The Glass House (12 page)

“Why?”

“I don't want you making calls while we're out there.” The man reluctantly handed over his cell phone, and Yslan stepped out into the hall. Emerson was leaning against the wall as relaxed as if he were on a street corner in the West Village. “Well?”

“He learns that we are here to see him.”

“Yes?”

“He makes it difficult for us to get an appointment, busy and all that.”

“He has patients.”

“Convicts don't have busy schedules. They can be rescheduled; what else have they got to do?”

“Okay.”

“Then he doesn't show up when he's supposed to meet us.”

“Yes.”

“Then when we find him—”

“He's not thrilled.”

“Then he is about to claim dentist-patient confidentiality.”

“Then wants a lawyer. Think he has something to hide?”

“I think he has a twenty-five-hundred-bucko secret.”

“Get Homeland to access his bank account.”

“Already done.”

“And?”

“Two weeks before Martin Armistaad disappeared, one day before his tooth implant, the good DDS deposited ten thousand dollars in a three-year certificate of deposit at his local credit union.”

• • •

Without knocking they crashed back into the DDS's office and handcuffed him to his dental chair. The man began to shout for help, but his cries were drowned out by the sound of the old-fashioned drill that Emerson operated with a foot pedal.

The man's eyes grew huge as Emerson approached him with the spinning, chipped thing.

“Okay, okay!” he shouted.

Emerson took his foot off the pedal. The drill whined as it slowed—as if it were upset that it didn't have the chance to grind into something.

“Good,” Yslan said. “Where did the money come from to pay for the tooth you implanted in Martin Armistaad's mouth?”

“Who?”

Yslan shook her head, and Emerson started up the drill.

“Yeah, yeah, Armistaad, I remember him.”

The drill whined to a stop.

“Good,” Yslan said. “Now, where did the twenty-five hundred dollars come from?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“Yes, the cost to implant a front tooth.”

“Is that how much it costs?”

Yslan looked at Emerson. “Are you as tired of this as I am?”

“Yep.”

Yslan stepped back and said, “Well then.”

Emerson hit the pedal hard. The drill seemed thrilled to be back in business.

“Okay, okay!” the dentist screamed.

“I repeat myself: Where did the money come from?”

“There was no return address. Not even a postmark. Just a note with a request to implant the tooth and ten thousand dollars.”

The drill once again whined to a halt, clearly upset that it wouldn't be cutting into enamel—or perhaps gum tissue, if it was lucky—today.

“Who sent you the cheque?”

“No cheque.”

“No cheque?”

“Just cash and the tooth.”

There was a pause. Yslan looked at Emerson, then the two of them looked at the dentist. “You were sent the tooth?”

“Yes, and a note that said, ‘Use this tooth and make it fit tight.' ”

“Why that particular tooth?”

“I have no idea.”

Emerson asked, “And did it fit?”

“Well no, not well, but I made it fit—tight.”

“By shaving down the tooth?”

“No. The note was specific. The tooth was not to be meddled with. So I trimmed the teeth on either side—quite a lot, actually.”

“That must have hurt.”

“Well yes, but Mr. Armistaad got an expensive new tooth.”

“Do you still have the note?”

“It's in a safe deposit box.”

“Key.”

He indicated a set of keys on a small table. Emerson slid the entire key ring into his pocket, turned and headed out.

“Hey!” the dentist called out, rattling the handcuffs.

“Oh, yeah,” Yslan said. “When you prove to me that you've given that ten thousand dollars to charity I'll send the key to the warden—and, by the by, I think your employment here is now formally terminated.”

“How am I supposed to send the money to charity while I'm handcuffed to this chair?”

“Hey,” Yslan said, “you're an educated man—figure it out.”

• • •

As she caught up to Emerson she said, “Jason gave us the Amati cello; the Amati cello gave us the Path; the Path gave us the name WJ; Arnie's smile gave us teeth—”

“Careful. It's two different cases, isn't it? What do Armistaad's tooth and Harrison's poisoning have to do with each other?”

She nodded agreement, but she didn't agree.

She didn't agree because she'd seen the numbers in chalk in Harrison's secret room. Armistaad is number 4 and he's in the wind. Viola Tripping is number 3—and now no one answers her phone.

• • •

An hour later she was on the phone with Mallory. “Any answer from Sora, Viola's caregiver?”

“No.”

“Have you been able to find the farm?”

“You folks at the NSA hid it even from yourselves.”

“I know. It was part of our deal with her.”

“Swell.”

“How's Harrison?” she asked. The phone line momentarily went silent. “Sir?”

“Yeah,” Mallory eventually answered.

“So how is he?”

“Who knows?”

“The doctors should know!”

“They're completely stumped—his tox report is gobbledegook. They're at a complete loss as to what happened to him.”

“Well we know what happened; the barista put something into his coffee.”

“Yes, Special Agent Hicks, we know that, but the barista doesn't know what it was and neither do we. All we know is that Harrison is in a living vegetative state.”

The horror of that sat between two of them. Finally, Mallory spoke. “He's in his own world now, and the doctors don't think he's coming back to ours.”

Or he's on his own path,
Yslan thought, then without saying another word, she closed her cell phone.

• • •

Yslan slumped onto the sagging bed in her motel room. She was so tired of cheap motel rooms, but that's all the federal government was willing to cough up for.

She flipped on her cell phone and quickly went through the pictures she'd taken in Harrison's hidden room till she got to the one that showed the back of the nude photo.

She glanced at the catalyst formula and the Bible citation yet again, then went through the photos of the hidden room slowly, one at a time.

