There was no need to leave Yoshihiro Hashimoto, the son of one of Kimodo’s business rivals, in any state other than dead and slightly damaged. He was not of the taste Keiko desired in playthings. Those had to be at least Caucasian, and, if the gods were smiling, white Americans. Ever since defiling that American in the Bekaa Valley for her onetime Hezbollah comrades, that kind was all she could think of. All she wanted. “I do my job in the manner I see fit. Please inform Mr. Kimodo of that. Now, when are we turning back?”
Heiji collected himself and removed an envelope from inside his coat. “In a moment.” He handed it across to Keiko. Her nails were short and painted blue, he noticed when she took it from him. “Mr. Kimodo requires your assistance in a new matter.”
So soon…. Keiko thought longingly. “Go on.”
“The particulars are in the envelope, but Mr. Kimodo requires that you travel to America. An individual there may be able to provide some very valuable information. Concerning their top code.”
“Top code?” Keiko probed. “What is that?”
“The particulars are in writing.”
Keiko let her fingers caress the coarse package. Some things were so much better spoken than coldly read. “An individual?”
Heiji hesitated briefly when a flash of pity ran through him. “A young man. It is in writing, and you will have a contact in America.”
A young man. That was an enticingly large spectrum. “America, you say.”
“Our trusted ally,” Heiji commented. He noticed Keiko shift slightly where she sat. It was almost as though she were squirming.
Keiko heard Kimodo’s lackey speak, but she was looking out the window again, watching the first sheets of grey begin to fall upon the fields in the distance, wanting to think of the crops and the farmers and anything other than the one thought that kept repeating in her head: young man, young man, young man, young man. They would meet soon, she knew, but soon always seemed an eternity.
Then again, with deprivation her hunger would rise to glorious heights, and it would be all the sweeter a sacrifice that quenched it.
“A young man, you say?” She just had to hear it one more time.
Heiji nodded and noticed that Keiko recrossed her legs very, very slowly. “Yes, a young man.”
The limousine exited and reentered the motorway heading back to Tokyo. Keiko chewed quietly, impatiently at her lower lip the entire way.
Anne parked the Volvo at a hasty angle on Milford just short of the police line that held a neighborhood of gawkers at bay. She ran to the nearest Chicago police officer with Art at her side. Though it wasn’t his territory, he held his Bureau ID and shield out front for the city cop to see.
“I’m Dr. Jefferson,” Anne said.
The patrolman saw the authority backing up the lady and let her through. A minute later Anne trotted up the steps of 2564 Vincent for the second time in a few hours. A police lieutenant stopped her and Art there.
“You’re Dr. Jefferson?” Lt. Jerry Miklovich asked. He noted the FBI shield now clipped to the belt of the man with her.
“Yes, where’s—”
“And you’re?”
“Art Jefferson, Assistant Special Agent in Charge.”
“Right, you just—”
“Where is Simon!?” Anne demanded loudly.
Miklovich was quiet for a second. “He’s all right, but he seems to be in shock or some—”
“He’s autistic,” Anne said.
Miklovich nodded slowly, knowingly. “Is that like retarded.”
Anne didn’t have the time to educate the lawman. “Something like that. Where is he?”
“He’s in the basement. We can’t coax him out. Like I told you on the phone, the father had this business card with your number on the back. We called…uh, German name…”
“Ohlmeyer,” Anne said. Take me to him. Hurry.
“Right, and he wasn’t in. His office gave us your name and number and, well, it was on the back of the card, too, so we got in touch with you.” Miklovich spit to the side of the porch. Two of his lab people walked past into the house. “So you’re this kid’s doctor.”
“One of them. Can I please see him?”
“If you can get him out of the basement, great. This kid may have seen what happened in there. I didn’t want to mess him up any more than he already looks.”
Anne bent dumbly forward. “Are you finished?”
Miklovich looked to Art. “It’s a mess in there.” Then back to Anne. “Lots of blood.”
“I won’t touch anything,” Anne said.
“Nah, I just don’t want you to get sick,” Miklovich admitted.
“She won’t,” Art said, his hand on Anne’s shoulder.
Miklovich chewed at something in his mouth and spit off the porch again. “All right. Follow right behind me.”
Art brought up the rear, keeping one hand on his wife’s back. He was old hat at messy crime scenes. She wasn’t. He kept his thumb moving in circles between her shoulder blades, reassuring her as the tactless lieutenant led them through the living room, right at the stairs— one man down, shot in the back, Art noted — left into a den— a body there, on its side, at least one obvious wound, a medium frame Smith on the rug — and toward the kitchen— one female down there, head shot, fully clothed, broken glass on the floor — and right down a hall to an open door. One patrolman guarded it. Darkness descended from the opening.
Miklovich turned toward the lady. Her face quivered briefly. “You okay?”
Anne nodded.
“He’s down there. I’ve got someone down there just keeping an eye on him.”
Anne nodded again and forced the grisly images she’d just walked past from her thoughts…for now.
“Do you want me to go down with you?” Art asked.
Another nod. Art eased her forward with a guiding hand and followed her down the stairs. The dimmest light shined from a yellowed fixture over a collection of boxes. Books poked into view from the top ones.
The cop at the bottom made way for them, and then retreated upstairs at a wave from the lieutenant.
In the far corner of the small basement, in shadows that fell from towers of brown, bellied cardboard boxes, Simon Lynch stood silently swaying. His arms were held tight to his body against the chill. Something was tucked under his arm.
The preceding moments faded away when Anne saw her young patient. He was the most alone being in the universe at the moment, she knew. “Simon. It’s Dr. Anne.”
The sway leaned into a step forward. Jaundiced light painted one side of his form.
“It’s Dr. Anne.” She slid out of her coat and eased one stride toward him. “Dr. Anne. Remember?”
Simon touched his cards through the sweatshirt. “Dr. Anne is my friend.”
Anne nodded, her eyes wet, a smile beneath them. “Yes, I’m your friend.” You have no one, Simon. No one. No relatives. No one. You’re only sixteen. Social Services might help you. Some court somewhere, maybe. But what kind of help is that?
Simon took another metronomic step forward before halting. His head rose in a flash, eyes flitting over the man behind Dr. Anne.
“It’s okay, Simon.” Anne reached back and brought Art next to her. She immediately noticed that the young man didn’t wet himself. So far, so good. Then she saw the rising bruise on the left side of his fair face. It sickened her, but a mark such as that would fade. Would ones less noticeable, she wondered, and knew that that had to be her primary concern.