“Hope I didn’t call you away from anything important,” Sarchi said.
“Just the dullest seminar in the history of the planet,” Sharon replied. “What’s happening?”
“Remember that anonymous e-mail I got warning me about Latham? Well, it was sent from the Wi-Fi server at a place called Tropical Joe there in New Orleans. It’s a coffeehouse on Magazine Street. Would you consider dropping by and taking a look at the layout, see what goes on and how it’s set up with an eye toward figuring out who might have sent that message?”
“I’ll do it tonight. Did you learn anything from those primers?”
“Something strange. They were constructed to detect nucleic acids from a virus engineered as a gene carrier.”
“This is all making me extremely curious,” Sharon said. “Anything else I can do to help, let me know. Even if there isn’t, keep me informed.”
Sarchi was about to mention the book that had just arrived and ask Sharon how kids communicate in secret when Sharon was paged from intensive care and had to go.
At least Sarchi didn’t have the distractions of patients to deal with. But even with that advantage, she couldn’t see what kids communicating secretly had to do with anything. She was spared further thought on that by Marge returning her call.
“Sorry to bother you at work,” Sarchi said, “but do you remember that book about the rabbit family, the one with the song in the back. You read it to Drew in the hospital.”
“I remember. It’s also the one I was reading to him the night he got sick.”
Sarchi had a crazy thought. “Did Drew touch the book?”
“No. I was holding it. Why do you ask?”
“Where did you get the book?”
“It came in the mail.”
“You ordered it?”
“It simply arrived. It was a promotional gift from some new publisher of children’s books.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I’m sure we do, somewhere. Why are you so interested in that?”
Sarchi’s mind was racing. Marge was reading that book to Drew when he got sick . . . as if . . . no. How could a book make him sick? One he wasn’t even holding. If it was the book, Marge was the one who should have become ill.
“Sarchi . . . are you there?”
“It’s kind of complex. Can I have a rain check on explaining?”
“Sure. We need to get together anyway. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I know. How’s Drew?”
“Generally, he’s great. And his tic seems to be less pronounced—not by much, probably it’s something only a mother could see, but I think it’s getting better.”
Sarchi’s love for Drew and her guilt at having allowed him to fall into Latham’s hands made her want desperately to believe Drew was improving. “That’s great news.”
“Come over tonight and see for yourself if I’m right. I’ll make some shrimp scampi, and we’ll catch up.”
Sarchi didn’t want to tell Marge what had been happening. Though she was unable to see how she could avoid that for a full evening, she longed to see Drew and also wanted to get a look at their copy of the book. “I’ll be there.”
Her questions about the book and how kids communicate secretly, and what significance all this might have, were still without answers at one o’clock when she walked into the Barbeque Place and spotted John Metcalf, waiting for her at a table in the back by the buffet. Just seeing him gave her an unexpected lift.
He stood as she approached and helped with her chair. When they were both settled, he said, “I talked to the detective handling your case, and you were right. He’s blowing off the part of your story about being abducted. He thinks you took too much Ativan and made it up to cover yourself. I told him about the puncture marks in your phone line, but he barely reacted. He said they weren’t finished yet with your bag or your car.”
“Thanks for checking. I’ve had quite a morning.” She held her story while their waiter put a bowl of popcorn on the table and took their drink orders. As he moved off, Sarchi told John about the PCR primer results and locating Tropical Joe.
After their waiter brought their drinks and they told him they were having the buffet, Sarchi dug in her handbag. “Then this came in the mail today.” She handed John the book and the note. “I don’t know what it means, but the mother of my nephew, Drew, got a copy of that book in the mail and was reading it to him when he got sick.”
“Could there be a connection between his illness and the book?”
“I can’t see how. His mother didn’t get sick, and I suppose the book is still in their house. If it made him sick once, why not again?”
“I agree. That seems an unproductive way to go.”
“What about the second part of the note? How do kids communicate secretly?” She told him all the ways she’d come up with and waited to see if he could add any.
He considered it briefly, then waved his hand. “I can’t think of anything else. Maybe after I eat something.”
They went through the buffet line and returned to their table. Before starting on his food, John lifted the lemon out of his iced tea with his spoon. “I should have told him to leave that out. I’m just not a lemon guy.” Then he froze.
“What?”
“I’ve got an idea about how kids communicate, but it requires a demonstration. When we’re through here we’ll go back to your place and see if I’m right.”
JOHN TURNED THE control for the heating element on the cooktop to medium-high and waited for it to get hot.
“I still don’t get it,” Sarchi said.
“Patience. It will all become manifest in time. Unless, of course, I’m wrong.”
When the element was glowing, John held the letter close to it and moved it around to heat it evenly.
“You think there’s a hidden message that’ll be revealed by heat?”
“Invisible ink made from lemon juice. You never did that as a kid?”
