Authors: Gary Braver

GRAY MATTER (42 page)

BOOK: GRAY MATTER

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The other was Martin.

While the last of the three boats drifted through the channel, Rachel watched in disbelief as Martin waved good-bye to Malenko and headed for his Miata. Then Malenko took off toward the shore road with Martin behind him. They came to the stop sign at the end, the beach and the ocean spreading beyond them. The Porsche turned left, and the Miata turned right.

Shortly, the bells began to ring and the lights flashed as the gate was raised. Rachel and Brendan shot across the bridge and down the strip to the shore road. In the distance to the right, she saw the taillights of Martin’s car. To the left and rapidly disappearing was the Porsche’s lights.

For a frozen moment, she didn’t know which way to turn. Martin had probably tried to call Malenko to alert him that she was heading up here for Dylan. When that failed, he drove up here following the directions she’d left on the answering machine. Maybe by the time he arrived, Malenko had gotten his message and called him back. And this was their rendezvous. But she didn’t care about that. Malenko may or may not lead her to Dylan, and if she caught up to him he could stonewall her.

She turned right, not taking her eyes off Martin’s car, thinking how he had betrayed her.

About a mile down the shore road, they passed a sign to the Maine Turnpike. Martin’s business with Malenko was over; he was heading back home.

The Maxima growled after him. At about a quarter mile behind him, she began flashing her lights. At about a hundred yards, he slowed down probably thinking it was Malenko in his mirror. When he recognized her car, he pulled over and got out.

“What the hell are you doing?” Then he noticed Brendan in the car. “What’s he doing here?’

She got out. “He’s helping me find Dylan. Where is he?”

“Rachel …” he began.

She lurched at him and grabbed his shirt, ready to claw his face if he resisted her. “Where did they take him?”

“To his clinic.”

“Where? Where is his clinic?”

Martin looked startled by the intensity on her face. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”

“What were you doing in his car?”

“That’s where we met. He called me from the road and said to meet him.”

“You came up here to warn him about me.”

“Yeah, and to give him the rest of the money.”

“Christ!
Get in. GET IN.”

“But my car.”

“GET IN!” she screamed.

Brendan jumped into the back seat as Martin got in front. Rachel squealed into a fast U-turn and raced back upshore. The lights of two cars burned in the distance.

Martin had no idea where they were performing the procedure, but it would happen within a few hours. “Rachel, I think we should talk, and talk privately.”

In the back seat Brendan had the map out. “The shore road connects back to 123,” he said to Rachel.

Highway 123. That leads back toward the camp
, she thought.

If they didn’t intercept Lucius Malenko there, she’d call the police no matter what.

“Rachel, we’ve been through this. It’s the best thing.”

“Martin, I don’t want them to lay a finger on him, do you understand? It’s bad, it’s wrong, it’s lousy with problems.” Then she reached over and pushed the tape recorder from Vanessa Watts in his hands. “Listen to her. And when you’re through, listen to Brendan.”

Reluctantly Martin raised the tape recorder to his ear. After listening he said, “But she was half-crazed when she made that.”

“Goddamn you, Martin!” Rachel screamed. “She wasn’t crazed. She was pouring her heart out.” She looked into the rearview mirror. “Brendan, tell him what they did to you.”

And while she drove trying to keep from backhanding Martin, Brendan told him about his condition, about the torment of living in his own mind. About wanting to end his life. “Maybe I w-would have been screwed up anyway, m-maybe not. But I think I lost more than I g-gained.”

Martin listened, the skin of his face looking as if it had been stretched. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know.”

Rachel was too numb to respond. She raced back to Camp Tarabec. At one point, Martin said half to himself, “Maybe we can still get our money back.”

“Is that your only concern?” she asked.

“Of course not, but still …”

Nothing else was said, and twenty minutes later they arrived at the camp. By then, the sky was black.

Rachel stopped at the crossroad where the signs pointed left and right. She turned left toward the lodge. The lights were still on, but in the dark and rain nobody was outside. Slowly, she passed the lodge toward a small service road that led to some rear cabins and to the dead end. No red Porsche in sight. She turned around and headed back, passing the lodge.

Instead of taking a right back onto the entrance road, she continued straight toward the dock. Cabin lights glowed. But nobody was about. And no cars. Rachel continued all the way to the dock, the lightless boathouse on the left.

“There’s nobody here,” Martin said.

But Rachel wasn’t satisfied. She jumped out of the car and ran to the dock. Two small runabout outboards were moored alongside. The boathouse was black, so was the nearby dock shack. But for two exterior lights, the place was dead.

