Melissa tossed her purse and coat on the sofa, and her shoulders fell at the sight of the big red zero that blazed on the answering machine. Hope slipped from her grasp, drifting away on the tide of passing time.
She busied herself scrubbing the already spotless kitchen and picked up the phone every minute or so, making sure the dial tone signaled the line was in working order.
John plopped down at the computer desk and went to power up the laptop. The lid was already open, and the screen sprang to life when he touched the mouse. Melissa’s Pinterest page and four blank web pages were on the screen. He tapped a number into his cell phone.
“Dr. Anderson,” Tommy’s surgeon answered.
“Hi, Doc. It’s John Penley.”
“Tommy?” the doctor asked, concern fixed in his voice.
John sighed, louder than he meant to. “No. I wanted to ask you a question about Zack Weber.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Anderson said.
“You told me that Zack Weber got the boot from medical school for falsifying test scores and grades, right?”
“Yes.”
“You said he didn’t change his own grades but did hack into the school’s system and changed the grades of his classmates.”
“Was one of the classmates Patrick Horn?”
The silence from the doctor’s end of the phone lasted for a few seconds before he cleared his throat. “I suppose there’s no harm in me talking to you about that. Zack was the one who changed the grades, and from what I understand, Patrick didn’t even know about it. But he was tossed from the school along with Zack.”
“Why did the hospital allow Zack Weber and Patrick Horn to work there?” John asked.
“Zack worked in the lab, as you know. Patrick didn’t work for the hospital, but he worked for a local independent lab as a phlebotomist. I saw him a few times at blood drives before his mother died.”
“Marsha Horn, the lab supervisor?” John asked.
“Patrick was her son. I felt like I owed it to her to put in a good word for him,” Dr. Anderson said.
“How did Marsha Horn end up with Donovan Layton?”
The doctor sounded surprised at mention of Layton. “Marsha came from an old farming family. I thought she left that all behind after medical school. Until Layton came around.”
“Sounds like you didn’t care for him?”
“She deserved better. After her first husband died, she floundered around, and Layton was there to pick up the pieces. He didn’t treat her very well.”
“Any idea how Layton was with Patrick?” John asked.
“I don’t know. What I picked up from Marsha was that he was fairly heavy-handed with the boy.”
“So father and son didn’t see eye to eye?” John said.
“Stepfather. And yes, so it seemed.”
“So Patrick worked around the hospital before his mother died?”
“The independent lab runs blood drives here, not laboratory services.”
“Melissa told me Patrick drew her blood once at the hospital. How did that happen?”
An uncomfortable silence from the doctor and another creak from his chair signified that he was measuring his response. “I may have opened that door. For a few months last year, I approved a contract lab to fill in for emergency-room phlebotomists. It was the company that Patrick worked with, and he could have used that access to gain entry to the transplant center.”
It was John’s turn for silence.
“Mr. Penley? Are you still there?”
“Thanks, Doc,” John said, then disconnected the call without waiting for a response. His focus narrowed to his computer screen. He closed a handful of browser windows that Melissa must have left open—Pinterest, Facebook, and a medical financial-assistance page. The Tor dark web connection was open. He swore he had closed that application. He closed it again, clicked on a search engine icon, and typed in “Marsha Horn” and the word “obituary.”
The Sacramento Bee obituary archives pulled up the published obituary for Marsha Jean Horn. The remembrance consisted of a few terse lines, including “Taken early from this world after a life of service to others.” There was no mention of her accomplishments or how she died.
John read the last line of the obituary aloud: “Survived by her husband, Donovan Layton.” The obituary omitted any reference to other living relatives, specifically Patrick Horn.
He reached for a binder on the bookshelf behind the computer and knocked over a stale cup of coffee. “Dammit, Paula,” John said through clenched teeth. Her lack of organization was apparently contagious. Coffee drizzled across the tabletop and made brown spatter patterns on a pile of past-due medical insurance forms.
John hopped up, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the counter. Melissa was bent over a section of grout on the counter and threatened to scrub it out of existence. She never looked up or acknowledged John’s presence. John stood for a moment; the silent sorrow formed a cold ball in his stomach.
“I’m going to get him back,” he said. The words rang with less hope than despair.
Melissa faced him with red-rimmed eyes. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
He stepped over to her, put his arms around her, and leaned in. “I—I don’t know. Maybe he wants us to fear the unknown.”
“Well, it’s working.”
He hugged her tight, then released his grasp and took a step back. “I’m on to something that might help.”
“Is it the man, the one Paula named in the photo? That nurse?”
He nodded.
Melissa looked at the wad of paper towels in John’s hand.
“I made a mess, tipped over a coffee cup,” he said.
She wrinkled her brow. “When did you start drinking coffee at the desk? I thought that was one of your pet peeves.”
John’s arms went limp. He stared back at Melissa. His mouth tried and failed to form words.
“John, what is it?”
He bolted to the kitchen cabinet next to the refrigerator and flung open the door. The wooden door slammed against the refrigerator.
“What is it?” Melissa repeated.
“Gone. All of Tommy’s medications are gone.”
John ran down to the boy’s bedroom and pushed open the door. Two dresser drawers were pulled open and empty.
“Oh my God,” she said.
John turned and followed Melissa’s gaze to Tommy’s bed. There, on top of the quilt, lay the stuffed animal from the hospital. The bear was a flattened hulk. All of the stuffing had been ripped through a ragged incision in the animal’s fabric skin. The exact method the Outcast Killer used on his victims.
With leaden legs, John approached his son’s bed. The stuffed animal’s corpse bore an obscene resemblance to Daniel Cardozo’s body—chest flayed wide and the cavity empty. Inside, John caught a glimpse of something that didn’t belong, a folded piece of paper. It looked like a small origami figure, a human form.
John picked up the paper doll and saw subtle blue lines. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the note. A message from the Outcast Killer.
You have a decision to make. Either your son gets a donor, or he becomes one. You know how to contact me. You have until 9:00.