In the center of all this was what looked like a lodge, but between her and the building were a pair of closed gates. She pulled the car up to the gates, rolled down the window and pressed a button on a large metal box mounted on an iron post. A moment later a male voice scratched from a speaker within the box: "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Dr. Ames," Sharon said, her voice a little louder than she'd intended. "My name is Sharon Tanner. I'm Mark Tanner's mother."
"One moment, please," the voice replied. The speaker went dead. The seconds ticked by, and after nearly a minute, Sharon wondered if she was, indeed, at the right place. She was considering what to do when the speaker came to life again; at the same time, the gates began to swing open.
"Just park in front of the building and come in the front door, Mrs. Tanner," the disembodied voice instructed her.
She took her foot off the brake and drove slowly down the drive, impressed with what she saw, even in spite of her anger. It was a graceful building, fitting well into the surroundings of the rising mountains, and whatever it was all about, it was obviously successful. She parked the car, hurried up the front steps and across the wide veranda, pushing through the heavy glass door into the lobby. A smiling woman who wore a lab coat open over a tailored dress was waiting for her.
"Mrs. Tanner?" the woman asked, then went on without waiting for a reply. "I'm Marjorie Jackson, Dr. Ames's assistant. Everyone calls me Marge. Won't you come with me?"
Sharon's lips tightened, but despite her urge to vent the anger that had been building inside her, she found herself obediently following Marge Jackson through the lobby and what was apparently a dining room, then down a hall into one of the building's large wings. "It seems awfully empty, doesn't it?" Marge asked, glancing back at Sharon. "But you should see it during the season. Last summer we had to feed the boys in two shifts!"
A minute later Sharon found herself being led into a suite of offices. Marge Jackson seated herself behind a desk. "I assume you're here to see"-she paused to glance down at a file on the desk in front of her-"Mark, isn't it?"
"I'm here for a lot more than that," Sharon replied, her voice cool. She was pleased to see Marjorie Jackson's smile fade uncertainly away.
"I beg your pardon?" she said. "I'm afraid I don't understand-is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Sharon repeated, making no attempt to veil her anger. "Why should anything be wrong? I left my son in County Hospital this morning, and by lunchtime I find he's been moved. Nobody asked me-nobody even told me! And you want to know if something's wrong?"
Marge Jackson's uncertain expression gave way to one of genuine concern, and suddenly Sharon felt foolish. Whatever had happened, it obviously wasn't this woman's fault. Letting out her breath in an explosive sigh, she sank into a chair and apologized. As briefly as she could, she explained exactly what had happened. By the time she was done, Marge Jackson was nodding sympathetically.
"But how terrible for you," she said. "If my husband had done something like that, I think I'd kill him. But I'm sure it was just a mix-up, and I can tell you that everything's just fine."
"But why was Mark brought here?" Sharon asked. "It all seems so, well, so unnecessary."
"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to Dr. Ames about that," Marge replied. Her expression brightened and she nodded toward someone who had just come through the door. "Here he is now. Dr. Ames, this is Sharon Tanner, Mark's mother."
Sharon rose to her feet, surprised to find a genial-looking man in his mid-forties-with gray eyes that fairly twinkled as he smiled at her-extending his hand. She automatically accepted the greeting, only then realizing that subconsciously she had expected some sort of Machiavellian monster who had coldly abducted her son and would now make smooth excuses for what he'd done.
Ames ushered her into his office, offered her a cup of coffee, and after listening to her story, assured her it was his own fault. "I should have had Marge call you myself, just to make sure you knew what was going on. And call me Marty," he added. "Everybody else does, even a lot of the kids." He smiled, then leaned back in his chair. "Anyway," he went on, "you'll be glad to know that there's nothing wrong with Mark."
"I already knew that," Sharon told him. "Dr.MacCallum worked on him most of the night, you know."
Ames looked abashed. "I know, and I certainly didn't mean to imply that there's anything wrong with Mac. There isn't. In fact, he's a damned good doctor."
"Then why did my husband want you to see Mark, Dr. Ames?" Sharon asked, not yet won over.
Ames shrugged. "I suppose he just wanted a second opinion," he said. "And I assume Jerry Harris told him that my specialty is working with kids who have had physical and developmental problems."
Sharon was startled. So she'd been right, at least partially. Blake was, indeed, still looking for a way to overcome the residual effects of Mark's rheumatic fever. "And do you have an opinion?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice neutral.
Marty Ames spread his hands noncommittally. "It's hard to say, really. But I've given him a complete examination, and I'm pleased to be able to tell you that there's nothing seriously the matter with him. In fact, given his early medical history, he's remarkably healthy."
Sharon felt herself relax. "Then when can I take him home?" she asked.
"No reason you can't take him home now," Ames said pleasantly. "I've given him some codeine to keep the pain in his ribs from bothering him. In a couple of days he should be as good as new."
Sharon stared at Ames. This was it? She'd built herself into such a fury, been so certain that somehow Blake and this doctor had cooked up some sort of scheme. And now…
"Tell you what," Ames said, standing. "Why don't I give you a tour of the place, show you what we're doing out here. By the time we're done, Mark should be all set to go."
"I don't really think I need a tour," Sharon began, but Ames held up a protesting hand.
"We kidnapped your son, remember?" he asked. "The least we can do is set your mind at ease."
To her own surprise, Sharon found herself obediently following Ames out of his office and listening intently as he gave her a tour of the facility and spoke about the summer program.
"What I try to do," he said as they entered a gym filled with equipment the like of which Sharon had never seen before, "is treat each of the kids as an individual. It's always seemed to me that to claim there's a single diet, or exercise regimen, or even medication that will work for every kid, is just plain nuts. And since almost every kid who comes here has a special problem of one sort or another, I try never to view them as simply kids. They're individuals, and have to be treated as such."
Sharon paused, staring at a stationary exercise bicycle that had a large screen curved around its front. "What on earth is that for?" she asked, pointing to the screen.
Ames grinned. "Ever used one of those things?" he asked.
Sharon nodded. "I tried one a few years ago. Bought the bike, used it about three times, and sold it. It was the most boring thing I've ever done in my life."
"Try this one," Ames suggested. Sharon hesitated, but then, curious, mounted the bike. To her surprise, she found that the handlebars were not stationary, but moved easily both left and right. Ames crossed to a small computer console and switched it on. "Like San Francisco?" he asked.