Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jake was about to scramble out of the car when Rachel came running back and climbed into the passenger seat.
“What was that?” he asked as he lurched away from the curb.
“It burned.”
“What burned? What are you talking about?”
She put her hand on his arm, pressing her fingers into his flesh as she sent him a vivid picture of the clinic building as they’d seen it earlier.
Flames leaped through the waiting room, caught the draperies, climbed up the walls. As he stared at the awful scene, he had the same shocked reaction that she had. They’d been in that room!
The flames interfered with his vision, and he pulled into the parking lot of a bank where he sat behind the wheel, breathing hard.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s okay.” He threw his head back, leaning against the seat. “At least the waiting room was empty.”
“Thank the Lord. I think it was at night.”
“What happened? Was it an accident?”
“No.”
He turned to her questioningly.
“I saw that part too. Do you want to see?”
“Yeah.”
She kept her hand on his arm and sent him another picture–that of a shadowy figure, with a stocking mask over his face, moving through the waiting room.
Because it was dark, it was hard to see clearly, but Jake could tell that the man was holding a can of gasoline and sloshing it onto the floor and furnishings.
Then he walked through a door and into the back of the clinic.
Rachel stayed with him as he walked past examination rooms and offices, continuing to spread the gasoline around.
When he reached an exit, he pushed it open and stepped out into an alley where he struck a match and tossed it inside. He stood for a moment, watching the flames spring up, then he closed the door and walked away down the alley.
“Who was he?” Jake asked, thinking there was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Rachel’s brow wrinkled. “It was hard to tell with his face covered.”
Jake shifted in his seat. “When did it burn?”
She shrugged.
“There should be some way to find out.”
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back the way they’d come, then found a coffee shop with wireless network. While he got a table, Rachel ordered them both medium-sized lattes.
When she came back with the drinks and set them on the table, he gestured for her to move her chair around to his side of the table where she could see the screen.
“I had enough information to get a date,” he said, careful to reveal nothing aloud that other patrons might overhear.
She looked at the news article he’d found. “That’s a few years after we were there, I think.”
“That sounds right.”
She quickly read the article, which said that the Solomon Clinic in Houma, Louisiana, had burned one night. Although the fire was judged arson, there was no indication who had done it.
Jake watched her face when she came to the surprising piece of information that he’d already seen.
It was a fertility clinic! Not some place where they were running medical experiments.
Yeah. A fertility clinic, run by a doctor Douglas Solomon.
He leaned back and took a sip of the latte. So it was a place where couples came who were having trouble conceiving a child.
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes.
He didn’t have to ask what she was thinking because he was able to follow along.
My mother told me that she had a hard time getting pregnant. She told me she had expensive treatments.
And she made you feel guilty about that, because you weren’t more . . . loving.
Rachel sighed. I tried.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
We’re getting off the subject. I guess my parents must have been there for the same reason if we both ended up at that clinic.
What kind of techniques were they using?
He shrugged. You say it was your mother who couldn’t conceive?
I don’t know that for sure.
What else did she say?
Not a lot. I think she was always embarrassed about it–like she’d been a failure when it came to something that should be natural.
Jake kept scanning the article, then raised his head.
It says here they were using in vitro fertilization.
Where the sperm and egg meet in a Petri dish.
Why would people be afraid to talk about the clinic so long after it burned down?
There must be some other factor.
It could have been an issue in town. I mean, IVF is an issue now. Back then, some people might not have approved of tampering with God’s will.
That’s possible. Or the clinic was questioned for other reasons. He leaned back, thinking, and knew she had followed his silent question.
Why did they make the kids go back, over and over? she asked.
You remember having tests?
Like IQ tests?
Yeah.
They both considered various explanations.
What if he wanted a lot of fertilized eggs to experiment on?
They were both silent for long moments.
And do what?
To create telepaths? he finally asked. But would anyone have thought of that so long ago?
Or even now.
True.
If we had a bunch of IQ Tests, it sounds like it had something to do with brain function. Maybe this doctor had some other effect in mind, and he didn’t know the ultimate result?
