The woman led him across the parlor, her shoes softly squelching against the glossy wood floors. She approached a wide staircase that descended from a catwalk spanning the entire width of the main house from one wing to the other.
“He’s up here.” She began climbing the stairs. “You know that car of yours isn’t easy to miss,” she said over her shoulder. “And even in civvies I knew you were a cop.”
Aubrey didn’t correct her. “What’s your name?”
“Wanda Beasley. I’m the nanny.”
Wanda reached the top of the stairs and started down a hallway to the left. She didn’t speak again until she reached a doorway on their right where she turned to face him.
Light spilled out from the open door. Aubrey heard a soft beeping. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place it.
“In here,” Wanda said, motioning into the room.
Aubrey entered the room. He did not find Mr. Jorgetson inside.
Shades of blue covered the walls of the large room. The wood floor was clean. A large rug in the center of the room with low bookshelves, trunks, and stuffed animals along the walls. A bed in the far corner, surrounded by play things.
The room belonged to a child. It was a little boy’s room.
Everything was neat and tidy, arranged just so.
Confused, Aubrey looked back at Wanda. She wrinkled her forehead, then pointed toward the bed.
He’d took in the bed once more. At first glance he took the objects surrounding it for toy castles and towers. Looking more closely he realized the objects had only been decorated as such. The tubes and wires trailing from them, accompanied by the soft beeping betrayed their true purpose.
The bed was surrounded by medical devices—monitors, IV hangers, and sensors. The bed itself was in fact a hospital bed.
The high sides of the bed blocked its occupant from view. Aubrey had a hunch of what he would find, wishing he was wrong.
He stepped toward the bed and as he neared, he confirmed his fear. A boy, no older than ten, no younger than seven, lay in the bed sleeping.
It was Boarding School Syndrome.
At that moment, Aubrey realized that in all his investigations of BSS, this was only the second time he’d been this close to one of the victims. The boy had clean brown hair brushed to the side. He’d been well cared for by the woman behind Aubrey.
The tubes, Aubrey guessed, fed the boy nutrients to keep him alive. The wires ran to cuffs around his arms and legs, which periodically made his fingers and toes twitch. Stimulators to keep the boy’s muscles from atrophying.
Over the boy’s head, large wooden letters hanging at playful angles spelled a name: Owen.
Aubrey’s heart sank as he leaned on the rails of the bed. Staring at the name on the wall, he asked, “Where are his parents?”
“All over. Don’t stay in one spot for more than a few weeks. I think it helps keep their mind off Owen.”
“How long has he been like this?” Aubrey’s eyes settled on the boy, breathing gently, tucked in tight beneath his covers.
“Months.”
“How long?” Aubrey’s voice shook. “When did you find him like this?”
After a moment, Wanda replied in a quiet voice. “January 1st. New Year’s Day. Ms. Jorgetson found him that morning. We thought he was sleeping in because they let him stay up late the night before to celebrate. Around noon, they got worried, called in the family doctor. She came and ran some tests.”
“No hospital?” Aubrey asked, knowing the answer before she responded. Medical technology allowed most tests and treatments to be performed on the spot, allowing many patients who could afford it to remain in the home.
“No. She thought maybe the boy had a stroke, or an aneurysm, but it was strange because otherwise he was healthy.” Wanda sniffled. Aubrey heard her footsteps coming closer. “Couple days went by while they monitored him, the doctor was in and out. One day, I left to run some errands. When I came back, Mr. Jorgetson sat me down and told me how we were going to care for the boy. He said we’d do this until they found a cure. There were some very smart people working on it, he said.”
Wanda joined Aubrey at the side of Owen’s hospital bed. She crossed her arms, then touched her lip trying to hide its quiver.
“When did the Jorgetsons leave town?”
“Couple months ago. Late April.”
Aubrey’s mind spun like a dervish. He could be staring at the first victim of BSS. The boy could have been the first attack. The fact that OFP didn’t take credit for poisoning Owen puzzled him, but the boy could have been a test to see if the poison worked. Maybe it was something else entirely, like revenge.
His mind kept coming back to the voice on the other end of the mercenary’s phone, the only inbound caller. That voice pulled all the strings. Those strings were becoming an intricate web Aubrey would have to unravel.
Aubrey looked at the woman. He sympathized with her. She clearly cared about the boy, had taken care of him on her own for months. But he needed answers.
“Why didn’t they call the police? Didn’t they realize what this was after the other BSS cases started?”
“They left before all that started.” She wiped a tear only to have it replaced with several more.
“And?”
“They called one day to check in and … I brought it up.” She looked at her hands, pulled some tissues from her pocket. “They assured me it wasn’t connected. Said they spoke to the doctor and …”
“You could have called the police. You could have called for help.”
Wanda looked at him aghast, insulted, with blood shot eyes. Her cheeks had bloomed with purple splotches. “They’re family. I may be in their employ but they’re family to me. Do you have a family?”
“You’re really going to give me that family bullshit?” He pointed a finger at Owen. “What’s that boy to you? He isn’t family enough for you to call for help?”
