boy’s head at the computer screen, feeling more useless than he ever had before in his life.
31
Frank Carlson maneuvered his rented Toyota into a narrow space next to the police car that had escorted them up to the Academy. Two ambulances were already there, and though he switched off the engine, he made no move to get out of the car. Instead he gazed mutely at the crowd that had gathered in front of the mansion. Margaret, sitting next to him, slipped her hand into his.
“What’s happening?” she whispered. “Why are there ambulances here? What’s going on?”
Was it really less than half an hour ago that they had gone into the small Barrington Police Department to demand more information from the team investigating Amy’s death? All day yesterday they had agonized alone, asking themselves what they could accomplish by staying in Barrington. Margaret, still numb from the shock of her daughter’s death, had wanted to go home. “It won’t bring her back, Frank,” she said over and over again. “Even if they find that teacher, it won’t change anything.”
“We can’t just go home,” Frank had argued. “That son of a bitch might still be alive! And if he is, I want to see him! I want to hear him admit that he killed my daughter!”
That morning, Margaret had given in, and they’d gone to the police department to find out what progress had been made. But as they were talking to the detective in charge of the case, the sergeant on duty had interrupted them, sending them here.
“Talk to Sergeant Dover. Alan Dover. He’ll tell you what’s going on.”
Now, as they sat in the car watching the crowd in front of the Academy, a terrible sense of apprehension came over them. What did the ambulances and squad cars have to do with them?
Or with Amy?
“Are you going to be all right?” Frank asked his wife.
Margaret took a deep breath, then nodded. “I think so.” Steeling herself for whatever might be about to happen, she got out of the car and started toward the murmuring throng.
“Dr. Engersol’s dead!” she heard someone say.
“So’s Hildie Kramer,” someone else replied. “They found her in some kind of lab that no one even knew was there!”
Dead? Dr. Engersol and Hildie Kramer? Margaret heard the words, but they meant nothing to her. The Carlsons threaded their way through the crowd as quickly as they could, finally coming to the steps that led up to the loggia. A police officer blocked them from going farther. “Sorry, sir. Nobody’s allowed in the building right now.”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Dover,” Frank told him. “We’re Amy Carlson’s parents.”
The officer murmured into his radio for a moment, then turned back to them. “He’ll meet you in Engersol’s apartment. On the fourth floor.”
Nodding, Frank and Margaret Carlson moved into the building and started up the stairs. When they stepped through the door of George Engersol’s apartment, Margaret gasped and Frank instinctively put his arm around her.
Jeff Aldrich’s body, covered by a blanket, was being carried out of the elevator.
Alan Dover, softly issuing orders into his radio, signaled the Carlsons to come inside. Finishing his conversation, he turned his attention to them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carlson?”
Frank nodded tersely while Margaret, her face pale, stood close by his side, her fingers clamped on his arm. Choosing his words carefully, Dover began filling them in on what had happened that morning. Finally, his eyes meeting Frank Carlson’s, he tried to explain what had happened to Amy. “We’re not sure of anything yet,” he said, unwilling to allow the Carlsons false hope before they understood exactly what was in the laboratory beneath the building. “But your daughter’s brain still seems to be alive.”
Margaret Carlson felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. Her face went ashen. “A-Alive?” she breathed. “B-But Amy’s dead! Her body …” Her words died on her lips as she rememberd the strange words in the coroner’s report, the words that Frank had refused to accept.
Amy’s brain had been missing from her skull.
A fish, someone had suggested. Or some kind of an animal.
But now …
“No,” she whimpered. “It isn’t possible. She’s dead! My daughter is dead!”
Frank Carlson’s arm slid around his wife’s waist, and he led her to the sofa. “Sit down, darling. Try not to—”
“No!” Margaret shook off her husband’s arm. Trembling, she turned to face Alan Dover. “I want to see what’s down there!” she declared. “If Amy’s brain is still alive, I want to see it!”
“Mrs. Carlson,” Dover began, but then,