Sometimes the music comes through his fingers in a kind of tickle, like hes touching something soft and alive, a little kitten made of music, and he just keeps stroking the keys without having to think about it. What Mi Ma calls Joey music, because it belongs to him. Other times, like today, he looks at notes on paper and the music enters through his eyes and comes out through his hands, again without him having to think about it very much, but the experience is very different. As if hes tuning to a different channel inside his head, the channel where Mozart is always playing. Joey loves the way the numbers and key signatures of the early Mozart sonatas flow so perfectly, bringing themselves to life, each note exactly the right note, all bubbling up into a stream of living music. Sonata no. 1 in C Major, Sonata no. 2 in F Major and then of course the Third Sonata in B-flat Major. Perfect. It could be no other way, and the rightness of it calms him.
When it comes to reading words on a page, Joeys skills are rudimentary at best. In that respect hes a typical five-year-old. He knows the alphabet but has trouble sounding out the words, which dont always make sense. Sometimes two words together sound unpleasantly dissonant and he hates to look at them. Not like when he reads musical notation, which always makes sense, and which he doesnt have to think about or struggle over. He can hear the music when he sees the notes, and it is a simple matter to press the correct keys in the correct order to let the music out. Except of course when his fingers make a mistake. Which is why he can sometimes lose himself in playing the same piece over and over, until his fingers learn how to do it on their own, because he hates to make unpleasant sounds happen.
Joey escapes into the soothing repetition. It takes him to a place where nothing exists but the music and his hands and the notes resonating in his earphones. Tuning out the world around him, easing his anxiety. Letting him forget, for a while, how much he misses his real mommy and how much the big man scares him, and how more than anything he wants to go home so Mi Ma can sing to him.
He escapes so completely into the music that he never notices New Mommy searching along the walls of the basement, looking for a way out, should an escape become necessary, one eye on the padlocked door, fearful that Kidder may return.
Chapter Twenty
The fear is deep, abiding and specific. He fears that part of his brain has been removed, or in some other way destroyed. Thats the only rational explanation for the huge hole in his memory, and the cool black nothingness from which he has finally emerged, alive but damaged. Its not like the memories are buried somewhere deep inside his mind, submerged by trauma. Theyre simply gone. Removed.
Memories of something bad, he concludes, something terrible, because his left wrist is chained to the hospital bed and theres a uniformed cop guarding the door, and because the woman attending him seems fearful, as if he might lunge at her, take a bite.
Mr. Shane? Randall Shane? Im Dr. Gallagher. Youve been admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital. Im sorry about the handcuffs, but they insisted.
Killer, he says, the word rumbling from the hollow in his throat.
Killer, he says, the word rumbling from the hollow in his throat.
Excuse me? the pretty doctor says, flinching.
He rattles the cuff. Who did I kill?
I, um, dont know anything about your legal situation, Mr. Shane. All I know is, youre under my care, and will remain here until Im satisfied its medically safe for you to be released. Youve been rather badly beaten. It wasnt obvious when you were first admitted, but your body is massed with bruises. Most of the fingers on your right hand were dislocated, and the ligaments have been badly strained.
Shane glances at his right hand. Noticing the elaborate splint must trigger something, because now it hurts like hell.
The physical bruising is actually the least of it, the pretty young doctor continues. Bruises heal. My real concern is neurological damage from the drugs. We know you were given a massive dose of benzodiazepine, enough to black out an elephant, frankly. You must have been on a drip for hours, or possibly even days. And theres evidence of other psychotropic drugs, of a type weve not been able to identity. We do know they were quite powerful, because theres been evidence of dementia.
Im demented, he says, not the least surprised.
You seem to be coming out of it, slowly, she assures him. It will be some time before we can assess whether theres been any long-term damage.
Shane looks at her, carefully forming his words before letting them go. They removed part of my brain, he says, confiding.
She smiles. So youve been saying ever since you regained consciousness. Let me assure you once again: theres absolutely no evidence of surgery. None. No such surgery took place. The MRI revealed perfectly normal brain mass. No lesions, no sign of intrusion. Whatever loss youre feeling, Mr. Shane, is a result of the drugs that were administered.
Drill, he insists, the memory bursting. They drilled a hole in my head.
The sound of the drill bit vibrating through his skull, rattling his eyes in their sockets. Screeching as it hits bone.
