by Robin Cook
“Quite the contrary,” Marsha said. “I wanted to talk to you about my son.”
“Wonderful boy,” Pauline said. “I suppose you know that he comes in here from time to time and helps out. In fact, he visited us just last weekend.”
“I didn’t know the center was open on weekends,” Marsha said.
“Seven days a week,” Pauline said with pride. “A lot of people here at Chimera work every day. I suppose that’s called dedication.”
Marsha wasn’t sure she’d call it dedication, and she wondered what kind of stress such devotion would have on family life that was already suffering. But she didn’t say any of this. Instead, she asked Pauline if she remembered the day VJ’s IQ dropped.
“Of course I remember. The fact that it happened here has always made me feel responsible somehow.”
“Well, that’s plainly absurd,” Marsha said with a warm smile. “What I wanted to ask about was VJ’s behavior afterwards.”
Pauline looked down at her feet, thinking. After a minute or so, she raised her head. “I suppose the thing I noticed the most was that he’d changed from a leader of activities to an observer. Before, he was always eager to try anything. Later, he acted bored and had to be forced to participate. And he avoided all competition. It was as if he were a different person. We didn’t push him; we were afraid to. Anyway, we saw much less of him after that episode.”
“What do you mean?” Marsha asked. “Once he finished his medical work-up, he still came here every afternoon after preschool.”
“No, he didn’t,” Pauline said. “He began to spend most of the time in his father’s lab.”
“Really? I didn’t think that started until he began school. But what do I know, I’m just the mother!”
Pauline smiled.
“What about friends?” Marsha questioned.
“That was never one of VJ’s strong points,” Pauline said diplomatically. “He always got along better with the staff than the children. After his problem, he tended to stay by himself. Well, I take that back. He did seem to enjoy the company of the retarded employee.”
“You mean Philip?” Marsha questioned.
“That’s the fellow,” Pauline said.
Marsha stood up, thanked Pauline, and together they walked to the entrance.
“VJ may not be quite as smart as he was,” Pauline said at the door, “but he is a fine boy. We appreciate him here at the center.”
Marsha hurried back to the car. She hadn’t learned much, but it seemed VJ had always been even more of a loner than she had suspected.
Victor knew he should go to his office the moment he reached Chimera. Colleen was undoubtedly inundated by emergencies. But instead, carrying his latest samples from Children’s Hospital, he headed for his lab. En route he stopped at the computer center.
Victor looked for Louis Kaspwicz around the malfunctioning hardware, but the problem had apparently been solved. The machine was back on line with lights blinking and tape reels running. One of the many white-coated technicians said Louis was in his office trying to figure out a glitch that had occurred in one of the accounting programs.
When Louis saw Victor, he pushed aside the thick program he was working on and took out the log sheets that he was saving to show Victor.
“I’ve checked over the last six months,” Louis said, organizing the papers for Victor to see, “and underlined the times the hacker has logged on. It seems the kid checks in every Friday night around eight. At least fifty percent of the time he stays on long enough to be traced.”
“How come you say ‘kid’?” Victor asked, straightening up from glancing at the logs.
“It’s just an expression,” Louis answered. “Somebody who breaks into a private computer system could be any age.”
“Like one of our competitors?” Victor said.
“Exactly, but historically there’s been a lot of teenagers that do it just for the challenge. It’s like some kind of computer game for them.”
“When can we try to trace him?” Victor asked.
“As soon as possible,” Louis said. “It terrifies me that this has been going on for so long. I have no idea what kind of mischief this guy has been up to. Anyway, I talked the phone company into sending over some technicians to watch tomorrow night, if it’s all right with you.”
“Fine,” Victor said.
That settled, Victor continued on to his lab. He found Robert still absorbed in sequencing the DNA of the inserted genes.
“I’ve got some more rush work,” Victor said hurriedly. “If you need to, pull one of the other techs off a project to help, but I want you to be personally responsible for this work.”
“I’ll get Harry if it’s necessary,” Robert said. “What do you have?”
Victor opened the brown paper bag and removed a small jar. He extended it toward Robert. His hand trembled.
“It’s a piece of my son’s liver.”
“VJ’s?” Robert’s gaunt face looked shocked. His eyes seemed even more prominent.
“No, no, David’s. Remember we did DNA fingerprinting on everyone in my family?”
Robert nodded.
“I want that tumor fingerprinted, too,” Victor said. “And I want some standard H and E stains and a chromosome study.”
“Can I ask why you want all this?”
“Just do it,” Victor said sharply.
“All right,” Robert said, nervously looking down at his feet. “I wasn’t questioning your motives. I just thought that if you were looking for something in particular, I could keep an eye out for it.”
Victor ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for snapping at you like that,” he said. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”
“No need to apologize,” Robert said. “I’ll start work on it right now.”
“Wait, there’s more,” Victor said. He removed the four stoppered test tubes. “I’ve got some blood and urine samples I need assayed for a cephalosporin antibiotic called cephaloclor.”
Robert took the samples, tilted them to see their consistency, then checked the grease-pencil labels. “I’ll put Harry on this. It will be pretty straightforward.”
