NOS4A2(104)

“Maybe it’s not in my best medical interest,” Vic said, “but it is in yours.”

Vic heard a sound go around the room—not quite laughter but close to it, a low male ripple of mirth. There were by now six or seven of them in the room, standing around pretending not to look at her chest, the tattoo of a V-6 engine set above her breasts.

A cop sat on the other side of her, the first cop she had seen who wasn’t in uniform. He wore a blue blazer that was too short at the wrists, a red tie with a coffee stain on it, and a face that would’ve won an ugly contest walking away: bushy white eyebrows turning yellow at the tips, nicotine-stained teeth, a comically gourdlike nose, a jutting cleft chin.

He dug in one pocket, then another, then lifted his wide, flat rear and found a reporter’s notebook in his back pocket. He opened it, then stared at the pad with a look of utter bafflement, as if he had been asked to write a five-hundred-word essay on impressionist painting.

It was that blank look, more than anything else, that let Vic know he wasn’t The Guy. He was a placeholder. The person who would matter—the one who would be handling the search for her son, who would coordinate resources and compile information—wasn’t here yet.

She answered his questions anyway. He started in the right place, with Wayne: age, height, weight, what he’d been wearing, if she had a recent photo. At some point Chitra walked away, then returned with an oversize hoodie that said NH STATE POLICE on the front. Vic tugged it on. It came to her knees.

“The father?” asked the ugly man, whose name was Daltry.

“Lives in Colorado.”

“Divorced?”

“Never married.”

“How’s he feel about you having custody of the kid?”

“I don’t have custody. Wayne is just—We’re on good terms about our son. It’s not an issue.”

“Got a number where we can reach him?”

“Yes, but he’s on a plane right now. He visited for the Fourth. He’s headed back this evening.”

“You sure about that? How do you know he boarded the plane?”

“I’m sure he had nothing to do with this, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re not fighting over our son. My ex is the most harmless and easygoing man you’ve ever met.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve met some pretty easygoing fellas. I know a guy up in Maine who leads a Buddhist-themed therapy group, teaches people about managing their temper and addictions through Transcendental Meditation. The only time this guy ever lost his composure was the day his wife served him with a restraining order. First he lost his Zen, then he lost two bullets in the back of her head. But that Buddhist-themed therapy group he runs sure is popular on his cell block in Shawshank. Lotta guys with anger-management issues in there.”

“Lou didn’t have anything to do with this. I told you, I know who took my son.”

“Okay, okay. I have to ask this stuff. Tell me about the guy who worked on your back. No. Wait. Tell me about his car first.”

She told him.

Daltry shook his head and made a sound that could’ve been a laugh, if it expressed any humor. Mostly what it expressed was incredulity.

“Your man ain’t too bright. If he’s on the road, I give him less than half an hour.”

“Before what?”

“Before he’s facedown in the fecking dirt with some state cop’s boot on his neck. You don’t grab a kid in an antique car and drive away. That’s about as smart as driving an ice-cream truck. Kind of stands out. People look. Everyone is going to notice a period Rolls-Royce.”

“It isn’t going to stand out.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She didn’t know what she meant, so she didn’t say anything.

Daltry said, “And you recognized one of your assailants. This would be . . . Charles . . . Manx.” Looking at something he had scribbled in his notepad. “How would you know him?”

“He kidnapped me when I was seventeen years old. And held me for two days.”

That quieted the room.

“Look it up,” she said. “It’s in his file. Charles Talent Manx. And he’s pretty good at not getting caught. I have to change out of these wet shorts and into some sweats. I’d like to do that in my bedroom, if you don’t mind. I feel like Mom has flashed enough skin for one day.”


VIC HELD IN HER MIND HER ONE LAST GLIMPSE OF WAYNE, TRAPPED IN the backseat of the Rolls. She saw him swatting a hand at the air—Go on, get away—almost as if he were angry with her. He had already looked as pale as any corpse.

She saw Wayne in flashes, and it was like the hammer thudding into her again, walloping her in the chest instead of the back. Here he was sitting naked in a sandbox, behind their town house in Denver, a chubby three-year-old with a thatch of black hair, using a plastic shovel to bury a plastic telephone. Here he was on Christmas Day in rehab, sitting on the cracked and crinkly plastic surface of a couch, plucking at a wrapped gift, then tearing the wrapping away to show the white-boxed iPhone. Here he was walking out onto the dock with a toolbox that was too heavy for him.

Bang, each vision of him hit her, and her bruised insides clenched up again. Bang, he was a baby, sleeping naked on her naked breast. Bang, he was kneeling in the gravel next to her, arms greasy to the elbows, helping her to thread the motorcycle chain back onto its sprockets. Sometimes the pain was so intense, so pure, the room darkened at the edges of her vision and she felt faint.