Surrender, New York

  Which was good enough for me. Breaking a long-standing edict concerning the farmhouse, and trusting to all the training concerning Terence that I’d given Marcianna, I returned to the enclosure, where my companion was racing toward the gate at full speed, seeming to know just what I had in mind. Once inside the gate, I leaned down to clip her retractable leash on her collar, then took her somewhat boxy skull in both my hands and lifted her eyes to mine.

  “You have to behave, today, girl,” I said. “And above all, you have to help the young one…”

  All such admonitions, Marcianna told me through the purposeful manner in which she began to walk several steps before me toward the house, were superfluous: she knew her job, and she knew its urgency. Swiftly and without games we reached the house, Marcianna stepping onto the porch as though she had simply been waiting for someone to let her do her job. Which was the moment, of course, when I heard Clarissa’s voice:

  “Oh, no you don’t!” she decreed, rushing out from the back of the house with Terence yapping at her heels. She adjusted her volume, if not her urgency and anger, in consideration of the patient upstairs. “Not in my house—we’ve had this discussion, Trajan.” Emerging onto the porch, and being forcefully reminded of just how big Marcianna was (for she hadn’t stood next to my other self in years), Clarissa snatched her noisy little furball off the floor and clutched him tight. “We agreed, damn it—if you want to keep that animal, okay, I gave you that pasture out of the goodness of my heart. But we agreed then that she was never, ever going to come inside—”

  “Ssh, Aunt!” I whispered, pointing up. “What are you trying to do, make things worse?”

  “What are you trying to do?” she whispered back; then her pair of doctors appeared, walking confidently toward the porch until they saw Marcianna, at which point they seemed to realize that there were important matters they’d forgotten to discuss just inside the house, though still close enough to observe the fun. “I’ve just been learning about traumas like Lucas’,” said Clarissa. “What in the world makes you think that having a wild animal suddenly in his presence will do any good—”

  “Excuse me, Clarissa.” I let her catch her breath, after which she proceeded to finally quiet the bit of snow-white business in her arms by feeding him a couple of the dog treats: “Willing as I have been to consult with those other gentlemen,” I went on, “I must remind you that I have degrees in both psychiatry and psychology, and that I specialize in predicting what behaviors will result from which stimuli. And I’m telling you this—not fifteen minutes ago, Lucas registered ocular reaction to the sound of Marcianna’s voice. Understand? It’s not at all uncommon for kids in his kind of trouble to shut out the human world and accept only interaction with another species—and I’m willing to bet that she’ll provide the jolt that none of us have been able to. This is critical, damn it: otherwise, we’re eventually going to have knock him out with drugs, to prevent a psychotic break due to self-imposed sleep deprivation. All of which is a long, stupid way of telling you that he needs her.”

  Clarissa kept scowling suspiciously, but soon said, “You’re sure you saw it?” I nodded. “And this ‘ocular reaction’? What’s so special about that?”

  At which point I got unexpected help: the psychologist from Fraser. “Actually, Clarissa,” he opined, stepping forward, “it would be significant. If it’s prompted by one stimulus, as your nephew is saying, it would show that something has broken through the boy’s determination to punish himself with sleeplessness. As we’ve discussed, sleep deprivation is one of the most acute forms of torment, and if there is even a chance—”

  But by now Clarissa had turned on the poor man slowly, at which he dummied up, excusing himself quickly. “Well,” my aunt said. “Now that everyone’s been heard from…” She put a finger inches from my nose. “Anything goes wrong, and all bets are off. Do you understand, Trajan?”

  “Got it,” I said, stepping forward and then into the house, with Marcianna moving very carefully beside me. She glanced around at the place with, unusually, very little curiosity: she truly believed she had a job to do, and she wasn’t going to brook distractions. We took to the stairs, which were a new experience for her, but she mastered them as she did everything; and in a few more seconds, we were standing outside the master bedroom, from which Mike had emerged to meet us.

  “I heard most of the conversation,” he said. “You sure about this, L.T.?”

  “No,” I replied, taking a deep breath. “But she is.”

