“Your son’s a patient of his?”
“Yes. Look, Officer, I appreciate your help, but I really have to get home.” Her heart was pounding so hard, she was certain she’d go into cardiac arrest.
“I was waiting to see him because I had some questions to ask about the Nova Children’s Center. Julian Watts was a patient of his also.”
“I see.”
Brendan sat waiting for her in his truck. Zakarian’s hands still rested on her door. She stared at them to ask if he was going to let her go. If he didn’t, she knew she would lose it.
He studied her for a brief instant, trying to read her manner. Then he backed away. “Okay. Maybe we can talk soon.”
She nodded and put the car into gear.
Through her rearview mirrors, she watched Zakarian move to his car, which was a black SUV—which, for a split instant, struck her as odd. Didn’t police use squad cars?
“By the way,” he called back. “The highway is that way,” he said, pointing north. Her car was facing south. Then he waved to Brendan in his truck and got back into his own car and drove off, heading south.
Rachel nearly broke down with relief as she watched the car disappear into the distance. When he was gone, Brendan got back into Rachel’s car. “If he’s a c-c-cop, how come he d-didn’t have a badge or gun?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe he’s off duty,” she snapped. “Where’s my son?” Her voice was trembling.
“In Maine near Lake Tarabec.”
“Maine? How do you know?”
“Because I followed him there. I saw your husband come to the doctor’s office with your son yesterday. Thirteen minutes later he left. Twenty-two minutes after that, Dr. Malenko left with your son in his car, a red Porsche, New Hampshire plates, WMD 919. I followed them for three and a half hours.”
“Do you remember the way?”
“Yes.”
He nodded that he would.
She tore open the glove compartment for a pad and pen. Brendan wrote down directions to Camp Tarabec from memory just in case they got separated. He put his hand on the door to go to his truck. “Were you waiting for me there?”
“No, Dr. Malenko. Since this morning. He’s supposed to have office hours here today.”
“Why did you want to see him?”
“Because I w-w-want to know what he did to me.”
“What?”
He took off his cap and clicked on the interior light. Then he lowered his head, parted his hair, and showed her a cluster of small round scars under his hair on both sides of his head and above his ear.
They looked like drill holes.
Then he told her his story.
When she was on the road, she called Martin. He still wasn’t home, so she left a message about how she had found out where Malenko had taken Dylan and recited the directions. Then she followed Brendan to the center of Carleton Junction where, gratefully, there were signs to 1-95 northbound. She had just crossed the state line when her cell phone rang. It was Martin. “What do you mean you’re going to get him?”
“I told you what Vanessa said—they ruined her son.”
“How do we know he wouldn’t have been that way without enhancement? We don’t.”
“That’s right, and I’m not going to take that chance,” she said.
“What the hell does Brendan have to do with this?”
“He had the procedure ten years ago, and he now wants to know what they did to him. He wants help. Don’t you get it? This thing has problems Malenko never told us about.”
“So you’re saying he lied to us?”
“Or he didn’t tell us the whole truth.”
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” he said.
“Fuck off,” she said. He was rubbing her nose in it. “Are you with me or not?” she screamed.
“Rachel, Dr. Malenko is not lying or covering up failures or whatever. He explained to me that it’s the only thing that can be done for him—grafting new cells where the damage is. It’s done all the time with brain disorders. He said that his particular malformation makes him a perfect candidate for the procedure. Besides,” he added, “we already paid for it.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money,” she screamed. Suddenly electronic crackling filled the phone. “Goddamn it, I’m losing you,” she shouted. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you.” His voice was distant and fragmented.
“I’m going to get him with or without you,” she shouted.
“Rachel, don’t—” he began, but the connection was lost.
She put the cell phone on the console next to her, feeling more alone than ever.
Greg drove in the rain, thinking about Mrs. Whitman.
At Malenko’s place, she had appeared frantic, banging on the doors and calling for her son. Half an hour later he found her stuck in a ditch, looking as if she were about to explode while claiming everything was just dandy, that she had just slid off the road while leading home the big ponytailed kid Greg had spotted in the cemetery the other day with the good-looking blond girl—the same kid who was currently driving a black Ford pickup—the same black pickup that had followed her from Malenko’s Cobbsville office.
Points were connecting.
And he smelled the proverbial rat.
Clearly something else was going on with Rachel Whitman—something she did not want to share with the police. Certainly, there was no crime in that, and he was convinced that the LaMotte kid posed no threat to her since Greg detected no equivocation in her denial, nor did the boy project an aura of aggression or offense. But the woman was noticeably at the edge, and Greg was positive that it had nothing to do with sliding off the road or getting home late for supper.
Although he admired her, Greg did not, of course, know Rachel Whitman, having spent only half an hour with her the other day. But he could swear that those golden-brown eyes staring up at him from the driver’s seat were dilated with fear.
Greg reached over to his jacket and removed his cell phone. Because it was after six, he punched Joe Steiner’s home number. His wife answered on the third ring and gave the phone to her husband.
“Joe, I need a favor,” Greg said.
“Why should you be any different?” he said. “Can it wait until I finish dinner?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Greg, you make me yearn for telemarketers.”
Greg chuckled. “Sorry. But as you know, I’ve been granted thirty consecutive personal days.”
“And unsolicited, I understand.”
“Yes, how considerate of them.”
“And you’re calling to ask for a list of good books and videos to fill your time.”
“That and a rundown on somebody: an eighteen-year-old male from Barton. His name’s Brendan LaMotte. Anything you can find on him—criminal record, school activities, employment—”
“Any known terrorist ties,” Joe said, cutting him off, “plus his favorite color, books, dog names, TV sitcoms
