DARKEST FEAR (18 page)

“What?”

“The geezer is lying.”

“You mean Nathan Mostoni?”

“Jesus Christ, what other old man have I been watching?”

Myron switched ears. “What makes you think he’s lying, Greg?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like?”

“Like starting with Mostoni never hearing from the bone marrow center. Does that sound logical to you?”

He thought of Karen Singh and her dedication and the stakes. “No,” Myron said, “but it’s like we said before—he might be confused.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Nathan Mostoni goes out plenty on his own, for
one thing. Sometimes he acts loony, but other times, he seems just fine. He shops himself. He talks to people. He dresses like a normal person.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Myron said.

“No? An hour ago he went out, right? So I got close to the house, right up against the back window, and I dialed that number, the one you got for the donor.”

“And?”

“And I hear a phone inside the house ringing.”

That made Myron pause.

“So what do you think we should do?” Greg asked.

“I’m not sure. Have you seen anybody else at the house?”

“Nobody. Mostoni goes out but nobody’s been here. And I tell you something else. He looks younger now. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s weird. You making any headway on your end?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s some answer, Myron.”

“The only one I got.”

“So what do you think we should do about Mostoni?”

“I’ll have Esperanza do a background check. In the meantime, stay on him.”

“Time’s a-ticking away here, Myron.”

“I know that. I’ll be in touch.”

He disconnected the call and flipped on the radio. Chaka Khan was singing “Ain’t Nobody Love You Better.” If you can listen to that one without moving your feet, you got some serious rhythm issues. He took the Long Island Expressway east, which was shockingly clear today. Usually the road was more or less a parking lot that swayed forward every couple of minutes.

People always tell you that the Hamptons, the swanky Long Island summer spot where Manhattanites get away from it all by being with other Manhattanites, is best in the off season. You always hear that about vacation spots. People, mostly vacationers themselves,
whine through the high-season months, waiting to reach this apex of a theoretically swarmless nirvana. But—and this was the part Myron never understood— no one is ever in the Hamptons in the off months. No one. Downtown is dead to the point of craving tumbleweeds. Shop owners sigh and discount nothing. The restaurants are less crowded, sure, but they’re also closed. And hey, let’s be honest here, the weather and beaches and even the people-watching are big draws here. Who goes to a Long Island beach in the winter?

The school was in a residential neighborhood with older, more modest homes—a place where the true Long Island regulars, none of whom hang out with Alec and Kim at Nick and Toni’s, resided. Myron parked in a church lot and followed the signs down the steps into the rectory’s basement. A young woman, a hall monitor of sorts, greeted Myron at the landing. He gave her his name and said he was here to see Ms. Joyce. The young woman nodded and told him to follow her.

The corridor was silent. Strange when one considered that this was a preschool.
Preschool.
Another new term. In Myron’s day, they had called them nursery schools. Myron wondered when the name had changed and what group had considered the term
nursery school
somehow discriminatory. Professional RNs? Breastfeeding mothers? Bottle-fed infants maybe?

Still silent. Perhaps it was vacation or naptime. Myron was about to ask the young hall monitor when she opened a door. He looked in. Wrong-a-mundo. The room was chock full of small children, probably twenty give or take, and they were all working independently and in total silence. The older teacher smiled at Myron. She whispered to the little boy she was working with—he was doing something with blocks and letters—and stood.

“Hello,” she said to Myron, speaking softly.

“Hi,” Myron whispered back.

She leaned toward the young monitor. “Miss Simmons, will you help Mrs. McLaughlin?”

“Of course.”

Peggy Joyce wore an open yellow sweater over a buttoned-at-the-neck blouse. The collar was frilly. She had half-moon glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “We can chat in my office.”

“Okay.” He followed her. The place was silent as, well, a place without children. Myron asked, “Do you give those kids Valium?”

She smiled. “Just a little Montessori.”

“A little what?”

“You don’t have children, do you?”

The question caused a pang, but he answered in the negative.

