“What are we looking for?” Dacey asked
“My wife.”
Steve didn’t believe in telepathy, ESP, precognition, or any paranormal claims, including psychics they sometimes turned to in desperation. But he knew on some visceral level that Dana was in trouble.
While Dacey checked the other rooms, Neil tried to access the appointments’ calendar at the reception desk. But they needed a password.
A Rolodex listed Monks’s name, Lexington address, and several telephone numbers, including one that simply said “Homer’s.” There was also a listing for the receptionist and office manager, May Ann Madlansacay. Steve punched the numbers and said a silent prayer. A woman answered. “Is this May Ann Madlansacay?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Steve Markarian with the homicide bureau of the Boston police. You may recognize the name because my wife had some work done by Dr. Monks.”
“Oh, yes.”
“It’s very urgent that we locate him.”
“Oh, my. Is he all right?”
“We don’t know, but we’d like to know where he might be.”
There was some hesitation. Then she said, “How do I know you are who you say you are? He gets people calling all the time from the media saying they’re someone else.”
“How about I send a squad car to 343 Acacia Lane in Newton to talk to you in person?”
“No, there’s no need for that. He’s probably at home.”
“We were just there—17 John Street in Lexington. Nobody’s there.”
“Well, he may be cruising on his boat. Or he may be at his summer place.”
“Where’s that?”
“I really don’t think I can give you that information.”
“The option is bringing you to police headquarters.”
“Well, it’s not public information,” she said. “But he has a place on Homer’s Island.”
“Homer’s Island. Where’s that?”
“I believe it’s between Falmouth and Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Are you saying it’s his summer residence?”
“Actually, it’s where he goes to get away. It’s also an offsite clinic where he sometimes operates.”
“You mean he’s got an operating room out there?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say he was going this weekend?”
“He didn’t, but he usually goes there on weekends and days off.”
“Do you know where he moors his boat? And the name of it?”
“Yes, it’s moored at the Waterboat Marina near the New England Aquarium.”
“And the boat’s name?”
“
When Steve got off the phone, Neil said, “It’s one of the Elizabeth Islands.” Online he found a nautical site for Massachusetts. Neil enlarged the image. Homer’s Island was the last in the Elizabeth chain beyond Cuttyhunk.
Dacey had wandered back from the other rooms. The place was empty. “There’s a photo of a fancy white power cruiser on his wall you might want to take a look at.”
Steve headed into Monks’s office while he punched Dana’s telephone numbers again. Nothing. Then he called Monks’s cell phone and got a voice mailbox. He called the number for Homer’s Island and got a busy signal.
The file cabinets were locked in the back room. They could send a car to pick up Madlansacay, but that would take time. It was quarter to five, and Steve didn’t give a rat’s ass about the contents of Monks’s file. He wanted to find Dana.
He turned to Dacey. “Hogan’s on duty. Call him to check the marina on the boat.”
Dacey snapped out her phone and made the call.
He turned to Neil. “Who do you know who’s got a chopper?”
“A chopper? Nobody, but I know some guys in the coast guard.” And he whipped out his PDA.
Dacey returned. “He says the slip is empty, the boat’s gone. According to the harbormaster he left at about four o’clock. A security guard said that a woman was with him. I asked for a description. He said he didn’t get a good look, but she was an attractive redhead.”
“Sweet Jesus!”
His eyes fell blankly on the sepia drawing on the wall behind Monks’s desk. He didn’t know what it was, but the first time he was here something about that abstract had bothered him. Something just beneath the range of awareness. He closed his eyes to center himself. He may have closed his eyes for twenty or thirty seconds when on the inside of his eyelids an image appeared.
A woman’s face.
He opened his eyes again and stared at the image again for maybe another half minute, then closed them again.
A jolt of realization passed through him. The image reappeared on the inside of his lids. He opened his eyes. That was no random abstract Japanese drawing. It was the image of a woman in sepia on white but in
Dana.
92
The next moment Aaron Monks entered the room.
An involuntary cry pressed out of Dana’s lungs as she stumbled to look at the man on the gurney and then at the man walking toward her.
“Wh-wh-who…” was all she could get out.
“He’s nobody.”
“Wha-what’s happening?” she pleaded.
He walked over to the gurney and pulled the sheet over the man’s face and turned toward her. His face looked strangely immobile, eyes dark but blank. Gone was the warm simpatico smile that she had taken comfort in. And in its place something implacable and raw, like a face that had too long been kept under a mold.
“What are you doing?” she begged. She told herself that things would make sense, that someone would tell her what was going on and rid her of the sense of dread that was wracking her bowels.
She tried to ask who that man was and why he looked like Aaron and was he the real Aaron and who are you, but nothing would come. Nothing but fat dumb syllables that didn’t connect.
From someplace she heard the sounds of people. The dinner party guests had arrived, she told herself.
Her brain felt like a lightbulb loose in its socket. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Who are you?”
But he didn’t answer her. “Get her ready.”
And from behind her Cho and Pierre entered with two other men in green. They took her arms and pulled her out of the room and into the bright lights of the corridor and into another room across it where they lifted her up and laid her on a bed.
Then they began to remove her clothes.
She was too weak to stop them.