Under an opaque sky, the water spread before her like corrugated lava. In the distance, where the island sat, a dim yellow light glowed. She started back toward the car, when she stopped in her tracks. The large black structure of the boathouse pulled at her. She crossed to the front. The door was locked, but in the headlights from her car she could make out the interior. The red Porsche.

“He’s here,” she said.

“He is?” Martin walked over to her as Brendan headed to the dock. “So what are we going to do? There must be fifty cabins here.”

Rachel’s mind raced. Malenko had warned them that he wouldn’t tolerate any breach of confidentiality—which was probably why his people at the lodge back there denied recognizing his name. And Dylan’s. If they called the local police, what would they say—that their son was being illegally operated on by a neurosurgeon they had hired and paid and with whom they dropped off their son? Or that they changed their mind at the last minute? And what was the crime but their own foolishness? Besides, if the police showed up and word got out to Malenko wherever he was, he might harm Dylan. Or deny he had him?

Besides, the nearest police station could be miles from here. And they had no idea where Malenko had gone or where Dylan was.

“He t-t-took the boat.”

Rachel looked over to Brendan. “What?”

“There was a boat here earlier. A big white p-power boat with twin Mercury engines.”

Rachel glanced out over the water to the yellow light burning in the gloom. She could not hear any sound but the wind.

She moved to the dock. “What about one of those?” Two skiffs with small outboards attached to the transoms.

“We can’t just take it,” Martin said.

She got in and began to feel around the motor. “Does it need a key?”

“N-n-no. It’s got a p-pull cord.”

Martin stood frozen for a moment. “What are you doing? That’s private property.”

“Untie it, goddamn it,” Rachel snapped.

“This is crazy.”

“Then stay here.”

Martin looked at them for a moment, then removed the rope from the dock cleat. Rachel found the cord, hoping to get away before somebody discovered them. At the moment, nobody was around, and the nearest cabin was a hundred yards away.

But in the distance, she heard a car approach.

“Hurry.”

Brendan pumped the fuel bulb on the line a few times then pulled the cord. The engine started up instantly. And Rachel whispered a prayer of thanks and sat beside Brendan at the throttle arm.

From her bag she found her small penlight and gave it to Martin to guide them through to open water. He no longer protested and kept the flash low, as Brendan pulled them away from the dock.

They were maybe a hundred feet into the water, when the headlights of a car flickered through the trees to the dock. Suddenly its lights went out.

Martin killed the flash, though the sound of the motor filled the air. Brendan cut the motor.

But Rachel said, “No,” and took the throttle, pulling them into the black water, guided by the dim yellow light on the island and the pulse of her own heart.

T
hey were soaked and cold by the time they reached the island.

Rachel throttled down to a low putter as they rounded the thick eastern flank. Through the growth, they could see lights from a small dock at the water’s edge. Roped alongside of it was the long white powerboat they had seen earlier at the camp dock. In the shadows beyond sat a twin-engine floatplane.

Rachel killed the motor as Brendan and Martin paddled to the dock.

Set back on a rise under a canopy of trees was a large two-story building, the interior lights burning. Every instinct told her that her son was here.

God, let us be in time.

They tied up to the dock then got out. Except for the wind in the trees, the only other sound was the water slurping under the dock like some demon beast licking its chops.

Slowly they moved to the house—a dark sprawling structure that was probably an old fishing lodge. A deep porch wrapped around the front with chairs and tables; a set of stairs led to the front entrance. In the open yard to the right was a small playground area with a set of swings, climbing structures, and a sandbox. Nearby sat what looked like a length of a child’s slide against a pile of cinder blocks.

As they approached the front stairs, twin spotlights snapped on from above, catching them in full glare.

“That’s far enough.”

A man stood in the shadows.

Because of the blinding lights, he appeared a clotted shadow. But as he
got closer, Rachel could see he was tall. “This is private property.” He held a shotgun on them.

“We’re looking for Lucius Malenko,” Rachel said, hoping that the man would recognize the name and let them in. But he said nothing, nor did he move.

“He has our son.”

Still no response. And the only sound was the high wind and the rain pelting the building.

“Do you understand me?” she said. “Dr. Malenko knows us. We’re here to get our son.”

The man leaned the shotgun against a tree, then removed a pistol from his hip holster. He came up to Martin and poked the gun at him. “Turn around,” he said and snapped open a pair of handcuffs.

