Once the girl and the man had split, Rhys had crawled out from under the bed and seen the phone sitting on top of it. The very one he’d come here to find. He’d left the trailer, unseen, run through the woods, and rendezvoused with Kendra half a mile up the road after she’d put on her little show about nearly hitting a deer.
Got in the van, had the nerve to ask, “Where’s my coffee?”
She’d pointed to her damp lap. “If you want to suck on that …”
And now, here they were at the airport, heading to their next assignment.
Kendra was on her second glass of chardonnay when she received a text. PARIS DONE, it said. She told Rhys, who was on his third Heineken.
“Wouldn’t have minded doing that one,” he said. “Been to Paris?”
“Couple of times,” she said.
The Katie Gleave job had been outsourced. Better to assign that one to a local, someone who knew the territory.
“Wouldn’t have made any sense, having us do it,” Kendra added.
“Eight-hour flights there and back.”
“Yeah, still, would have been nice.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your life that tough?”
“You think this isn’t work?”
“Sure, but think of the interesting people you get to meet.”
He looked at his watch, glanced up at the arrivals/departures board. “Still half an hour to board.”
“Can’t believe we’re in a cattle car. Where’s the respect?” She looked down into her glass, as if the answer to one of life’s mysteries were there. “Anyway, Phoenix is nice. I like a dry heat. Too bad there’s not time to drive up to Sonoma.”
Rhys shook his head. “Then we could lay back for a bit.”
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff? When we’re done, I’m gone.”
“I wasn’t implying anything.”
“Running back and forth across the country, it’s not very efficient. What about that one in Indiana? Wouldn’t it make sense to hit that one on the way? All this flying. Think of the carbon.”
“Never took you for an environmentalist.”
They would have to do their prep all over again once they got there. Buy the cleaning supplies they needed, rent a vehicle, connect with someone local—a funeral home, a wrecking yard—who was used to assisting folks in their line of work.
“Was never my goal to be a cleaning lady,” Kendra said.
“Right back atya,” he said. “Torching a place is easier.”
She caught the waitress’s eye, ordered another glass of chardonnay, then said to her partner, “What do we know about the next one?”
Mills got out his phone, opened a file.
“Dixon Hawley. Works in an art gallery.”
“Dixon. That a man or a woman?”
Mills flashed a thumbnail headshot on his phone. “Guy.”
She nodded approvingly. “I’m okay with guys. I don’t like doing women. There’s too much violence against women in today’s society. And after Phoenix?”
“That’s Indiana. Fort Wayne. Got us booked on a flight there out of Phoenix morning after next. Hoping we can do Phoenix in a day.”
“Huh.”
Rhys was back to looking at his phone. His eyes widened.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?”
“Just remembered something he said.”
“Who?”
“The man who came into the trailer, with the girl. There was a lot going on. You’d started the distraction. They were sitting on the bed. Lots of noise, bed creaking, them heading for the door.”
“What are you talking about? What did he say?”
“He called her Chloe. I’m sure of it.” He looked back to his phone again. “There’s a Chloe on the list.”
Thirty-Two
New Rochelle, NY
Sitting at his desk at the ReproGold Clinic, Dr. Martin Gold considered his options.
He could do nothing, of course. He could keep quiet and hope none of this ever came back on him. Ride it out.
But what if it did come out? What if there was blowback, and it came his way? How could it not? Was there anything to be gained by getting out ahead of this? Going to the authorities? Telling them what he’d done, what he knew? That was a high-risk choice. A major toss of the dice.
And of course, there was always … as a doctor, he had access to any number of pharmacological solutions. Take the right thing, feel no pain, never wake up again.
Tempting.
He’d been online, read about Jason Hamlin. There was a Facebook post from Katie Gleave’s family in Lackawanna asking for help in finding her in Paris. Gold’s searches on other names had so far turned up nothing of note, but that had not put him at ease.
Gold picked up his cell, started to make a call, changed his mind. His mouth was dry. He moved his tongue around, trying to create some saliva. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle of scotch and a shot glass, poured himself a drink, knocked it back, then put the bottle and glass away.
He picked up the cell phone again. This time, he found the inner resolve to make the call. After the sixth ring, someone picked up.
“It’s Dr. Gold,” he said. “I need to speak with—”
The person who’d picked up cut him off midsentence. He waited for a pause, then said, “It’s urgent. We need to speak.”
The person at the other end hung up.
Gold was about to pour himself another drink when there was a soft rapping at the door.
“What?” he barked.
The door opened and his assistant, Julie, poked her head in. “Dr. Gold, the Caseys have been waiting for twenty minutes.”
Gold looked blankly at her, trying to remember who the Caseys were. All these people, trying to have kids, there were days when he just wanted to say to them, For Christ’s sake, go adopt. And some of them, God, by the look of them, they really shouldn’t reproduce. Do the world a favor and spare us your progeny.