“Somehow I missed that one.”
John removed the letter from the heat and examined it carefully. “Nothing.” He returned it to the heat and held it a little closer.
After examining the letter again, he turned it over and heated the other side. That didn’t produce anything either.
“Do it with pages of the book,” Sarchi suggested.
John picked up the book, opened it, and played the first page over the heat. About the time Sarchi was sure it was seconds from igniting, he examined the results and broke into a big grin. He turned the page so she could see in the second line of printing that the heat had produced a brown ring around the letter t.
“I’ll get a pen,” Sarchi said.
By the time she returned, John had another letter—an i.
It was tedious work, but over the next few minutes they found two m’s, an o, and an n. One more letter gave them “timmons.” “Where have I seen that name?” Sarchi said.
“As coauthor on the last five of Latham’s published papers,” John said.
27
TO BE CERTAIN they’d found everything encrypted in the book, John kept working. By the time he finished the last page they’d added a comma and a first initial for Timmons as well as the phrase “Acta N.”
“Any idea what that is?” John asked.
“Looks like an abbreviation for a scientific journal.”
“Back to the library.”
Upon reaching the reading room, they divided the database as they had before when searching for Latham’s publications. Christopher Timmons was well published, but only two of his papers were listed in Acta Neurologica. The first, published in 1988, was titled “Breakdown, a New Mouse Mutation.” A year later, “Studies on the Mutant Gene in the Breakdown Mouse” appeared.
Generally each paper listed was accompanied by a brief summary, but there were none for the two Acta Neurologica papers, possibly because they were in such an obscure journal. For that same reason, the journal was not among the library’s holdings.
“I’d sure like to know what’s in those papers,” Sarchi said.
“The titles don’t tell you anything?”
“Very little. I’m just trusting Tropical Joe that there’s something to be learned from them.”
“Can we get the library to borrow the journal from someone for us?”
“Interlibrary loan—it’s done all the time. Usually the lending source will simply copy the articles and send those. Hard to say how long that’ll take, though. But if Tulane or LSU has the journals I might be able to get my friend Sharon in New Orleans to copy them and send them quicker.”
“She’s the one who got the primers for you?”
“And tonight, she’s agreed to check out Tropical Joe to see what sort of place it is and how it works.”
John ran his hand through his hair and winced. “Hope you told her to be careful.”
“Actually, I didn’t. She’s just going to take a look around.”
“I’m concerned about the anonymous tipster. I think there’s a good chance this person is mentally ill. They’d like for you to know what Latham is hiding and do something about it, but they don’t want to be directly responsible. So they’ve convinced themselves that if they only give it away through hints and riddles, it won’t be their fault if anything happens. One side hates him, the other doesn’t want him hurt. And it has to be someone close to him.”
“It does seem like schizoid behavior. I’ll call Sharon and tell her to be careful. But first, let’s see if those journals are in either of the New Orleans med schools.”
While the librarian checked on that, Sarchi and John set about gathering some biographical information on Timmons. From his published papers, they knew he was a PhD. They therefore looked for him in American Men of Science. Despite its considerable length, his entry there illuminated nothing.
As Sarchi was putting the book back on the shelf, the librarian who was helping them came quietly up beside her. “Doctor Seminoux, neither Tulane nor LSU has that journal. But we did find it at the University of Iowa medical library. They usually respond to our requests very promptly, so I would think we could have those articles for you in three or four days.”
“No sooner?”
“For a ten dollar fee in addition to the three for filing the request, they can fax them to us.”
“How long will that take?”
“Rush requests must be filled within twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll pay the extra fee.”
SARCHI AND JOHN drove back to her house to call Sharon. Following the usual wait for her to answer the page, she was on the line.
“Sorry to be such a pest,” Sarchi said, “but I wanted to tell you to be careful when you visit Tropical Joe. We think there’s a good chance the person we’re looking for could be dangerous.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“John Metcalf . . . that policeman I mentioned. He’s helping me.”
“How old is he?”
“Late twenties.” Sarchi looked at John with an expression she hoped conveyed her embarrassment at talking about him like this.
“Is he good looking?” Sharon asked.
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’ll have to think about this awhile, but right now, it sounds like he has possibilities. Anyway, thanks for the warning, but I’ve already been there.”
“I thought you were going tonight.”
“Got too curious to wait. I went there on my lunch hour. It’s a funky place with sort of a Caribbean motif: multicolored pastel walls, fake palms, and lots of neon sculptures of stylized female faces.”
Figuring John ought to hear this, Sarchi turned on the speakerphone.
“You walk in the door,” Sharon continued, “and there’s a bunch of tables and chairs. On risers in the back are two rows of little cubicles closed on the sides but open in front so anyone inside can see what’s going on. When I was there, a couple of people were in the cubicles working on their laptops. I guess those were folks who wanted more privacy than the other customers I saw working on laptops at the open tables. The Wi-Fi is free, so anyone in the place can use it. I don’t think I’ve helped you any.”