But the pretty doctor says, No. No. Nothing like that happened. Perhaps it was suggested to you, when you were under the influence of the benzodiazepine. Maybe they used the sound of a drill to frighten you. But I assure you, no holes have been drilled in your skull. Youre perfectly intact. The only damage that concerns me is from the drugs themselves, and theres simply no way of knowing about long-term neurological effects-you might well make a complete recovery. Although its doubtful youll regain the short-term memory of whatever transpired. Youve lost a few days, Mr. Shane. Theyre gone. Youll just have to accept that.
Bastards.
Whoever did this to you, yes.
Sleepy.
Youve been given a mild sedative. Nothing like the powerful hypnotics you were given, but it will help with the anxiety.
No, he says, struggling to rise. The boy! The boy!
He sleeps.
Hey, Shane. Thats what they call you right? Just plain Shane? Im your attorney. And dont you worry, were going to get em.
What? he asks, mouth dry.
Strange, but he doesnt remember waking up. Another young woman. Pixie with big eyes. Not like the doctor, who has freckles, chubby cheeks and seems to be afraid of him. This one isnt afraid.
The bad guys, the pixie says. Identity as yet unknown. Well find em, though. Naomi Nantz is on the case, and she always gets her man, ha-ha. Seriously, she does. So, do you remember anything at all?
Nothing there to remember. Black hole. Who you?
Sorry. Dane Porter. Im the only one allowed to talk with you, other than your physician.
Lawyer.
Correct. Im representing you. This murder beef is bull, we know that much. A bad frame job, way over the top. Ive been on the horn with Tommy Costello, hes the Middlesex D.A., about what kind of guy you are, a genuine hero, and how theres no way you shot your client, not a possibility, did not happen. Hell come around. Leave that to me. Until then, the important thing is to find the kid, right? The little boy? Your clients missing child? Joey? Thats the boys name, correct?
Shane feels as if a small, dim light has been turned on, in the darkness inside his head. Little Joey, yes. Call his father, please. Very important. He searches, is astonished to find the name. Joseph Keener, he exclaims. Professor, MIT.
The pixie winces. Sorry. Professor Keener was killed in his home. You found the body. Im sorry, I assumed you remembered that much.
I found the body?
Uh-huh. Called 911 to report it, then arranged to meet your buddy Jack Delancey. He brought you to see Naomi Nantz. But before you had a chance to tell us much about the case, a team of badass cowboys kicked in the windows, put you down, took you away.
Cowboys?
Figure of speech. More like a covert special-ops team. They had you for three days. You were tortured, drugged, then dumped at this hospital.
Wrecked my brain. Stole my memories.
Yeah, that really sucks, Im sure, she says kindly. Were hoping you get it back. The memories. Not the torture memories, it might best if you forgot that part entirely. But anything you know about the boy. Where he might be. Who might be holding him. And for that matter what happened to his mother.
Here, Shane says instantly, the word firing like a bullet from a waking synapse in his brain. Joey is here.
Oh my God, the pixie says. You remembered something! The boy is here? Where, exactly? Do you know?
Shane shakes his head, trying to clear away the tendrils of emptiness. Bridge, he says suddenly. Crossing Harvard Bridge. Video.
The pixie looms closer, her eyes as large as moons. Let me get this: you saw a video recording of Joey Keener crossing Harvard Bridge?
Yes.
By himself?
Cant remember. No, somebody else was there.
His mother?
Cant remember. No, not his mother.
Where did you see this video? Was it part of a ransom demand?
Shane grits his teeth, concentrates. Nothing. Wherever it came from, the memory has retreated.
Gone, he says, and collapses back on his pillow.
Somebody groans in pain. Cant be the pretty pixie, voice too deep. Then the darkness reaches up, pulls him down.
He doesnt fight it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thats huge, Naomi says. Harvard Bridge. That puts Joey right in the middle of the MIT campus, not far from the professors residence.
Maybe he was going the other way, Teddy points out. From Cambridge to Boston. Like running away.
A possibility, boss lady concedes. Jack? Any thoughts?
Shane might well be referring to a video ransom note, as Dane suggests. Sent to the father, Im assuming. Weve got your son, close enough for you to reach out and touch. Heres proof, now pay up or else. Or give us the secret, or whatever theyre after. Whoever they are.
There were no cameras or computers found at the residence, Naomi points out. No DVDs. Not even a cell phone. Nothing to store a video file.
There were no cameras or computers found at the residence, Naomi points out. No DVDs. Not even a cell phone. Nothing to store a video file.