“Okay,” said Melanie. “That’s a lot to take in, but I have seen that he needs to talk to someone.”
“I’m also going to write down this product for you,” said Dr. Stuart.
“A prescription?” Melanie wrinkled her brow. She was willing to accept some minor counseling, but didn’t like the idea of medicating kids who had trouble sleeping.
“No.” Dr. Stuart laughed. “It’s a deodorant. This one is mild and natural and it smells like fresh laundry. Should help him blend in a little better.”
“Oh.” Melanie exhaled.
“I know,” said the doctor. “It’s hard to accept your little boy is growing up so fast. Finally, we should talk about the tests.”
“You have results?” she asked, confused.
“No, not yet. But I want to make sure that when we get the results we have the right set of eyes looking at them.”
“Of course,” agreed Melanie.
“Here’s the thing: as you may have already guessed, I’m not the biggest fan of the insurance companies.”
“Who is?” she asked.
“In your case, if I refer you to someone in your network to analyze these results, we’re not going to get the most detailed, informed answers,” said Dr. Stuart.
“No?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Then what?” Melanie asked.
“I’d like to bring in an old friend of mine. He strictly a research guy, he doesn’t have patients—more like IDs on a clipboard, but I’m thinking that if anyone can give us an answer, it will be him.”
“Okay,” said Melanie, but she chewed on a fingernail.
“That makes you nervous?”
“A little?”
“If we don’t get good answers—something we can fully test and prove out—we’ll go straight on to one of the doctors in your network and go a more conventional route.”
“I trust you, Dr. Stuart. I feel like you’re being straight with me. Let’s give it a shot,” said Melanie.
“Okay, great,” he said. “I’ll get his schedule and have reception get in touch.”
“Thank you,” said Melanie.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mike
AFTER THE DEPOSITION, Mike rode north on I-93 into the mountains of New Hampshire. He tried to focus on his finances—he was convinced that there must be some way he could pay off his loans and the damages he owed, and still have enough money to live. His bank account painted a bleak picture. It had steadily declined since the day Gary died. In the fire, Mike had lost his van, his equipment, all the findings that supported his research, and his friend. All that he had left were debts, legal bills, and hateful phone calls from Gary’s family.
The urge to flee had been overwhelming. Until he passed through Manchester he hadn’t realized what should have been perfectly obvious: he was headed directly towards the energy source that Gary had pinpointed. Mike took this as a sign from his subconscious and stopped at a gas station to spend most of his cash buying a map and filling up his thirsty vehicle. Before the pump clicked off, he had already found the town, the road, and the trail where Gary’s lines had intersected.
He took the exit written on his pad, and stopped at the first intersection. A big truck with giant tires pulled up behind him and honked its throaty horn. Mike waved the driver around and pulled the map into his lap. Studying the lines, he turned the map around several times, trying to construct directions to the trailhead.
Mike squeezed his temples and closed his eyes. The same image drifted in his imagination. Every time Mike closed his eyes or even blinked hard, he saw Gary. His dead friend wore a seasoned, experienced smile in his mind’s eye as his hair and eyes burned. Mike’s eyes flew open and he found perfectly normal New Hampshire roads. He pushed the map away and pulled up to the stop sign with his blinker on. The thought crossed his mind that eventually he might get a full night’s sleep, but it wouldn’t be any time soon.
THE PARKING LOT WAS EQUIPPED with steel poles flanking the entrance and a chain to keep out trespassers, but the chain lay on the ground. Mike pulled in and chose a spot not visible from the road. He shut off the engine and gripped the wheel before stepping out of his car.
This would be easier if I had one of the handheld detectors that Gary built, he thought.
Bill had taken those though. He had demanded them as part of the payout described in the contract should anything go awry with the investigation of his house. Mike remembered the arrogance with which he had signed the document. At that point he had thought there was nothing to lose. Pushing open his car door, Mike stepped out into a deep, muddy puddle. His loafer sunk, and the cold water flowed over the lip of his shoe, soaking his foot.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself.
Pushing away from the car, he stepped over the mud and made his way to the trunk. Inside, a backpack of fresh clothes sat—a remnant of his former late-night investigations. Mike sat on the lip of the trunk and changed clothes.
Katie’s betrayal hurt the most, even though he hadn’t talked to her in-person since the fire. His lawyer had briefed Mike that Katie’s statements would be read during his deposition, but he hadn’t guessed how clearly he would imagine her saying those terrible things. Mike remembered her deposition as he buttoned his flannel shirt.
“Did you ever see any unexplainable events?” she had been asked.
“No,” she replied, “but Mike tried to convince us that there were ghosts and spirits at all the houses we visited. In fact he had convinced Gary. That poor man totally believed everything Mike said.”
The next question seemed to refute her statements—“What about Bruce Wallace? He wrote about an event involving a dead grandmother in his newspaper column, and repeated those claims at an earlier interview.”
In her deposition, Katie had rebutted this evidence easily. “Bruce told us that he wanted to sell newspapers. In fact, Mike even told me that time that he didn’t see Bruce’s grandmother.”
Mike stood next to his car in the parking lot at the start of the Moose Cross Trail and told himself that a hike would help him clear his head. He pushed his keys deep into his front pocket, closed his trunk, and set off for the overgrown path.
HIS PROGRESS WAS SLOW, and Mike’s lungs soon burned with the exertion. The path took him winding down a forested hill until he passed close to a deep creek. For early May, the afternoon was heating up and the black flies enjoyed a healthy feast of every inch of exposed flesh. Mike knelt next to the creek and splashed cold water on his neck and forehead.
When he straightened up from his crouch, Mike found that the path branched ahead. To his left, the path wound up the hill, and to the right, it followed the creek. The tree between the two choices held a marker. His Moose Cross Trail stayed with the creek, and the other was labeled “The Ledges." Mike opted for upper route. Something about the thick smell of the cool water made him uncomfortable.
Mike’s new path took him out of the woods and into the open, amidst loose white rocks broken from the battered cliffs. He blinked back the bright sun reflecting off the rocks and pulled his folded map from his back pocket. It lacked the detail he needed to be precise, but an inset of the area showed him his approximate position. Against this map, he tried to overlay his memory of Gary’s red lines. Judging by the trail split, he figured he was about halfway to the nexus of those intersecting arcs.
He trudged on, following the thin line worn into the loose rocks. When his path crossed a wide expanse of smooth granite, he had to study the far side to detect where his trail picked up again. After a while he noticed that if he focused farther down the path it was easier to see the winding trail. His trail followed the contours of the cliff up and down, but he noticed that it steadily gained altitude above the creek.