part0026

Blake glanced over his right shoulder. Just long enough to get a peek at the receding shoreline, but not so long as to run the risk of veering from the precariously thin lane.

Two hundred feet above the Narragansett Bay, the Newport bridge offered a bird’s eye view of Jamestown’s East Ferry. From that height, the port looked like a self-contained cluster, marked by the castle-like turret of the Bayview Condominiums building. The miniature row of shops led his eye to the wooden pier where he encountered Goldilocks and the others.

He had studied the map in preparation for his task. While he still allowed the GPS to guide him, the homework would give him a better bearing. Stronger situational awareness should the need arise.

As he crested the two-mile span of roadway, suspended by cables from its two soaring towers, landmarks began to jump out at him from below. The Naval War College to the left. Rose Island and Goat Island to the right. Fort Adams in the distance.

Blake checked the time on the navigation system display. If Lucas kept to his schedule, as Blake had no doubt he would, he would board the ferry in just a few minutes.

Verbal instructions preceded each turn. The route took him by an old cemetery, a small train station, and a baseball field reminiscent of a miniature Fenway Park.

On Thames Street, it was as though he had travelled back in time. Cobblestone streets cut through crowded wharfs, lined with historic buildings.

He could picture what the place would have looked and felt like in centuries past. Whalers, traders, pirates. Grand wooden ships with large crews of hardened men, pouring into the cobblestone streets for a night of debauchery.

Whatever its history held, today the town was a mixture of upscale swank and stalwart function. The result was downright captivating.

He would have loved to explore. To take in the sights and sounds. But there was a timeline to keep, and the clock was ticking.

Around a bend, Thames Street straightened and constricted. The navigation warned of the approaching destination.

The sign for Ann Street came into view on his left. It marked the start of the one-way street leading up the hill, away from the water.

Moving along at only a few miles an hour, Blake scanned the right side of Thames Street. A few feet ahead, under the street sign that read, “Ann St Pier,” a sandwich board sign bore a familiar logo.

Yellow block letters read, “Boarding,” and an arrow pointed to the right.

Blake came to a stop at the junction. By the looks of it, Ann Street Pier was more of an alley than a roadway. Just wide enough for one car to pass, the short street led directly to the water.

A curt honk of a horn from behind urged him to move along. With no room to park a car on Thames, and most definitely no place to stop on Ann Street Pier, Blake took his next left onto Brewer, then snaked his way through the side streets until he found a gap in the row of parked cars large enough to fit the Nissan.

He checked the time. Eight forty-two.

More time had been eaten up by finding a place to park than he had anticipated. He would need to hurry if he were to beat the Ferry.

Blake jogged down the hill, turned onto Thames and then onto Ann Street Pier. He hustled to the end of the asphalt strip, stopping where it met the wooden pier.

The blue and white boat was just coming to a stop. A young woman wearing a polo and khaki shorts stood on the gunwale. With the looped end of a rope in hand, she stepped onto the dock, secured the line to the cleat, and stepped back on board.

In a matter of seconds, he assumed, Lucas would be walking the dock, right toward him. He looked around for a place where he could observe but avoid being recognized. Spotting a section of weathered stockade fence protruding from the side of a brick building, he casually slipped behind it.

Peeking around the edge, he watched as Lucas emerged and shuffled along the dock toward the alleyway. The fence offered little cover to the side and rear, and Blake hoped Lucas would be too preoccupied to notice him as he passed.

Only he didn’t pass. Instead of continuing toward Thames Street, Lucas stopped at the base of the pier and climbed down to a small beach between the docks and an apartment building. The structure itself jutted out into the water atop a long concrete pier.

Blake hugged the fence as Lucas moved across the sand, weaving between the red plastic kayaks beached there. His movements were traced by the tracks he left in the wet sand. They looked as though they’d been created by wheels rather than feet.

Glancing over his shoulder, Blake noticed a tall man with a square jaw and sunken eyes standing at the entrance of the alley. With both hands, he held out his cellphone as if he were taking a picture or a video. For a moment, Blake had an uncomfortable sensation that he was the subject of the strange man’s interest, but his concern waned as the man raised the phone to his ear and moved along onto Thames Street. Blake turned his attention back to the task at hand.

