by John Saul
“Did he?” Sally cut in. There was a coldness to her voice that Steve had never heard before. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Did he tell you he thinks I’m a hysteric? He does, you know.”
“Sally.” Steve made his voice as soothing as he could. “He didn’t say anything of the sort. He’s worried about you, and so am I. We can’t go on this way. We’re tearing ourselves apart Look at us. Barely speaking to each other, and when we do, it’s not very pleasant And what about Jason? We’re hurting him too.”
The words stung Sally, for she knew they were true. Yet she couldn’t keep from thinking about Julie and what might have happened to her. She had to find out, had to know that whatever had happened to Julie had not been her own fault. If she couldn’t do that, how could she go on living, go on being a mother to Jason? How could she ever know a moment’s peace if the thought was ever-present in the back of her mind that she might have done something that killed her own baby. And yet, Jason was still there, and Steve, too, and she loved them both very deeply. For tonight, at least, she would put her problems out of her mind and take care of her family.
“You’re right,” she said out loud. “Steve, I’m sorry.” She leaned back in her chair and toyed with her fork. “That sounds hollow, doesn’t it? Our world is falling apart, and all I can do is say I’m sorry.’ But what good does it do?” Without waiting for an answer, she stood up and started toward the stairs. “I’ll go try to make up with Jason. Can you take care of the dishes?”
“Sure.” As his wife disappeared from the dining room, Steve began clearing the table. At least, he decided, it was a beginning.
As she passed the door to the little room that had been Julie’s, Sally steeled herself against the urge to open it, to look inside, knowing that the wish was futile, that it would not all turn out to have been a nightmare, that Julie would not be miraculously returned to her crib, breathing softly and steadily, gurgling in her sleep. She forced herself to walk steadfastly onward until she came to Jason’s room. The door was slightly ajar.
There was no sound from within, and for a moment Sally felt an unreasonable sense of panic. Again she steeled herself, and she pushed the door open.
Jason was sitting at his little worktable, his chemistry set spread out in front of him, his face a study in concentration as he carefully poured a liquid from a plastic bottle into a test tube.
“Hi!” Sally said. “May I come in?”
Startled, Jason jerked his head upward, and the plastic bottle slipped from his hand. He grabbed at it, catching it just before the contents spilled into his lap. Some of the liquid splashed onto his hand, and he screamed in sudden pain.
Sally’s eyes widened in fear as she watched her son rise up from his chair and stare at his hand. Already, it was beginning to turn an angry red. Then Sally came to her senses and rushed forward to pick the terrified boy up and carry him to the bathroom.
“What was it?” she asked as she turned the water on full force and held Jason’s hand under the faucet.
“Acid,” Jason stammered. “Muriatic acid. I was di—”
“Never mind what you were doing with it,” Sally told him. “Let’s get it off.”
Through the rushing water she could see the blistering skin on Jason’s hand. On his fingers the acid had already burned into the flesh.
“I’ve told you never to play with anything dangerous,” she said. “Where’d you get muriatic acid?”
“At the pool store,” Jason said placidly. The cool water had flushed the pain out of his hand, and he stared at it now with more curiosity than fear. “I was diluting it down. Why’d you have to come in like that?”
“I came in to see what you were doing, and it’s a good thing I did.” Sally shut off the water and examined the hand. Now, without the water running over the burn, it didn’t look so bad. There were blisters, but apparently the skin wasn’t broken after all. Still, burns were easily infected. “Come on, let’s take this hand down to your father.”
Steve, though, was on his way up the stairs. “What’s going on? Did one of you scream?”
“It’s your son,” Sally said, falling back into that odd form of defense whereby the misbehaving child is ascribed solely to the other parent. “He was playing with acid, and it spilled on his hand.”
“It was Mom’s fault,” Jason chimed in. “If she hadn’t startled me …”
“Never mind that,” Sally cut him off. “Steve, take a look at it. I flushed it with cold water, but it’s blistered horribly. At first I thought it had gone right through his skin. Maybe we should take him to the hospital—”
But Steve was already examining the injured hand.
