Gray Matter

stayed with her. With a shock, she realized she was being followed. Out of instinct, she accelerated—and so did the car behind her, filling the mirror with lights.

Goddamn it! her mind screamed. She put her hand behind her seat and pulled up the club wheel lock. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. She had no idea who’d be following her or why, and she didn’t know the road or where the next gas station might be, or how much farther to the interstate. So with a sharp turn of the wheel, she pulled over and grabbed the steel rod.

But in the rain she didn’t see that the cut in the side brush was a washout, and the car slid down the bank and hit a tree with a jarring thud. The engine died, but she was not hurt. She looked back. The truck had pulled over.

The same truck that was outside Malenko’s house.

Before she knew it, a large man in black pulled open her door just as she reached back to lock it. But that made little difference since he could easily have smashed the window.

Because of the tightness of the interior, she couldn’t swing the rod, so she held it in front of her like a small lance ready to drive it into the man’s face.

It was Brendan LaMotte.

A blinding rain was coming down when Greg found Lucius Malenko’s Cobbsville office. It was not what he had expected, which was some kind of fancy complex of physicians’ quarters. Instead, the man’s private practice was housed in a small, nondescript ranch with no shingle distinguishing it from any other of the modest residences on the street.

The place looked closed. No light burning in any of the front windows. No cars parked in the driveway. A black pickup truck was parked across the street.

From his cell phone, Greg had called the number the receptionist had given him yesterday. But he only got an answering machine and an accented male voice asking for the caller to leave a message. He didn’t do that.

It was about five-thirty, and he didn’t have to be at work for another month. And here he was sitting in the rain waiting for nothing and wondering at what a mess he had made of his life, not to mention some kid lying in a coma. How he had followed one hunch behind another into a suspension, humiliation, and a burning urge to get blinding drunk.

Just as he was thinking about the taste of beer and heading home to do something about it, a gold Maxima pulled up in front of the Malenko place and out jumped Mrs. Rachel Whitman.

She was alone.

Without bothering with an umbrella, she dashed to the front door of the ranch house and rang the bell then started banging the knocker. She looked frantic. Not getting any response, she ran around back. He heard her calling. A few moments later, she came around then got back into her car and screeched down the road.

Greg started the car. Maybe it was something, maybe not. But it was more interesting than watching the rain make streaks down his windows.

As he pulled onto the road thinking about T.J. Gelford’s warning about impersonating an officer of the law, it occurred to him what name the Whitman woman was yelling. Dylan.

Her six-year-old son.

The huge body filled the door opening.

“Brendan!”

He didn’t respond.

“Why are you following me?”

Brendan’s hair was plastered to his head from the rain and his eyes looked wild. His mouth was moving as if he were reciting something without sound. Crazy. This kid is crazy. She knew the rod was useless with the roof and steering wheel blocking an effective swing. But, she told herself, if he reaches for me, I’ll claw his damn eyes out, so help me God.

“I know where your son is.”

“What?”

“I heard you c-call his name back in Cobbsville,” he said. “C-can I get in?” The rain was pouring off him.

“Yes, yes.” She tossed the rod in the back seat and watched him come around. The car dipped as his big body settled in the passenger seat. He wiped his face staring straight ahead.

He was muttering something rapid-fire under his breath … something she couldn’t catch. A crazed rambling as if he had lapsed into a weird trance.

What if this was some kind of hideous trick? she wondered. Get her to let him in then work himself up to attack her.

“Wind and rain and little boy lost …”

She caught a scrap of verse of some kind.

“Brendan!”

He snapped out of it and looked at her.

“My son. What do you know about my son?”

Before he could answer, the figure of a man came down the banks to the car. “Is everything okay here?”

For a second, Rachel could not place the man’s face. “Officer Zakarian.”

He came up to the window.

Rachel instantly felt on guard. “Yes, everything is fine, she began. “My car just skidded off the road.”

“So it appears.” He looked at Brendan suspiciously.

“This is Brendan LaMotte,” she said, trying to affect an air of control. Although he seemed liked a nice man, she did not need him or the police involved in this. All she wanted was for him to go so Brendan could tell her where Dylan was.

Zakarian reached across her and shook Brendan’s hand, no doubt wondering what he was doing tailing her up here in the woods. “I was just leading Brendan to the highway back home. He’s not familiar with these roads.”

Brendan gave her a quick look. “I’ll g-g-get the chain,” he said and dashed back to his truck.

Zakarian walked around her car in the rain to assess the situation while she waited inside trembling. He stuck his head in the window. “I don’t see any damage. Try starting it.”

She turned the key, and the car started up.

“You’re sure everything is okay, Mrs. Whitman?”

“Just a little rattled, but I didn’t get hurt. I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “I just want to get back on the road is all.” She felt that at any moment she would begin to scream.

“We’ll get you back,” he said.

Brendan returned with the chain, one end of which Zakarian attached to the underside of the Maxima, while Brendan connected the other end to the hitch. Then Brendan maneuvered the truck into position and pulled the car back up onto the road with Rachel still inside.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said, trying to force a smile. “That was very considerate of you.” He was soaked from the rain. “We’ll be on our way now.” She hoped he would take the hint.

His head was at her window, and the rain was pouring off him onto his yellow Sagamore PD slicker. Again he asked, “You’re sure everything’s okay?” This time he looked back at Brendan who was out of earshot. He was asking if she felt threatened by the boy.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Brendan’s a family friend. I’m just leading him back to Hawthorne.” She could hear the edge in her response.

“Well, you showed up at Dr. Malenko’s office looking pretty upset earlier.”

Her mind went numb for a moment. How had he seen her? And what was he doing at Malenko’s? And why was he following her? She had to play down the connection—play it cool. “My husband brought my son for a five o’clock appointment, but I got there late—the weather and all.” She knew it was a feeble answer. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not, and at the moment, she really didn’t care. She just wanted him to leave.