Kidder has the answer, when it comes to that.
Chapter Eighteen
Kidder has the answer, when it comes to that.
Chapter Eighteen
Just so you know, Naomi Nantz has a thing about leaving the residence. Shes not exactly agoraphobic, so far as I can tell. Its not like she goes all wobbly when she steps out the door, or has a panic attack, nothing like that. But she does so reluctantly, and only for a purpose-a dentist or doctor appointment, for example-and sometimes a few weeks will go by without her leaving these familiar confines at all. If she feels the need for sunshine and fresh air she goes to the solarium and opens a window, or joins me up on the roof deck for a view of the Charles and a little breeze in her face. Rarely does she hit the street while on a case. Thats what investigators and operatives are for, to do the legwork, to go out in the world and bring back information she can gnaw on, like a really intelligent bulldog with an interesting bone. A beautiful bulldog with eyes that can bore through the human heart, with all its deviance and deception, seeking the truth.
On the morning after Jonny Bings murder were in the breakfast nook, me and Naomi and Jack and Teddy. Naomi in one of her quiet, thinking modes, processing information based on the meager evidence. Most of us-me, for sure-are more than a little flummoxed by the rapid turn of events. A famous kid finder suspected in the murder of a genius professor with a missing child, a billionaire financier and his bedmate executed, a semi-frozen body left at the scene, what does it all mean? Jack brooding because boss lady is keeping an open mind on the possibility that Shane might be guilty, for reasons yet to be determined. Meanwhile, Mrs. Beasley is fussing over us to relieve the tension. Sensing the gloomy mood, shes trying to tempt us with a rather amazing variation on sourdough French toast, which involves a cast-iron fry pan that she calls a spider, and a butane torch. Naomi has nodded her approval-shes reading her newspapers, maintaining silence-and Jack and I are on second helpings, but Teddy Boyle has thus far declined, much to Beasleys consternation.
But you love my sourdough bread, she says, shaking her silver-haired head in consternation. You love maple syrup-you put syrup on Cheerios! So whats the problem?
Teddy shrugs and smiles his beatific little grin. Today his hair is newly tinged with a disturbing shade of pink, and hes swapped out his nostril ring for a small gold stud.
Its nothing personal, he explains to Beasley. Im not eating animals today.
French toast is not an animal.
Eggs and milk, Teddy points out. Product of animals, and therefore animal in nature.
Beasley takes her hands out of her apron pockets, looking stunned. Youve gone vegan?
Just for today. Cleansing.
Youre cleansing. She considers that, makes some sort of calculation and nods to herself. Fine. As it so happens, I know a special variation that will work with French toast. No eggs, no milk. No animal product of any kind. Give me ten minutes.
Wow, Teddy says. Thanks. Ill have two slices, please.
Nine minutes later Beasley beams as the rail-thin boy scoffs up her syrup-soaked slices in less time than it takes for Naomi to put down her newspaper and say, No eggs? No milk? How is that possible?
The question is purely rhetorical, since Beasley will not discuss her trade secrets while a meal is being consumed, if ever. Also, at precisely that moment a small wall-mounted bulb begins to flash, indicating an incoming call on boss ladys private, ultra-secure landline. The one with the number restricted to a chosen few. She takes the call in an alcove off the kitchen-a pantry, really-and returns to us with a gleam in her eyes, and the trace of a smile on her lips.
Randall Shane, she says. Dropped off at Mass General E.R. within the last fifteen minutes.
And so it is that Naomi Nantz takes leave of the residence, not at a walk but at a full run. On a good day the hospital is a brisk twenty-minute saunter from the residence, but time is of the essence, so we race to Commonwealth Avenue, cross the mall at a run and hail a taxi going east. Basically we hijacked the Haitian driver, who mistakenly thought he was off duty and idling at the curb, sipping a Starbucks. Naomi, accepting no excuses, declares an emergency and directs him up Storrow Drive to Embankment Road, and around the loop to the Fruit Street entrance. Four minutes, door-to-door, and the shaken driver-instructions having been crisply issued directly into his right ear-accepts a hundred-dollar bill and flees the scene, looking shell-shocked by the experience. The sirens behind us could be from an approaching ambulance, but are more likely the local cops, having been alerted to a yellow taxi briefly hitting ninety in the Back Bay neighborhood.
Were about to enter the E.R. when Jack Delancey screeches to a halt in his big Lincoln, activates his blinking parking lights and joins us.
Told you I could beat a damn taxicab, he says, straightening his tie as we step through the sliding door.
But you didnt.
Close enough, he says. Who was that on the phone? Who gave you the heads-up?
Doesnt matter, Naomi says, avoiding his gaze as she quickens her pace. We havent much time. The police will figure it out soon enough.
The Benefactor, Jack confides to me. Mr. Big, whoever he is. Thats my guess.