Clearly Harrison had found something about the Gifted that she
hadn't found. Some knowledge that she didn't have. What he no doubt thought would lead to the End Times—when he would get to see his brother again.

She went through it again—chalk lines to Martin Armistaad and Decker and Viola, then arrows pointing to her in the Junction. Then there was the question mark beside the number 1. Someone she hadn't discovered. Not one of her Gifted.

The question mark clearly indicated that Harrison didn't know this person's identity either.

If Harrison was right, then when all of them followed the chalk arrows and met up in the Junction—with her as the catalyst—something momentous would happen. Something that Harrison wanted to be part of. Something important enough—no, personal enough—that Harrison kept it secret from the agency, from everyone. Everyone except whoever owned the mysterious third set of prints in the hidden room.

Her phone rang. “Hicks.”

“We finally got something from his computer.”

“Harrison's?”

“Who else?”

“What did you get?”

“A repeated visiting of a website.”

“Which one?”

“The synaesthetes'.”

“Yes, of course, we've known about that for—”

“He was corresponding through the website.”

Yslan was on her feet. “With whom?”

“We don't know.”

“Well, what the fuck
do
you know?”

Back in Hendrick H. Mallory's office, the tech looked over his shoulder. His boss stood very still.

“The password he used to correspond through the synaesthetes' website.”

Yslan let out a sigh. “Great. What's his password?”

The head of Homeland Security nodded to the technician, who said into the phone, “The number sign, then the numeral one, then an equals sign, then the name Seth. His password is #1=Seth.”

She hung up.

So did the tech, who looked to Mallory. “Something else, sir?”

“No, that's enough for now.” When the tech was gone, Mallory said aloud, “That should prick the sides of her intent.”

• • •

Yslan immediately called Ted Knight. “It's Yslan.”

“What time is—”

“Who cares? Send me the tapes we made at the safe house in New Jersey.”

“Of the Toronto cop?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Now. Send them fucking now.”

Ten minutes later they arrived on her BlackBerry. She played back her first interrogation:

“A bloody murderer named Decker Roberts formerly of the Glencairn district of North Toronto.”

“Want to tell me about you and Mr. Roberts?'

“Nah—I think I'd prefer not to.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No—but if you undo these cuffs I'll find him.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?”

“I'm more than able to track down a felon, yes.”

“You didn't track him down, you tracked down his son.”

“Seth.”

“Yes, Seth Roberts.”

“So you found the boy and waited for the father to show up. Did you case the place?”

Yslan clearly remembered him nodding in response to that question.

“What did you find?”

“A charlatan, big-assed fake! I mean dream healing—”

“You mean the guy who ran it was a charlatan?”

“Who else?”

“Name?”

“Couldn't find a real name. Couldn't find dick-all about him, really. Strange that. All I ever got was initials for him . . .”

When, five minutes later, she played it for Emerson, he demanded, “And you didn't ask about the initials?”

“No, I was stuck on his claim that Roberts was a murderer.”

“That was—”

“Dumb, I know.”

Emerson looked at her closely, then said, “You've changed since you met that Decker guy. You'd never have missed that before.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said.

“It's not a guess,” he said.

“We can still catch the late flight.”

“To?”

“Seaside, Florida—so I can ask about those initials.”

FORMER TORONTO HOMICIDE DETECTIVE GARRETH
Laurence Senior was wearing only a pair of ill-fitting Bermuda shorts as he stared through the screen door of his Seaside, Florida, porch at Yslan and Emerson.

“What's the pretty boy?” he growled.

Emerson stepped forward and extended a hand to open the screen door.

“I really wouldn't do that. Florida has a stand your ground law, and you'd be best to think that I not only have a weapon but know how to use it.” His words were a bit slurred.

“A little early to be drinking, don't you think?” Yslan said.

“Not aware that my alcohol consumption was of any interest to the American government.”

“It's not,” Yslan said, “but we have other concerns.”

“Hey, why not just drug me and haul me off to some safe house and beat the crap out of me?”

“You were never beaten, sir.”

“Quibble, quibble, quibble.”

“Can we come in? Open the door, please.”

“Once you answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“What's the pretty boy?”

“Emerson Remi,” Emerson said.

“Not his name. I couldn't care less what he claims his name is—it would be just lies anyway. I want to know ‘what' he is.”

“I don't—”

“Is he muscle? Muscle's never that pretty. What is he?”

Yslan took a breath, then said, “His name is Emerson Remi, he works for Homeland Security.”

“Oooow—bloody Homeland Security—now I'm afeared, I am.” Garreth's native Scottish accent was reemerging.

“Open the door or we can get a court order. We know you're a Canadian living in this country without proper documentation.” It was a minor technicality, but she was anxious not to involve the local authorities, even the local NSA office.

Garreth paused for a moment, then flipped the latch, turned and retreated into the house's interior.

Emerson and Yslan followed him.

Yslan had been in the homes of many a drinker—her grandfather had a serious habit—and they all had certain things in common. A staleness, a casual approach to cleanliness and an air of things falling apart. Even though much of the furniture was new, it didn't really fit together, and comfort rather than style seemed to rule all the choices. The La-Z-Boy couch was a classic—as were the ring stains on side tables and couch arms.

Garreth was pouring himself a drink. Bourbon. “My neighbours taught me to put sugar in it—which I like,” he said, adding a heaping teaspoon to the amber liquid in his juice glass. “They also encouraged me to add a sprig of mint, but I couldn't manage that without thinking there should be a tiny umbrella and a cookie—so I passed on the mint.” He took a long pull on his drink. “Come to apologize, lass, or are you going to drug me and—”