He could tell she was choosing her words with care, but it wasn’t clear what she was driving at. He took a stab, “Do you need me to sign a retainer agreement? I promise I’ll pay the fees, and I—”
She rushed to disabuse him of that idea. “No, no, this isn’t about money. It’s about the fact that we need a plaintiff who’s suffered the harm. You’re concerned about your patients, but you weren’t directly impacted when their brain tissue was taken without permission. In other words, you don’t have legal standing to bring a case in your own name—at least not civilly. You could report the violation to the appropriate oversight boards, but I know that would be politically difficult for you. That’s one of the reasons Sasha went to Golden Village first. She hoped she could convince Athena Ray to be the one to put the screws to Dr. Allstrom.”
He mulled over this information. “I see what you’re saying. And I know from Sasha’s report that Athena Ray assuredly didn’t put the screws to Dr. Allstrom, as you phrase it, but, based on her phone calls, someone has.”
“The IRB?” Naya ventured.
He had no idea. “Possibly. I guess … I could try to find out? Should I speak with her?”
Naya exhaled loudly. “I’m not sure. Let me try to get ahold of Sasha; she should be on the island by now.”
“The island? Sounds very exotic.”
“Hardly,” she said, choking back laughter. “Sasha and Leo went traipsing off to coastal Maine in the dead of autumn and took the babies with them.”
“Oh. You’re quite right; that’s the opposite of exotic. Maine is beautiful, but it can be downright chilly this time of year.”
* * *
Sasha crouched beside the blanket she’d spread out on the floor of the quaint, if drafty, cafe and put a hand to each of the baby’s cheeks to check their skin temperatures. Somehow, despite the fact that she was still shivering from the raw, windy water taxi ride, both twins were toasty in their hooded outfits. Finn looked at her curiously and flashed her a toothless grin, while his sister swatted her hand away in irritation. She apparently didn’t wish to be disturbed from whatever private game the two were playing with the soft fabric ball and wooden block Sasha had given them to inspect.
She laughed to herself at her infant daughter’s fierceness and instantly regretted it because the action set her teeth chattering again. She cupped her hands around the yellow ceramic coffee mug in an effort to warm them. The feeling in her fingertips had nearly returned when her cell phone chirped. She glanced at the display: Naya Work scrolled across the screen.
“Hi,” she answered.
“Hi, yourself. How’s Maine?”
“Cold. Beautiful, though.”
Naya chuckled. “How’d the little ones do on the trip?”
“They were great on the plane. Finn barfed during the car ride, which made me really excited about the water taxi portion of the proceedings, but he hung in there. Fiona was fine.”
“Did Leo meet that dude yet?”
“He’s at Wynn’s house now. The twins and I are cooling our heels at this little general store with a cafe down near the dock.”
“You didn’t go with him?” Surprise rang through Naya’s voice.
“No. I could tell the thought of me and the twins tagging along was making him extra anxious, so I offered to stay here.”
“Personal growth, Mac. Very nice.”
“Ha ha. It turns out I can compromise. Who knew? So, what’s up? I skimmed my emails but didn’t see anything particularly urgent. Did Will get a verdict back in that bribery case?”
“No, the jury’s still out. I’m actually calling about Dr. Kayser.”
“Oh, right. He did send an email saying he wanted to ask me a question. My signal’s been spotty. Do I need to call him or did you talk to him?”
“He called me to ask what I thought and I said I had to talk to you first.”
Sasha bit down on her lower lip. She had plenty of experience managing junior associates from her time at Prescott & Talbott. But Naya wasn’t a typical baby lawyer. She was a self-possessed, confident middle-aged woman accustomed to making decisions. After a moment, she said, “Why don’t you tell me what he wants to know and what your instinct tells you?”
“Dr. Allstrom wants to meet with him.”
“Why?”
“She says she wants to ease his mind about her research protocol. From the messages she’s left him, he gets the sense that she wants to convince him that what she’s doing is perfectly fine.”
