Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

Claire stepped through the doorway and turned on the light.

Her gaze was drawn at once to the black and white photographs- dozens of them hanging on the wall or propped up on the dresser and nightstand. A gallery of Warren Emerson’s memories. She crossed the room and stared at three faces smiling back at her from one of the photos, a middle-aged couple with a young boy. The woman was round-faced and plain, her hat tilted at a comically drunken pitch. The man beside her seemed to be sharing in the joke; his eyes were bright with laughter. They each rested one hand on the shoulders of the boy standing between them, physically claiming him as their own, their shared possession.

And the boy with the cowlick and the missing front teeth-this must be young Warren, basking in the glow of his parents’ attention.

Her gaze moved to the other photographs and she saw the same faces again and again, different seasons, different places. Here a shot of the mother proudly holding up a pie. There a shot of father and son on a riverbank with their fishing poles. Finally, a school photo of a young girl, apparently Warren’s sweetheart, for at the bottom someone had drawn in a heart containing the words Warren and Iris forever. Through tears, Claire stared at the nightstand, at a glass of water resting there, half full.

At the bed, where gray hairs had been shed on the pillow. Warren’s bed.

Every morning he would wake up alone in this room, to the sight of his parents’ photos. And every night, the last image he’d register was of their faces, smiling at him.

She was crying now, for the child he once was. A lonely little boy trapped in an old man’s body.

She went back downstairs to the kitchen.

There was no sense chasing after a cat that didn’t want to be captured. She would simply leave food in the dish, and come back another time. Opening the pantry door, she found herself staring at dozens of cans of cat food stacked on the shelves. There was scarcely anything in the kitchen for a man to eat, but pampered Mona was certainly well-supplied.

Today she’ll be expecting tuna.

Tuna it would be. She emptied the can into the cat dish and placed it on the floor next to the bowl of water. She filled another bowl with dried cat food, enough to last several days. She cleaned out the litter-box. Then she turned off the lights and walked out.

Sitting in her car, she glanced one last time at the house. For most of his life, Warren Emerson had lived within those walls, without human companionship, without love. He would probably die in that house alone, with only a cat to witness his exit.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she turned the car around and drove down the dark road for home.

That night Lincoln called her.

“I spoke to Wanda Darnell,” he said. “I told her there may be a biological reason for her son’s actions. That other children in town have been affected, and we’re trying to track down the cause.”

“How did she react?”

“I think she’s relieved. It means there’s something external to blame. Not the family. Not her.”

“I understand that perfectly”

“She’s given permission for you to interview her son.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. At the Maine Youth Center.”

A long row of beds lined the wall of the silent dormitory room. The morning sun shone in through windows above, one bright square of light spilling down on the boy’s thin shoulders. He sat on the bed with his legs tucked up against his chest. His head was bowed. This was not the same boy she had seen four weeks ago, cursing and thrashing. This was a child who’d been beaten down, hopes and dreams trampled, only his physical shell remaining.

He did not look up as Claire approached, her footsteps echoing on the worn planks. She stopped beside his bed. “Hello, Taylor. Do you feel like talking to me?”

The boy lifted one shoulder, barely a shrug, but at least it was the semblance of an invitation.

She reached for a chair, her gaze falling briefly on the small pine desk next to his bed. It was a badly abused piece of furniture, its surface gouged with four-letter words and the initials of countless young residents. She wondered if Taylor had already carved his mark into this permanent record of despair.

She slid the chair to his bed and sat down. “Whatever we talk about today, Taylor, is just between us, okay?” He gave a shrug, as if it hardly mattered.

“Tell me about what happened, that day in school. Why did you do it?”

He turned his cheek against his knees, as though suddenly too exhausted to hold up his head. “I don’t know why”

“Do you remember that day?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everything?”

He swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything. His face suddenly rippled with anguish and he closed his eyes, squeezing them so tight his whole face seemed to collapse on itself. He took a deep breath and what should have been a howl of pain came out only as a high, thin keening.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it.”

“You brought a gun to school that day”

“To prove I had one. They didn’t believe me. They said I was making it up.”

“Who didn’t believe you?”

“J.D. and Eddie. They’re always bragging that their dad lets them shoot his guns.” jack Reid’s sons again. Wanda Darnell had said they were a bad influence, and she’d been right.

“So you brought the gun to school," said Claire. “Did you plan to use it?”

He shook his head. “I just had it in my backpack. But then I got a D on my test.

And Mrs. Horatio-she started yelling at me about that stupid frog.” He began to rock, hugging his knees, every breath catching in a sob. “I wanted to kill them all. It was like I couldn’t stop myself I wanted to make them all pay” He stopped rocking and went very still, his eyes unfocused, gazing at nothing. “I’m not mad at them anymore. But now it’s too late.”

“It may not be your fault, Taylor.”

“Everyone knows I did it?’

“But you just told me you weren’t in control.”

“It’s still my fault.

“Taylor, look at me. I don’t know if anyone’s told you about your friend, Scotty Braxton.”

Slowly the boy’s gaze lifted to hers.

“The same thing happened to him. And now his mother is dead.”

She saw, by his look of shock, that he had not been told the news.

“No one can explain why he snapped. Why he attacked her. You’re not the only one it’s happened to.”

“My dad says it’s because you took away my medicine.”

“Scotty wasn’t taking any medicine.” She paused, searching his eyes. “Or was he?”

“No.”

“This is very important. You have to tell me the truth, Taylor. Did either of you boys take any drugs?”

“I am telling the truth.”

He looked at her, his gaze unflinching. And she believed him.

“What about Scotty?” he asked. “Is Scotty coming here?”

Tears suddenly stung her eyes. She said, softly: “I’m sorry, Taylor. I know you two were good friends…

“The best. We’re best friends.”

“He was in the hospital. And something happened. We tried to help him, but there was-there was nothing-”

“He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

His direct question was a plea for an honest answer. She admitted, quietly:

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

He dropped his face against his knees, and the words spilled out between sobs.

“Scotty never did anything wrong! He was such a wuss. That’s what J.D. always called him, the dumb wuss. I never stood up for him. I should’ve said something, but I never did..

“Taylor. Taylor, I need to ask you another question.”

“I was afraid to.”

“You and Scotty were together a lot. Where did you two spend your time?”