…”
“You got it,” Greg said.
“And all within the next ten minutes.”
“No rush—take fifteen.” He could hear Joe snicker. “One more thing while you’re at it: any recent hospital admissions.”
“Uh-huh. And where exactly are you enjoying your persona-non-gratahood?”
“Having high tea at the Ritz.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you.”
Greg gave Joe his cell phone number and told him where exactly he was on 95. But before he hung up he asked, “How’s Sarah doing with the driving?”
“Eleven days, and nobody’s revoked her license yet. Yippeee!”
“And did we find her a car?”
“My wife’s was falling apart, so we tried to find one that would also be safe for Sarah. Unfortunately, everybody was out of used Sherman tanks, so we settled on a ninety-eight Volvo. But I’m saying kaddish for it, in advance.”
Greg laughed, and they clicked off.
About forty minutes later Joe called back. Greg was still on the highway. The traffic was moderate. The rain was beginning to let up, and the sky ahead looked bleached under shredded clouds.
“What do you have?”
“The kid lives in Barton with his grandfather.” Joe gave the address and telephone number and said that Brendan LaMotte had quit school and was working at the Dells Country Club as a waiter. He also said that his parents were dead, that he was very bright and had some serious personal problems—information he had gotten from the boy’s high school guidance counselor. Joe had also called the Dells, the Barton PD, the state police, the local newspaper, and other places.
“All that in less than an hour. You’re pure magic, pal.”
“It was worth it. I love cold chicken.” Then Joe added, “One more thing I think you’ll find interesting: On the evening of June twenty-three, he was brought into the Essex Medical Center ER with a head injury. Apparently he slipped and fell headfirst into a glass door. He was released two hours later after cleanup and X rays.”
“My, my.”
56
Nearly three hours later, Brendan pulled over.
He had led Rachel to a heavily tree-lined dirt road. A small sign on a post said: CAMP TARABEC—PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Brendan got out and came around to her window. “This is the place,” he said. “He t-turned down there, but I didn’t follow him.”
It was the understated entrance to a campsite. “How long did you wait?”
“A f-few minutes because the security guard came and told me to leave. I d-d-didn’t have official business.”
“We have now,” she said. “Get in.”
Brendan looked hesitant, but he got in. “There are s-security cameras in the trees.”
She nodded and drove down the drive through the woods. After about a quarter mile she came to a crossroad, also dirt. Signs with arrows pointed right to THE BEACH, THE DOCK, and BOATHOUSE; left to THE LODGE, CHAPEL, CABINS among other places.
She turned right. The rain had stopped miles back and there was enough light left to make out some cabins with the lake in the background through the trees. At the end of the road was a boathouse and a small dock with a large white outboard and two smaller boats. But no people or cars.
She turned around and returned to the intersection but proceeded straight, this time passing an open area with more log cabins on the right and playing fields and a tennis court to the left. On the far side of the fields, she spotted some kids at a picnic table with an adult. None looked like Dylan, but the sight of them made her feel better—all so normal and innocent. But her mind was racing trying to connect all this to Malenko.
The lodge was a handsome log structure with a porch and steps and screen door with a WELCOME sign next to it.
Brendan waited on the porch while Rachel went inside.
At a reception counter was a man in his forties dressed in a bright green pullover with a monogram saying CAMP TARABEC and a name tag saying
He looked up. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Rachel Whitman, and I’m looking for my son, Dylan. He was brought here yesterday by Dr. Lucius Malenko.”
The man stared at her blankly, then slowly shook his head. Without taking his eyes off her he said, “What’s your son’s name again?”
“Dylan. Dylan Whitman.”
“That’s not a name I recognize.” He made no effort to check his computer or a printout list.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “Nobody here by that name.”
“But you didn’t check.”
“I don’t have to check. I know all the children here by name. There’s no Dylan Whitman. Sorry.”
Rachel was feeling faint. “What about Dr. Lucius Malenko?”
“Nope.”
The flat abruptness of his answer said that she could leave now. After a few blank seconds, she turned to leave.
“By the way, how old is your son?”
“Six.”
The man’s face softened. “Well, you’ve definitely got the wrong place. We have twelve-year-olds and up. You might check Camp Ossipago about ten miles up 123.”
She shot a look to Brendan outside. God, was it the wrong place? How could that be? The kid was supposed to have a flawless memory. Or maybe Malenko didn’t come here after all. Maybe he just turned off the road to relieve himself in the woods.
On the wall hung a bulletin board with large letters: CAMP DISCOVERY: HANDS-ON WORKSHOPS. Memos and notices were tacked up as well as a sign-up list for classes on computer programming, Web design, robotics, and interfacing ergonomics. There were announcements about lectures on cloning, stem cells, black holes, and observational astronomy. The place was a summer camp for child geniuses.
Rachel thanked the man and headed outside, feeling the panic rise again. “It’s the wrong place,” she said to Brendan, as they headed back to the car. “They never heard of Dylan or Lucius Malenko.”
“It’s n-n-not the wrong place,” Brendan insisted. “I saw him drive down the road with him. He brought him down here.”
There was nothing in his manner that suggested doubt.
Rachel looked around. It was a bona fide camp with climbing structures, playing fields, tennis courts, water activities, et cetera—and clearly for very bright older children. So, what would Malenko be doing here with Dylan? Unless he just made a short stop for some reason.
“Wait a minute,” she said as Brendan opened the car door. Across the road was a building with a sign: INFIRMARY/FIRST AID. She headed for it.