“Messages plural?”
“Yep. Two today. He’s been putting off going over to Golden Village this afternoon because he knows she’s going to ambush him there.”
“Hard sell, huh? Seems like she doth protest too much,” Sasha observed lightly. Given Naya’s personal feelings about the research, she didn’t want to stir up any emotion.
“Maybe. But is it okay for him to talk to her?”
She turned the question around. “What do you think?”
Naya answered slowly. “Ordinarily, I’d say yes, go hear what she has to say. At worst, we’ll get a sneak peak at her defense. And the best case scenario is they could work out a compromise.”
“And in this instance?”
“I don’t know, Mac. I don’t like it. Athena Ray clearly didn’t want to get her hands dirty, so she’s unlikely to be pressuring Allstrom. But Allstrom’s insistence on talking to Dr. Kayser makes me think someone’s applying pressure. And that’s got to be either her IRB or …”
“In-house counsel,” Sasha finished for her.
“So, no, right?”
“Right. If the university legal department is involved—or even if it’s just the Institutional Review Board, you know the lawyers aren’t far behind—then they should have reached out to us. They know he’s represented. I don’t like it. Call Dr. Kayser and explain that if Allstrom contacts him again he should tell her to have university counsel call me.”
“Okay, that’s what I thought.”
“You thought right.” Sasha smiled to herself. Of course she did. Then her grin faded. “I’m sorry that it looks like we won’t have a clean and easy fix to this, though.”
Naya’s voice was firm and clear when she answered. “That’s not your fault. And I’m sorry about before. I was wrong.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Caroline lent me that Henrietta Lacks book. I guess … I guess it’s more nuanced than I allowed.”
If compromising with her husband represented personal growth for Sasha, acknowledging that she was wrong represented the same for Naya. But Sasha was smart enough not to comment on it. Instead she said, “I’d love to borrow the book when you’re finished.”
“Right. Sure. I know you have nothing but free time on your hands,” Naya cracked.
Sasha started to laugh, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Fiona pulling herself along the blanket, trying to reach for what appeared to be a very old, undoubtedly fragile, large urn.
“Gotta go!” she shouted as she lunged forward to catch her daughter before she could destroy the item.
17
Leo turned up the collar of his jacket and jammed his hands into his pockets as he trudged up the long, gradual slope that led from the heart of what passed for the town on this island up to the secluded cliffside home of Doug Wynn. The ferry captain had warned him it would be a long walk.
For all his careful planning to get to Great Cranberry Island, he’d somehow failed to plan to get from the dock to Wynn’s house. If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d more or less assumed the man would have a messenger stationed at the dock on the appointed day, maybe holding a sign that read “Leonard Connelly,” ready to whisk Leo to the meeting.
But when Eli Nicholas, the water taxi captain, moored the boat and helped Sasha step up onto the rotting wooden stairs that led up from the dock to the hillside, Leo had taken a moment to scan the arrival area. No driver awaited them. To be accurate, no humans
of any stripe awaited them. When he mounted the stairs, he noted three late model cars in varying degrees of disrepair and a well-kept, plank-sided outhouse. Further up the hill, he spotted the cafe/general store that Annabeth had mentioned.
He turned back to Nicholas. “I don’t suppose there’s a cab service on this island?”
The captain looked back at him with an amused expression. “Don’t suppose there is,” he agreed. He tugged his hat down over his craggy brow and jerked his chin toward the store. “Ya might ask inside if anyone’ll drive ya where you’re headed, but they ain’t likely to have any baby seats.”
“The twins and their mother aren’t coming with me. They’re going to wait inside the cafe.”
“Now that we’re here, ya mind telling me what brings ya to the island this time of year? It ain’t exactly a hot spot.”
