“Brad told him Julian was treated for epilepsy,” Rachel said to Martin.
“We don’t know that he wasn’t.”
“I called Dr. Rose. Only a small percentage of epilepsy patients have surgery, and those are extreme cases.”
“So?”
“It may just be a cover story.”
It was later that evening, and Rachel was in the kitchen fixing a dinner of lamb shish kebab, bulgur pilaf with toasted pine nuts, and a string bean, onion, and tomato stew. She hadn’t cooked Armenian for years, but meeting Officer Zakarian earlier had inspired her. She had even dug up a gift cookbook her old roommate had sent her one Christmas.
As usual, Martin had gotten home late. Dylan was in the family room watching a video of
“If it is a cover, it makes sense: He’s honoring the nondisclosure agreement. Besides, Julian’s medical history is none of the cop’s business, or anyone else’s.”
“That’s not the point. Two other children with the same holes were kidnapped and murdered.”
“Rachel, that’s pure coincidence. The holes were probably from being in the sea so long.”
“And what if they weren’t?”
“Like what?”
“What if they were enhanced also?”
“But you don’t know those holes came from enhancement.”
“Malenko said it was an invasive procedure using stereotaxic needles.”
“Lots of people have stereotaxic surgery—kids included—and they aren’t enhanced. It’s an established neurological procedure to get into the brain for a thousand different reasons.”
His explanation was facile and unsatisfying. Still, he may have been right—that it was all a coincidence. But what were the odds of that?
“Did the cop give you his name?”
“His card is on the counter.”
Martin picked it up. “Wasn’t your roommate Iranian?”
“Armenian.”
“Whatever,” he said. Then he lowered his voice so Dylan couldn’t hear. “If he comes around again, you know nothing about Julian’s enhancement. Just play dumb. It could compromise our chances if Malenko hears some cop’s snooping around.”
The suggestion grated on a nerve. And, yet, she had yielded to that same protective instinct earlier when Zakarian had asked her if she knew Julian’s doctor or had heard of Nova Children’s Center.
She had later chided herself for not being forthcoming. Yet, Malenko had made it clear that he could get into an ethical imbroglio were the procedure to become public. And, as Martin said, if a police detective showed up at his door asking about holes in the skulls of dead children, that would be it for Dylan.
And, for all her misgivings, she still kept her foot in that door.
A little before nine on Saturday morning, two hours before Dylan’s baseball game and six hours before Rachel was scheduled to fly to Phoenix, Lucius Malenko telephoned.
He said he was out of town and called to wish her mother a full recovery from her operation. He expressed his condolences for the death of her friend Vanessa Watts and her son. “Unfortunately, I didn’t hear until after the funeral. Otherwise, I would have gone,” he said. “It was certainly shocking. Julian was a remarkably accomplished child. Such a waste.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I had not seen the boy for some time,” he added, “but when last he came in, he was doing very well. Top in his class and giving piano recitals. I had also heard that his paintings were on exhibit at his school.”
“Yes.” She did not want to talk to Malenko.
Martin was still asleep. Across the kitchen, Dylan sat at the table eating a bowl of Alpen muesli and studying the photo of a missing child on the side of the milk carton.
Because she had to leave town, they would postpone their next meeting with Malenko until she returned— maybe the middle of next week if all went well with her mother.
Martin had marked the calendar that sat on the wall above the phone. He had circled it in black. That was when they were to give their final decision on enhancement: Friday July 3. The date hovered in her mind like some doomsday raven.
“We’ll call when I return,” she said, and walked over to the table where Dylan was eating. It was a little boy from New London, New Mexico. At the bottom was an 800 number and a Web address for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“That would be helpful since, as you may suspect, such a procedure requires considerable planning of material and staff.”
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll do our best to come to a decision, but I still have reservations, as you know.”
Her eyes rested on the carton photo—a little towhead with a bright smile and a missing front tooth.
“I understand, but as I’ve explained, we have an accomplished team and the finest equipment. And you have seen the evidence.”
“Yes, but I still need time to think it over.” She wanted to get off the phone. She did not want to corrupt the day with more anxiety.
“Of course. And while you do, please ask yourself what’s important to you as a parent: If you want to increase your son’s chances of having a full and productive life.”
The man was putting pressure on her and she did not like it. “I really have to go, but we’ll call when I get back.”
“I don’t mean to be so blunt, but don’t you think your husband deserves a smart son, Mrs. Whitman?”
“That’s not exactly how I view it, Dr. Malenko. In fact, I find your implication offensive.”
“I apologize, but under the circumstances, I believe you owe it to him to strongly consider the option.” He then said good-bye and hung up.
The bastard. She had confided in him the most painful secret in her life, and now he was using it against her like a cattle prod.
She put the phone down and went over to Dylan and kissed him on the head.
“Who’s this little boy?” he asked.
“His name is Sean Klein.”
“But how come his picture’s on here?”
“Well, he’s missing. He got lost.”
“He got lost?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But, Mom, you wouldn’t get me lost, would you?”
She put her arms around him. “Never, never.”
“Cuz then I couldn’t sing for you.”