She covered her face, sobbing behind her hands. “Mandel said they’d have a cure soon. That he’d be okay before we knew it.” She fell to her knees, rocking back and forth.
Aubrey tried to calm himself. This woman had answers he needed. “Why aren’t they here? Why did they leave?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t understand it. The Jorgetsons and the other family met here one day.” She pulled her hands away looking more composed than a moment ago. “Patricia muttered something to me afterward about how these things are best handled among their own kind.” Wanda wiped more tears away. “Anyway, they stayed for a while, looking after him. Then, then one day … they left. I think it was Patricia. She just couldn’t stand being here anymore. Wasn’t herself. It was her idea to leave.”
“Who was the other family?”
“I didn’t know them. Never saw them before. I wasn’t introduced and I never saw them again.”
“What did they talk about when they met?” he asked.
Wanda took a deep, stuttering breath. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t in the room but I could hear them from the other room. They mentioned the kids several times. They kept saying something about what was best for them. One of the men shouted a lot. He sounded angry.”
“Why was he so mad?” Aubrey bent low to get on her level. “Did the other family have a kid like Owen? With BSS?”
She sobbed into her hands for a moment longer. “I have no idea, but it definitely seemed like they were all in the same situation and agreed,” she shrugged, “on how to handle it or something.”
Still reeling, Aubrey stood and walked past the woman. Were the super wealthy really so insular that they’d avoid the police altogether? Had they been threatened to keep quiet?
“Where are you going?” Wanda shouted.
Aubrey turned back to face her. “I’m going to call the police. You stay here and tell them everything you just told me.”
Wanda stared up at him with wide eyes, clearly confused. “Wait. You’re not the police?”
“No.”
* * *
Outside the mansion, in the circle drive, Aubrey used the phone Malina gave him to call Aaron Lewis and relay everything he had just learned.
Before he ended the call, he said, “I want my anonymity protected. Consider me a confidential informant. I won’t be here when you arrive.”
Next, he called Malina.
“How is the decryption going on the other messages?”
“Slowly. Nothing new yet. What did you find at the Jorgetsons’?”
After briefing her on his discovery, he made a request.
“Check to see if anyone connected to the Jorgetsons left town in the last few months. Check to see if anyone left unexpectedly like last minute extended vacations, unexpected retirements, anything like that.”
Malina didn’t say anything. For a second, he thought he lost the connection.
“Hello, Malina? Did you get that?”
“Yeah, … I uh. Yeah, I got it. I just … I didn’t expect kids.” Her voice faded.
“I know. Listen, that’s why we’re doing this. If there’s more of these kids out there or if there are more coming, we need to know. And we’re the only ones working on this.”
She responded with a sharp and steady voice. “Right. I got it. Let me do some digging.”
After he hung up the phone, he placed his hands in his pockets and looked at the sky. Clouds formed overhead. He closed his eyes and attempted to put the pieces together. The other family Wanda mentioned was probably another case of BSS. Maybe the second ever. Both children stricken around the same time with both going unclaimed by OFP.
It didn’t make sense. Why would OFP and Alkorn test the poison on two kids and not claim the attacks after they succeeded? The bombings may have been their larger objective with the poisonings secondary to them.
The child poisonings could have been a pet project of Alkorn’s that he later offered to OFP as a weapon to create fear.
His brain knotted with theories and questions.
His phone rang. He looked and saw Malina’s number on the display. He answered.
“Hey, Martin,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s what you’re looking for exactly, but I have something.”
“Tell me.”
“One woman with ties to the Jorgetsons on an extended business trip, starting around mid-April.”
“That isn’t much to go on. Just her, no spouse, no one else with her?” Aubrey kicked the rocks in the driveway. He hadn’t expected much from her so quickly, but he had hope.
“Doesn’t look like it, but there’s something else. She and her husband have an eight-year-old daughter who hasn’t been in school since December. Went home for the holidays and never returned.”
A chill passed over him. Another child. He closed his eyes and took a breath, hoping once again that he was wrong. “Okay. Worth checking out. Send me the address.”
The house was located ten minutes away, in the same general area as the Jorgetson’s manor. The estate belonged to the Binns-Lourdes and as Aubrey pulled up the long driveway, he saw it stood just as large and impressive as the Jorgetsons’.
Along with the address, Malina sent a short bio on the family. Dory Binns worked as a venture capitalist whose family had grown to prominence as leaders in the airline industry. After graduating from business school, Dory married a well-known artist named Gregory Lourdes. The couple had one child, a daughter named Polly, who attended an all-girls academy in upstate Maryland.
Like the Jorgetsons’, the Binns-Lourdes’s home had a long winding lane leading to the main house that ended in a circle drive. Unlike the Jorgetsons’, this home had no fountain inside the circle drive, only a small flower garden overgrown with weeds. The home itself was red brick with tall white columns across the front in the Victorian style.