There were no blisters.
All he could see was a slight redness to Jason’s skin, and even that seemed to be clearing up as he watched. The redness, he decided, was nothing more than a reaction to the cold water. He grinned at Jason encouragingly. “Does it hurt?”
Jason shook his head.
“Not at all?”
Again, Jason shook his head. “It stung a little, but as soon as Mom ran the water on it, it stopped.”
Steve shifted his attention to Sally, who was staring at her son’s hand. “You really want to take him to the hospital for this? Sally, there’s nothing wrong with his hand.”
But it was blistered, Sally thought I know it was. Just two minutes ago it had looked horrible.
Or had it? Had she overreacted to the whole thing? Had her eyes and her emotions played tricks on her?
She felt Steve’s eyes on her, and when she faced him she could read his thoughts as clearly as if he was speaking to her.
Are you crazy? he seemed to be asking. Is that what’s happened? Have you gone crazy?
As she turned away and went up to her bedroom Sally realized that even if Steve had asked the question out loud, she would have had no answer.
Lucy Corliss pulled up to the building in which her ex-husband lived and let the engine idle for a moment before switching it off and getting out of the car.
She walked up the front steps of the building and pressed the buzzer next to Tim’s name.
The apartment was on tie second floor, in a corner of the building, and Jim was anxiously waiting for her at the door.
“Has something happened? Have you heard something?”
“Not really,” Lucy said uncertainly as she stepped into the living room. She stopped just inside the room and stared. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. The room was small, but one side of it was dominated by a fireplace around which were a love seat and two wing chairs covered in the rust-brown material she had nearly selected for her own almost identical furniture. Between the chairs and the couch was a glass and brass coffee table, on which rested a sculpture that Lucy had never seen before, a bronze figure, obviously oriental, one leg raised, and the arms arched into the air.
“It’s a Thai dancer,” Jim told her. “I couldn’t really afford it, but I decided I could live without two years worth of nights on the town, and I bought it.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lucy breathed, moving closer to the statue and lowering herself onto one of the wing chairs.
“And you never thought I’d spend money on something like that?” Jim asked, his voice lilting with a half-taunting humor. “I’m afraid I gave up on Mediterranean furniture and decor by Playboy about the same time I moved out of Adultery Acres.” He sat down on the sofa opposite her, and his expression turned serious. “Something did happen, didn’t it?” he asked.
Lucy nodded, then told him about the visit she had had with Sally Montgomery that afternoon.
“And is that why you came over here?” Jim asked when she was done. “To see if I could figure out what’s going on?”
“Not really,” Lucy replied. “I’m putting all that on hold till Monday. There just isn’t anything I can do right now. It seems like both of us have done everything we can, and—” Her voice broke, and she let herself sink into the softness of t
he chair. “I guess I’m just wearing out, Jim. And I almost didn’t come over here. But I was lonely, and I was driving around, and suddenly the only person I could think of to talk to was you.” She glanced at Jim sharply, hoping he wouldn’t misunderstand her. “I mean, right now you and I have a lot in common, despite our differences.”
“Maybe there aren’t so many differences anymore,” Jim suggested. Then, before Lucy could answer, he stood up. “Can I fix us some drinks?”
“Do you have any gin?”
“Tanqueray.”
“With some tonic.” As Jim disappeared into the kitchen, Lucy stood up and wandered around the room. In a bookcase against the wall opposite the fireplace she found several books she had read over the past few years and a series of framed pictures.
Mostly, they were of Randy.
Several of them were of herself, and all but one had been taken before the divorce. One of them, though, was recent.
“I see you found my gallery,” Jim observed as he came back into the room.
“Where did you get this?” Lucy asked, picking up the picture. It had been taken two years earlier.
