Forgetting in her excitement the question of how the list got in her mailbox, Sarchi noticed that five of the ten patients lived in New York State. The others were scattered, one in Vermont, Pennsylvania, Maryland, California, and Tennessee.
And Stephanie Stanhill—she lived in New York.
Six of eleven from New York. The possibility of that occurring by chance had to be remote. But what did it mean?
A more specific question quickly rose. Did these families all own a copy of the book?
Rushing to the phone, she entered the number for Rose and Tom Lacy in Albany. After three rings, a woman answered. “Mrs. Lacy, this is Doctor Seminoux in Memphis. I’m—”
“Seminoux, did you say? I’m sorry. We have nothing to talk about.”
The line went dead.
The woman had recognized her name. How?
Latham.
He must have called the parents of all his patients and made up some lies about her. Well, two can play that game.
She next called Anita and Steve Kennedy in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
This time, a man answered. “Mr. Kennedy, this is Doctor Melinda Eggar. I’m a neurologist working on a book about movement disorders in children and was wondering if we could discuss your son’s illness for a few minutes.”
“I’ll have to clear that with my son’s doctor,” Kennedy said. “Give me your number, and I’ll get back to you.”
“I don’t want you to have to pay for a long-distance call. You check, and I’ll call you in a day or two.”
Sarchi silently cursed Latham’s efficiency and his ability to generate loyalty in those who should be the most wary of him. She’d hoped to have a general discussion with each family about their child’s illness. That was clearly not going to happen, which left her one option. Go for the book.
She went to get her copy and thumbed through the first few pages, looking for the publisher’s name. There—Del Mar Publishing. For an address it gave a box number in Culver City, California. But it was printed in Hong Kong.
Returning to the phone, she called the third name on the list, Diane Shupe in Burlington, Vermont. After it rang ten times with no answer, she moved on to Betty and Pete Mitchell in Middleton, New York.
One ring . . . two . . .
“Hello, Mrs. Mitchell, I’m calling on behalf of Del Mar Publishing. Some time ago we sent you a copy of one of our books, and I was hoping you could give me a minute of your time to answer . . .”
The woman hung up.
Latham couldn’t have warned her about someone inquiring about the book. She must have just considered it a nuisance call, which meant she should try again.
Two rings brought Alma Verbeck in Poughkeepsie to the phone.
“Ms. Verbeck . . .” Sarchi launched into the same spiel she’d used on the previous call and actually got to finish it.
“What book was it?” Verbeck said.
“The one about the rabbit family. It played a song at the end.”
“I remember. A lovely little book.”
Sarchi’s heart lurched against her breastbone. Another book, another sick kid. She wanted to move on to the next name but felt she should play the charade out in case she needed to call back. “Did it hold your child’s interest?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll bet she’s read it ten times. But how did you know to send it to me? I mean, how did you learn I had a daughter at just the right age to enjoy a book like that?”
Good damn question, Sarchi thought. “I’m sorry, but distribution is a different department. I don’t know how those decisions were made. But thanks so much for your time. We’re delighted you liked our product.”
How did they know who to send books to? Her daughter had read it ten times? If the book was making kids sick, how could she read it ten times? Sarchi needed to talk openly with these families about the book and their kids. But if she strayed to the subject of the illnesses, they’d know who she was and would clam up. She could talk openly to Marge about it, though. And it was now time to head over there.
28
UPON RETURNING HOME after dinner with Marge, Sarchi took Marge’s copy of the book directly to the kitchen and held the first page over the heating element on the cook-top. When it was as hot as she thought it could get without burning, she looked at the page for circled letters. There were none. She worked awhile longer on that page, then tried a few more with the same result.
Other than the lack of a hidden message in Marge’s book, hers and Marge’s appeared identical. No difference even in the song at the end.
That song . . .
Marge had said the night Drew got sick he was fine until the book played that song. How could a song make a child paralyzed? Like the Verbeck girl, Drew had read the book several times since coming home from the clinic, and it hadn’t done anything to him. How could a song make a kid sick when it was heard the first time, but have no effect after the child had been treated by Latham? It seemed crazy.
She walked into the living room, wishing John was with her. There was so much to talk about—the list of patients she’d received and the fact that at least one other family on the list had received a copy of the book. She looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. He’d be off work at one.
She called Metcalf’s home number and left a message for him to get in touch with her when he got off duty. With nothing left to do but wait for his call, she finally fell into the grasp of the fatigue and the wine that had been pursuing her all evening. The last thought she had before nodding off was that Drew was not any better.
“DOCTOR SEMINOUX . . . Doctor Seminoux . . .”
Sarchi opened her eyes to see Linda’s face a foot away.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in bed?” Linda asked.
“What time is it?”
“A little after one o’clock.”