Leo hesitated. He’d made it a point to be circumspect with Nicholas. Given that he knew precious little about the man he was going to meet—and even less about the denizens of what he imagined to be a tight-knit island community, he hadn’t shared any details of his trip with Eli Nicholas. All the man knew was that he was to ferry Leo and his family from Mt. Desert Island to Great Cranberry Island, wait until they were ready to leave, and then ferry them back. At this point, though, he didn’t have much to lose.
“I have a meeting with a Mr. Wynn. He asked me to come to his home, but it doesn’t appear that he’s providing transportation,” he finally said.
Before Nicholas could answer, Sasha stepped between them, a baby in each arm. “Listen, sorry to interrupt, but these guys are cold and cranky. I’m going in to the store. Good luck with your … meeting.” She stretched up onto her toes, and he planted a kiss near her upper lip. Then he kissed Finn and Fiona in turn and waved goodbye to them as she walked off.
After she’d disappeared into the storefront, Nicholas cleared his throat. “Ay-yup. Doug Wynn. He’s not the type to send the welcome wagon. He keeps to himself mostly.” He scanned the row of vehicles. “You’re probably out of luck on the ride, too. I recognize these cars—they belong to folks who commute to work on the mainland. Although more likely than not, they left the keys under the floor mat.” He chuckled.
Great.
Leo reached into his pocket and retrieved the slip of paper with Wynn’s address printed on it. By now, the sheet was nearly ripping along the well-worn fold lines. “In that case can you tell me how to get to—”
“The Blue House,” Nicholas finished for him. “Mr. Wynn may be a bit of a recluse, even for the island, but everybody knows The Blue House.”
Leo waited.
“Head straight up the hill—all the way up the hill. At the summit, it’ll branch off into two roads—one paved road that bends away from the coast and a gravel road that follows the curve of the coast. You want the gravel one. You’ll pass five, maybe six, big old mansions—the rich people call them ‘cottages,’ but don’t be fooled. Then it’ll look like the houses end. Nothin’ but dense trees for about a quarter of mile. Then you’ll see a narrow path cut through the trees, just big enough for a car to pass. That’s Wynn’s driveway.”
And with that, Nicholas had headed to the island’s lone bar to wait for Leo’s call saying they were ready to return to Mt. Desert Island. Leo could only hope the man would spend his time swapping stories and not downing pints.
He crested the hill with some relief and veered left to take the gravel road, as instructed. He passed the time imagining who lived in the enormous cliffside cottages that lined the coast and drinking in the breathtaking view. From here, he could see Cadillac Mountain and the fireball of sun as it prepared to sink into the sea. He allowed himself to enjoy the majesty of the sight for a moment.
Then he reached for his phone and activated the flashlight app before continuing past the cottage and entering a stretch of the road that was edged with tall trees standing sentinel. The transformation from coastal cliff to forest was abrupt and complete. No light filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead. It was an excellent spot for an ambush. He put his free hand on his holster.
He covered the quarter mile quickly. When he reached the narrow path that Nicholas had mentioned, he expected it to be hard to find. And, ordinarily, it probably would have been. But evenly spaced light posts bordered the driveway, creating a well-lit path. And at the end of the driveway, Wynn’s house was lit up like a beacon. Exterior flood lights beamed down from all corners.
Leo stopped.
It was reasonable to assume the man had turned the lights on because he was expecting him. This was the appointed day.
But it felt wrong.
A person who chose to live as a recluse simply wouldn’t advertise his location this way. And the bright lights would leave anyone approaching from the driveway exposed and vulnerable. Doug Wynn could be standing in front of the house with a shotgun, and Leo would never see him. He, in turn, would be lit up as if on stage.
Strolling up that driveway was a sucker move.
He veered off the gravel road and stepped into the woods. His approach would be unseen, but unfortunately, it would not be silent. Dried leaves crunched underfoot with each step he took, and the cracking of dead branches and twigs echoed like gunshots in the quiet night as he thrashed his way toward the side of the house.
