by Todd Borg
“Like the search for new cancer treatments outside the realm of Western Medicine,” I said.
“Yes, exactly. And I should add that we all, Western doctors included, would be ecstatic if cures could come from a shamanic tradition using unfamiliar techniques or herbs or Eastern spiritual practices or something else that Western Medicine is ignoring. Most of us educated in Western medical schools freely admit the limitations imposed on us by our scientific method. But we also recognize that our double-blind-study approach to medical science has produced an improvement in human life span and alleviated misery in a manner unmatched by all of the other approaches combined a hundred times over.”
Power said the last line like it was something he wrote and memorized for a speech.
I stood up. “Thank you very much for your time.”
“Welcome.”
“May I call again if I have any questions?”
“Of course. Any time, day or night.”
TWENTY-ONE
“Do you think it’s too yellow?” Street said. She was putting a coat of high-gloss paint on my new Adirondack deck chairs. It was an obvious yet effective way to find a good mood during a rough ordeal. The previous night Street had stayed over at my cabin. She’d brushed off my thoughts that the broken beer bottle had been a warning. But she agreed to sleep over to keep me comfortable. She changed the subject to Silence and I told her about Dr. Power and his assessment that Silence was quite retarded. It rendered unlikely the idea that Silence could know something that would precipitate her kidnapping. With the arrival of morning, we were avoiding the subject of Silence altogether, trying to find a little fun.
“You’re wondering if hot lemon yellow is too yellow?” I said. “Not a chance. You will, however, attach a pair of sunglasses to each chair, right? Hang them on cords?” Near the chairs was the table she’d just painted electric blue. In the distance across the lake the mountains around Emerald Bay glistened with white from a surprise snowfall during the night. With the colored furniture in the foreground, the picture would make a good postcard.
Street was celebrating the hot sun of late-fall by wearing very little, but with very bright colors. She had on short shorts, bright pink, with little notches at the side seams. Her tank top was magenta, no notches. Her sandals were woven leather, lime green, no notches but lots of openings. I couldn’t decide whether to stare at the curves of her neck and shoulders, her waist, her knees, or her ankles. Despite her excessively lean physique, all her curves were perfect, and all illustrated the artist’s axiom that the negative space of any object was just as important, or even more important, than the positive space. Which was another way of saying that where a woman went in mattered just as much or more as where a woman went out.
“What are the notches in your shorts for?” I said.
Street leaned sideways in a graceful magenta-pink arc, holding the yellow brush away from her body, looking down at her shorts. Strong as the explosion of color was, it was trumped by essence of female.
“Oh, these notches,” she said. Her knee canted inward as she looked. “I think they’re supposed to help the fabric give when I bend. Like this.” She bent. The fabric gave. My pulse jumped thirty or forty points.
“Ah,” I said.
Street pretended I was still breathing normally, and she went back to her painting.
I went back to experimenting with my new cordless phone. I had assumed the position, slouched back on the old plastic deck chair, feet stretched out and resting on Spot-The-Footrest.
Having just inhaled another bowl of tasteless fiber-chunk-cardboard and washed it down this time with gourmet garden-hose agua, Spot was napping on the deck, splayed in a giant curve, elbows wide, chin down on the deck boards. His lips were flopped out to either side, curving down from the flat nose like the eaves of a Japanese temple roof.
The phone had digital this and that, came with an eighty-nine-page instruction booklet and had maybe eighty-nine buttons. All I wanted to do with it was make a phone call. So far, that task had eluded me.
My cell phone was mercifully ancient, and over the years I’d been able to learn how to use it. But cell reception is spotty in Tahoe, so a landline is useful.
I’d navigated six or eight layers of menu on the new portable when it rang.
“It works,” Street said as she stroked a luscious liquid swath of yellow along the arm of the chair.
“Yes, but I don’t know how to answer it.” I was trying to back out of the menu and came up with a weather report. The temperature and barometric pressure pulsed at me. I started pushing buttons blindly.
It rang two more times.
“Better run inside,” Street said.
“You are an endless fountain of good ideas,” I said as it rang again.
“Or hand it to me,” she said.
I handed it over.
Another ring. She reached for it with her left hand while she held the yellow brush in the air with her right. Her thumb found a single magic button out of the crowd.
She pressed the button and handed it back.
“Hello,” I said.
“Owen, it’s Henrietta. I’m so glad you’re there!”
“On the deck, watching the artist paint Ode To Yellow.”
“Do you have a minute? Marlette and I are looking at something amazing. A drawing from Silence! Are you going to be there? We have to show you.”
“What is it about?”
“I’m not sure. It shows a room and a view out a window.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve confused you. This isn’t a drawing I’ve had around. This is brand new. It got delivered to the high school last night. Someone slid it under the door. The janitor found it and dropped it off in the office. One of the secretaries called me because she thought it was similar to another drawing by Silence that I’d shown her.”