Jim blushed slightly. “I’m afraid I got sneaky. Randy told me you’d had a portrait made for his grandmother, and I called every studio in town till I found it.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sorry about your mother. I always liked her, even though she never thought much of me.”
Lucy smiled at him. “I think if she knew you now, she might change her mind.”
The two of them stood still for a moment, and Lucy had a feeling Jim was going to kiss her. And then, as if he sensed her sudden unease, he moved away from her. “You doing anything for dinner?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Lucy admitted. All day she’d been dreading the evening alone in the empty house. Then, after Sally had gone, she’d finally gotten into the car and driven aimlessly for nearly two hours, trying to decide where to go, until a little while ago, when she’d found herself a few blocks from Jim’s apartment “You want to go out somewhere?”
“Not really,” Jim replied, his easy grin spreading over his face. “I still have to pay for the Thai dancer, and there’s Randy’s education to think of. So I’ve learned to cook. Feeling brave? I make a mean Stroganoff.”
“Fine,” Lucy decided. The idea of spending a quiet evening with Jim was suddenly very appealing. Then she said, “Jim? When you mentioned Randy’s education just now, were you.… Do you really think we’re going to find him?”
Jim hesitated for a moment, forcing himself to maintain a cheerful façade. “Who knows? I know what Sergeant Bronski thinks, and I know what the statistics are, and I don’t have any more of an idea than you do as to what to do next So, I suppose, we should accept the fact that he’s gone. But deep down inside I don’t believe he ran away either. I believe in you, Lucy, and if you think someone took him, then someone took him. If you think he’s alive, then he’s alive. And if you think we’ll find him, then we’ll find him. So I guess I better not spend his college money yet, had I?”
Lucy felt her eyes tearing, and made no move to wipe the dampness away. Instead, she reached out and tentatively touched Jim’s hand.
“Thank you, she whispered.”
Their eyes met, and then suddenly Jim winked. “And on Monday, you get down to CHILD and find out what they did with our son. Okay?”
Silently, Lucy nodded.
Chapter 15
THE GLASS-AND-STEEL MONOLITH that housed the offices of CHILD rose up out of the heart of the city like a great impersonal tombstone. The faceless people within it would continue their endless sojourn, year after year, until one day they would finally leave their offices and begin their “golden years,” unaware they had spent most of their lives within a spiritual graveyard. As Lucy Corliss approached its expressionless façade on that unusually muggy spring morning, she felt as though she already knew what would happen inside.
Nothing.
The people at CHILD, she was sure, would be reflections of the building in which they worked—efficient, featureless, bland, and, in the end, impenetrable. Still, she had to try.
The elevator rose swiftly and silently to the thirty-second floor, and when its doors slid open, Lucy was confronted with a wide corridor stretching away in both directions. At the end of the hall was a pair of imposing double doors. Behind those doors lay the CHILD offices. Steeling herself, Lucy opened the doors and slipped into a mahogany-paneled reception room containing a small sitting area—empty—and a desk behind which sat a cool blonde who appeared to be cut from the same die as morning talk-show hostesses. Lucy approached the desk, but the receptionist, talking softly on the telephone, held up her hand as if forbidding Lucy to get too close. A moment later she hung up the phone and turned on her smile.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Randolph. Paul Randolph?”
The receptionist, who neither wore a name badge nor had a nameplate propped helpfully on her desk, looked doubtful.
“I’m afraid Mr. Randolph is very busy.”
“I have an appointment,” Lucy said firmly.
The receptionist frowned. “With Mr. Randolph?”
“That’s right,” Lucy replied, her original sense of intimidation turning rapidly to irritation. “My name is Lucy Corliss. If you’ll just tell me where his office is—” But the receptionist was already on the phone, talking softly to someone hidden in the depths of the offices. Then she was back to Lucy, smiling brightly.
“If you’ll just take a seat, Mrs. Corliss? It’ll just be a minute, and I’ll be happy to get you some coffee while you wait.”
