Gray Matter

procedures with your son.”

Rachel nodded. She didn’t know the names.

“Would you like me to make an appointment with Dr. Malenko when he returns?”

“I have to find him now.”

“Sorry. But you can leave a message with his answering machine.”

Rachel nodded and wrote down her cell phone number in case Malenko called. She then headed out, thinking that if Malenko didn’t perform the surgery, who did? Who was his staff? And where were they?

And where is my son?

As she headed for her car, it crossed her mind to go to the police, but what would she report? What was the crime? Martin had dropped off his own son to the man.

Then a darker thought cut across her mind: If she called the police and Malenko found out, he might hurt Dylan. Or deny he had him.

He wouldn’t do that, a voice in her head protested. You’re working yourself into a full-blown panic.

Halfway down Main Street, she pulled over and dialed Sheila on her cell phone. She got the answering service and left a message to call her ASAP. She then called Sheila’s office, getting the number from information because her mind was too chaotic to remember it. Sheila was on the road, her officemate said.

“SHIT!”

Who was left? Suddenly, all her deepest fears about this whole bloody thing rushed up: There was nobody else to contact. They had put their trust in people she didn’t know and turned over their son to some clandestine medical operation that was outside the circle of professional ethics and practice—and this was the consequence.

She turned down Magnolia and headed north to Cobbsville. She was halfway there when her phone rang. It was Martin, who wanted her to come home.

“When you dropped him off, what did he say about contacting him?”

“Nothing, just that he’d call when it was over.”

“Jesus! He didn’t give you a number?”

“No.”

“How long would it take?” she shouted.

“Three or four days. Rachel, cool it. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He had dropped him off yesterday. “I don’t care. I don’t want him to have this. I don’t want him changed.”

“But it’s the best thing for him. You said so yourself.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Before he could argue back, she said: “Do you know where they brought him?”

“No, but he said he’ll call—”

Rachel clicked him off. The sky had darkened over the highway, and storm clouds looked like bundles of steel mesh rolling in.

A few minutes later, her phone rang again. She braced herself for Martin’s insistence that she cool it and return home. But it was Marie, the receptionist at Nova. “Dr. Malenko called and left a number for you,” she said.

Thank God.

Rachel fumbled in her purse for a pen and wrote it down on her hand. She then dialed the number and held her breath.

On the third ring, she heard a click. Then: “Hello, Mrs. Whitman. This is Lucius Malenko. Your husband informed me that the bypass surgery for your mother was successful and that she’s recovering nicely, I am happy to hear. Dylan is doing fine and will be coming home in a few days. Enjoy your weekend.”

Click. Then the hum of the dial tone.

She redialed the number, but got no answer. No outgoing voice message. Nothing but endless ringing. The message automatically erased itself so as not to leave evidence.

Rachel let out a groan and drove on.

It was after six when she reached the small white ranch. The place was dark as if abandoned. Except for a couple of vehicles parked along the street, the area looked deserted. The driveway beside the house was empty. No Porsche. No lights in the windows.

She went up to the entrance. The interior was dark, but she rang the bell nonetheless. Nothing.

She felt frantic. “DYLAN!”

She cut around the back, knowing she would find nobody. The rain was in a steady downpour. She pulled open the storm door and went inside the small rear foyer and banged on the door. Of course, there was nobody inside. She thought about kicking in the door, but if the guy had a secret locale where he did his enhancements, it wouldn’t be tacked to the wall. Nor would it be in any of his files. He was too smart for that.

The rain pelted her face as she dashed around front to her car.

She drove northward on the main road that cut through small rural towns this side of the New Hampshire border. But after a couple miles, she realized that she had no idea where she was heading. Soon she came to a sign that said that she was entering Carleton Junction. She had never been to Carleton Junction.

She pulled over, and as the rain pattered dismally against her car, she opened her glove compartment for the map. In the light, she saw a small silver tape recorder. She had never seen it before. She was sure it wasn’t Martin’s; besides, he almost never used her car. She opened it up and there was a tape inside, rewound. She pushed the play button and turned up the volume wheel.

“Rachel, this is Vanessa Watts. I don’t know what condition I’ll be in when you get this, but I could not live with myself if I didn’t tell you that you’d be making a mistake if you bring your son to Lucius Malenko. I’m sure his intentions were noble enough, but he ruined my Julian’s mind. Yes, he’s smart, but he’s very troubled He’s been diagnosed as obsessive-compulsive. But that doesn’t come close to the horror of his condition. He’s possessed by his rituals—his painting and music and science projects. He has no other existence. He barely sleeps. He doesn’t have any social life or friends. He spends his days and nights working—and counting. He counts everything he does—every bite of his food, the steps he takes throughout the day, every point he taps on a picture. It’s horrible, but he can’t help it. He’s been on a dozen different kinds of medication for years, and his condition is getting worse. They tell me he would have been this way without the operation. But I don’t believe them—not for a minute. They did something to his brain when they stuck that shit in. I don’t know what, and they’re not talking. But don’t do it to your son. It’s not worth the chance. Julian’s not the boy I gave birth to. He’s not my son …”

Her voice cracked.

“There’s Something else. Julian remembers something about the operation … something about another … I have to tell you in person. It’s just too … I’ll call you.”

Then she clicked off.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Rachel said aloud. These might have been the last words Vanessa had spoken before taking their lives.

Rachel dialed home, but she got the answering machine. She called Martin’s cell phone and got another voice message saying that the party was not responding. She left him a message to call her immediately—that it was urgent—and she summarized what Vanessa had said on the tape. About the last unstated bit, she only said that Vanessa wanted to tell her something that might have been too alarming even for a tape message.

She continued driving, still not certain where she was heading. The rain kept coming down hard. She had no idea where Martin was. Again, she thought about going to the police, but what could she tell them?

She passed through the center of Carleton Junction, following a sign to 1-95 South that would take her back to Hawthorne. Maybe Martin would be back.

As she rounded a bend in the road, headlights filled her rearview mirror. She pulled over to let the car pass, but it stayed on her tail. Because of the rain and dimming light, she could not make out the driver, but she was beginning to think that he was playing some kind of game with her.

She took the next turn, still following signs for I-95. But the car stayed right behind her.

A coincidence, she told herself.

At the next juncture, she took a right onto a wooded road, hoping to shake the tailgater. But the vehicle