Six (20 page)

“What was that?”
asked Emma as she ran beside Parker.

“Not now,”
said Parker, whose only concern was getting out of the convention center unseen. He stopped abruptly at the end of the corridor and peered out across the main room. There was no sign of Anteater—just crowds of people milling around the stalls and, only a few feet away, Brendan—who appeared to be posing for pictures with an excited group of women in front of a poster of Moldovan's Driver. Parker had enough time to briefly acknowledge the uncanny similarity between the two before Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“They're coming out!” said Michael.

Parker leaned forward and watched the doors of Hall 2 opening. The shouts of the audience spilled out. Everybody in the main area stopped and turned to watch as Anteater was dragged, kicking and screaming, in the opposite direction.

Michael ripped off his frog mask and pushed it into Emma's hand.

“They're not looking for me,” explained Michael as he ran forward. Parker watched Michael sprint over to Brendan and pull him by the arm. On seeing the panicked look on Michael's face, Brendan made his apologies and let Michael drag him away. Parker heard the disappointed moans from the line that had formed next to the poster.

*  *  *  *  *  *

“What's going to happen to her?”
signed Emma as they ran to the parked car and climbed inside.

They had explained to Brendan what had happened as they'd run out, and he started the car immediately. He spun the car around and was already driving off before Parker had a chance to respond to Emma.

“I don't know,” said Parker.

Michael was looking at his phone. “Shall we send her a message?”

“No!” said Parker. “No way. They'll see it.”

“We can't just leave her,”
signed Emma.

“What are we supposed to do?” asked Parker. “We don't even know her real name.”

“Green. Something Green,” said Michael. He sighed. “It's not enough.”

“She'll get in touch,” said Brendan from the front. “Don't worry. She'll be fine.”

Parker knew that there was no way that Brendan could be sure of that, but he also knew that there was nothing that they could do right now.

“We'll wait till tomorrow and send her a message. They might have let her go by then.”

Nobody responded, and Parker wondered if they all thought this was as unlikely as he did.

Hilda was waiting on the steps outside the driveway on their return. She looked furious.

“Where have you been?” she asked Michael as he stepped out of the car. “You're supposed to be sick.” She turned to Parker and Emma. “And why are they here?”

Before Michael could answer her, Brendan, who was still riding high from his five minutes of fame, swept her up into his arms and planted a great big kiss on her lips.

“Brendan! What's got into you? Not in front of the children!”

Hilda pushed Brendan away, but she wasn't able to hide the smile on her face.

Brendan stepped back to admire his wife. “You look beautiful. Did you do something to your hair?”

Hilda blushed and ran her hand over her hair. “This? Nothing, really, I just put it . . .” She remembered she was supposed to be annoyed and, shaking her head, turned back to Michael. “What were you doing?”

Michael hesitated and Brendan jumped in.

“Their dad's been called away to work last minute. I said I'd pick them up from school and that they could stay here.”

“Nobody said anything to me,” said Hilda.

“Michael called me. They've got nowhere to go to. Just a few days.”

Hilda shook her head despairingly. “I'll have to check with your parents, but I'm sure it'll be fine. I suppose you'll all want something to eat.”

They all nodded enthusiastically.

“Lucky I made plenty then,” she said. She walked back into the house, and Brendan turned to give them a thumbs-up before following her in.

*  *  *  *  *  *

The memory stick did not provide anything like the kind of information that Parker had been hoping for. Parker opened up file after file of scanned newspaper clippings and articles from the Web, all on much the same theme.

“  ‘Market Crisis,'  ” read Parker. He closed it and opened up the next. “  ‘Greek Bailout Denied.'  ”

And the next. “  ‘Bankrupt Ireland.'  ”

And another. “  ‘Global Warming Research Funding Slashed.'  ”

“It just goes on and on,” said Parker. As Anteater had failed to name each file, however, Parker had no choice but to keep on opening each one in turn, in case one offered something different.

“  ‘UK Economic Disaster. US Financial Crisis Worsens,'  ” continued Parker until, about halfway through, he finally found something. He turned and found that both Emma and Michael had lost interest and were both looking at Michael's computer, smiling.

“What are you doing?” asked Parker.

Michael and Emma turned to Parker, both with guilty looks on their faces. Behind them, a video clip of a kangaroo doing a backflip was playing on a loop.

Parker was not amused. “This is serious!” he said. “I'm trying to find our dad!”

Michael and Emma both dropped their heads. “Sorry,” mumbled Michael.

Parker shook his head and turned back to the computer. “I found this.”

Michael and Emma gathered around him and read the photographed clipping; it was from a local newspaper appealing for any information on Solomon Gladstone.

“It doesn't help,” said Michael.

“It's got a phone number to call. That's something. Shall I try it?”

Michael and Emma nodded, and Parker reached out and picked up Michael's cell phone.

“Wait!” said Michael. He grabbed the phone from Parker and tapped it a few times before handing it back.

“I turned off caller ID,” said Michael. “Just in case.”

“Good idea,” said Parker. He turned to the screen and started to tap in the telephone number.

“Wait!” said Michael again.

“What now?” asked Parker.

“Disguise your voice.”

“Why?”

“You have an English accent. And you're obviously a kid. If you're calling the wrong person, they're going to put two and two together.”

Parker sighed but nodded. Michael had a point.

“I can't do accents though,” said Parker.

Michael was running over to a closet on the other side of the room. “You don't have to,” he said as he rifled through one of the drawers. He pulled out a small yellow megaphone and ran back over.

“What's this?” asked Parker, turning the object over in his hand.

“It's a voice changer,” said Michael. He leaned over and switched it on. “Try it. Say something.”