“Look, this isn’t necessary,” Martin protested. “Just tell the doctor that we’re here. The name’s Whitman. Martin Whitman.”

“Turn around.”

“Please, we’re friends,” Martin pleaded. “I was with him just an hour ago.”

“If I tell you again, I’m going to hurt you.”

Martin looked at Rachel and slowly turned around.

“Please, we didn’t mean to intrude,” Rachel said. “We’re just here for our son.”

But the man disregarded her and began to fix a cuff onto Martin’s wrist.

Suddenly there was the sound of movement, then a dull
thwack
—and the man plunged forward onto Martin, knocking them both onto the ground.

Rachel turned in disbelief. From out of shadows, someone had sprung on the guy and whacked him across the base of the skull with an oar.

Officer Greg Zakarian.

Martin pushed the guy off him. And Zakarian came down on the man’s back with his knee and snapped the cuffs on him. The man groaned half-consciously.

“Is Malenko here?” Zakarian asked.

“Yes. And he has our son.”

Zakarian removed the pistol from the guard’s grip then found some shotgun cartridges in his vest and stuffed them into his own pocket. He then rolled the guy over and found a set of keys in another pocket as well as a long metal tube.

“What’s that?” Rachel asked.

He sniffed it, then looked through the hole at the end. “A silencer.”

A silencer?
Rachel thought. The man was prepared to shoot people and
not be heard.
And why out here on a remote island?
She wondered.
What the hell kind of people were they dealing with?

Brendan helped Zakarian drag the man to the swing set. With one of the keys, they recuffed him to one of the steel support poles. When he was finished, Zakarian took the shotgun from Martin. He opened the chamber to see if it was loaded. It was.

“Why do they have your son?”

“They’re going to do a brain operation.”

Zakarian nodded without surprise.

“Why did you follow me?” Rachel asked.

“Because I think this Malenko can tell us about some missing children.”

A shudder passed through Rachel. She wasn’t sure what he knew, but she said a silent prayer of thanks that he was here.

Zakarian pulled out his cell phone from a hip case and punched 911. But out here on an island surrounded by water and woods, he had difficulty making a connection. Several times he repeated his message, identifying himself as a Massachusetts police officer in an emergency situation. He gave their location—an island in Lake Tarabec offshore from the camp—and asked for backup. When he got off, he shook his head. “I don’t think I got through.” He cocked the shotgun. “I’m going to go in. The rest of you stay here.”

“Sure,” Martin said.

“Like hell,” Rachel said. Zakarian began to tuck the gunman’s pistol into his belt. “Let me have that.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am,” Zakarian said.

But she yanked it out of his belt. “My son is in there.” She held the gun with the barrel aimed at him.

He studied her face for a moment. “Have you ever fired a pistol before?”

“No.”

He looked to Martin and Brendan. “What about you?”

Martin shook his head, but Brendan said he had done some skeet shooting a couple times with his grandfather.

He nodded and gauged the look on Rachel’s face. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that, but if it does: two hands, aim, and squeeze.” And he showed her the stance.

She nodded and started up the steps, but Zakarian pulled them to the side of the building. Inside lamps glowed, but there was no sign of life—no—body peering out the windows, no shadows moving against the walls. But for the wind and light rain, the place was dead silent.

They cut around to a door at the rear of the building. They could see nobody inside. Martin opened the door as Zakarian led the way shotgun first.

They had entered an empty kitchen.

What immediately struck Rachel were all the children’s effects—plastic drinking cups with cartoon animals, a bunch of small toys and figurines in a box on the floor, cartons of kids’ cereal on the shelves, packages of cookies. But they all seemed like stagecraft. No crayon art on the fridge, no happy kids’ photos tacked up.

Off the kitchen to their left was a hallway leading to the front of the lodge, a dining room on one side, a library of sorts on the other, the living room making up the whole front of the house.

Zakarian led the way, with Rachel behind him and Martin and Brendan behind her. As they moved into the interior, Rachel could hear a deep hum, just above the threshold of awareness. It seemed to emanate from under the building.

Zakarian pointed the shotgun toward the back room. Rachel turned the knob, and he nodded her back, then kicked the door open. An empty mud room, but with another door that could only lead downstairs. It was locked. With the keys he had taken off the guard, Zakarian got the door to open.

Rachel’s heart was pounding so hard she half-expected her ribs to crack. Every fiber of her being told her that Dylan was here. And on some instinctive level she was drawn not into the house or upstairs but toward the source of that deep-bellied hum from below.