“It’s a teaching philosophy created by Dr. Maria Montessori, Italy’s first female physician.”

“It seems to work.”

“I suppose.”

“Do the children act like this at home?”

“Good Lord, no. Truth be told, it doesn’t translate into the real world. But few things do.”

They moved into the office, which consisted of a wooden desk, three chairs, one file cabinet.

“How long have you taught here?” Myron asked.

“I’m in my forty-third year.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.”

“I guess you’ve seen lots of changes?”

“In kids? Almost none. Children don’t change, Mr. Bolitar. A five-year-old is still a five-year-old.”

“Still innocent.”

She cocked her head. “ ‘Innocent’ isn’t the word I would use. Children are total id. They are perhaps the most naturally vicious creatures on God’s green earth.”

“Strange outlook for a preschool teacher.”

“Just an honest one.”

“So what word would you use?”

She thought about it. “If pressed, I’d say ‘unformed.’ Or maybe ‘undeveloped.’ Like a picture you’ve already taken but haven’t processed yet.”

Myron nodded, though he had no idea what she meant. There was something about Peggy Joyce that was a little, well, scary.

“Do you remember that book
All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“It’s true, but not in the way you think. School removes children from their warm parental cocoon. School teaches them to bully or be bullied. School teaches them how to be cruel to one another. School teaches them that Mommy and Daddy lied to them when they told them that they were special and unique.”

Myron said nothing.

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t teach preschool.”

“That’s sidestepping, Mr. Bolitar.”

Myron shrugged. “They learn socialization. That’s a hard lesson. And like every hard lesson, you have to get it wrong before you can get it right.”

“They learn boundaries, in other words?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. And perhaps true. But you remember when I was giving the film-processing example earlier?”

“Yes.”

“School only processes the picture. It doesn’t snap it.”

“Okay,” Myron said, not wanting to follow her train of thought.

“What I mean is, everything is pretty much decided by the time these children leave here and enter kindergarten. I can tell who will be successful and who will fail, who will end up happy and who will end up in prison, and ninety percent of the time I’m right. Maybe Hollywood and video games have an influence, I don’t know. But I can usually tell which kid will be watching
too many violent movies or playing too many violent games.”

“You can tell all this by the time they’re five years old?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“And you feel that’s it? That they don’t have the ability to change?”

“The ability? Oh, probably. But they’re already on a path, and while they may still be able to change it, the majority do not. Staying on the path is easier.”

“So let me ask you the eternal question: Is it nature or nurture?”

She smiled. “I get asked that all the time.”

“And?”

“I answer nurture. Know why?”

Myron shook his head.

“Believing in nurture is like believing in God. You might be wrong, but you might as well cover your bases.” She folded her hands and leaned forward. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Bolitar?”

“Do you remember a student named Dennis Lex?”

“I remember all my students. Does that surprise you?”

Myron didn’t want her going off on another tangent. “Did you teach the other Lex children?”

“I taught them all. Their father made a lot of changes after his book became a bestseller. But he kept them here.”

“So what can you tell me about Dennis Lex?”

She sat back and regarded him as though seeing him for the first time. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m wondering when you’re going to tell me what this is all about. I’m talking to you, Mr. Bolitar—and breaching confidences, I suspect—because I think you’re here for a very specific reason.”

“What reason is that, Ms. Joyce?”

Her eyes had a steely glint. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Bolitar.”

She was right. “I’m trying to find Dennis Lex.”

Peggy Joyce kept still.

“I know this sounds weird,” he went on. “But as far as I can tell, he fell off the earth after preschool.”

She stared straight ahead, though Myron had no idea at what. There were no photographs on the walls, no diplomas, no drawings by little hands. Just cold wall. “Not after,” she said finally. “During.”

There was a knock on the door. Peggy Joyce said, “Come in.” The young hall monitor, Miss Simmons, entered with a little boy. His head was down and he’d been crying. “James needs a little time,” Miss Simmons said.