Upon reaching the far side of the beach, Lucas stepped onto the concrete slab.

Whichever direction Lucas travelled from there, it would only be a matter of moments before Blake would lose sight of him. He would have to move fast to close the distance before that happened. Even though, in doing so, he would be exposing himself.

The level of risk came down to whether Lucas would happen to look behind him. Luckily, during his few previous encounters, Blake had found Lucas to be a man of singular focus. A one-track-mind, so to speak. He decided it was worth it.

Blake sprinted to the edge of the pier and dropped down onto the sand. Straight ahead and above, a woman wearing a blue tankini stood on the balcony of one of the apartment units. It was hard to tell if she was looking at him from that distance, but she was definitely looking in his direction.

He strolled along the sand in a wavy line. His head down as if perusing the assortment of seashells that littered the beach. All the while, he continued to peer across his brow toward Lucas.

Maybe it was the nosey woman, or the fact that he promised Lucas he wouldn’t come, but the whole scenario made him feel guilty. Creepy, even. In a comical way. This was likely a fool’s errand, after all.

But he wouldn’t be slinking around all over town, at least. To his surprise, Lucas had made a beeline for the apartment building. Before Blake realized it, Lucas entered through the glass door.

Blake dropped the Sunday stroll routine and darted for the building. He planted his palm, vaulted himself onto solid ground, and ran toward the door.

As he arrived, he pressed himself against the side of the building, staying just out of view. He leaned over to peek through the glass.

Inside, about ten feet from the door, was a staircase. Lucas was just rounding the first landing.

Blake pulled the handle slowly and quietly slipped inside. He climbed the short set of stairs. With each deliberate step, he paused and listened. As he reached the first landing, he snuck a peek up the next set. The coast was clear.

As he hit the top of the second set, he poked his head around the corner and into the long corridor. Just in time to see Lucas disappearing into one of the units.

Blake counted the doors. Fifth one on the right.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. He climbed a few steps toward the third floor and took a seat on one of the treads.

Blake figured it would be an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before Lucas would head back to the ferry. It was worth the wait.

Regardless of how long Lucas’s appointment was, Blake knew he had some time to kill. He took out his phone, called up the text messaging thread with Haeli, and stared blankly at the screen. His fingers hovered over the image of the keyboard while his mind wandered.

What should he say to Haeli? What would he say to the doctor when he confronted him? How far was he willing to go to extract information?

For all he knew, this guy John had nothing to do with any of this. And even if he did, it wasn’t likely he’d be forthcoming. If he could at least identify him, he could bring the information to Hopkins. Surely the doctor would have no objection to giving Blake his name. Right?

As much as Blake tried to remind himself there was a good chance the excursion would be a dead end, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this doctor might hold the key to figuring out what happened to Lucy. And it wasn’t just what he told Lucas. Hopkins had asked if Lucy saw a doctor as well, something that could hardly be a coincidence. And then there was this peculiar location. Why was this doctor seeing patients at a residence? Or was this Newport’s version of an office building?

As far as Blake could tell, there were no signs posted, nor any indication of commercial use. The rows of balconies were indicative of apartments, or condos, and the woman he had seen was wearing a bathing suit.

No, this was residential. But was it his home? Did he even have a legitimate office? Was he even a real doctor? Lucas probably wouldn’t know the difference.

Blake took a breath and tried to reign in his thoughts before they spiraled farther into speculation. What he needed to do was sit tight. To call upon any patience still buried deep within himself. It wouldn’t be long until all of his questions would be answered.

The sound of the door opening travelled through the quiet hallway and into the stairwell where Blake had set up camp. It was followed by the sound of shuffling feet.

Blake glanced at his phone. Two hours and nine minutes.

He waited until he heard the steps transition from the rough carpet to the rubber matting of the stairs before popping his head around the corner to confirm that it was, in fact, Lucas.