“I’m waiting for a phone call.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, be mysterious,” Linda said. “It just whets my curiosity.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“As close to heaven as you can get and still have a pulse.”
“Not going to tell me?”
Batting her eyelashes, Linda said, “I can’t.”
“Now who’s being mysterious?”
Their banter was interrupted by Sarchi’s cell phone. She picked it up and looked pointedly at Linda, who was still hanging around. Throwing her hands up in surrender, she headed for the kitchen.
Sarchi answered the call. “John?”
“Have you learned something?” Metcalf said.
“I hate to impose so late, especially when you have to get up early tomorrow, but could we meet somewhere?”
“Your place?”
“I’d rather not.” She lowered her voice. “My housemate’s here.”
“If I didn’t care what you thought of me, I’d suggest you come here. I’ve got a lot of good points, but I’m not very tidy. Well, that was smart . . . I just gave it away. How about that coffee shop on Madison at Evergreen in fifteen minutes?”
When the streets were cold and nearly deserted like tonight, it was hard for Sarchi to believe there were enough kids in the city to create the kind of bedlam that sometimes reigned in the hospital’s emergency room. In a way, the night made the city seem like a giant cave, except here, the darkness held evil. Despite the warm air pouring from the car’s heater, she shivered at the thought of what the kidnapper might have done to her.
The coffee shop came up on her right like a beacon. She joined the single car in the lot and went inside to wait for John.
The only other customer was a young black man smoking and writing in a legal pad while the one waitress swabbed the floor around him with a mop. Sarchi careful
ly made her way across the wet floor to the opposite end of the place and slid into a booth. It seemed risky to have only one waitress working at this hour, but she looked like she wouldn’t give up the receipts without a fight.
“Be right with you,” she called out.
Before she could make good on that promise, John arrived. As he came toward her, the place seemed a lot more inviting.
“How was your shift?” she asked.
“I took a few ducks out of the water, at least for a while. How are you?”
“Confused.” She got the list of Latham’s patients out of her bag and handed it to him.
After scanning the list he said, “Did you notice that half these families live in New York?”
“It’s actually six out of eleven. The family Tropical Joe told me about was also from there. Jesus, I just realized. Drew, my nephew, was born in New York.”
“How’d he get here?”
“Drew’s mother was my sister, Carolyn. Carolyn, Marge—the woman who adopted Drew when Carolyn died—and I all went to Cornell together.”
“Now, what can I get you,” the waitress said, rubbing her hands on her apron.
They both ordered coffee.
“How about some pie?” the waitress said. “We got chocolate, blueberry, and apple. I can give you a good price on it.”
They both passed on the pie.
When the waitress went back behind the counter, Sarchi continued her story. “Marge and Carolyn were a year ahead of me and were best friends from their sorority.”
“Were you in it, too?”
“I was too busy with premed for sorority life.” She paused, not caring for the way that came out. “I hope that didn’t sound like a criticism of Carolyn or Marge.”
“It didn’t.”
“They both met men they loved, both got married, and both stayed in the state. When my sister and her husband were killed in a car accident . . . I don’t know why I call it an accident. It was a drunk that caused it. To me, that’s murder. Anyway, Marge took Drew. Then, when she left her husband, she found a job with an ad agency here.”
Sarchi expected John to ask why she didn’t take Drew. Instead he said, “So it’s seven of eleven with a New York connection.”
The waitress brought their coffee and left them to continue talking.
“I wonder if the other four are also tied in some way to New York?” Sarchi said.
“We’ve got their phone numbers. We’ll call and ask them.”
“Latham has warned all his patients not to talk to me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I already tried a few of them. When they heard my name, they hung up.”
“So we devise a ruse to get the information without raising their suspicions.”
“That thought occurred to me, too. When I realized they wouldn’t talk to me, I called one name on the list posing as a publisher’s rep and found out she also has a copy of the book where we found the hidden message. So does the family I visited in New York, whose daughter was treated by Latham. In fact, just like Drew, when the girl got sick, her mother was reading to her from the book.”
John’s brows drew together. “Those can’t all be coincidences.”
“Marge told me tonight that Drew was perfectly fine until the book played the song at the end, but I don’t see how a song could have affected him.”
“Of course that’s your area, not mine. But just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” He curled his hands around his coffee cup and stared into it. “We ought to have that song analyzed by somebody who knows how to break sounds down into their separate components.”
“Looking for what?”
“That’s for them to tell us.”
“The University of Memphis has a speech and hearing center a block from the hospital. They might have someone.”
“Now I really feel guilty about running off tomorrow.”
“Don’t. I can take the book over there alone.”
“It’s not that. There are some other big questions here that need attention. We’ve already discussed whether all the names on the list have some relationship to New York. Why are all the kids who got sick five or six? Why aren’t any of them four years old? Or seven or any other age? And why did this happen to these particular families? What do they have in common that other families don’t?”
