False Allegations

do know this: it's some form of interference later on.'

'Interference?'

'Some other input. A friend, a counselor—hell, a puppy…the brain develops over time, and even if it's set in motion one way, it doesn't have to continue on that path. Child abuse connects to crime, no question. Abused children are more likely to be arrested than nonabused children. But the overwhelming majority of abused children never get in trouble with the law,' Perry said, fury suppressed in his voice. 'There's nothing 'inevitable' about it. Anyone who says that abused children are doomed to carry on that same behavior is a hopeless idiot.'

'But until they learn new ways, you can see how they react to stuff, right? So the younger the kid, the easier to prove abuse?' I asked him, trying to move him away from the social philosophy to the reason I was there.

'To prove trauma, certainly,' he said. 'Then comes the investigative component. We have to rule out all other possible causes of the trauma as well. But when we have a history…or physical damage…or a sexually transmitted disease…'

'Or pictures?'

'Photographs?'

'Kiddie porn.'

'Yes. But that's relatively rare. We have to rely on other evidence. And that means accumulating a large enough sample from the heart rate monitoring and evoked potential—sorry: the brain wave—studies. Then we apply multivariate computer analysis to crunch all the data—the tests, the interview, the history, everything. There's the ultimate forensic value of our work. We eliminate the impossible, then the improbable, and finally…'

'You nail it.'

'Sure. Once you've proved the existence of the trauma, the question becomes, What else could cause this totality of data? When we cross–compare to other, documented cases, the task simplifies radically.'

'So when they say kids make lousy witnesses, that they have different memories…?'

'Kids may not be articulate, Mr. Burke. But they are great communicators. Their internals speak volumes—it's just a matter of gathering the data, developing the protocols, training the personnel….It can be done. And we're doing it, right here.'

'How much does all this cost?' I asked him.

'In real money?' he shot back.

'What does that mean?'

'The work we're doing on your…client, that's the gold standard. Best of everything. When you include the full week's stay, all the personnel involved, the tests themselves…it's costing your Mr. Kite around fifteen thousand dollars.'

'Damn! So there's no chance of all kids—'

'All kids don't need this extensive a workup,' he said. 'And our children's program is about ninety per cent subsidized. As we treat children, we also gather data for our research. Most of the kids don't have insurance anyway. In fact, you're our first true paying customer. Once this is standardized, once the computer programs are set up, the costs will drop precipitously.'

'You can't set up field hospitals in every city,' I said. Thinking of politicians closing AIDS wards to save money.

'No, and we don't have to. Once local personnel are trained to do the initial screening, our methods will be called upon only in the most difficult cases.'

'So what you really need is…?'

'That's right, Mr. Burke. Money. We need about fifteen to twenty million dollars to finish the research, publish it, defend it…and make it exportable. But we're already doing the work…and the money will come,' he said, hope and faith tangling in his voice.

'Girl call,' Mama said.

It was around ten o'clock at night, and I'd invested over an hour walking around trying to find a pay phone that looked safe. I wasn't in the mood for mystery. 'What girl?' I asked her.

'Say Pepper. You call her, okay? Very important.'

'Yeah, okay. Anything else?'

'No.'

'I'll call you—'

'You want Max?' Mama interrupted.

'Not down here,' I told her. 'I'll be back soon.'

'Is Pepper around?'

'That's me, Chief,' the Pied Piper girl's voice bounced over the long–distance line.

'I got a message to—'

'Delta flight six eighty–two to Atlanta tomorrow morning at six–twenty a.m. Can you be on it?'

'Maybe. Why should—?'

'When you arrive, stay in the Delta terminal. Meet flight six oh three from La Guardia, okay? You can catch a return at three in the afternoon.'

'There's isn't much time to—'

'You already have reservations, round trip, Mr. Haines,' Pepper said, mocking the voice of a super–efficient secretary. 'You had enough frequent flyer mileage on Delta for an upgrade too, so you'll be going first class. Will there be anything else?'

'No. Thanks a lot,' I told her. Especially for the message that the Arnold Haines ID was all shot to hell.

I came out of the deplaning chute carrying the black aluminum attache case in one hand. In a medium–blue two–button suit, clean–shaven with my hair combed, I was an anonymous fish in the entrepreneur stream that clogs the hub airports every weekday.

My flight had been almost a half hour late. I was thinking of where to meet Wolfe when I spotted her standing behind the barrier. Hard to miss in that sunburst–yellow silk dress with the long strand of black pearls the only decoration down the front. Her hair was in a French braid, the white wings prominent against her high forehead. She raised her hand and waved, a smile sparking across her lovely face.

For just a piece of a minute, I felt like a man coming home to his wife. Or what I thought that would feel like, anyway. I shrugged it off, not grieving for what I'd never lost.

Wolfe gave me a kiss on the cheek, took my arm and steered me away from the gate. If you were watching, you'd never guess it was business. She was a pro, all the way.

'It's probably better if we find somewhere to sit,' she said. 'You have breakfast?'

'Not really. Airplane food…'

'Me too,' she said. 'I know a good place. Come on.'

We ordered Atlanta breakfast sandwiches—sausage wrapped in French toast. Wolfe poured maple syrup over her sausage like it was mustard on a hot dog, but I didn't have the heart for that. She had black coffee; I had apple juice.

'I heard something,' she finally said. 'I don't know if it's true. But I didn't want to wait to tell you. And I didn't want to use the phone.'

'About the—'

'Yes. Brother Jacob is on the Internet. At least, Chiara thinks it's him—she's the one who works the computers for us. There's a room on the Web. The server's somewhere in Europe, near as we can tell. When you go in, it looks like it's all about bringing Asian women to America. For marriage. You know, stuff about immigration laws.'

'So?'

'There's a whole line of chat about 'dowries.' It sounds like they're trafficking.'

'He wants to buy a girl to bring here and marry?'

'No. Chiara says there's a subtext. Not straight–up encryption, but some kind of code. She's still working on it, but where she is now, she thinks he has some kind of merchandise he's offering.'

'Not a one–time sale?'

'No. A regular line of it. Whatever it is.'

'Can you…?'