He stopped and backed up a step—Ken’s cell phone sat on the side table near the front door. He smiled and lifted the small device. Scrolling back through the phone numbers, he found what he was looking for: only one number was not named in Ken’s address book. The only other calls from that evening were to and from Sharon, who’s picture in the address book matched the woman Mike had seen at the top of the stairs.
Assuming he’s not sleeping with the boy’s mother, Mike thought as he copied the unnamed phone number to slip of paper from the table. He returned the phone to the state and position where he had found it and slunk back to his room.
If he really didn’t want me to get in touch with the boy’s mom, he certainly couldn’t have made it any easier, Mike thought as he finally started to fall asleep. He woke himself up one more time to set his watch alarm for five-thirty. His plans for the morning didn’t involve breakfast with his old friend.
MIKE FOUND A QUIET PAY PHONE at the side of a convenience store.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour. This is Doctor Stuart’s office, I need to confirm your address for the insurance information,” he said, making his voice more nasal and trying to adopt the monotone disinterest of a harried office worker.
“There’s not a problem with my insurance, is there? I filled out the forms,” said Melanie.
“No, it’s just that we have to get this out before eight, and Stephanie is out sick. I’m not sure where she put your son’s info,” said Mike. He covered the phone and spoke away from the receiver—“I think it’s on top of the desk there, can you wait for just a second, I’m on the phone with the mom now,” he said to nobody. “Sorry about that,” he said, as if returning to the call.
“No problem, my address is three one two Maplewood, and that’s in Lisbon Falls, oh-four-two-five-two,” she said. “Don’t forget your lunch,” she said away from her receiver.
“Thanks. Again, I’m so sorry to bother you this early,” said Mike. He hung up and wandered back to his car to consult the maps scattered across his back seat.
MIKE FOUND MELANIE’S HOUSE within an hour. The street looped around, but the orderly numbering made Melanie’s house easy to find. He parked his car out in front of her house and jogged up to the walk to raised the flag on her mailbox. Mike drove home to clean up and change his clothes. After lunch, he filled his tank, taxing his credit card yet again, and returned to her address and found the flag down—the mail had been delivered.
This time, Mike found it more difficult to act. It had been easy to jump out and raise the flag on her mailbox. That would hardly be considered a crime. Now that he knew there was mail in the box, he figured he could simply steal a piece of junk mail to find out her name. Of all the details he remembered from the file that Ken had shown him, the name eluded him, and it was crucial to making credible contact.
He put his car in gear and decided to drive off. Even minor theft, like a piece of junk mail, was beyond Mike. With a quick impulse he slammed his transmission back into park and jumped out. Before he knew it he was in front of her mail box, sifting through her mail. Amongst all the generic mail, two pieces bore the same name: Melanie Hunter. Mike closed the box and nearly ran back to his car, slowing his pace with an extreme act of will. Behind the wheel he panicked and though he would have to read the name again, but he took a deep breath, remembered her name, and wrote it on his pad next to her number.
Mike drove around the small mill town and tried to imagine a giant killer stalking the streets, looking for Melanie’s little boy. He drove by a playground full of kids and wondered if one was the extinction vector he sought. The thought of being near someone so contagious didn’t bother Mike. Disease fascinated Mike, and he experienced no revulsion at the thought of it. Even so, he reminded himself to not get too close, just in case.
When six o’clock rolled around, Mike found another pay phone, this one outside a tiny candlepin bowling alley on a quiet street.
This time he lowered his voice, and tried to sound confident and trustworthy, like a newscaster. He tested the voice on himself as he dialed her number, this time adding star-six-seven before the number to block the caller ID. The phone rang four times before she answered.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hunter?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Dr. Markey. Ken Stuart brought me in to consult on your son’s case. I’m a geneticist,” he explained.
“Oh. Hello. Did you find something? I usually talk directly to Dr. Stuart,” said Melanie.
“I know you do,” said Mike. “It’s just… There’s something I wanted to talk with you about directly, and he gave me your phone number. Is there a chance we could talk?”
“Uh, sure. I tell you what, can I call you back in a few minutes, I’m just putting dinner on the table,” she offered.
“No problem, but how about I call you—my office has a policy about patients and incoming calls,” he said.
“Huh,” she said. “Okay, fine, call me in fifteen.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” he said and hung up.
WHEN HE HAD HER on the phone again, he got right to the point—“Ms. Hunter, I’m afraid your son might be in danger.”
“What? Shit, did you find something? Why didn’t Dr. Stuart say anything. He just said he thought everything was okay.”
“He’s not immediately sick,” Mike said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to think that. Is your son paranoid, by any chance? Does he think someone is after him? A really big man, by any chance?”
Mike heard nothing but a stretch of silence as Melanie considered the question. He almost interjected, but decided to wait to see how she would react.
“Who is this again?” she asked, all business.
“Dr. Markey. I’m a geneticist,” he said. “It’s really important that I talk to you about your son. I’m really afraid that something might…”
Melanie cut him off - “And what exactly are you doing, calling me and asking if my son is paranoid?” she asked, raising her voice.
“It’s part of his condition,” Mike said, attempting to sound calm and reassuring. “It’s part of what’s wrong with him. Your son, that is.”
“I’m going to call Dr. Stuart, thank you,” she hung up the phone.
Fuck, Mike thought, that couldn’t have gone much worse.
He returned to his car and sat behind the wheel.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Davey
MELANIE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY to the family room for a second before calling his name. After the uneasy phone call with Mike, she was glad to see him safe and unharmed, sitting in front of the television and eating his dessert.
“Hey Davey, can you mute for a second?” she asked, sitting down in the chair next to the couch.
“Sure Mom,” he said. He continued to stare at the silent TV while she talked.
“Have you told anyone about your dreams?”
His eyes bounced off of hers for a second and then closed slightly as they returned to the TV. “Yeah,” he said.
“Oh? Who?” she asked.
“John,” he said.
“John? Is that someone at camp, or at the Center?” she asked, trying to remain casual.
“No,” he said. She recognized the tone. “He’s my psychiatrist,” he said slowly. Melanie wondered for a second if Davey would turn into a sarcasm-machine like his sister.
“Okay,” she said. “So you’ve told me and Dr. John. Anyone else?”