“Not that we need another question, but how do we work on that?”
John smiled. “Maybe we don’t.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve got a friend who’s a PI in Brooklyn. Let’s give him the assignment of finding out if the families who don’t live in New York have some relationship with the state. We’ll also ask him what else they all have in common.”
“What’ll that cost?”
“I’ll just call in a favor he owes me. I’ve got his card in my wallet. Let’s go over to Fed Ex Office right now and fax him the list. I’ll pave the way with an e-mail.”
Cleaning up the table after they left, their waitress wondered why people ordered coffee they weren’t going to drink.
Sarchi and John sent the list off to Brooklyn, then Sarchi headed home and went straight to bed.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sarchi managed to control her eagerness to contact the Speech and Hearing Center until it was reasonable to believe most people would have begun their workday. Her call was passed along to several people there until she finally reached Dr. Hugh Kelsey, who agreed to take a look at the song she wanted analyzed. But he couldn’t do it until nine a.m. the next day. Hugely disappointed at the delay, she politely pressed him to make time for her sooner, but his day was already solidly scheduled.
While wondering what her next move should be, the UT library called.
“Doctor Seminoux, about the papers you requested . . . the library we’ve ordered them from said those journals are checked out until Saturday.”
“Can’t we get them somewhere else?”
“That’s the only source we’ve found in this country.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know. But please call me the instant they come in.”
Three more days, she thought, hanging up. Why must everything she needed be so far out of reach?
Then she had a thought. Carl Lanza had a vast neurobiology reprint collection. He might have copies of the Timmons papers. Needing to actually do something other than make phone calls, she decided to check this possibility out in person.
CARL WAS BENT over the bench top in his lab, carefully pipetting a sucrose-laden DNA solution tinted with a blue indicator dye into a row of tiny slots in an agarose gel. Having done this a few times herself and knowing how much concentration was required to get the DNA into the slots and not lose it to the buffer bathing the gel, Sarchi stood quietly off to the side without announcing herself and waited for him to finish.
Carl loaded three more samples from the rack of little vials beside him, then capped the apparatus and turned on the current that would separate the pieces of DNA in the slots by size.
“Big as he is, he still works at the bench,” Sarchi said.
Carl turned, grinning. “Use it or lose it. Are you on a mission, or is this a social call?”
“Both.”
“But more a mission?”
“I’m looking for two papers a guy named Christopher Timmons published in Acta Neurologica in the late eighties, and I was hoping you had copies.”
“Timmons . . . yeah, I know who you mean. I’ve talked to him a couple times at conferences. He’s at Vanderbilt, right?”
“That’s him.”
“Come on, let’s see what I’ve got.”
Sarchi followed him to his office, where he went behind his defensive perimeter to sit in front of h
is computer. He entered Timmons’s name and clicked a search button. After a short delay, the titles of three papers appeared on the screen. Carl scanned them and turned to Sarchi with an apologetic expression. “No luck.”
“I knew it was a long shot.”
“Can’t the library get them for you?”
“In three days. I need them now.”
“So let’s call Timmons at Vanderbilt and ask him to fax you copies.”
Sarchi’s stomach knotted at the suggestion. She didn’t want Timmons, and through him, Latham, to know what she was doing. “Would you mind pretending you’re the one who wants them and not mention me?”
Responding to Carl’s look of curiosity, she added, “I know this all seems like strange behavior, but I have good reasons for everything I’m asking. Can you believe that without questioning me? Can you simply trust me?”
“I do have one question.”
Sarchi’s hope that she wouldn’t have to drag Carl any further into her problems dimmed.
“What are the titles of the papers I want?”
Immensely relieved, Sarchi reached in her bag for the complete citations.
After consulting the membership roster of the Neuroscience Society for Timmons’s number, Carl placed the call.
“Doctor Timmons, please. Really? I wasn’t aware of that . . . Do you know where he can be reached . . . ? Could you transfer me to Doctor Tony Walsh? Thanks.” Carl looked at Sarchi. “Timmons resigned six months ago. This person doesn’t know where he went, but Walsh might.”
“Tony? Carl Lanza . . . That’s the truth . . . How’s it going? Say, I just heard Chris Timmons resigned. Any idea where he is?”
Carl put the call on speakerphone so Sarchi could hear what Walsh was saying.
“I expect he’s home,” Walsh said. “Apparently, he came into some money, enough to retire and raise horses like he’s always wanted. He’s got a small farm about thirty miles west of Nashville. I was out there a few weeks ago. Nice place. Doesn’t seem to have improved his disposition, though. The day I visited he was mad as hell over an argument he’d just had with that neurosurgeon he used to work with here. The guy who moved to New Orleans, I forget his name.”
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