  “ ‘She is’? Trajan, you do understand that you could just be reading a lot into the situation.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think so. Listen, keep going over that material of yours, will you?” I indicated his iPad. “There’s got to be something we’re missing…”

  He nodded halfheartedly; and with Mike thus engaged in the hall, I opened the bedroom door a crack, one that Marcianna widened with her muzzle and head, as determined as ever to reach her goal. I decided to let her out on a fairly long lead, so that she could stand in the middle of the room as I followed at a discreet distance. She opened her mouth and seemed to chirrup, although she made no sound. Her worried air heightened, and her gaze remained fixed on Lucas, who never turned. For a moment I thought that the attempt had turned out to be what Mike had said, me reading a whole lot into things that were, in fact, disconnected. Then Marcianna tried a little harder, and a softer, quieter version of the cry that she’d been making for so long got out of her…

  I looked immediately at Lucas’ eyes; and what had been a mere flicker of movement earlier suddenly became more pronounced, and visible even from where I was sitting; then, at a second, more insistent chirrup, his terrible death stare finally began to break. He allowed only his eyes to quickly glance in Marcianna’s direction, permitting me, in turn, to let more of the nylon lead out. Marcianna maintained its tautness, straining to reach the boy; and finally, when she was just a few feet from him, Lucas’ head moved very slightly. I didn’t want her to bound up onto him in that way that she was used to doing outside, where she’d learned that his young body could withstand her roughhousing. At length, however, I let her bring her face just up to his.

  Her muzzle touched Lucas’ arms, neck, and cheeks, before she committed to that ultimate token of intimacy, the brushing of her own nose against his. Lucas’ eyelids fluttered, then blinked several times, and ultimately he turned to stare into the golden orbs before him. Finally, he moved: his head lifted to allow Marcianna to nuzzle into his neck, and she began to purr loudly. After that, the kid lifted one arm slowly, and stroked the side of Marcianna’s neck. This went on for several seconds, until the boy put his two arms around her neck, buried his face in her fur, and began to heave just audibly with gentle sobs. Marcianna then licked at his arms, and before long, the two seemed to have joined in a ritual of horrific sorrow.

  There was no way to tell Mike what was happening; so I let more of Marcianna’s lead out, this time to allow myself to back up to the bedroom door. Silently opening it just a crack, I beckoned my partner in, stopping him when only his face appeared so that we would not upset the delicate emotional balance of what was taking place. Immediately, Mike smiled; and, thinking that Lucas and Marcianna would be all right on their own for a moment, I carefully crept halfway into the hall, so that I could whisper to Mike without being heard within.

  But he spoke first, saying, just audibly, “That’s unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable…”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, unable to embellish his assessment. I nodded at the iPad. “Anything?”

  Switching gears, Mike said, “Maybe. Just maybe. Didn’t you tell me that Meisner kid had a Dodge truck with all-terrain tires?” I told him I had. “Well, here—” He pointed to an image of moist, bare ground near Derek’s body. “In case you’re wondering, that’s an all-terrain tire track. Could be a coincidence, of course, lots of people have them—”

  “Coincidence,” I answered bitterly as I pulled out my phone and onc
e more dialed Mitch McCarron’s number. When he answered, I quickly said: “Listen, Mitch: I need to know whatever address you people have on record for one Kevin Meisner, here in Surrender.”

  “We don’t usually do that, Trajan,” Mitch said dubiously. “But if it’s connected—”

  “It is,” I said. “Text it to both Mike and me as soon as you can.” I hung up quickly.

  Mike studied me. “You sure you want to go down this road, L.T.? I hate to think what’s at the end of it. Not just because it’s dangerous; I don’t want you to be the next one who ends up half-catatonic in that bedroom.”

  “It’s the lead we have, Mike—time and caution, we can’t afford. They’ll be on the move soon, I’m betting…” I held down a rush of emotion. “In the meantime, I’m going to try to talk to Lucas.”

