Gray Matter

was a night of freezing rain. But it wasn’t the ice that killed them. They were sideswiped by another vehicle on an empty stretch and driven into a concrete barrier. The impact was so great that they died instantly, said the reports. There were no witnesses to the accident, and the truck that hit them never stopped. But weeks later one whose paint matched that on his parents’ car turned up some miles away. It had been stolen. The police had no suspects, and today it remained just another cold case of hit-and-run. That’s when he was moved up here to live with Richard whose wife was still alive—Grandma Betty. She died ten months later. For the last seven years, it’d been he and Richard.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Brendan said, before he left. “Did my parents drink any kind of almond liqueur … cordial? Amaretto?”

Richard shook his head. “Jeez, you ask the damnedest questions.”

“W-when you visited them, what did they drink?”

Richard winced as if trying to squeeze up a memory. “I don’t know. They weren’t boozers, if that’s what you mean. You mother liked white wine, and your dad was a beer man. Why?”

“Did they cook with almond extract—cookies, candies, ice cream—stuff like that?”

“Are you going to get me my pills? I’m not supposed to go more than four hours, and it’s been six.”

If Richard went into cardiac arrest and died, Brendan would become a ward of the state and turned over to some foster home or orphanage. That would not be good. “I’m going,” he said. “What about you? Did you drink a- almond liqueurs or eat anything with a-almond extract?”

“You think I was some kind of boozer?”

“Did you?”

“Jesus Christ. What is it with you?” Richard looked confused and exasperated, maybe even a little frightened. “No. Scotch. I don’t think I ever had any Almaretto or whatever. And I don’t eat nuts because they get stuck in what teeth I got left. Okay? Now get me the damn pills before I croak.”

Brendan put his backpack over his shoulder, feeling the weight of his field glasses inside. “I’ll be back.”

“Christ, and before dawn, please!” Brendan was halfway out the door when Richard called out: “Hey, Brendy, you’re a good kid.”

No, Brendan thought. I’m a snowman.

13

Every Thursday night, Cindy Porter would stop at Morton’s Deli for some pastrami, sauerkraut, potato salad, kosher pickles, fresh sub rolls, and a copy of the Cape Ann Weekly Gazette. Then she’d head home and, weather permitting, she’d settle into the backyard hot tub with her boyfriend, Vinnie, and read the paper and pig out.

As a nurse, she knew better, given how the cholesterol, fat, and salt in one of her Mortons could probably send a hippopotamus into cardiac arrest. But the rest of the week, she did her tofu-wheat-germ-and-broccoli virtues. Besides, she had read about a study by some Harvard nutritionist who concluded that a steady diet of low fat and cholesterol statistically added at best two months to one’s life. Her weekly Mortons were worth a measly eight weeks, especially since her parents were in their seventies and still going strong.

It was a pleasant evening, and, as usual, she changed into her bathing suit. Vinnie was visiting his mother in Connecticut and wouldn’t be back until late. So she made herself a sandwich and settled into the tub with a cold Sam Adams and the Gazette. As the warm water gushed around her, she felt her muscles loosen in place. She took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with some beer.

The headlines were about the ongoing battle to build low-income housing. She was against it, only because she knew that only ten percent of the actual complex would be for poor families, the rest for expensive country condo living that would amount to a bonanza for developers. And that meant more coastal acreage would be jammed with construction, and more traffic clogging town roads. She made note of the town hearing next week.

She turned the paper over. Catching her eye at the bottom of the page was the headline: “Human Remains off Gloucester Identified.”

According to the story, a skull and a leg bone that had been pulled up by professional scallopers two months ago had been positively identified. She vaguely recalled reading about the discovery. Apparently the remains had been DNA-matched to a six-year-old boy from Tennessee.

Maybe he had been up this way on a summer vacation or a visit with relatives. The poor kid. There were boating accidents and disappearances every year, usually because people don’t check the weather reports and then get caught in storms.

The story went on to say how forensics experts from the medical examiner’s office in Boston originally were baffled by the mysterious holes in the boy’s skull.

On an inside page, where the story continued, was a schematic drawing of the skull showing the odd cluster of holes—two sets on the left side of the forehead just behind the hairline, and above the ear.

Experts still aren’t certain if the holes were made by marine organisms or had occurred before death.The cause of death has not yet been determined. However, forensic scientists estimate that the remains could have been in the water for over a year, leading some to conclude that the child had drowned.But according to Gloucester police who worked in conjunction with Tennessee authorities, the child’s disappearance was being treated as a kidnapping and homicide.

The story went on to say that the remains had been returned to the parents for burial.

Cindy stared at the diagram.

That strange boy who came into the ER the other night had scars on his head just like these. The poetry kid. The savant.

Brendan something or other.

“Yes, they’re drill marks,” Joe Steiner insisted. “And you don’t need to get a second opinion. While you were gone, I had Boston look at them. We got both stereoscopic and an electron microscopic analysis. No marine organism in the books made those holes. They also ruled out lasers, knives, ice picks, and every known kind of muzzle projectile—bullet, pellet, BB, buckshot, dart—you name it. They were drilled, Greg, and you can take that to the bank.”

Greg was on the phone the morning after he had returned from Chattanooga. He would have called from the road yesterday, but Joe was out of the office yesterday, car-shopping with his daughter.

“How come the parents weren’t notified about the holes?”

“Because somebody messed up, maybe at the Gloucester end, maybe Tennessee,” Joe said. “It’s possible it was simply overlooked, or somebody didn’t think it was significant. Whatever, the Boston ME made it clear those perforations were the results of a neurological procedure. And that got into the report because I saw it.”

“They didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”

“If the kid had had an operation, the parents would have remembered. Nobody saw it as a cause of death. These things happen.”

“Joe, you weren’t down there,” Greg said. “You didn’t see the expression on their faces when I told them that their kid’s head had been drilled.”

“I understand. That must have been a bitch. But when you calm down, you might want to give this woman a call.”

“What woman?”