"Out on Shore Drive, you said?
Glaeken nodded. "Two-ninety-seven."
"The high rent district."
The Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive. Bill repressed a shudder as memories of the horrors he'd witnessed there in 1968 flashed within his brain like distant lightning.
"The estate is called Toad Hall," Glaeken said.
"Never heard of it. Must be new."
But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn't new. Only the brass plaque on the right-hand brick gatepost was new. He recognized the place as one of the Preferred North Shore's most venerable mansions: the old Borg Estate. Three acres on the Long Island Sound surrounded by a stone wall and dense, insulating stands of white pines. The house itself was set far back, close to the water; a many-gabled affair, flanked by weeping willows. He hated the thought of someone renaming the old Borg place, but as he turned off the ignition and heard the briny breeze whisper through the swaying willow branches, he conceded that the new name might be right on target.
He accompanied Glaeken to the front door.
"It's a household of four," the old man said as they walked. "Mrs. Nash, Dr. Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba, and Jeffrey, Mrs. Nash's adopted son."
"You said yesterday we're looking for a boy. Is he the one?"
Glaeken nodded. "He is. And his mother is not going to like what I have to tell her."
"Why? What's he got that—?"
The front door opened as they stepped onto the porch. A tall, gaunt Oriental towered in the doorway. This had to be Ba. His high-cheekboned face was expressionless, but his eyes were alert, active, darting back and forth between
Glaeken and Bill, picking up details, assessing, measuring, categorizing. Bill knew someone else with eyes like that: Glaeken.
"Yes, sirs." His voice was thickly accented. "May I be of service?"
"Yes, you may," Glaeken said, fishing a card out of his pocket. "My name is Veilleur. I believe Mrs. Nash is expecting me."
Ba stepped aside and ushered them through a marble-tiled foyer and into the living room. Doo-wop was playing softly through hidden speakers. A wave of nostalgia swept Bill away as he recognized "Story Untold" by the Nutmegs. He and Carol had danced to that song at CYO dances in the gym of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, not a mile from here.
Ba's voice yanked him back to the present.
"I will tell the Missus that you are here. Do you wish coffee?"
They both agreed and remained standing by the cold fireplace as Ba turned and left them alone.
"That's one powerful looking fellow," Bill said. "I don't think I've ever seen a Vietnamese that tall."
Glaeken nodded. "A one-man security force, I would say."
A slender woman in her late thirties with short black hair, blue eyes, and finely chiseled features strode into the room. She wore loose black slacks and a white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat. She moved with complete self-confidence.
"I'm Sylvia Nash," she said. "Which one of you is —?"
"I'm Veilleur," Glaeken said, stepping forward and offering his hand. "And this is Father William Ryan."
Her handshake was as cool as the rest of her, Bill thought. A striking woman.
He was making connections now. He'd heard of her. Greg Nash's widow. Bill had gone to high school with Pete Nash, Greg's older brother. Greg had gone to Nam, come back in one piece, then he'd been killed trying to break up a convenience-store robbery. Sylvia had become a renowned sculptress. And obviously a very successful one if she could afford this place.
"Please sit down," she said, gesturing to the couch. She seated herself across from them. "You said you had something of a personal nature to discuss with me. I hope that wasn't a scam to get in here and try to sell me something."
Bill glanced up at Ba as he returned with a silver coffee service set on a huge silver tray; he almost pitied anyone who tried any tricks in this house.
"I assure you I have nothing to sell," Glaeken said. "I've come to talk to you about the Dat-tay-vao."
The big Vietnamese started as he was setting down the silver tray. He almost spilled the coffee pot but righted it in time. He stared at Glaeken but his eyes were unreadable. Bill glanced at Sylvia. Her face was ashen.
"Ba," she said in a shaky voice. "Please get Alan."
"Yes, Missus."
Ba turned to go but at that moment a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. He was lean, pale, in his mid-forties, with gray-flecked brown hair and gentle brown eyes. He paused on the threshold, staring at Glaeken, a puzzled look on his face, then he came the rest of the way in. As the wheelchair came to a stop beside her chair, Sylvia reached over and grasped the man's hand. They shared a smile. Bill immediately sensed the powerful bond between these two. Sylvia introduced him as Dr. Alan Bulmer.
"They want to talk about the Dat-tay-vao, Alan."
Bill felt the weight of Buhner's gaze as he stared at them.
"You'd better not be reporters." There was real loathing in his voice when he spoke the last word. The emotion seemed to arise from personal experience.
"I assure you, we're not."
Bulmer seemed to accept that. Glaeken had a way of speaking the truth in a way that sounded like the truth.
"What do you know—or think you know?" the doctor said.
"Everything."
"I doubt it."
"I know that your present condition is a direct result of your association with the Dat-tay-vao."
"Really."
"Yes. I know that the Dat-tay-vao left Viet Nam in late 1968 within a medic named Walter Erskine who couldn't handle the responsibility and became a derelict alcoholic—"
A flash of memory strobed Bill's brain. Five years ago…the parking lot of Downstate Medical Center…two winos, one was Martin Spano, the other a bearded stranger named Walter…"Walter was a medic once"…repeatedly asking, "Are you the one?" Could it have been…?
"—but before he died, Walter Erskine passed the Dat-tay-vao on to you; that you used the power of the Dat-tay-vao to cure a great number of people—too many people for your own good. As a result—"
Bulmer looked uncomfortable as he held up his hand.
"Okay. Score one for you."
"May I ask if you regret your time with the Dat-tay-vao?
Bulmer paused, then: "I've thought about that a lot, believe me. It left me half vegetable, but that appears to be only temporary. With therapy I'm working my way back to full function. My arms and hands are as good as they ever were, and my legs are starting to come around. The Dat-tay-vao helped me cure—cure—a hell of a lot of people with an incredible array of illnesses—acute, chronic, debilitating, life-threatening. And in the process Sylvia and I found each other. A year or two of rehab is a small price to pay for that."
Bill knew then and there that this man operated on a different plane than most people—and he liked him enormously for it.
"May I ask then—"
Glaeken stopped speaking and looked to his right.
A small boy stood in the living room entryway. He looked about nine; a round face, curly blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. He reminded Bill of another child from what seemed like another epoch…Danny.
The child's gaze roamed over the occupants of the room…and came to rest on Glaeken.
"Hello, Jeffy," Sylvia said. She obviously didn't want him listening to this. "Is anything wrong?"
"I came to see who was here."
He walked past Bulmer and his mother and stopped before Glaeken where he sat on the couch. For a long moment he stared almost vacantly into the old man's eyes, then threw his arms around Glaeken's neck and hugged him.