  “So soon? L.T., maybe give him a little more time—”

  “We don’t have time,” I answered. “Not if I’m right. Let me know as soon as you get that address; I’m shutting my phone off…”

  Without waiting for a reply, I crept back into the bedroom. Lucas’ sobbing had died down, and his embrace of Marcianna had turned into short petting strokes of her head and neck. When I reentered, he quickly hid his face in her neck again, which was a sign that he was cognizant of what was happening around him, and no longer withdrawing into a reality of his own making.

  “She needed to see you, Lucas,” I said, as gently as I could. “Wouldn’t be kept out of the house, and didn’t even think of going after Terence. Just came right up here to make sure you were okay.” This brought neither a positive nor a negative response from the kid; he just stayed with his face in her neck, stroking the top of her head. “So: do you think maybe I can leave her with you for a little while?” At that, the petting stopped, and he put his arms tight around her neck, as if to agree to such a plan. “Because I have to go somewhere, Lucas. And I want you to know where…”

  This was the big moment: I knew that there was a remote danger of losing him to his flight from reality once more, but I had to take the plunge, because the kid needed to rest. “You may not believe me, Lucas, I don’t know, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Ambyr—” At the mere mention of his sister’s name, Lucas made an insistent little moan of denial. “I know, but listen, Lucas, you’ve got to get some sleep. Otherwise the doctors will stick needles in your arm to make you sleep.”

  That idea, at last, brought a small but hugely significant return of his true self: into Marcianna’s fur I heard him mumble, “Fuck that…”

  I had to smile. “Yeah—fuck that is right. So I’m going to leave Marcianna here. Maybe you two can get some rest on the bed together.” His head shook. “Or just stay right here and take a nap, but you need to sleep. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but I don’t think you’ll sleep until you do: Ambyr’s all right. I’m going to see her now.” He didn’t look up at me, but there was a palpable sense that some enormous weight had been lifted from the kid. “Okay,” I said, standing. “You two take care of things here. Lucas, I’m leaving her lead right here on the chair—” I placed the retracting case on the arm of his chair, and was startled when he snatched it right up. “You’re in control, now. I’m trusting you, Lucas, because I know I can.” I put my own hand on Marcianna’s neck. “I’ll be back soon, girl—you two look after each other, okay? And Mike’s just outside, if you need him.”

  I retreated a few steps, making sure that everything was indeed okay, which it seemed to be. I therefore turned and put my hand on the doorknob and began to open it—but then I heard the same muffled sound of Lucas’ voice, speaking into Marcianna’s neck:

  “L.T.?” He paused, gathering strength. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t get Ambyr back.”

  “I know.” There was no point in even trying to bullshit him. “Me neither. But listen, Lucas—I know where you are. I know what it is to wake up in pain, and to have a huge chunk of your life just…taken away. But we’ll make it, kid—either way.” He said nothing more, so I left the room.

  Mike had been joined by Clarissa and Annabel in the hallway, and they were all staring at me anxiously. “He talked?” Mike asked. “You actually got him to talk?”

  “It wasn’t me, Mike.” I turned to my great-aunt. “Marcianna’s going to stay with him in there while I’m gone, Clarissa. I trust we don’t have to debate that.”

  “We don’t,” she said. “But you—Mike’s told me what you intend to do. Are you certain?” She put her hand to my face. “You’ve been so happy, damn it all. You’ll lose that, and for what?”

  I shook my head, glancing at the floor. “Not my decision. Annabel, I think it would be a good idea to have something simple ready for him, either before he goes to sleep or when he wakes up. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, Trajan,” she answered, worry in every word. “It’s no trouble.”