“How is the sequencing coming?” Victor asked.
“Tedious, as usual,” Robert said.
“Any mutations pop up?”
“Not a one,” Robert said. “And the way the probes pick up the fragments, I’d guess at this point that the genes have been perfectly stable.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Victor said.
“I thought you’d be pleased with that information,” Robert said.
“Normally I would,” Victor said. He didn’t elaborate. It would have been too hard for him to explain that he was hoping to find concrete evidence that the dead children’s NGF gene differed from VJ’s.
“So here you are!” a voice called, startling both Victor and Robert. They turned to see Colleen standing at the door, legs apart and arms akimbo. “One of the secretaries told me she saw you creeping around,” she said with a wink.
“I was just about to come over to the office,” Victor said defensively.
“Sure, and I’m about to win the lottery,” Colleen laughed.
“I suppose the office is bedlam?” Victor asked sheepishly.
“Now he thinks he’s indispensable,” Colleen joked to Robert. “Actually, things aren’t too bad. I’ve handled most of what has come up. But there is something that you should know right away.”
“What is it?” said Victor, suddenly concerned.
“Perhaps I could talk to you in private?” Colleen said. She smiled at Robert to indicate she did not mean to be rude.
“Of course,” Victor said awkwardly. He moved across the lab to one of the benches. Colleen followed.
“It’s about Gephardt,” Colleen said. “Darryl Webster, who’s in charge of the investigation, has been trying to get you all day. He finally told me what it was all about. Seems that he has uncovered a slew of irregularities. While G
ephardt was purchasing supervisor for Chimera a lot of laboratory equipment vanished.”
“Like what?” Victor questioned.
“Big-ticket items,” Colleen said. “Fast protein liquid chromatography units, DNA sequencers, mass spectrometers, things like that.”
“Good God!”
“Darryl thought you should know,” Colleen added.
“Did he find bogus orders?”
“No,” Colleen said. “That’s what makes it so weird. Receiving got the equipment. It just never went to the department that was supposed to have ordered it. And the department in question never said anything because they hadn’t placed the order.”
“So Gephardt fenced it,” Victor said, amazed. “No wonder his attorney was so hot to cut a deal. He knew what we would find.”
Angrily, Victor remembered that the note around the brick referred to a deal. In all likelihood, Gephardt had been behind the harassment.
“I assume we have the bastard’s telephone number,” Victor said with venom.
“I guess,” Colleen said. “Should be in his employee record.”
“I want to give Gephardt a call. I’m tired of talking through that lawyer of his.”
On the way back to the administration building, Colleen had to run to keep up with Victor. She’d never seen him so angry.
He was still fuming as he dialed Gephardt’s number, motioning for Colleen to stay in the room so she could be a witness to what was said. But the phone rang interminably. “Damn it!” Victor cursed. “The bastard either is out or he’s not answering. What’s his address?”
Colleen looked it up and found a street number in Lawrence, not far from Chimera.
“I think I’ll stop and pay the man a visit on the way home,” Victor said. “I have a feeling he’s been to my house. It’s time I return the call.”
When one of her patients called in sick, Marsha decided to use the hour to visit Pendleton Academy, the private school that VJ had been attending since kindergarten.
The campus was beautiful even though the trees were still bare and the grass a wintry brown. The stone buildings were covered with ivy, giving the appearance of an old college or university.
Marsha pulled up to the administration building and got out. She wasn’t as familiar with the school as she might have been. Although she and Victor had made regular Parents’ Day visits, she’d met the headmaster, Perry Remington, on only two occasions. She hoped he would see her.
When she entered the building she was pleased to find a number of secretaries busy at their desks. At least it wasn’t a vacation week for the staff. Mr. Remington was in his office and was kind enough to see Marsha within a few minutes.
He was a big man with a full, well-trimmed beard. His bushy brows poked over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.
“We are always delighted to see parents,” Mr. Remington said, offering her a chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, and balanced a manila folder on his knee. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m curious about my son, VJ,” Marsha said. “I’m a psychiatrist and to be honest with you, I’m a bit worried about him. I know his grades are good, but I wondered how he was doing generally.” Marsha paused. She didn’t want to put words into Mr. Remington’s mouth.
The headmaster cleared his throat. “When they told me you were outside, I quickly reviewed VJ’s record,” he said. He tapped the folder, then he shifted his position, crossing the other leg. “Actually, if you hadn’t stopped by I’d have probably given you a ring when school reopened. VJ’s teachers are also concerned about him. Despite his excellent grades, your son seems to have an attention problem. His teachers say that he often appears to be daydreaming or off in his own world, though they admit if they call on him he always has the right answer.”
“Then why are the teachers concerned?” asked Marsha.
“I guess it’s because of the fights.”
“Fights!” exclaimed Marsha. “I’ve never heard a word about fights.”
“There have been four or five episodes this year alone.”
“Why hasn’t this been brought to my attention?” Marsha asked with some indignation.
“We didn’t contact you because VJ specifically asked us not to do so.”
“That’s absurd!” Marsha said, raising her voice. “Why would you take orders from VJ?”
