FORTY-EIGHT
“STOP the car!”
“Stop the train, stop the car — what is it with you tonight?” Mike asked.
“Zukov’s not on his way to Hyannis. Pull over and let me drive.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know where he’s going, Mike. I can get us to Woods Hole with a blindfold on, in half the time that you can,” I said. The tiny village on the southwestern tip of the Cape is the home of the terminal from which ferries run back and forth to Martha’s Vineyard. I’d spent countless hours there walking the harbor as I waited to get over to my island on standby, with no reservation.
“Where’s he going? And why do you think you know?”
“Because this country didn’t ever have more than a handful of places that were leper colonies, and only one of those was turned into a ‘last chance’ school for delinquent boys.”
Mike pulled to the side of the road and braked the car.
“Twofers, Coop. I’ll bite. Where are you taking me?”
Mike opened the door to change seats and I answered him as I moved behind the steering wheel. “A desolate little place in Buzzards Bay where they used to banish lepers a century ago,” I said. “It’s called Penikese Island.”
FORTY-NINE
“GET on the phone to the Coast Guard. We’re going to need their help to get to the island,” I said, adjusting the rearview mirror as I made the U-turn to take us south to the tip of the Cape. “And don’t let them send a chopper up yet. We don’t want to let him know we’re coming.”
“Penikese is a smart guess, Coop. A bit of a wild card, but smart. I just don’t want to jump the gun. I’m not ready to pull any cops off Reverend Portland’s detail yet on the theory that our perp knows about this little island.”
“Here’s what you do. Call Peterson and ask him to get the feds moving. They’ll bring in the Coast Guard. Then you call the captain in Providence. I blew Oksana off when she was talking to me about Fyodor and his reform school. Have him ask her where it was. I bet she and Yuri were old enough at the time to remember.”
“How long till we get to Woods Hole?”
“With any luck and no roadkill, I’d say we’re there in less than half an hour. And the local cops—”
“How many are there? Two?”
“Off-season like this, maybe four,” I was only half joking. I had no idea what their resources might be, but Mike and I would need backup. “They’ve got to start scouring the town for an Angus truck.”
“Doesn’t really give me a lot of time to rally the troops. There’s a slew of places to dump a truck, aren’t there?”
“Ferry parking lots, marinas, residential areas, and plenty of woods that surround the little town. Get on it.”
“You like giving me orders, Coop?” Mike asked as he got on the phone.
“I love being in the driver’s seat. Get used to it.”
“I’m allergic to the idea. Brake going into these curves, will you?”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve raced this road to catch the last boat over. Stop whining and tighten your seat belt.”
“Don’t steal my lines, Coop. You’re the whiner,” Mike said as he waited for Lieutenant Peterson to answer. “You know this is going to get worse before it gets better, don’t you?”
Every trace of my smile disappeared. “I’m well aware of that.”
“I’m in charge once we get where we’re going. There’s one gun, and I’ve got it. When we get to town, you’re no longer the dominatrix. Am I understood?”
I swerved to avoid a raccoon — his beady eyes reflecting in our headlights as he lumbered across the road.
“Loo? We got a change in plans. Coop’s brain is on double-overtime. Don’t ask me to explain, Boss, just go with it and put some pressure on the locals,” Mike said, and then answered the question Peterson asked him, winking at me as I looked up from the road. “Yeah, I do trust her. Just go with it.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Eyes on the road. Tell me first what Mercer said about Zukov’s diagnosis. And then you’ve got about twelve minutes to make me an expert on every inch of this little island.”
“I’ll start with the disease.”
“Shoot.”
“Zukov saw a doc in Atlanta after he dropped the girl during their trapeze act. Admitted to him — but not to his family — that he’d lost sensation in his hands from time to time. That fact, combined with the lesions on his face, caused the physician to send him to New York.”
“In December?”
“Exactly. The diagnosis was made at the Bellevue clinic, one of the few in the country that specializes in the disease. Mercer read me the notes.”
“How was it diagnosed? How advanced is it?”
“To begin with, the germ that causes leprosy attacks the skin and the nerves. The skin lesions developed first, a couple of years ago. They were small initially, then became larger and larger — festered and blistered. But because of the tendency for Fyodor to use makeup for performances, he was able to cover it up.”
“He must have been in complete denial. That — and the fact that nobody thinks about leprosy today, except in third-world countries.”
“Mercer says Bellevue’s got five hundred people in their program, right in New York City.”
“And Fyodor Zukov is one of them?”
“No. They wanted him to be treated, but he was so devastated by the diagnosis that he didn’t come back. Not until the day that Naomi Gersh disappeared.”
“Why then?” Mike asked.
“For pain medication.”
“Shit. And they gave it to him?”
“Yes, he promised to enroll in the program, and they gave him a scrip for pain meds,” I said, thinking of the drugged and drowsy voice of Chat Grant. “Oxycodone. A two-week supply.”
“It’s a narcotic and a painkiller, right?”
“Oh, yeah. It would do the job on our vics.”
“But if they were offering to treat him, why would he skip out?”
“The nurse who talked to Mercer interpreted the doctor’s notes. The disease has progressed pretty aggressively. Even though Fyodor couldn’t face telling his siblings — and certainly not circus management — he’d never be able to work again. The sensory impairment of his nerves — nerve paralysis, in fact — has already caused permanent deformities.”
“Where?”
“In addition to the weakness in his wrists, his fingers have begun to claw.”
“That’s what it’s called?” Mike asked.
“Irreversible clawing, yes, of the fingers and toes. It’s no wonder he dropped his partner,” I said. “The