But Lucy didn’t want coffee. She simply wanted to sit for a minute and savor her tiny victory over the cool blonde. The blonde, however, saw fit to ignore her.
A moment later a much older woman strode into the reception room and offered Lucy her hand.
“I’m Eva Phillips, Paul Randolph’s secretary. We’re so sorry to keep you waiting, but you know how things can be.”
She ushered Lucy through the offices, chattering amiably all the way, and finally showed her into a large corner office dominated by an enormous desk. Behind the desk sat a man who was obviously Paul Randolph.
He was in his indeterminate forties, his face smooth and handsome in a bland sort of way. His sandy hair was thinning, and, to his credit, he made no attempt to hide that fact. He rose to greet Lucy, and as he came around the end of his desk, he moved with a lithe grace that Lucy had always associated with old money, private schools, and summers on the Cape. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly modulated, his accent pure Brahmin.
“Mrs. Corliss, how nice to meet you. Won’t you sit down?” He indicated a sofa that sat at right angles to his desk, and without thinking about it, Lucy seated herself where Randolph intended her to sit. He himself took a chair that was substantially firmer than the sofa, and Lucy, not quite understanding the psychological ploy, suddenly felt that she was somehow at a disadvantage. From his slightly higher position, Paul Randolph smiled cordially down at her. “Would you like coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Lucy replied. With a quick gesture, Randolph dismissed Eva Phillips, who silently closed the door as she left the room.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Randolph asked. “May I assume you’ve become interested in our work?”
My God, Lucy thought, he thinks I want to donate money. “Yes, I have,” she said. “You see, I just found out a few days ago that your people have been studying my son.”
The smile on Randolph’s face stayed firmly in place, but something in his eyes changed, and Lucy immediately realized that the man was suddenly on guard. When he spoke, however, his voice was as mellow as before.
“I see. Of course, we study thousands of children here. And I must say,” he added with a touch of a chuckle, “this is the first time one of the children’s parents has come to see me.”
“Mr. Randolph, my son has been kidnaped.”
; Finally, the smile faded from the man’s lips. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Corliss?”
“I said my son has been kidnaped. At least that’s what I think happened to him. The police …” She faltered for a moment, then, in a rush, poured out the whole story of the last few days. When she was done, Randolph sat silently, his eyes clouded with concern, his hands clasped together.
“But what brought you here, Mrs. Corliss? Surely you don’t think that we could have had anything to do with your son’s disappearance?”
Lucy hesitated. Put so bluntly, in surroundings as eminently respectable as those of CHILD, it sounded unthinkable. And yet, that was exactly what she thought.
“I don’t know,” Lucy hedged, sure that if she told him the truth he would show her the door. “I don’t know what to think. But when I found the notation in Randy’s medical files and learned that he’d been part of a project I knew nothing about, well, naturally I began to wonder.”
Randolph’s head bobbed understandingly. His smile returned. “So you want to know what we’re doing, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
Randolph rose and began to pace the room. “Well, I’ll do my best, but I have to tell you that I’m not even sure I understand it all myself. I’m afraid I’m an administrator, not a scientist.”
“Then you’ll use language I can understand.”
“I’ll try. To begin with, the work we’re doing here is what you might call passive work, as opposed to active work. We conduct surveys and put together statistics, primarily concerning genetics.”
“I’m not sure I do understand.”
Randolph lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and leaned back, folding his hands across his stomach. “All right, let’s go back to the beginning. Are you aware that almost all babies, at birth or even before, go through a process of genetic screening?”
“Sort of.” Lucy was beginning to feel that she was going to get lost right at the start. But Randolph smiled at her encouragingly.
“It’s really not terribly complicated. Samples of the baby’s tissue are taken, and the chromosomes are analyzed. We can often discover genetic weaknesses that, if left uncorrected, can lead to various problems, the most obvious, but not the least of which, is Down’s syndrome.”