I said, “I’m still missing something. Are you suggesting that Silence did the drawing and her kidnapper delivered it to prove something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Can we come and show you?”
“Yes, of course. Marlette knows how to get here.”
“Oh, I should also say that Commander Mallory wants us to keep quiet about the drawing, no one is to know. He says it will make it easier to catch the kidnappers if they don’t hear about it. That is, if they don’t already know about it. Like you just said, maybe they’re the ones who delivered it.”
“Got it,” I said.
TWENTY-TWO
“Apparently Silence drew something and someone delivered it to the high school,” I told Street after I hung up the phone.
“Could it be that one of the kidnappers is taking a liking to her and helping her by sneaking out a drawing?” she said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Unless it’s an old drawing and someone found it and turned it in to the school.”
“Perhaps the kidnappers have been trying all along to convince her to write something that would prove she’s alive.”
“Yeah. And being mute, she responded with a drawing.”
“Or,” Street said, “maybe she did the drawing when no one was looking. Maybe it contains information on her whereabouts.”
“But how would it find its way to the high school from where she’s being held?”
“I can’t imagine, unless one of her captors is helping her.”
We were quiet awhile, thinking.
Spot groaned, perhaps uncomfortable at being my footrest. He pushed himself up, front legs first. My ankles slid down his back, heels hitting the deck with a thump. Spot stood up, turned and sniffed at my feet as if they were distasteful burdens that only an olfactory-challenged pack mule should have to carry.
“What, now you’re an alter boy, too pure to be a footrest?” I said.
He glanced at me, then walked over to Street. She was painting the backboards of the chair. Before she could stop him, he stuck the end of his nose onto a fresh stroke of lemon yellow.
“Spot! You’ll get paint poisoning!” Street said.
I grabbed a newspaper, took his snout in my hand and pushed paper and nose together. Four times. Then I lightly scrubbed my palm across his nose and wiped it on my jeans.
Street stared at her paint job. “I have a perfect nose print in my paint. I’ll never get it smooth again.”
“A loss offset by opportunity,” I said. “I have four limited-edition prints.” I held up the newspaper with the blotchy yellow nose prints. “We could sell them at the Great Dane Art Show.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me neither.”
A horn honked, accompanied by the sound of a car turning into the drive. Spot was lowering himself back to the deck boards. He gave a single subdued woof, then trotted down the short deck stairs and out toward the drive.
I heard a car door shut as I followed him down the side of my cabin. Henrietta and Marlette were getting out of an old brown Subaru with rusted fenders. Marlette was clearly trying to put a pleasant smile on her face, but it didn’t hide the rough redness that days of grief had caused.
I grabbed Spot by his collar and said hi.
“Did you get a chance to watch my video?” Marlette asked.
“Yes. Your kids are great performers. And the video is very professional. You could film movies.”
“Oh, stop it. But thank you.”
Henrietta was staring at Spot. “And who is this?” she asked, excited.
“This is my dog Spot.”
“Hello, Spot. What happened to your nose? It’s all smudgy yellow.”
“He’s been making art prints,” I said. “A nose doesn’t give as much control as a brush, but a true artist makes do with the resources available.”
Henrietta raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s awfully big,” she said. “He looks sleepy. Is he a good watchdog?”
“Not during post-prandial afternoon lethargy,” I said.
“I bet he gets all focused if he hears a noise at night, huh?”
“Yes, if the noise is the microwave beeping that a Danish is hot.”
I held Spot behind them as I showed them up onto the deck and introduced them to Street. Street switched her brush from right hand to the left and shook hands with Henrietta who was pleasant though not warm. I saw Marlette studying Street with the pejorative frown of a virginal nun who’d never seen a woman in short shorts. As Street turned to Marlette, the roles reversed, with Marlette smiling sweetly and Henrietta frowning a little, a lifetime accumulation of what-ifs playing across her face. It is the curse that all attractive women know well and something I’ve noticed a thousand times as other women look at Street’s thinness with a mixture of envy and judgement.
Street spoke to Marlette as she held her hand. “Marlette, Owen has told me about both your kids. They sound wonderful. I’m so very sorry about Charlie. Owen said he thinks there’s a good chance that Silence is okay. I told Owen, if there is anything I can do, anything at all...”
I didn’t think Marlette knew about Street’s forensic role or that she had seen the body. I hoped it would never be revealed.
Marlette said, “Thank you.”
“Did you bring the drawing?” I said.
She nodded like an eager kid.
“I have it right here,” Marlette said as she reached into a manila folder and pulled a piece of paper out of it. It was folded in thirds.
Henrietta said, “As soon as I saw it, I knew it was from Silence. So I called Marlette and then the police department. Commander Mallory came and took it. But he let me make a copy before he left. This is the copy.”
I took the piece of paper from Marlette, unfolded it and looked it over.
The drawing was in pencil, a little smudged, but spectacular in how it rendered a room and a view out a window. The number of tiny pencil strokes was astounding. The detail was more like a photograph than a drawing, and the perspective was photographic as well.
