have time to dig deeper.
Grabbing an empty USB drive from the desk, Cori plugged it into the computer
and copied the information on Shayna. She thought John Brynstone should see it.
Her cell rang. Initially startled, she was relieved to find her brother calling and scrambled to answer the phone.
“Jared, thank God. So good to hear you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“You could say that. Yes, things are seriously wrong, but I can’t get into it now.”
“Where are you, Cor? I’m waiting at your apartment.”
It caught her off guard.
“You are?”
“I told you I’d meet you. You know the cute girl next door? Ashlee? She buzzed me in. She said a guy was here looking for you.”
“Wait a minute. What? A guy was there? At my apartment?”
“They talked in the vestibule. She thought he was the police at first, but the guy didn’t show a badge or leave a card. Didn’t sound like NYPD either, she said.”
“What did he look like? Did she say?”
“Don’t know. Maybe you should call Ashlee. All I remember is he had a white streak in his hair.”
Her throat went dry. “Jared, get away from my apartment. Get out now.”
“Calm down. I’m already outside.”
“Start walking. Get away. Make sure no one’s following you.”
“Cori, what’s going on? Where are you?”
She gave directions to the Resnick apartment.
“Know what, Cor? I’m worried. Gotta tell you, this phone call isn’t helping.”
“Just get here as soon as you can.”
She ended the call with her brother. She stared at the phone in her lap. Her heart pounded when she thought about White Streak visiting her apartment.
She checked on Shay. The little girl sat cross-legged on the living room carpet with a parade of My Little Pony figures. It brought back memories of Cori’s childhood toys.
“You okay?” Cori asked, joining her on the floor.
“I think, yes.” She looked up. “I’m playing with my I-Fs.”
“Your what?”
“My I-Fs.” She added, “Imaginary friends.”
“You have more than one?”
“Twelve.” She moved a pony with a flowing mane of pink near Cori’s shoe.
“Twelve? Wow. Do they all have names?”
“My imaginary friends? Well, there’s April Rainbreeze and Raven Rainbreeze. They’re sisters. Princess Rosalina. Finn and Jake. Isabella. Uni. She’s an invisible unicorn.”
“Cool.”
Shay positioned Twilight Sparkle behind Pinkie Pie, then added a mint-green one, diverting the parade as it wound around Cori.
“The other four I-Fs are friends,” the girl continued, “but they argue. Sometimes after a big fight, they don’t talk to each other. It’s a shame because they like each other.”
“What are their names?”
“The Quiet One, the Smart One, the Cute One, and the Funny One.”
Cori wrinkled her forehead. “The Beatles?”
“You’ve heard of them?” Eyes wide, the girl looked up. “You know about the Beatles?”
“Yeah.” She made a soft laugh. “Sure, I know them.”
“Billy Ellison at my school says nobody but me likes the Beatles.”
“You tell Billy Ellison he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“He has a special power.”
“Yeah? Billy Ellison does? Like what?”
“He can squirt spit from his eye.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen it, Cori. He closes his mouth and plugs his nose. It only works if Billy takes a drink of water first. Plus, it doesn’t really squirt, it bubbles up right here.” She pointed to the corner of her eye. “Really gross.”
“Never listen to a boy who bubbles spit from his eye,” she laughed. “Anyway, I think it’s great the Beatles are your imaginary friends.”
“Mm-hmm. I like how they sound when they talk. They say silly things when they’re happy. Especially the Funny One.”
“That’s how many friends?” she asked, counting to herself. “Eleven? There’s one more?”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t talk about the last one. I don’t say his name. He likes to scare me.”
Cori made a concerned face. “I’m sorry.”
“The scientists at my school make me talk about him. I hate it.”
Burning with curiosity, Cori fought her instinct to ask more questions. “You, uh, don’t have to talk about him.”
“Thanks.”
As they chatted, Shay reconstructed the line of ponies, positioning one after another until the plastic figures encircled Cori. Studying the winding pattern, Cori realized the little girl had built a symbolic fortress around her, as if her play behavior represented a need to protect Cori. Based on her training in child clinical psychology, she wondered if it was Shay’s subtle way of demonstrating concern for someone special in response to threat.
Cori noticed a small plastic house on the floor nearby. Stretching across the pony circle, she reached into the toy bin and pulled a small figurine molded in the shape of a child with a dress. She showed it to Shay.
“Can you put this little girl in the house for me?”