“The Caseys,” he said.
“From Greenwich? It’s their initial appointment. You haven’t seen them but you have the file.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
At which point Julie strode into the room and came around his desk with the intention of pulling it up onto his screen. As she was reaching for the mouse, Gold noticed that a story about a fire up in Maine was on his screen.
“Stop!” he said, and then did something he’d never done before. He grabbed Julie by the wrist and pushed her away, hard enough that when she hit the wall she sent the doctor’s framed picture of the Golden Gate Bridge swaying on its hook.
She yelped in pain and said, “What’s the matter—”
Gold leapt to his feet, his face full of apology. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.
“I’m sorry, Julie, I’m so sorry. My God, I don’t know what came over me.”
Julie, massaging her wrist, locked eyes with the doctor. It wasn’t a look of fear she gave him but contempt. Then she looked at the screen, wondering what the doctor had not wanted her to see.
The headline read: BATES STUDENT FEARED DEAD IN FIRE. It was accompanied by a headshot of a young man, the name JASON HAMLIN printed underneath.
Gold used the mouse to make the page disappear.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Personal. Julie, honestly, I’m very sorry.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Dr. Gold, but it’s something bad. Canceling appointments, drinking. You think I don’t see, but I do. I’m the one who has to deal with the angry patients, the ones who’ve been counting on you to help them.”
“I know, I know.”
“Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”
“Just … send them in. The …”
“Caseys,” Julie reminded him. “Do you want me to bring up the file or not?”
Gold moved out of the way so Julie could access his computer more easily. She hit a few
keys and up came a file labeled “Casey, Katerina and Matthew.”
“There,” she said.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”
She didn’t answer. She went back to her desk and told the Caseys the doctor would now see them.
Gold put on a cheerful face and came around the desk to greet them. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Katerina and Matthew?”
They nodded. Katerina, midthirties, tiny, with short black hair streaked with silver highlights, said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”
Her husband, Matthew, who looked like he might have played college football at one time but had not kept himself in shape since, extended a hand and said, “We feel real lucky to be able to see you. You’re our last hope.”
“Oh, well, never give up hope,” the doctor said with feigned enthusiasm as he went back to his seat. “I’ve got your file here, but maybe you’d like to tell me your story.”
“Well,” Katerina said, “we’ve been together ten years, got married five years ago, and a year after that we started trying.” Tears welled up and she reached for a tissue from a box on the doctor’s desk. “God, I can’t even get started without losing it.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Take your time.”
“I feel like it’s all my fault,” she said.
Matthew put his arms around her, nearly swallowing her up in the embrace. “I’ve told her it’s no one’s fault. It’s just what it is. And it could just as easily be me, true? That’s one of the things that we have to look into, right?”
Gold was nodding. “That’s very true. First, that it could be either one of you, or both of you, and second, that this is not a question of finding fault.”
“I have some … questions,” Katerina said.
“Of course. Ask anything.”
She hesitated. Her husband said, “She’s a little embarrassed.” He looked at her and asked, “Want me to do it?”
She nodded.
“When they talk about artificial insemination, she doesn’t actually have to do it with—”
“No, no, of course not,” Gold said. “It’s a procedure, conducted here in the office. There are many examples, of course, of couples who engaged the services of someone—a family friend, a brother, perhaps, of the husband with very similar DNA—to complete the act with the woman, but that can lead to a lot of emotional complications. That is definitely not recommended. There can be legal complications, as well.”
“So it’s better not to know who the donor is.”
“You want to know everything you can about the donor, short of a name. Anonymity is guaranteed if that is what the parties wish. But today, there are many avenues to discover the identity of a donor, or for the donor, his offspring. Provided everyone is agreeable.”
Katerina cleared her throat. “I have another question, and I don’t want to offend you in any way, but—”
“Please go ahead.”
“I read a story in the New York Times about a fertility clinic where women thought they were choosing from a wide selection of profiles, but in fact, everyone was being inseminated by … someone at the clinic.” She paused. “Like, the doctor. He was donating his own sperm. To everyone.”
Gold’s face flushed.
“I’m not suggesting anything like that would ever happen here, but how do we actually know? How do we know what we’re, you know, getting?”
Gold pressed his lips together, as though trying to hold back some kind of emotional explosion. Finally, he said, “That would be an outrageous breach of trust between patient and doctor for something like that to occur.”
“But it has happened,” Matthew said. “Right? Just like, sometimes surgeons make a mistake and, you know, amputate the wrong leg or something.”
Gold, simmering, said, “Contributing one’s own sperm would hardly be an accident. That would be a willful act.” He took a moment to compose himself.
“I have offended you,” Katerina said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Gold said. “Let’s see if we can get things back on track here and—”
His cell phone rang. His head snapped downward to see the screen, and the number that came up.
“Um, I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to take this.”
