“Elaine Carter Reynolds?” she asked, repeating the name into the telephone exactly as it was written on the piece of cardboard.
“Yes,” a voice replied, desolation so clear in the woman’s tone that Katharine wanted to hang up.
But she knew she couldn’t. “You had a son named Mark?” she asked.
A silence, then, again, a single word: “Yes.”
Katharine took a deep breath. “Mrs. Reynolds, my name is Katharine Sundquist. I need to talk to you about Mark. I know it’s going to be very difficult for you, but I need some information and I hope you’ll be able to give it to me.”
What sounded like a stifled sob came through the phone, but then Elaine Reynolds spoke again, and for the first time there was a trace of life in her voice. “It can’t be any more difficult than what I’ve already been through,” the woman replied.
“I don’t think there can be anything worse than having a child die,” Katharine said.
“Mark didn’t just die, Mrs.…” She faltered, unable to remember the name she’d been given.
“Sundquist,” Katharine said quickly. “But please call me Katharine.”
“Thank you,” Elaine Reynolds murmured. Again she was silent for a moment, and Katharine waited, sensing that the older woman was working her way up to something. Finally Elaine Reynolds blurted it out. “My son committed suicide, Katharine,” she said. “Mark killed himself.”
The words stunned Katharine. Killed himself? “I–I’m sorry—” she stammered. “I thought—” She fell suddenly silent, having no idea what to say.
“What did you think, Katharine?” Elaine Reynolds said, and now there was more than just a faint hint of interest. When Katharine finally voiced her idea that Mark’s death must somehow have been related to the polluted air in Los Angeles, a single bark of bitter laughter erupted from Elaine Reynolds’s throat. “I suppose some people would call carbon monoxide pollution,” she said. Her voice catching on almost every sentence, and having to pause twice to regain control over her emotions, Elaine described to Katharine Sundquist the scene of her son’s suicide. “But they got there too late,” she said. “They gave him oxygen, but it was too late. He died on the way to the hospital.”
An image of the puppy that had died in her arms a little while ago — a puppy that suddenly had trouble breathing the air outside its cage full of poisonous gases — rose in Katharine’s mind. “Your son died while they were giving him oxygen, Mrs. Reynolds?” she asked, praying that she’d heard wrong.
Her voice breaking, Elaine recounted Mark’s struggles in the ambulance. “He fought them,” she finished. “I’m sure he had no idea what he was doing, but he fought against the oxygen mask. And there was nothing I could do. You have no idea how helpless I felt.” She paused, then: “Katharine? What is this about? You still haven’t told me exactly why you called me.”
“I’m calling from Hawaii,” Katharine began. “I’m working for a man who’s very interested in pollution—”
“In Honolulu?” Elaine Reynolds interrupted. “I would have thought the air there would be as clean as anywhere in the world. Although actually the vog was pretty bad for a day or two while Mark and I were on Maui over Christmas.”
Katharine froze. “Maui?” she echoed. What was going on? Could it possibly be only coincidence that Mark Reynolds had been on Maui a few months ago? “Mrs. Reynolds — Elaine — what were you doing on Maui?”
“Just vacationing. Why?”
“Elaine, I’m on Maui, not in Honolulu. And I’ve come across something.…” She paused, not wanting to cause Elaine Reynolds any more pain than she absolutely had to. “Well, something strange,” she finally went on. “It appears that for some reason your son’s lungs are being studied.”
“But how could they?” Elaine asked. “I mean, without his body, what are they studying?”
Katharine hesitated, but quickly realized she had no choice but to tell the woman the truth. “His body is here, Elaine,” she said.
“I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” Elaine Reynolds said after Katharine’s words had sunk in. “Mark’s body was buried right after his funeral.”
Buried? What was she talking about? Was it possible that she was wrong? That she was somehow talking to the wrong person? “Mrs. Reynolds,” Katharine said, unconsciously slipping back into the more formal term of address, “would you mind if I — well, if I told you what the boy I saw today looked like?” There was a long pause, but finally Elaine Reynolds murmured her assent. Katharine summoned an image of the face she’d seen in the morgue drawer downstairs, and began describing it as dispassionately as she could. It was when she mentioned the cleft in the boy’s chin that a soft but agonized moan came from the woman at the other end of the line.
“Why?” Elaine whispered a moment later. “Why would they have taken him out there? And why would they have lied to me about burying him?”
“I wish I could tell you, Elaine,” Katharine said softly. “But I’m afraid I don’t know any more than you do.” Then: “What about when you were out here? Did anything happen then? I mean anything unusual?”
“No,” Elaine sighed. “It was a wonderful trip. Except for the dive, of course.”
Katharine felt a chill pass over her. “The dive?” she repeated.
“Mark went out with some other boys, and they had some trouble with their tanks. Some of the boys had to come up fast, and I guess it was pretty scary. Anyway, it scared me enough that I didn’t let Mark go again. And I still keep wondering if that was what started his breathing problems.”
Katharine’s chill worsened as she heard the last two words, and the knot of fear that had been in her stomach since last night tightened. The night after he’d gone diving, Michael had had breathing problems, and even last night—
And then she remembered. Kioki! What about him? Why had he died? And Jeff Kina. Had he come home yet? Or had the same thing happened to him that had happened to Kioki Santoya? But even as the questions tumbled through her mind, so also did a memory of Michael’s voice: “Aw, come on, Mom. They don’t even know what happened to Kioki!”
“Elaine?” she said, her voice quavering. “What about the other boys who went on the dive with your son? Do you remember any of their names? Or where they might have been from?”
“I don’t think I do,” Elaine began. “But maybe — wait! There was a boy named Shane, from New Jersey, who Mark palled around with a lot after the dive. Hold on a minute.” After what seemed an endless wait, Elaine came back on the line. “I found it,” she said. “Mark had it written down on a scrap of paper in his wallet. His name is Shane Shelby and he lives in Trenton, New Jersey.” As Elaine read her the address and phone number, Katharine scribbled it down on the back of the tag she’d taken from Mark Reynolds’s body. “Let me know if you find anything out, will you?” Elaine asked.
“I will,” Katharine promised. “Of course I will.”
Immediately, she dialed the area code and number Elaine Reynolds had given her. On the fourth ring a man’s voice answered.
“Keith Shelby.”
Katharine struggled to keep her voice from breaking as she asked her question. “Mr. Shelby, my name is Dr. Katharine Sundquist. Are you the father of a boy named Shane?”
A long silence echoed hollowly from the receiver, and for a moment Katharine was afraid the man had hung up. But then Shelby spoke again, his voice betraying uncertainty. “Who did you say this is?”
Once again Katharine identified herself. “I know it sounds strange, Mr. Shelby, but I have to know if your son is all right.”
There was another long silence — far longer than the last — and Katharine had a terrible premonition about what he was going to say. Finally, she said it herself. “He’s not all right, is he, Mr. Shelby?”