“Just a moment, Dr. Frank,” Mr. Remington said. “In each incident it was apparent to the staff member present that your son was severely provoked and that he only used his fists as a last resort. Each incident involved a known bully apparently responding childishly to your son’s . . . er, uniqueness. There was nothing equivocal about any of these incidents. VJ was never at fault and never the instigator. Consequently, we respected his wishes not to bother you.”
“But he could have been hurt,” Marsha said, settling back in her chair.
“That’s the other surprising thing,” Mr. Remington said. “For a boy who doesn’t go out for athletics, VJ handled himself admirably. One of the other boys came away with a broken nose.”
“I seem to be learning a lot about my son these days,” Marsha said. “What about friends?”
“He’s pretty much of a loner,” Mr. Remington said. “In fact, he doesn’t interact well with the other students. Generally, there is no hostility involved. He just does ‘his own thing.’ ”
That was not what Marsha wanted to hear. She’d hoped her son was more social in school than at home. “Would you describe VJ as a happy child?” she asked.
“That’s a tough question,” Mr. Remington said. “I don’t feel he is unhappy, but VJ doesn’t display much emotion at any time.”
Marsha frowned. The flat effect sounded schizoid. The picture was getting worse, not better.
“One of our math instructors, Raymond Cavendish,” Mr. Remington offered, “took a particular interest in VJ. He made an enormous effort to penetrate what he called VJ’s private world.”
Marsha leaned forward. “Really? Was he successful?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Mr. Remington said. “But the reason I mentioned it was because Raymond’s goal was to get VJ involved in extracurricular activities like sports. VJ was not very interested even though he’d shown an innate talent for basketball and soccer. But I agreed with Raymond’s opinion: VJ needs to develop other interests.”
“What initially interested Mr. Cavendish in my son?”
“Apparently he was impressed by VJ’s aptitude for math. He put VJ in a gifted class that included kids from several grades. Each was allowed to proceed at his own pace. One day when he was helping some high school kids with their algebra, he noticed VJ daydreaming. He called his name to tell him to get back to work. VJ thought he was calling on him for an answer and, to everyone’s amazement, VJ offered the solution to the high schooler’s problem.”
“That’s incredible!” Marsha said. “Would it be possible for me to talk with Mr. Cavendish?”
Mr. Remington shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Mr. Cavendish died a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marsha said.
“It was a great loss to the school,” Mr. Remington agreed.
There was a pause in the conversation. Marsha was about to excuse herself when Mr. Remington said, “If you want my opinion, I think it would be to VJ’s benefit if he were to spend more time here in school.”
“You mean summer session?” Marsha asked.
“No, no, the regular year. Your husband writes frequent notes for VJ to spend time in his research lab. Now, I am all for alternative educational environments, but VJ needs to participate more, particularly in the extracurricular area. I think—”
“Just a second,” Marsha interrupted. “Are you telling me that VJ misses school to spend time at the lab?”
“Yes,” Mr. Remington said. “Often.”
“That’s news to me,” Marsha admitted. “I know VJ spends a lot of time at the lab, but I never knew he was missing school to do it.”
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“If I were to guess,” Mr. Remington said, “I’d say that VJ spends more time at the lab than he does here.”
“Good grief,” Marsha said.
“If you feel as I do,” Mr. Remington said, “then perhaps you should talk to your husband.”
“I will,” Marsha said, getting to her feet. “You can count on it.”
“I want you to wait in the car,” Victor said to VJ and Philip as he leaned forward and looked at Gephardt’s house through the windshield. It was a nondescript two-story building with a brick façade and fake shutters.
“Turn the key so we can at least listen to the radio,” VJ said from the passenger seat; Philip was in the back.
Victor flipped the ignition key. The radio came back on with the raucous rock music VJ had previously selected. It sounded louder with the car engine off.
“I won’t be long,” he said, getting out of the car. He was having second thoughts about the confrontation now that he was standing on Gephardt’s property. The house was set on a fairly large lot, hidden from its neighbors by thick clusters of birches and maples. A bay window stuck out on the building’s left, probably indicating the living room. There were no lights on even though daylight was fading, but a Ford van stood idle in the driveway so Victor figured somebody might be home.
Victor leaned back inside the car. “I won’t be long.”
“You already said that,” VJ said, keeping time to the music on the dashboard with the flat of his palm.
Victor nodded, embarrassed. He straightened up and started for the house. As he walked, he wondered if he shouldn’t go home and call. But then he remembered the missing laboratory equipment, the embezzlement of some poor dead employee’s paychecks, and the brick through VJ’s window. That raised Victor’s anger and put determination in his step. As he got closer he glanced at the brick façade and wondered if the brick that had crashed into his house was a leftover from the construction of Gephardt’s. Eyeing the bay window, Victor had the urge to throw one of the cobblestones lining the walk through it. Then he stopped.
Victor blinked as if he thought his eyes were not telling the truth. He was about twenty feet away from the bay window and he could see that many of the panes were already broken, with sharp shards of glass still in place. It was as if his retribution fantasy had become instant reality.