The room looked like an upstairs bedroom in a house. There was a window, and it had four boards mounted across it horizontally. The drawing showed each of the screws that held the boards to the sides of the window. The boards looked smaller than 2x4s, possibly 1x3s, but still strong enough to prevent Silence from breaking them. The spaces between the boards were narrow enough that no one could crawl out. The window framed a view of a tree and the backyard down below. At the edge of the yard was a solid wooden fence. To the side of the window was a bed, neatly made, and a dresser with a mirror above. In the mirror was reflected part of the room.
“This drawing is amazing,” I said. Street had set down her brush and come over. I angled it so she could see. “You’re convinced this was done by Silence,” I said.
Marlette nodded eagerly. “No question about it.”
“Henrietta?” I said.
“Well,” Henrietta said, “convinced is a strong word. I suppose I couldn’t swear to it in court because I didn’t see her draw it. But aside from that, yes, it absolutely looks like her style.”
“So you are convinced.”
“Yes, I’m certain. I...” Henrietta stopped talking. She stared at the drawing, pointed her finger at something and began counting.
“Oh, my God.” Her voice raised up in a cry. “Oh, my God!” Her jaw quivered. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“What is it?” I said. “What are you seeing?”
“Henrietta!” Marlette said. “What’s wrong?”
Henrietta pointed to the part of the drawing that showed the view out the window. “See the tree? Look at the branches! Oh, Lord, it is Silence! Do you see?! It has to be!”
“What are you referring to?” I said.
“The branches! Fibonacci numbers!”
I held the drawing close.
Street got next to me. “Fibonacci numbers,” she said. “The number sequence you were talking about, right?”
I nodded.
There was a tree depicted in the window view. Not a typical Tahoe pine or fir, but something like a maple, perhaps an ornamental not native to the area.
The marks on the drawing were very small. Street used the nail of her baby finger as a pointer and moved it as we both counted.
First was the single trunk. Then came a split making another trunk. One plus one makes two. Then one of the trunks split again. One plus two makes three. Then two forks. Two plus three makes five. Then three more splits. Three plus five makes eight.
Incredibly, the next level was thirteen. And penciled in up at the top of the window view were many finer branches. I counted them carefully. Twenty-one.
“Look at the back, Owen,” Marlette said.
I turned it over. In the center panel between the two folds, there were two smaller drawings, one in the center and one in the upper left corner.
“Notice the folds?” Marlette asked. “The original that the policeman took had two folds. So before he left I folded the copy the same way.” She glanced toward Henrietta. “It was Henrietta’s idea.” Marlette took the paper from me and folded it. “Now look at the two smaller drawings. They’re both on the center section between the folds. See? It’s a letter. The center picture is the address. It’s a picture of the high school. And the upper left drawing is a miniature picture of a house. It’s the return address.”
“Incredible,” Street whispered.
I turned the paper back over to the main drawing. “If she is in this room, drawing it as she looks at it, then how could she draw the outside of the house for the return address?”
“From memory,” Marlette said. “The same way she knew how to draw the high school.”
“But she’s looked at the school hundreds of times. She probably only saw the outside of the house for a few moments as she was brought inside.”
Henrietta said, “She has a photographic memory. She only has to look at something for a second or two and she can remember it exactly.”
“She doesn’t write,” I said, “but she can draw. So she figured out how to send a letter using drawings in place of words.”
Henrietta was nodding vigorously. “This is the first time Silence has ever done anything like this.” Henrietta’s excitement was palpable.
“By that you mean, accomplishing a specific task with drawings.”
“Yes!”
“Marlette,” I said, “I don’t mean to be tedious, but is there any chance that this could be an older drawing that just got turned into the high school now?”
“I wondered that as we drove over here, and I don’t think so. Maybe I’m just being hopeful, but I don’t remember Silence ever drawing on letter paper. Wouldn’t you say that’s what the original was on, Henrietta?”
“Definitely. Plain old copy paper. Just like what we made the copy on. Only not quite such a bright white.”
Marlette said, “Silence always draws on lined notebook paper or in her sketchbook. She’s had lots of sketchbooks. Remember those ones I showed you in her room? The paper varies in some of them, but it’s always a little rougher than copy paper, and if you ever tear out a sheet it shows on the edge. And I don’t think any of her sketchbooks are the same size as copy paper. Some are a little bigger, but most are quite a bit smaller.”
Both women looked at me. “So it looks like Silence got hold of a pencil and a regular piece of paper,” I said. “Maybe the kidnappers gave it to her so that she could demonstrate that she is still alive. They tell her to draw something she knows, so she does a picture of the high school from memory. She puts the other drawings on it to give it the sense that it is a message, like that of a letter. Then the kidnapper slips it under the door of the high school. The result is that we now know she’s alive, so they can make their demands with assurance that everyone will do whatever is necessary to save her.”