He grabbed the cell and put it to his ear. He swiveled around in the chair, turning his back on the Caseys, who were looking at each other uncomfortably, wondering whether they should excuse themselves.
“Tell me you’re not really doing this,” Gold whispered angrily. “Tell me it’s not you.”
He hunched over, as if somehow this would give him more privacy from the Caseys. Katerina had stood, but her husband shook his head, giving her a wait and see look.
“You can’t … you can’t expect me to just stand by while this goes on,” the doctor said. “I’ve countenanced a lot of things, things I’m not proud of, things I’ve allowed you to talk me into, but this is going too far.”
Matthew’s eyebrows went up, and he stood, nodding to his wife that yes, they really should leave the room until the doctor was finished with this call. Katerina took a step toward the desk, leaned in slightly, and whispered, “We’ll just wait—”
Gold turned and glared at them over his shoulder. “Get out,” he said.
Katerina recoiled, as if slapped. Her husband appeared ready to leap across the desk, or at the very least say something, but she shook her head vigorously, warning him off doing anything. Besides, Gold had already turned his back on them again and resumed his conversation. She guided her husband to the exit and pulled the door closed behind them as they left.
“Just someone in the office,” Gold said. “They left. No, no, they didn’t. Stop. Stop. Listen to me. I’ll tell everyone what I did. I will. I’m past caring. I can’t do my job. I’m a disaster. I can’t sleep. I spend half the time wondering whether to kill myself. No, God no, I haven’t said anything to my wife. You think I’m crazy? But yes, she’s noticed I’m on edge. I’ve told her the clinic … that we’re having a slight cash flow problem, that it can be resolved.”
He listened to the other person talk for the better part of a minute, by which time Gold appeared to be calmed, slightly.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay.”
And then one more “Okay.”
Gold ended the call, turned around in his chair, and put the phone on his desk. He looked at the two empty chairs across from him and blinked a couple of times, as though trying to remember who had been there only a moment earlier.
Before the Caseys emerged from the doctor’s office, Julie Harkin had been at her desk, opening a browser on her desktop and entering the headline she’d seen atop the news story on the doctor’s computer.
She found the story almost instantly, read it from top to bottom. A house where several Bates College students lived off campus had burned down. One man, Jason Hamlin, had not been found, and authorities were now starting to believe he’d not been in the house when the fire began. But if he hadn’t been there, where was he?
Why, Julie wondered, was this story of interest to the doctor?
The story had a link to another one: FAMILY HIT WITH DOUBLE TRAGEDY. Julie clicked on it. The Hamlin family home in Baltimore had burned down not long after the Lewiston tragedy.
As if the family had not suffered enough, Julie thought.
And then she read the names of Jason’s parents: Margaret and Charles Hamlin.
“Oh my God,” she whispered to herself.
One of the couples whose names, along with their children’s, she gave to that woman in the coffee shop.
Thirty-Three
Springfield, MA
“What do you mean, something else might be going on?” Chloe asked Miles as he sat next to her in the Pacer.
Miles hesitated. He needed another moment to digest the information he’d received from Dorian. Could it be coincidence that three of the people he was hoping to connect with—T
odd Cox, Jason Hamlin, and Katie Gleave—were missing or presumed dead? That they had gone missing, or died, in such a short period of time?
And all since Miles had started his hunt for them?
It was possible, he supposed. Bad things did happen to people. Houses caught on fire. Young people visiting foreign countries, where they were unfamiliar with local customs or the language, could find themselves in trouble. And there was a possible explanation for Todd’s disappearance: he was into something illegal and had made a run for it.
And yet.
Why was Todd’s trailer so spotlessly clean? Why had every trace of him been erased? Who’d been hiding under the bed? Not Todd. And who was the woman in the van that had screeched to a stop out on the main road?
He thought back to what Dorian had told him about Jason Hamlin. A house fire. The other students who lived there survived, but not Jason. Surely, eventually, his body would have been found among the ashes. So if he hadn’t been in the house when the fire broke out, where was he? What had happened to him?
“You gonna answer me or what?” Chloe asked.
Miles said, “I’m trying to put it together.”
“Put what together? I’m right here. What the fuck is going on?”
Slowly, he said, “The list, the nine people that I—Jesus, am I allowed to call them my children? Is that too … presumptuous?”
Miles, feeling overwhelmed, was losing his focus. This emotional tidal wave washing over him was making it increasingly difficult to direct his thoughts logically. It wasn’t that long ago that Miles could picture lines of computer code in his head like they were right there on a billboard, in front of him. Intricate, complex concepts were as easy to visualize as a sunset.
But now, all this information and events coming at him at once—finding Chloe, not finding Todd, news about the others on the list—was starting to feel like too much. Dorian’s call was like someone dumping onto the table several hundred pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and demanding they be put together in ten seconds.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, bending over, making his hands into fists and pressing them against his forehead.
“Miles?”
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