Sheila glanced at her watch. “Oops. Gotta run.”
Before Rachel knew it, Sheila grabbed her water bottle and towel and gave Rachel an air kiss. “I’ll check for you and get back. See you at the game Saturday. Thorndyke Field at ten.” She meant the weekly soccer games for the town kids.
Rachel watched Sheila hustle across the room. She had a place to show across town in half an hour, surely not enough time to shower and change. In fact, she wasn’t even sweaty. So why did she even bother to work out?
It was another fitful night for Rachel. She woke up several times in a cold sweat, her heart racing and mind tormented by the thought that she had traded her son’s brain for good sex.
At one point she almost shook Martin awake and told him everything. But that would only have made things worse. No, this was her doing, and the punishment was hers to suffer alone. Besides, Martin would never forgive her. Never. And she could not blame him.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she decided she would call Dr. Stanley Chu in the morning. According to the Newsweek piece, he was the man who had headed up the research on TNT mutagenics. Maybe he could help. Maybe if he knew the nature of the damage he could figure out a treatment—some corrective measure, to use Sheila’s word.
By the time she got out of bed the next morning, the man had become an obsession. She waited until Martin took Dylan to day care. Then about nine-thirty she called information and got the main number of Yale School of Medicine, which gave her the extension of Dr. Stanley Chu. Trembling as if there were a shaft of ice at the core of her body, she dialed. A woman answered. “Neurology.”
“Yes, Dr. Stanley Chu, please.”
“Who may I ask is calling?”
For some reason Rachel could not get herself to announce her name. “I—I’m calling about his study on birth defects.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to talk to him about it, please … to make an appointment if that’s possible.”
“I’m sorry but Dr. Chu is out of town today and won’t be back until the end of the week. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’d like to speak directly with him. I can come to his office when he’s free.”
“What is your name, please?”
Now she couldn’t go back or she might be dismissed. “Rachel Whitman.”
“Ms. Whitman, Dr. Chu is very busy. So if you could please give me some idea what your interest is—if you’re a student, or a researcher, or a pharmaceutical rep …”
Before Rachel could think, she said, “I took LSD laced with TNT some years ago, and I’m concerned my child has been … affected.”
“I see.” There was a long pause. “He’s free next Wednesday at one,” she said, then gave directions to the office in New Haven.
When she hung up, Rachel’s eye fell on the baby picture of Dylan on the fireplace mantel. He was sitting in the bathtub covered with big puffs of bubblebath and laughing happily. He looked gorgeous.
According to the report on Chu’s study, two-thirds of the TNT women studied had given birth to children with birth defects, and half of those suf fered damage to the brains.
Not my baby.
Please, dear God …
When Rachel got off the phone, there was a message from Sheila to meet her at the Dells. She had some “important information” for her. So she drove to the club and went in the side entrance, which took her through the lounge.
Because it was a little after ten, the room was empty. But as she passed through, she spotted Brendan LaMotte behind the large mahogany bar with a buffing cloth. But instead of polishing glasses, he appeared to be slouched low with his back to her. As she walked by, she caught him unawares, sniffing from an open bottle of liquor. Startled, he capped the bottle and pretended to be wiping it clean and lining it on the shelves.
Rachel did not want to make a scene, so she continued through the lounge with no more than a chirpy “hello” which was her cue that being underage, he would be fired if caught.
Sheila was waiting for her at a table. A waitress came over and took their orders and left.
“Here you go,” Sheila said and pulled out one of her business cards. On the back she had written: “Nova Children’s Center.”
Also, a telephone number and address: “452 Franklin Avenue, Myrtle.” That was a town between Hawthorne and Gloucester.
“So, what is the place?”
“A complete child-care center with therapists, child psychologists, pediatricians, development experts, neurologists, whatever. The whole shebang for kids.”
“You mean a clinic?”
“Well, kind of. But it’s very unique.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” But then again she had only lived in the area for six months. “So, what makes them so unique?”
Rachel lowered her voice. “Well, what I know is that they can help children with learning disorders and, you know, neurological problems, brain dysfunctions. Stuff like that. Some kind of enhancement procedures.”
“Enhancement procedures?”
“Yeah, for kids with memory and information-processing problems. Whatever.”
Sheila was being vague again, probably not to offend Rachel with the suggestion that Dylan had a neurological disorder. “You said something about corrective procedures.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve heard they can, you know … raise a kid’s IQ—maybe even double it.”
“Double it! That’s not possible.”
Sheila rolled her eyes in frustration. “Look, sweetie, I don’t know the ins and outs, so I don’t want to mislead and all. But they’ve got all kinds of programs, procedures, and stuff—I’m not sure of the details—but what I do know is that they’re very exclusive, if you know what I mean. Like they don’t take just anybody, and they’re très expensive. But you got their number, so why don’t you just call them and make an appointment and bring in all your questions, okay?”
“How do you know so much about them?”
“Because this is a small town and I’ve lived here for twenty years is how come. Look, give them a call, they’re supposed to be the best, and they’re in your own backyard. If Dylan’s got a problem, he can be fixed.”
“Whom do I ask for?”
Sheila lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Lucius Malenko.”
“Who?”
Sheila wrote the name on the card. “He’s one of the directors. You’re going to want to talk to him eventually, but first you’ll have to bring Dylan in to be tested so they can see what his problems are. So, call and make an appointment. You can’t lose.”
Rachel thanked her and stared at the name. Lucius Malenko.
“If Dylan’s got a problem, he can be fixed.”
16
It was a little before noon when Greg showed up at the Essex Medical Center. He would have put it off until the evening, but Nurse Cynthia Porter and the others were working the ER day shift. Instead of reporting to Lieutenant Gelford where he was heading, Greg slipped out of the barracks and headed north.
He met Nurse Porter in a small conference room in the ER complex. With her was a radiologist, introduced as Dr. Adrian Budd, and a resident physician, Dr. Paul Doria. They were there at Nurse Porter’s request.
Greg sat down opposite them and removed from his briefcase the photographs of the skulls, including the computer schematics with the holes marked. “There’s a pattern of evidence that may shed light on what happened to these kids,” he said, and he described the circumstances surrounding each of the remains.