David Silva: The Disappeared

Gabe looked up. “You think we should say something?”

Everything she had to say was in her heart. Thank you, Walt. Thank you for helping me bring Gabe home again. Thank you for beating back your own demons long enough to be there for me. And my apologies, because I should have known. I should have tried to help. It was all right there.

“He knows,” she said quietly. “He knows.”

There were only two things that had needed to be done today. The first was their visit to Walt’s grave. As much as it had taken out of Teri, it was nothing compared to what was yet to come.

Michael drove on the way back from the cemetery. Gabe sat in the back this time, quiet as a mouse. What Teri wouldn’t have paid for the chance to know what was going on inside his head.

The aging had become less theoretical and more physical the past few months. He had lost nearly fifteen pounds, much of it from his face and arms. The streaks of gray had become more prominent, especially over his ears. He had broken his right arm twice since getting the cast off from the automobile accident. The first break had been a re-break; the second had been several inches higher. Both had happened while throwing a baseball with Michael. They didn’t play catch anymore.

When it became apparent that Gabe’s aging was accelerating at an alarming rate, Teri pulled Michael aside again and together they agreed that it was time to see if they could find Childs. Though luck did play its part, finding him was not as difficult as Teri had thought it would be. The key was something that had been bothering her for months. She couldn’t understand the name: the Devol Research Institute. Where had that come from? Why hadn’t it been called the Childs Research Institute? It was something that bothered her endlessly over the span of several months, and then she woke up one night with the answer. Dr. Timothy Childs was an alias. The man’s true last name was Devol. It made perfect sense.

She checked the California AMA membership list and discovered there was only one Devol practicing in the state. His full name was William Devol and he lived and practiced in a little town east of Sacramento called Placerville. Teri had been through there several times in her life, always on the way to Reno to play the slots or catch a show. Placerville was a five—maybe six—hour trip down the state, almost all freeways.

She was surprised to find that he had set up a nice little family practice there. Out front, a sign hung from a four-by-four redwood post, his name routed into the wood: William Devol, M.D. And under that: General Practitioner. He practiced out of an old house that had been converted, bedrooms to examination rooms, living room to waiting room, dining room to office.

When Teri entered, she was greeted by the comforting smile of a receptionist. “I was wondering if I could see the doctor today?”

“Certainly. Have you been in before?”

“No.”

The woman, who was in her late forties and had one eye slightly off center, handed her a clipboard with a pencil and several forms. “If you’ll have a seat and fill these out. The doctor is busy with another patient now, but he should be available shortly.”

Teri filled out the form, which included a brief medical history and some insurance information, using the name Jennifer Cunningham. The receptionist, who was apparently a nurse as well, took her temperature, her blood pressure, weight, and asked about the purpose of her visit—”Headaches,” Teri told her—then had Teri wait in the second examination room.

“Dr. Devol will be in shortly.”

“Thank you.”

He came through the door several minutes later, reading her chart and introducing himself without even looking up. “Miss Cunningham, I’m Dr. Devol—”

The color fell out of his face, though he managed to maintain his composure far better than she ever would have imagined. He snapped her Cunningham file closed, put it aside on the counter, and sat down.

“You never cease to amaze, Teri.”

“The feeling’s mutual, believe me.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“Not for me, for Gabe.”

“It’s getting worse?”

“Yes,” she said, holding on. She wasn’t sure exactly when she had started to lose her grip. Maybe when Walt had died. Or maybe when she first realized Gabe’s health was getting worse. But being here in this room with the man who was largely responsible for everything that had happened…

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I want my little boy back.”

He wasn’t sure he could do anything, he said. But he was willing to take a look at Gabe and at least talk about the options. The key word: options . It slipped past her when she first heard it, but later that night when she was in bed, reading an Ed Gorman mystery, that word came to mind again. Options . That was a word meant to muddy the waters, she thought. It was his subtle little way of saying there were some things they could try but nothing he would be willing to bet on.

Eventually, they did try some things. Childs placed Gabe on a vegetarian diet, limiting his caloric intake and increasing his vitamins. In addition, he setup a regiment of growth hormone shots, using a derivative he had recently developed. And finally, he tried a synthetic version of the original Genesis drug, without the hallucinogen. It was this synthetic version that showed the most promise, somewhat inhibiting Gabe’s aging process, though falling short of halting it altogether.

Childs felt there was a good chance it might eventually provide the answer.

But time was running out.

Gabe was growing weaker.

Michael pulled the car into the driveway and parked. They sat there in silence, Teri not wanting to move because getting out would take them one step closer to what lay ahead. Just the thought of it left her feeling angry. It was what Childs had referred to as their “last great hope.”

She glanced over the seat at Gabe. “How’re you doing?”

“Okay,” he answered.

Michael took her hand, again for comfort. “How about you?”

She smiled emptily and started out of the car.

Childs was waiting for them inside the house. He had spent the morning setting up the medical equipment in Gabe’s room. Everything was ready, he said as Teri came through the entryway. She nodded, asked him to give her a few minutes, and directed Gabe into the living room. They sat on the couch together, the afternoon sun slanting through the sliding glass door. It was a warm day. Gabe peeled off his jacket and sat back.

“Come here,” she said. He moved next to her and she wrapped her arms around him, thinking distantly how tiny he felt, wondering how much weight he had lost. “Scared?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Not scared,” she said. “Just sad. I’m going to miss you.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“I know.” She kissed him on the top of his head, and they stared silently out the window until Michael came into the room. He asked Gabe how he was doing, and like a trooper, Gabe said, fine. Michael picked him up and they spent a few minutes talking, Gabe looking even more fragile in his father’s arms.

And then it was time.

Gabe’s room had been refurbished, accommodating a new hospital bed, an ECG machine, and in the corner, playing sergeant at arms, a thin metal IV-stand. Childs stood off to one side, out of the way.

Michael carried Gabe into the room and dropped him playfully on the bed. Gabe bounced and let out a laugh. “You like that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you, kiddo.”

“Love you, too.”

It was Teri’s turn next. She gave him a long, hard hug, not wanting to let go, even though she knew what they were about to do was the right choice, the only choice. It was going to save his life.