Peggy Joyce nodded. “Let him lie on the mat.”

James eyed Myron and left with Miss Simmons.

Myron turned to Peggy Joyce. “What happened to Dennis Lex?”

“It’s a question I’ve been waiting for someone to ask for more than thirty years,” she said.

“What’s the answer?”

“First, tell me why you’re looking for him.”

“I’m trying to find a bone marrow donor. I think it might be Dennis Lex.” He gave her as few details as he could. When he finished, she put a bony hand to her face.

“I don’t think I can help you,” she said. “It was so long ago.”

“Please, Ms. Joyce. A child will die if I don’t find him. You’re my only lead.”

“You spoke to his family?”

“Only his sister Susan.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not sure what I can add.”

“You could start by telling me what Dennis was like.”

She sighed and neatly arranged her hands on her thighs. “He was like the other Lex children—very bright, thoughtful, contemplative, perhaps a bit too
much so for so young a child. With most students, I try to get them to grow up a bit. With the Lex children, that was never an issue.”

Myron nodded, trying to encourage.

“Dennis was the youngest. You probably know that. He was here the same time as his brother Bronwyn. Susan was older.” She stopped, looked lost.

“What happened to him?”

“One day he and Bronwyn didn’t come to school. I got a call from their father saying that he was taking them on an unplanned vacation.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t say. He wasn’t being very specific.”

“Okay, go on.”

“That’s pretty much it, Mr. Bolitar. Two weeks later, Bronwyn came back to school. I never saw Dennis again.”

“You called his father?”

“Of course.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me that Dennis wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“Of course. But … did you ever meet Raymond Lex?”

“No.”

“You didn’t question a man like that. He mentioned something about home schooling. When I pressed, he made it clear it was none of my concern. Over the years, I’ve tried to keep track of the family, even when they moved out of the area. But like you, I never heard anything about Dennis.”

“What did you think happened?”

She looked at him. “I assumed he was dead.”

Her words, though not all that surprising, worked like a vacuum, sucking the room dry, forcing out the air.

“Why?” Myron asked.

“I figured that he was ill, and that was why he was pulled out of school.”

“Why would Mr. Lex try to hide something like that?”

“I don’t know. After his novel became a bestseller, he became private to the point of paranoia. Are you sure this donor you’re looking for is Dennis Lex?”

“Not sure, no.”

Peggy Joyce snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait, I have something you may find interesting.” She stood and opened a file drawer. She sifted through it, pulled something out, studied it for a moment. Her elbow smacked the drawer closed. “This was taken two months before Dennis left us.”

She handed him an old class photograph, the color not so much fading as greening from age. Fifteen kids flanked by two teachers, one a far younger Peggy Joyce. The years had not been unkind to her, but they’d passed anyway. A small black sign with the white lettering read
SHADY WELLS MONTESSORI SCHOOL
and the year.

“Which one is Dennis?”

She pointed to a boy sitting in the front row. He had a Prince Valiant cut and a face-splitting smile that never quite hit his eyes. “Can I have this?”

“If you think it will help.”

“It might.”

She nodded. “I better get back to my students.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you remember your preschool, Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron nodded. “Parkview Nursery School in Livingston, New Jersey.”

“How about your teachers? Do you remember them at all?”

Myron thought about it. “No.”

She nodded as though he’d answered correctly. “Good luck,” she said.

A
geComp. Or age-progression software, if you prefer.

Myron had learned a bit about it when searching for a missing woman named Lucy Mayor. The key was in the digital imaging. All Myron had to do—or in the case of their office, all Esperanza had to do—was take the class photograph and scan it into the computer. Then, using common software programs like Photoshop or Picture Publisher, you blow up the face of young Dennis Lex. AgeComp, a software program constantly being retooled and perfected by missing-children organizations, does the rest. Using advanced mathematical algorithms, AgeComp stretches, merges, and blends digital photographs of missing children and produces a color image of what they might look like today.