Parker lifted the voice changer up to his mouth and spoke hesitantly.
“Myyyy naaaame isss . . .”

The voice came out as a piercing alien squeal.

Emma laughed at Michael's and Parker's horrified reactions. Michael took it from Parker and adjusted the dial.

“Okay. That should be better.”

Parker tried it again.

“My name is Parker.”

This time the voice sounded deep and robotic. It could almost pass as a grown man's voice, albeit a deeply menacing one.

“That'll do,” said Parker. He pressed call and waited.

The phone rang and rang until, finally, someone answered.

“Hello?” said an old lady's voice.

“Hello. Can I speak to Solomon Gladstone, please?” said Parker into the voice changer.

“Say that again, dear. I'm a little hard of hearing.”

“Solomon Gladstone,” boomed Parker.

“Benjamin Gladstone?”

“No! So-lo-mon Gladstone.”

“Oh! Solomon Gladstone!”

The old woman paused.

“Never heard of him.”

Parker sighed. He pursed his lips and shook his head at Emma and Michael.

“One moment. Bert! Do you know a Solomon Gladstone?”

“Who's asking?”

“I don't know. Hold on. Who's asking?”

“A friend,” said Parker.

“He says he's a friend!”

“Never heard of him!” shouted the old man. “Do they mean Harry Gladstone?”

Parker perked up.

“Do you mean Harry Gladstone?” repeated the old lady.

“Um. Yes?”

“Ah. I'm sorry, dear. Harry Gladstone died two years ago,” said the old woman.

“Did he have any family?”

“Bert! Did he have any family?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know? I think he had a brother.”

“We don't really know, dear. He might have had a brother. People come and go around here all the time. That's the problem with living in a retirement village. . . .”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“I've had to find three new bridge partners in the last year, if you can believe that.”

“Okay,” tried Parker again. “Thanks anyway.”

“I'm sorry about your friend Harry—I hope I haven't upset you.”

“No. It's fine.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘it's fine'! Thank you!”

“Thank you, dear. It was lovely chatting with you.”

The old woman put the phone down, and Parker let out a groan of frustration.

Emma put her hand on his shoulder and unmuted Effie.
Don't worry, Parker. It's going to be fine. We'll find him.

Parker nodded, more in appreciation of her concern than in agreement. The amount of time that had passed and the lack of information they had gathered were beginning to weigh down on Parker, but for once he didn't feel the need to inject his reality onto her optimism, however misguided he was beginning to think it was.

“I'll keep checking,” mumbled Parker. He turned to the screen and continued to run through the files—all back on the theme of recession—until he reached the final one. It was, he noticed as he clicked on it, the only one that was a different file type. A spreadsheet opened up.

Michael and Emma—who had not left his side this time, probably for fear of being told off by Parker—leaned in to read. The spreadsheet was titled “Personnel List: Avecto.”

Parker perked up and scrolled down.

“It must be old,” said Parker. “Dad isn't on it.”

Solomon Gladstone, however, was. Alongside his name and date of birth was an address—not too far from the Avecto headquarters where his father had worked—and a phone number.

“I might as well try it,” said Parker. He picked up the phone and took the voice changer from Michael. He dialed the number and waited as the phone began to ring.

“No answer,” said Parker finally. He paused for a moment and tried again. “Still no answer,” he said. He dropped his head.

“Try again in a bit,”
signed Emma.
“They're probably at work.”

Parker shook his head. “I'll just keep trying.” He rang again. This time someone answered the phone after the first ring.

“I'm busy. What do you want?” shouted a woman as Parker scrambled to grab the voice changer from the desk. In the background he heard a baby crying.

“Could I speak to Solomon Gladstone, please?”

“No. He doesn't live here. Okay. Bye.”

“Please!” he shouted, forgetting about the voice changer.

For a moment Parker wasn't sure if the woman had hung up.

“Why?”

“Please, I just need to find him. I need his help.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve,” answered Parker. He realized how upset he sounded, but he couldn't help himself.

“Solomon Gladstone used to own this house,” said the woman. Her voice was gentler. “It was repossessed three years ago. We bought it from the bank.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I'm so sorry. I don't know anything. We never got a forwarding address for him.”

Parker gulped. “Okay, thank you,” he mumbled. He hung up and muted Effie so that Emma couldn't hear him. “We're never going to find him,” he muttered with his head down.

“Don't say that!” said Michael, sitting back in his chair. He turned to the computer. “There are other things we haven't tried yet. Didn't Anteater say he was locked up?”

Parker nodded.

“So let's just try searching for him there.”

“Where?”

“Well,
obviously
, I don't know that. But we can start by searching for—what's the right word for
asylum
?”

“  ‘Psychiatric hospital'? Something like that.”

Michael turned to his keyboard and typed something in.

“Okay, there are seventeen listed in New York State. Four in this part of the state.”

“He could be anywhere, though,” said Parker miserably. The constant dead ends they had been hitting were beginning to take their toll.

“Maybe. But he lived and worked near here. It makes sense he wouldn't be too far, right?”

Parker shrugged. He wasn't convinced, but it was as good a place as any.

“Now,” said Michael, typing in something else, “we just need to find the patient lists.”

“How are you going to do that?”
signed Emma.
“They won't give them out.”

For the first time in a long time, Parker smiled.
“Just watch,”
he signed.

It took Michael only twenty minutes to hack into the servers of all four hospitals. A few minutes after that, the printer was churning out page after page of patient records.

“Schools and hospitals are always the easiest,” said Michael. Nevertheless, he looked very pleased with himself.

“How many pages?”

Michael checked. “Four hundred eighty-nine. Some of them are outpatients, but I thought I'd print them all out, just in case.”