Ackerman moved his chess piece across the board, unable to hide a small smile. His elation didn’t stem from the fact that he intended to win the game. Not that he was typically of a mindset to let anyone defeat him. But, in this case, he couldn’t help but allow the boy to take him. Dylan—Marcus’s son and his nephew—wasn’t even double digits yet and here he was trying to emulate the famous chess game known as Kasparov’s Immortal in which the Russian grandmaster defeated Topalov in forty-four moves. Ackerman couldn’t resist playing the role of Topalov as the boy astounded him with his ingenuity. Either Dylan had inherited Marcus’s amazing memory or Ackerman’s genius. Perhaps a bit of both. The thought filled him with a strange warmth—what great and terrible things could be achieved by someone who was an amalgamation of he and his brother. Dylan fascinated him. The boy seemed more and more like a tiny version of himself by the day.
Dylan said, “Checkmate.”
Ackerman beamed with pride. “So it is.”
“Want to play again?”
“Maybe after a bit, young Kasparov. Let’s chat for a while.”
The hotel room was much like countless others Ackerman had played in over the years. Off-white walls and no overhead lighting, which he suspected was to hide the dust and grime. Low quality prints of beaches and sunsets adorned the disgustingly tropical walls. Ackerman felt like Jimmy Buffet had puked all over the entire motor inn.
Emily Morgan sat in a chair beside Dylan, reading a paperback novel. She looked up with suspicion as Ackerman mentioned having a “chat.”
Her impeccable intuition served her well. He suspected that she wouldn’t be entirely pleased with the nature of the following conversation.
Ackerman said, “How do you feel about spending time with other kids your age?”
Dylan didn’t make eye contact, and Ackerman had noticed that he seldom did. “They tend not to understand me.”
Tend not … Dylan spoke with a formality and polished adultness that was unusual for a boy his age.
“You say they don’t understand you. But do you understand them?”
“Not really. It seems like I always say the wrong thing.”
Emily Morgan, his babysitter and Dylan’s self-appointed protector, said, “What are you doing?”
Ackerman ignored her. “Dylan, would you prefer to play alone with your Legos or play baseball with other kids?”
“I like playing chess with you.”
“But what about boys your own age?”
“Not really. I prefer to play alone.”
Emily stood and took Dylan by the hand. She shot Ackerman a scathing glance and said, “Let’s go see if your dad is back yet, buddy.”
Dylan scowled but followed her from the room. A moment later, Emily returned, slamming the door behind her. “What exactly was that all about?”
He didn’t look up at her. He busied himself breaking down the chess set and putting it away. She walked closer and said, “I could have you thrown back in the darkest hole they can find. Is that what you want?”
Ackerman met her gaze and shook his head. “I have a better question. When do you plan to share Dylan’s diagnosis with my brother?”