Naomi Nantz in full order-issuing mode is a thing to behold. Just as the taxi driver found himself obeying her commands to dart through city traffic, the duty nurse, a hardened soul who looks like she herself could direct battalions without flinching, is soon escorting us to a curtained cubicle, where an E.R. doc is attempting to assess the condition of the huge slab of a man more or less unconscious on the gurney, eyelids fluttering.
So far as I can tell Shane is wearing the same clothes he had on when they kicked in the windows and took him down. His shirt has been opened for examination, revealing his enormous chest and diaphragm. There are no obvious bruises, but who knows what theyve done to him inside? His complexion is a sickening shade of gray and his eyes have sunk so deeply into his skull that he looks to have aged a decade, at least. Wherever hes been, whatever has been done to him, its taken a terrible toll.
Bastards, Jack growls, his voice catching.
The startled doctor, a blonde, cherub-cheeked female who at first glance appears to be about twelve years old, wants to know what connection we have to the patient.
Are you the ones who dumped this man at the curb with a note pinned to his shirt?
Naomi soon sets her straight, without sharing any of the more interesting details. The patient is our associate. We have reason to believe he was abducted for purposes of interrogation.
Interrogation? the young doc shoots back. More like tortured, from the look of him.
The note pinned to his shirt, Naomi says. What did it say?
At first the young doctor seems determined not to share information but, under Naomis persuasive gaze, soon changes her mind. Just three words, one of them nonsense. The first two were Randall Shane, Im assuming thats his name. I put him into our database, but hes never been admitted here.
The third word?
The doc shrugs. Gaba, whatever that means.
The third word?
The doc shrugs. Gaba, whatever that means.
Gaba, I say. Like baby talk?
No, says Naomi, remaining focused on the doctor. As a matter of fact, gaba explains it. Gamma-aminobutyric acid. If the word had been GABA analogue or GABAergic youd have understood immediately, as you were intended to.
The young E.R. doc has turned crimson. Of course! Hes been drugged with some sort of barbiturate, or benzodiazepine.
Possibly both, Naomi suggests. He was taken down with a very powerful tranquilizer dart, just for starters.
The docs jaw drops. What! What the hell is going on here? Who is this guy?
Before anyone can form a reply, Shanes head lolls to one side and his sunken eyelids open. Instantly, Jack is there, crouching beside the gurney. Randall? Can you talk? We dont have much time, old friend. Cops are on the way.
Shane gives him a loopy grin and says, Bah-doo. Working his lips, struggling to form a word.
Jack looks up. Whatever they drugged him with, its starting to wear off.
Anything you can give him? Naomi asks the doc. To bring him around quicker?
The E.R. doc looks deeply offended by the suggestion. No way. Not without a full assessment. This man needs to be admitted and monitored.
He may know the location of a missing child, Naomi says, pressing. A five-year-old boy.
The doc remains adamant. I cant treat him until I know what hes been drugged with.
Weve established that, Naomi reminds her patiently. One of the GABAergics.
The doctor shakes her head, crosses her arms defensively. Because gaba was scrawled on a piece of paper? Not good enough. We need to determine the specific drug. Child or no child, I will not put this patients life at risk because you want to chat.
Fine, says Naomi, turning her attention to the man on the gurney. Mr. Shane? The clock is ticking. Very soon youll be taken into custody. Do you know where the boy is? Or who took him?
Still unable to raise his head, or keep his eyes focused, the big guy is obviously concentrating, devoting all of his energy to the task of making his mouth and tongue function. Joey, he manages to say. Joey Keener. Five years old.
Joey, yes, says Naomi. Is he alive?
Shane manages to nod. Yes, he says. Alive.
Where is he? Can you guess? Anything, Shane. Give us something to work with.
He desperately tries to form another word, and then his eyes lose focus and he lapses back into semiconsciousness, totally spent.
Ten seconds later the cops arrive.
Part 2
Chapter Nineteen
More than anything, Joey wants to escape. Not only from the finished basement where he and New Mommy have been banished, and which is like a real house except without windows, but from the inside of his own head. It hurts to think about Mi Ma, his real mommy, because worrying about her puts a painful lump in his throat, makes it hard to breathe. In his short life Joey has often been moved from place to place, had to get used to new rooms and even new caregivers, but in all that time his real mommy was always there. They had never been separated for more than a day or so, and then she would come rushing back and sweep him into her arms, and it was almost worth it, her being away, because its so wonderful when she comes back. It feels like music bubbling up from everywhere, not just from the keyboard into his earphones, but from the walls and the air and from somewhere deep inside. Thats what being happy feels like, and he longs for it. At such times, when she has had to be away, Mi Ma sings for him, whole songs almost perfectly in key-bad notes make him grimace, even when hes trying to be polite-but his mother has a very good voice, almost as true in timbre as the notes emitting from his keyboard, the measured chords and octaves that flow from his small fingertips.