A few moments later, the exterior door opened and closed. Blake waited a few extra seconds to be sure he was gone.

Blake moved into the hallway and approached the fifth door on the right. He knocked, then took a step backward and posed for the peephole, a friendly smile on his face.

There was no answer.

Blake knocked again.

He pressed his ear to the door. He could hear the creaking of the floorboards.

It was clear the occupant of the unit was not coming to the door. He was probably hoping Blake would simply go away.

But there was too much on the line to turn back now. He needed a new plan. A ruse to get him through the door.

He tried the handle. The door cracked an eighth of an inch.

Blake thought back to the revolver he had taken from the junkie in Cranston and discarded in the storm drain. He wished he had kept it.

“Maintenance,” he said as he pushed the door open. “Anyone home?”

Ahead, the sliding glass door that led to the balcony was wide open. The curtains flapped in the breeze.

Blake ran to the balcony and looked down toward the beach. Below, a slender man wearing a white ball cap was limping across the sand. His footsteps led away from the building.

Blake looked to the concrete below. Although the one-story drop was manageable, he wasn’t surprised that the man seemed to have been injured. It wasn’t easy to land gracefully on such a hard surface.

Blake watched as the man hoisted himself onto Ann Street Pier, hobbled over the deck of the waterfront restaurant to its north, and disappeared through the gap between two buildings.

Blake’s instinct was to give chase. But the man had too much of a head start. By now, he’d have blended into the crowd of pedestrians roaming the area of Thames Street.

Blake returned inside. He checked the rest of the apartment for good measure, although he had not expected to find anyone.

It was a strange setup, this place. The bedroom was empty aside from some cardboard boxes and a few jackets hanging in the closet. There was a small table with two chairs in the kitchen, but the counters were bare. For the most part, the unit hardly appeared lived in. With one glaring exception. The living room.

The living room was lined with bookshelves filled with tattered books and other junk. There was no couch, no television. Just three chairs that sat in a triangle in the middle of the room.

Blake inspected the contents of one of the shelves. The collection of titles included an eclectic mix of medical subjects. Blake pulled out a leather-bound volume and read the title engraved on its cover. Psychosurgery. Intelligence, Emotion and Social Behavior Following Prefrontal Lobotomy for Mental Disorders by W. Freeman and J.W. Watts. He flipped through the pages, then returned it to the shelf.

He ran his finger along the row, skimming the titles as he went. Many were surgical manuals, medical journals, or pharmaceutical references.

He moved to another shelf.

There, stacked one on top of the other, were piles of notebooks. Blake peeled one from the top of a pile and opened it.

He turned the page. Again and again. Nothing but illegible scribbling. Large, swirling loops and jagged, angry scratches. But not a word to be found.

Blake tossed the book onto the chair and picked another from the top of the pile. It was the same. Page after page.

He lifted off three quarters of the largest stack and set it down on the floor. He grabbed the next notebook down and cracked it open.

Dozens of notebooks, thousands of pages. Nothing but scribble.

Whoever this man was, he was sick. And, while he didn’t know how or why, there was no doubt in Blake’s mind that this doctor was involved in Lucy’s disappearance. A girl had already been murdered, and he’d bet anything that he had been a few seconds away from catching the man who was responsible.

He took a step backward and contemplated the impressive scale of the macabre library. For some reason, it sent an icy shiver down his spine.

On the top shelf to the far right was a plastic human skull. Blake walked over and touched it just to make sure it wasn’t real. At this point, it wouldn’t have been out of the question.

Below the skull was an old, faded eight-point hat. Blake picked it up and read the patinated brass hat badge. Jamestown Police.

For a moment, Blake wondered if the doctor had used the thing to impersonate an officer, to possibly gain the trust of the girls. But it was covered in a layer of dust, and the greening badge wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Besides, as far as he could tell, there was no uniform to accompany it.

It all amounted to one thing. It was time for him to involve Hopkins. As Chief of Police, Hopkins would have the resources to solve this thing once and for all.

Getting Hopkins to trust him, on the other hand, would be another feat. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Hopkins would come around. Of that he was sure.