Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

“I’ve got to to go,” she cut in. “I’ll call you later.”

She hung up and reread Pomeroy’s entry from beginning to end. It was written in the year Warren Emerson had turned twenty-five years old.

The year he’d been released from the State Mental Hospital in Augusta.

Nineteen forty-six. In which month had Warren Emerson committed violence?

Claire stood in the basement archives room of the Tranquility Gazette, staring at a wooden cabinet that took up an entire wall. Each drawer was labeled by year. She opened the drawer for 1946, July to December.

Inside lay six issues of the Gazette. In 1946, it had been a monthly newspaper.

The pages were brittle and yellow, the ads adorned with wasp-waisted women in bouffant skirts and smart little hats. Gingerly she leafed through the July issue, scanning the headlines: RECORD HEAT

MAKES UP FOR RAINY SPRING… BIGGEST SUMMER VISITOR COUNT EVER… MOSQUITO

ALERT… BOYS CAUGHT WITH ILLEGAL FIREWORKS… JULY 4TH PARADE DRAWS RECORD

CROWDS. The same headlines that seem to appear every July, she thought. Summer has always been the season for parades and biting bugs, and these headlines brought back memories of her first summer in Maine. The crunch of sweet corn on the cob and snap peas, the tang of citronella on her skin. It had been a good summer, as it had been in 1946.

She turned to the August and September issues, where she read more of the same, news of fish fries and church dances and swim races in the lake. There was unpleasant news as well: a three-car accident had sent two visitors to the hospital and a house had burned down due to a cooking mishap. Shoplifters had taken their toll on area stores. Life was not perfect in Vacationland.

She turned to the October issue and found herself staring at a headline in bold print:

15-YEAR-OLD BOY SLAYS PARENTS, THEN FALLS TO HIS DEATH; YOUNGER SISTER’S ACTIONS

“CLEARLY SELF-DEFENSE.”

The juvenile was not named, but there were photographs of the murdered parents, a handsome, dark-haired couple smiling in their Sunday best. She focused on the caption beneath the photo, identifying the murdered couple: Martha and Frank Keating. Their last name was familiar; she knew of a local judge named Iris Keating. Were they related?

Her gaze dropped to another headline below it: FISTFIGHT BREAKS OUT IN HIGH

SCHOOL CAFETERIA.

Then another: BOSTON VISITOR MISSING; GIRL LAST SEEN WITH AREA YOUTHS.

The basement was unheated, and her hands felt like ice. But the chill came from within.

She reached for the November issue and stared at the front page. At the headline screaming up at her.

14-YEAR-OLD ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF PARENTS: FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS STUNNED BY

CRIMES OF “SENSITIVE CHILD.”

The chill had spread all the way up her spine.

She thought: It’s happening all over again.

"Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you keep it a secret?”

Lincoln crossed the room to shut his office door. Then he turned to face Claire.

“It was a long time ago. I didn’t see the point of dredging up old history.”

“But it’s the history of this town! Considering what’s happened in the last month, it strikes me as relevant.”

She placed the photocopied articles from the Tranquility Gazette on his desk.

“Look at this. In 1946, seven people were murdered and one girl from Boston was never found. Obviously violence is nothing new to this town.” She tapped the stack of papers. “Read the articles, Lincoln. Or do you already know the details?”

Slowly he sat down, staring at the pages. “Yes, I know most of the details,” he said softly. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“Who told you?”

“Jeff Wifiard. He was chief of police when I was first hired twenty-two years ago.”

“You hadn’t heard about it before then?”

“No. And I grew up here. I knew nothing about it until Chief Willard told me.

People just don’t talk about it.”

“They’d rather pretend it never happened.”

“There’s also our reputation to consider.” He looked up, at last meeting her gaze. “This is a resort town, Claire. People come here to escape the big city, escape crime. We’re not eager to reveal to the world that we’ve had our own problems. Our own murder epidemic.”

She sat down, her gaze now level with his. “Who knows about this?”

“The people who were here then. The older ones, now in their sixties and seventies. But not their children. Not my generation.”

She shook her head in amazement. “They kept it a secret all these years?”

“You understand why, don’t you? It’s not just the town they’re protecting. It’s their families. The kids who committed those crimes were all local. Their families still live here, and maybe they’re still ashamed. Still suffering the aftermath.”

“Like Warren Emerson.”

“Exactly. Look at the life he’s had. He lives alone, and has no friends. He’s never committed another crime, yet he’s shunned by everyone. Even by the kids, who have no idea why they’re supposed to steer clear of him. They just know from their grandparents that Emerson is a man to be avoided.” He looked down at the photocopied article. “So that’s the background on your patient. Warren Emerson is a murderer. But he wasn’t the only one.”

“You must have seen the parallels, Lincoln.”

“Okay, I admit there are some.”

“Too many to list.” She reached for the photocopied articles and flipped to the October issue. “In 1946, it started off with fights in the schools. Two kids were expelled. Then there were windows smashed in town, homes vandalized-again, adolescents were blamed. Finally, the last week of October, a fifteen-year-old boy hacks his parents to death. His younger sister pushes him out the window in self-defense.” She looked up at him. “It only gets worse from there. How do you explain it?”

“When violence occurs, Claire, it’s only human nature to ask why. But the truth is, we don’t always know why people kill each other?’

“Look at the sequence of events. Last time it started off with a quiet town.

Then here and there, kids start to misbehave. Hurt each other. In a matter of weeks, they’re killing people. The town’s in an uproar, everyone demanding that something be done. And suddenly-magically-it all just stops. And the town goes back to sleep again.” She fell silent, her gaze dropping to the headline. “Lincoln, there’s something else that’s strange about it. In the city, the most dangerous time of year is the summer, when the heat makes everyone’s temper flare. Crime always takes a nosedive when it gets cold. But in this town, it’s different. The violence starts in October, and peaks in November.” She looked up at him. “Both times, the killing started in the fall.”

The beeping of her pocket pager startled her. She glanced at the number on the display, and reached for Lincoln’s phone.

A CT technician answered her call. “We just finished the brain scan on your patient, Warren Emerson. Dr. Chapman’s on his way over to read it now.”

“You see anything?” asked Claire.

“It’s definitely abnormal.”

Dr. Chapman clipped the CT films to the X-ray viewing box and flipped on the switch. The light flickered on, illuminating the transverse cuts of Warren Emerson’s brain. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “Right here, extending into the left frontal lobe. You see it?”

Claire stepped closer. What he’d pointed out was a small, sphere like density located at the front of the brain, just behind the eyebrow. It appeared to be solid, not cystic. She glanced at the other cuts on view, but saw no other masses. If this was a tumor, then it appeared to be localized. “What do you think?” she asked. “A meningioma?”