Stepping out of the car, Aubrey surveyed the lawn and what he could see of the house. The grass stood knee high and unkempt; the shrubs bordering the lane had grown misshapen with long wisps of limbs jutting out at random places. Grass grew from cracks in the smooth concrete of the driveway and steps leading up to the house. The blinds in most of the windows were open, but Aubrey saw no movement in the house; no lights were on.
He stepped toward the door, then stopped, listening. He heard crying coming from somewhere on an upper floor. He looked up and saw an open window on the second floor to his right. Striding with long steps to the door, he raised his hand to knock. Before his knuckle made contact, he stopped again.
The sound of breaking glass pierced the still air. Then a gunshot.
* * *
Gregory Lourdes stood in his bathrobe next to Polly’s bed, holding her tiny hand. So small, he thought. Polly, his little poppy-seed.
He brushed the golden blonde hair covering her closed eyes, touched the freckles on her nose that had been earned during many hours of exploring outside. He thought about the last time they’d been out there together, catching bugs and placing them in small jars for further examination. A budding scientist, always so curious about the world.
Now, she would see none of it, stuck in an endless nightmare, never to awake.
He wouldn’t let her suffer like this. He had no idea what she was feeling, what she saw behind those eyes, but he knew it was worse than death. Hanging on to an entire life spent asleep. He couldn’t let her languish any longer.
Stumbling around to the opposite side of the bed, he set the bottle of gin on the nightstand. He began pulling the tubes and wires from her body, lifting the blanket to reveal pale skin beneath. He detached the cuffs of the muscle stimulators from her limbs and removed all the monitors from her chest, neck, and head.
Looking down at her, swaying as he stood, she looked almost normal—lying there breathing gently in her favorite unicorn pajamas.
His breath caught. He clutched his chest with one hand. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed. He held her hand, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.
“I’m so sorry, poppy. I’m so sorry.”
He reached down and pulled the pillow from under her head.
“We should have been better. I’m so sorry.”
Grasping the pillow in both hands, he steeled himself as best he could.
“I’m sorry. Mommy and I love you so much, poppy. So much.”
He extended his shaking arms. His limbs moved as if through sand, not wanting to obey. The tears poured from his eyes; snot flowed from his nose.
He couldn’t breathe.
His heart pounded.
The pillow was an inch from Polly’s face when he stopped. His arms shook uncontrollably.
Gregory threw the pillow aside and collapsed to the floor, sobbing hysterically. He sucked in great gasps of air, wailing. He covered his head with his hands and arms. He pulled his hair.
He couldn’t do it. This wasn’t the way.
Coward, he thought. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves better.
After a few minutes, still weeping, he got to his feet and staggered to the master bedroom down the hall. When he returned, he held a small pistol, no larger than his palm. It had been a gift from his father-in-law, a family heirloom from the early twentieth century.
He examined the chrome finish and pearl handle. The old gun was spotless, probably never used. He had no idea if it still worked, but he had hope. He just needed something quick.
In his other hand he held a small bullet as thick as a pencil. How did something so small take a life? He’d never fired a gun, had never been remotely interested. But they wouldn’t make a gun that couldn’t kill someone, he reasoned. It’ll work.
Gregory pulled back the silver slide on top of the pistol until it clicked and locked in place. He dropped the round in the chamber, like his father-in-law had shown him, then flicked the lever that sent the slide home.
Pulling the slide back had also readied the hammer. He pushed the safety button through the trigger guard until it showed red.
He walked back to his daughter’s bedside, bent down, a
nd kissed her on the forehead. His lips lingered there while another fit of sobbing overtook him. He pressed his face against hers, knowing this would be the last time he felt her alive. His tears covered the side of her face, but she took no notice, still in her eternal sleep.
After several minutes of crying fits, his resolve restored itself and he straightened. Reaching for the bottle on the nightstand, he lifted it to his mouth and downed as much as he could before choking on the bitter harshness of the liquor.
He flung the bottle to the side onto the floor. It landed with a shattering crash, breaking into a thousand pieces.
Gregory lifted the pistol to his own temple and pulled the trigger.
* * *
The shot echoed across the property. Aubrey tried the door; it was locked. He took a step back and kicked it. The door flew open and he ran.
Finding the staircase, he dashed up the steps two at a time. Turning right at the top of the stairs, he ran ahead, knowing the gunshot came from somewhere toward the end of the hallway on this floor.
A door stood open but he nearly slid past it as he tried to stop.
Inside the room, the scene confused Aubrey. A child in a bed, water on the floor, machines against the wall identical to those in Owen Jorgetson’s bedroom.
Aubrey was about to check the next room for the source of the shot when he saw the hand. It stuck out past the end of the bed on the side nearest the window.
He rushed to the other side of the room and rounded the bed. The body was that of a middle-aged male, dressed in a dirty purple bathrobe. He lay crumpled on his side. Blood pooled under his head but not much. He still clutched the gun in his right hand; his left arm stretched out past his head, beyond the foot of the bed.
Aubrey bent down and placed two fingers on the man’s pulse. He felt it. It thudded against the pads of his fingers.
He rolled the man’s head. Blood ran from a small hole near his temple.
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