Zakarian slowly pulled open the door. A quick look with the shotgun. Nobody.

A dozen stairs led down to the bright interior below. Zakarian began to descend with Rachel, Martin, and Brendan in tow.

The humming became louder and the air became cooler as they descended.

The sight at the bottom was startling. In contrast to the dark, rustic interior of the lodge, they were in a large underground complex that ran off a brightly lit corridor with a clean tiled floor and fluorescent lights running the length of the place. At intervals along the corridor were dormitorylike rooms—twelve, six on a side—each with its own numbered door and viewing window, some with venetian blinds up, some down. Like diorama exhibits in a museum.

Slowly they made their way, following the steady low-grade electronic groan emanating from someplace at the corridor’s end.

The first room on the right was empty, but it was clearly designed for children. The walls were painted with cartoon figures, toys were scattered all over
the place, and a TV monitor was playing some animal show, with no sound.

Brendan stopped for a moment at the first window, staring at a large stuffed elephant doll sitting on a beanbag chair. He seemed transfixed. “Mr. Nisha,” he muttered to himself.

Martin nudged Rachel. In the room across the hall was a little girl. She was sitting on the floor, her head bobbing. Although the door was closed, Rachel could faintly hear the girl grunting as she rocked in place staring blankly at the wall. She was tethered by one foot to a metal clip on the floor. On her shirt was a name tag: TANYA. Her head, which had been shaved, was speckled with scabs along the sides. She wore a red wristband.

Rachel wasn’t certain the child could see her, or if the glass was one-way, but for a brief moment, the child stared at Rachel. Her eyes were like burnt-out fuses.

“My God,” Zakarian whispered.

Across the hall, Brendan was looking at another child, a little boy whose head was also shaved and scabbed. Blood ran down the side of his face where he had picked. Like the girl, he wore a red wristband. He was sitting in the corner looking at a spot on the floor. His body was twitching and he was drooling on himself. It was not Dylan.

Rachel held her breath and moved down the hall beside Zakarian with Brendan and Martin behind.

The next four rooms were empty. But the last two rooms had a child in each. Through the window on the right, a little girl was staring blankly at the TV monitor. She wore a green wristband. In the room across the hall, a little boy was curled up asleep on the floor in his underpants. His head had been shaved, but it was not Dylan. A red wristband was fastened around his wrist. They were color-coded. A name tag lay on the table. DANIEL. The little boy from earlier this evening—the one who mistook Rachel for his mother.

Rachel groaned, feeling as if she were in the midst of something unspeakable.

The humming at the very end of the corridor pulled her away. Its source was on the right behind two swinging doors with narrow glass panels through which they could see bright lights.

“Stay behind me,” Zakarian said.

With the pistol firmly gripped and Martin and Brendan beside her, Rachel held her breath as Zakarian pushed their way through, shotgun poised.

They froze.

They had entered an operating room, humming with electronic equipment. Clustered under two separate domes of lights were two groups of people in green
scrubs standing around twin operating tables, each supporting a body whose head was locked in heavy metal frames, above which were television monitors casting scans of their brains with coordinates and lines indicating the paths of the stereotaxic probes. A man in street clothes sat at one of the computers.

Rachel could not tell if the patients were boys or if one of them was Dylan because the faces were blocked by the apparatus attached to their skulls. But the child on the right was wearing a green wristband, the other a red one.

Besides the deep hum, the only other sound was a kind of high-pitched whirring—like that of a dentist’s drill. Two of them were positioned on stands with metal arcs, viewing scopes, and long probes aimed at the children’s heads.

Zzzzzrrrrrrr.

The sound of the drills shot through Rachel.

“Police! Don’t anybody move,” Zakarian shouted.

The team of people under the lights looked up. And standing by the monitors of the brain scans, directing the operations, was a large man in street clothes.

Lucius Malenko.

Seeing the four of them standing there in horrid disbelief, Malenko coolly announced, “We seem to have uninvited company.”

“Drop the masks and keep your hands high,” Zakarian said, fanning them with the shotgun.

The surgical team was made up of six people—two teams of three and dressed in scrubs, caps, and masks. But nobody moved.

“NOW!” he growled.

Malenko nodded to them, and slowly one by one they began to remove their masks.

Rachel let out a gasp. They were children.

The surgical operating teams were all children—kids in their teens.

One was so short that he had to stand on a low footstool to adjust some instrument affixed to the head of one patient.

BOOK: GRAY MATTER

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