He reached a clearing and dimmed his flashlight as he raced across the empty space to the next copse of trees. He pressed himself against the trunk of a bare-branched oak tree and stared hard at the house. From this angle, the lights created a checkerboard of shadows, but he was fairly certain he saw no one lying in wait.
Of course, that’s not to say he’s not standing just inside, behind one of those thick curtains, weapon locked and loaded.
Leo felt a twinge of irritation. He should have arranged for some sort of backup. How had he let himself walk into a possible ambush like a dope? It violated his training, his world view, everything.
Because you were so eager for information about your dad that you let it blind you to the situation, he berated himself. And it’s a little late for the realization now, so let’s get on with it.
Despite the cold air, sweat beaded his upper lip. He flattened himself against the tree and removed his gun from the holster and checked that the safety was engaged. Then he held his breath and ran to the next patch of trees, the final cluster on the left side of the house.
Now all that separated him from the front door was about thirty yards of semi-manicured lawn. He pushed himself off the gnarled tree trunk and started his approach. He was about to step down onto a pile of lawn debris and decaying leaves when he froze, his foot in mid-air.
That’s not right.
He stepped back toward the trees and lowered himself to a crouch. Then he craned his neck skyward and aimed the phone’s light at the trees behind him. Elm, elm, oak. He shined it toward the ground. Right at the edge of the flood light’s range, a pile of red maple leaves and pinecones joined acorns, elm and oak leaves, and sticks to form a blanket of material.
The leaves and detritus covering the ground hadn’t simply fallen there from the trees overhead. It had been placed there. An innocuous leaf pile? No. The materials had been strewn across the area, spread nearly flat to form a rectangle, not raked into a mound.
It’s camouflage, he realized. But what’s it hiding? And its placement couldn’t be a coincidence, located in the shadows outside the flood lights.
He felt around on the ground behind him and grabbed the nearest branch then edged forward a few inches. He rocked forward on his toes and used the branch to sweep the debris away from the nearest edge of the rectangular shape. He beamed the light at what was hidden beneath. Not the grass that should have been there, but a woven mat. He reached out with one hand and yanked the corner of the mat, pulling it toward him. It was a standard door mat, made of rattan or possibly seagrass woven into a loose pattern. Someone had affixed clumps of grass and leaves to the surface so as to make it blend more naturally with the deb
ris that topped it.
He set it aside and peered into the hole that the mat had covered, already knowing what he’d see.
A deep pit had been dug into the ground. The bottom was lined with row after row of thin sticks standing upright, their tops sharpened into points.
Doug Wynn had a punji trap in his backyard. A trap made even harder to see by its placement just outside the brilliant spotlights. Anyone approaching the house covertly would naturally choose the shadows. And with the lights having impaired that person’s night vision, he would almost certainly stumble directly into the ambush.
Leo stared down at the wicked cluster of sticks. Then he narrowed his eyes and swept the yard. The pit was meant to ambush anyone who tried to sneak up on the house from the rear or, as he had, the side. Anyone approaching in the ordinary course wouldn’t come within fifty feet of the trap. If he were a betting man, he lay odds that there was a similar pit on the far side of the house.
He returned the mat to its place covering the hole with careful, exaggerated movements and scattered the leaves back on top. A close inspection would reveal that the camouflage material had been disturbed, but Wynn would likely chalk it up to wind or wild animals.
He stood and considered his next move. Retreat, walk back to the dock, grab Sasha and the kids, and get the hell off this island? Or advance to a meeting with a paranoid, dangerous, recluse?
He tightened his grip on his weapon and crossed the lawn.
18
Greta’s nerves jangled as if she’d had too much caffeine when, in fact, she’d had none. Her heart had been racing for more than twenty-four hours, ever since the call from Virgil. She’d been distractible, absent-minded, and irritable. After a night of fitful sleep, she’d steeled herself and called Dr. Kayser’s office twenty minutes before his scheduled office hours began. And she’d called a second time. But he had failed to return either call, and it was clear from his receptionist’s tone that she’d been instructed to put Greta off.
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