“I’m not sure,” Sarchi said. “Let me think about it.”
Sarchi and Sharon finished their conversation with the usual chatter between friends, then Sarchi turned to John. “Do you see anything useful in what she said?”
“Not at the moment. Maybe something will come to me later. I know I’m not indispensable or anything, but early tomorrow I have to drive up to McKenzie to help a friend of mine raise the walls and put the roof on a timber frame house he’s building. I promised him months ago that I’d be there. I’ll be back before noon on Friday.”
“You don’t have to work?”
“After my shift tonight, I’m taking some vacation time. I’ll call you when I get home, or sooner if I get any bright ideas. If you need me, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
When he left a few minutes later, Sarchi was surprised at how empty the house felt.
Reflecting on what they’d accomplished, it still didn’t seem like much. There were those Timmons papers, but who knows what was in them, maybe some cryptic clue they’d never figure out. There had to be something else she could do to push the investigation while they waited for those articles. But after pacing the house for fifteen minutes, she was still without an idea.
Perhaps if she got her mind off the problem.
She rounded up some clean athletic gear and headed for the car.
It was a little early for the racquetball crowd, so when she got to the gym a court was available. She worked out by herself for a few minutes, then accepted an offer of a game from a guy who’d been watching her from the observation deck. He needed work on his backhand, but was good enough that she had to push herself to beat him, which she did three straight games. After a stint in the weight room and a shower, she left the gym feeling warm and loose.
Five minutes later, heading down Union Avenue, she nearly hit an old white pickup as it exited the interstate right in front of her. Had the driver not been a dangerous-looking man with matted yellow hair who had indicated his love of firearms with an NRA bumper sticker, she might have signaled her annoyance by leaning on the horn. Instead, she merely followed quietly at a respectful distance. In addition to the NRA sticker, another proclaimed that he was against the proposed east Shelby County landfill.
Landfill . . .
Landfill . . .
Sounds like Stanhill . . .
She began to think of Stephanie Stanhill. Such a beautiful little girl, her life possibly changed irrevocably. She recalled the anguish on Regina’s face as she recounted the onset of Stephanie’s illness. Then Sarchi remembered something she’d forgotten with all that had been happening. Regina had been reading to Stephanie that night.
Find a friend who has this book . . .
She pulled into the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant and got out her cell phone.
Remembering her last conversation with Stephanie’s father, in which he realized she wasn’t telling him the truth about Stephanie’s MRI scans, she prayed for Regina to answer.
“Hello?”
It was Regina.
“Mrs. Stanhill, this is Sarchi Seminoux.”
“I don’t know if I should talk to you.”
“Believe me, I’m trying to help Stephanie, but I’m faced with difficulties I can’t begin to explain. If you would just speak to me for a few minutes, it could help me figure out how Stephanie got sick and maybe keep other children from having t
his happen to them.”
Unable to resist this plea, Regina said, “Go on.”
“How is Stephanie?”
“About the same.”
“The night she got sick, you said you were reading to her. What was the book?”
“A cute little story about badly behaved little bunnies.”
Already clipping along at a rapid pace, Sarchi’s heart picked up speed. “Did it play a song at the end, with the rabbits singing?”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you get the book?”
“It came in the mail. Why are you so interested in that?”
“I’m not sure. Has Stephanie read it since she had the operation?”
“Several times. This all seems very strange to me.”
“It’s making my head swim, too. So I’ve got some thinking to do. Thank you for talking to me.” Sarchi hung up and sat in amazement. Both Drew and Stephie had fallen ill while being read to from the same book.
She was now so eager to see Marge’s copy that she didn’t know how she could wait until seven o’clock. To help pass the time, she drove to Buster’s Liquors, where she bought a bottle of wine for dinner. She then picked up a few items at Kroger’s. When she got back home, she met Linda on her way out.
“Shopping,” Linda said, looking at Sarchi’s bags. “Always good therapy when things aren’t going well. How’re you doing?”
“I’m coping.”
“I’m glad. There’s something for you on the table. It was in your box at the hospital, so I brought it home. See you later.”
Sarchi went inside and picked up the long white envelope on the phone table. No stamp and no return address. But the handwriting was vaguely familiar. She opened it and unfolded the single sheet inside. At the top, the same hand had written, “Patients treated at the Latham Clinic.”
Harry Bright. This was from him.
But he was dead.
On the list were the names and ages of ten patients, all of them children either five or six years old. Drew Harrison was fifth on the list. Stephanie Stanhill was not there, probably because the Stanhills weren’t covered by Bright’s company. For each patient, the list included the names of their parents, their address, and phone number.
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