  Annabel’s concern made the reality of what I was entering into strike hard; but all I could say was “Thank you.” As I turned to go, one last thing occurred to me: “Mike, I’m going to need the car keys.” Without a sound, my partner tossed them my way: a sign that he was more anxious about me than anything else, including his baby. “Okay, then…”

  I’d gotten halfway down the stairs when Mike whispered, “One more thing, L.T.—”

  “Don’t worry, Mike,” I said, patting my side, where the shoulder holster I’d been wearing since the night before remained. “I’ve got my Colt.” I kept on walking. “Let’s just pray I don’t lose my mind and use it…”

  {v.}

  Every city or town has a lousy neighborhood, a wrong side of the tracks, or, as in the case of Surrender, a hollow in which you just don’t want to find yourself. Often, when poverty alone doesn’t suffice, ignorance and rumor amplify the wretchedness and dangers of such places, simply to satisfy a basic psychological requirement: the need of most people to feel superior to some group, tribe, or ethnicity that resides, not in the next town or city or county, but very close by, providing a constant and comforting sense of superiority. In Surrender, Death’s Head Hollow had fulfilled this role, until its rescue by Caractacus Jones. Thereafter, it fell to another road to become Surrender’s joy and nightmare: Fletcher Hollow, a title that could scarcely seem more picturesque, calling to mind as it did an era when respected craftsmen made their living creating arrows of quality. But in modern times, Fletcher Hollow became a blacktopped thoroughfare, one that ends at the highways that head to the central and western towns of the county. Not that much of anybody ever took advantage of it: for there was always the possibility that one’s vehicle might break down on the dark, sinister hollow, leaving the unfortunate motorist prey to those who live in the decaying mobile homes along its length.

  Up this same Fletcher Hollow, where a quick text from Mitch had told me that Kevin Meisner resided, I was now propelling the Empress, accounting for at least some of the fear that had marked the warnings of those family and friends I’d left behind. Mike and I had visited the area several times before, while advising Steve and Pete on other cases; but it was still never an easy journey to make. What it was, I realized as I made my way up the blacktop, was the perfect place from which to conduct an operation such as that involving the throwaway children: not just because it was an area in which even the informal law maintained by the other residents of Surrender did not hold sway, but because it was so unthinkable that its inhabitants could imagine a criminal scheme of such proportions, or be able to establish the contacts that had placed the children in homes of the kind to which we had learned they had gone. The key to this seeming paradox, of course, was that they had not done so alone; but just how many people with power, other than (presumably) Cathy Donovan, had aided them? This was just the first question that now needed answering. I also wanted to know what had made the four dead throwaway children return: we had the suggestion of a reason—the return to the state adoption center, indicating anything from abuse to desperation—but I wanted specifics. And of course
, lurking over it all, there was the question of Ambyr: the question of why. Certainly, money would have been an incentive; but money means as many different things to as many different people as walk the Earth. And I wanted to know just what had been so important to her that she had manipulated as many people as she had…

  Afternoon might as well have been twilight on Fletcher Hollow, due to the complete lack of any local industry that would have the road clear of low overhanging branches. Dogs, cats, goats, and chickens roamed the blacktop freely, as did children forever soiled both by the mischievous activities they got up to during the daytime hours that they were supposedly being homeschooled, and by the pall of smoke that continuously hung over the road, produced by piles of burning leaves, brush, and human garbage. The sight of the Empress was as unwelcome that day among the adults who stood like ghouls watching it pass as it had been those other times that Mike and I had come into the hollow, an effect that had nothing to do with who was in the vehicle, but with the fact that it was so plainly an unmarked official car. Enduring the continued glowers of the adults along the road and the increasing taunts of the children in it, I kept my eyes on the decrepit mailboxes that stood on posts to either side of me. Eventually, the correct number came up, and I slowed to take a left-hand turn into what turned out to be a long, ominous driveway. I passed by several ill-fed Holstein cows, the same breed that Clarissa kept, that were wandering and searching through fields along the road, their udders painfully swollen. But there was not a calf in sight: the latter had likely gone to other farmers before they, too, became too starved to sell. So the aimlessly searching mothers were left to provide a strange counterpoint to the mystery I was pursuing.

  As I drove slowly on through the overgrown driveway, I was given no reason to believe that I was not approaching yet another dismal mobile home: the place that Latrell had referred to as “theirs,” meaning that there would likely be several opponents, at least, to greet me when I arrived. I didn’t doubt for an instant that their orders included a command to do away with anyone who in any way threatened the operation; so I double-checked my Colt, making sure the clip was full as I swallowed my mounting fear. Then, finally, the driveway reached what was obviously its end—