Jake went back to the laptop, until he was interrupted by a powerful thought from Rachel.
It was her. I mean the guy who set the fire.
He turned around and stared at her.
Rachel went on, her excited thoughts coming out in a fast stream. It looked like a man with a mask, but Evelyn Morgan was the one sloshing the gasoline around the clinic. Evelyn.
Jake brought back the picture Rachel had sent him. They’d both thought it was a guy, but someone short and slender--who could have actually been a woman.
I thought there was something familiar about the arsonist.
The limp. You remember her limp?
Yes, but why was she burning the place down?
To hide evidence, Rachel answered immediately. More reason to think the in vitro fertilization was a cover for something else.
They both sat silently, mulling that over, but they were unable to come to any conclusions.
We made some assumptions about Evelyn that might not be true.
She wasn’t such a sweet old lady.
Back when she burned the clinic, maybe she had job to do–and she followed orders.
Jake went back to the laptop, looking for more information on the fire.
He found another article that quoted a nurse who worked there, saying that it was fortunate the fire had been at night so that no parents and children had been injured.
“Maven Bolton.” Rachel said the nurse’s name aloud.
“Maybe she’s still in town.” Jake went to one of the search engines and found a listing in Houma for a woman with that name.
“You think it’s the same person?”
He did some more digging. “She’s a retired nurse. She worked at the local hospital for fifteen years. It says she was at a private clinic before that.”
“So what are we going to say to her?”
He thought for a moment. That after my parents died, I found some information about the Solomon Clinic, and wanted to talk to someone who had worked there.
And who am I?
My fiancée. You wanted to come with me.
Although she nodded, he knew she was unsure.
It’ll be safer for us–and her–if we don’t tell her anything more.
She sighed. You’re right.
As they left the coffee shop, Jake checked the area again but didn’t see anyone paying attention to them. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were going to run into trouble–sooner rather than later.
Beside him, Rachel shivered, and he reached for her hand and squeezed.
Sorry.
He responded to her unspoken thought. You’re right. Something bad is coming.
They drove to the address he’d found, which turned out to be a one-story red brick building that was an extended care facility for the elderly.
“I hope her memory’s all right,” Rachel said as they pulled into the parking lot, and Jake cut the engine.
They walked up a path through nicely landscaped grounds where native plants were interspersed with beds of colorful flowers.
Double doors led to a reception area, where an efficient-looking young woman was sitting behind a desk. She was wearing a name tag that identified her as Sarah Dalton.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“We’d like to visit with Maven Bolton.”
“Are you relatives?”
“No. We’re old friends,” Jake said. “We were passing through town, and we thought we’d drop in on Maven.”
“She doesn’t get too many visitors. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you,” Ms. Dalton said, standing up and checking her watch. “Maven should be in the dayroom now.”
They followed the woman down a hallway, and Jake noted that as senior residences went, it wasn’t too bad. It looked clean, and he didn’t detect any unwanted smells.
Rachel gave him a sidewise glance, and he shrugged as they stepped into a large, sunny room. Potted plants were arranged around the walls
A lot of old women and a few old men were sitting around the room. Some were in wheelchairs, others in easy chairs watching television or at tables playing cards or working puzzles.
The employee led them to a woman who was sitting by the window with a magazine in her lap. She had short gray hair and a wrinkled face, but she was wearing a nice looking flowered blouse and tan slacks.
“Some people to see you, Maven,” Ms. Dalton said.
The nursing home resident looked up inquiringly.
“It’s been a long time,” Jake said. “I’m Jack Le Barron. And this is my fiancée, Reagan . . .” He paused for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t thought of another last name for Rachel.
“West,” she supplied.
Maven nodded, probably trying to place him, but to his relief, Ms. Dalton turned and headed back toward the front of the building.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Rachel said.
“I don’t remember you,” she said in a tentative voice.
“That’s all right.”
“It isn’t!” the old woman objected.
Rachel and Jake both pulled up chairs and sat down. “We don’t want to bother you, but we’d like some information, if you have the time.”
“What kind of information?”