Shay nodded and placed it on the second floor of the house. Cori grabbed a female figure with a matching dress and handed it to Shayna.
“Where are you going to put the mommy?”
Shay placed the small plastic woman on the first floor, right beneath the daughter. Cori reached for a male figurine.
“Where are you going to put the daddy?”
Shay placed the man outside the house, away from the mother’s sight. Her small fingers adjusted the child on the second floor so that she appeared to look out the window at the man.
“If you wanted to change anything about the people, Shayna, how would you change it? What would you do to make it better?”
Shay removed the woman from the first floor and placed her outside the house. She grabbed the man and moved him to the second floor, so that he faced the little girl. She considered it, then nudged them closer.
“That’s how you think it should be? That’s how you want it?”
The child nodded. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me tell you something. I feel bad moving the mommy outside, but her and the daddy can’t be in the same house ’cause they fight. It’s like when the Smart One and the Cute One fight. I can tell they like each other and they were happy one time together, but it’s better if they don’t be together anymore. It’s too bad, but everyone’s happier that way.”
“Makes sense.”
Shay blinked. She realized Cori was looking at the play behavior like one of the scientists at the Brandonstein Center. Something changed in her eyes. She started removing ponies, breaking the symbolic wall around Cori.
“I’m going to play with my ponies now, okay?”
Cori ached a little, afraid the child was pulling back, but she didn’t want to push it.
“That’s fine, sweetie. Thanks for talking to me.”
She smiled. “I like you, Cori.”
“I like you, too.” She hugged her then stood, giving the kid some time alone.
Chapter 15
Paris
10:31 p.m.
“Explain yourself,” Torn Kane said as he twisted around in the front passenger seat to face Brynstone. He held up the Roman facemask. “Why do you want this thing?”
It was a good question.
But not good enough to make John Brynstone answer.
He stayed quiet, riding in the backseat of a black Citroën sedan. Outside the window, the Parisian skyline glittered as they raced down a rain-swept boulevard. Some French thug in his late twenties was behind the wheel, not saying a word. Neither did the
man with long hair and stubble seated beside Brynstone. His name was Serge—at least that’s what they had called him getting into the car—and he acted exhausted and distracted.
Kane, however, wouldn’t shut up.
“Nessa decided to throw Véronique in the grave with you, get her to notice things you wouldn’t tell us. We figured she could win your confidence. It worked.”
Brynstone took a sudden interest in his hands and ankles, all shackled. He didn’t know where they were taking him. The longhaired guy next to him looked over. He wasn’t as tough as the two up front, but he packed a Walther PPS in his shoulder holster. Brynstone didn’t have a weapon. Back at the cemetery, Nessa Griffin had taken his phone and his Glock.
Dissatisfied with the silence, Kane fidgeted in his seat, staring now at the windshield. He gave directions to the driver, then added, “Understand something, Dr. Brynstone. We are relentless. We will find the truth.”
Brynstone glanced over. Serge rubbed his eyes.
Perfect time to make a move.
Hunching down in the seat, Brynstone raised his legs. He looped the shackle between his ankles over the driver’s head, pulling the man back in his seat as he ripped his hands from the steering wheel. At the same time, Brynstone reached over and shoved Serge, smashing his head into the window.
The car swerved on the slick street.
Caught in his seat belt, Kane reached over and tried to gain control of the vehicle. Brynstone crossed his feet, choking the driver. Unable to reach the steering wheel, the man tried to pull apart Brynstone’s legs, but he couldn’t free himself. Fighting for air, he rose from the seat and in doing so floored the accelerator, sending the car headlong into the next lane. His face showed up in the rearview mirror, cords straining in his scarlet neck. Opening his mouth, he bit down on Brynstone’s ankle. The dazzling pain caused Brynstone to briefly relinquish his hold around the driver’s neck. Quickly recovering, Brynstone tightened his abdominal muscles and shifted his legs to the side, slamming the driver into Kane. The man sputtered as Kane grabbed the wheel and tried to navigate the car. Holding his head, Serge shouted something in French, unholstering his Walther. As the car spiraled hard in the middle of the road, Brynstone reached next to him and grabbed the man’s wrist. Serge squeezed the trigger before the gun was on target. The first bullet shattered the rear window an inch from Brynstone’s neck. The second burst into the driver’s head above his ear. Blood spurted across Brynstone’s boot and splashed Kane in the face.
