He didn’t protest. They moved down the corridor and into Cheryl Burroughs’s office. Cheryl Burroughs greeted them professionally, as if they were there as patients. She sat behind her desk. They sat in the two chairs in front of it. The office was sparse. Max looked for the diplomas on the wall and saw none.
Sarah let Max take the lead. Max dove straight in.
“What did your ex-husband say to you?”
“Nothing.”
Like with Hilde Winslow. Max shifted in the chair. “He came here to see you, no?”
“I don’t know why he came here,” she said.
“You didn’t talk?”
“He ran out before he could say much.”
Sarah and Max exchanged a look. Sarah sighed and took that one. “We have the security footage, Dr. Burroughs.”
“It’s Dreason now,” she said.
Sarah was in a mood. “Yeah, whatever. Your ex-husband, the escaped convict who murdered your son, was in this very office for eight minutes before your husband entered. Are you telling us he didn’t say anything in all that time?”
Cheryl took her time. She turned toward the office window and now Max could see the red in her eyes. She’d been crying, no question about it. “I’m not compelled to speak to you, am I?”
Sarah looked at Max. Max looked at Sarah.
“Why wouldn’t you want to speak with us?” Sarah asked.
“I have patients. I would like you to leave.”
Max figured that it was time to drop the bomb.
“Your ex-husband,” he said. “He’s not Matthew’s father, is he?”
Both women stared at him stunned.
“What are you talking about?” Cheryl asked.
Sarah’s face was asking the same question.
Cheryl said, “Of course David is Matthew’s father.”
“Are you sure?”
“What are you getting at, Agent Bernstein?”
Sarah was looking at him as though to say, I’d like to hear the answer too.
“When Matthew was murdered,” Max continued, “you already knew your current husband, Ronald Dreason. Isn’t that correct?”
“We were colleagues.”
“You weren’t sleeping together?”
Cheryl didn’t rise to the bait. In an even tone she said, “We were not.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very,” Cheryl said. “What are you getting at, Special Agent? Get to it, please.”
“I visited the district attorney’s office who handled your son’s murder case. They still have Matthew’s DNA on file.”
Something in Cheryl’s face was changing. He could see it.
“Your ex-husband’s DNA is on file too. All convicted inmates have to submit a sample. So I had them do a paternity test.”
Cheryl Dreason started to shake her head no.
“According to the test, David Burroughs, the man convicted of murdering Matthew Burroughs, is not the father of the boy found in the crib.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise. “Max?”
Cheryl’s voice was barely a whisper. “Oh my God…”
Max kept his eyes on Cheryl. “Dr. Dreason?”
She just kept shaking her head. “David was Matthew’s father.”
“The DA’s results are conclusive.”
“Oh my God.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Then David is right.”
“About?”
“Matthew is still alive.”
Chapter
34
I have finally managed to access my old email account when Rachel turns into a parking lot at a PGA golf store off the Garden State Parkway. I am looking for an email from eight years ago. The search engine helps me find it. I read it just to make sure. Then I read it again.
“David?”
The PGA store parking lot is huge, much too large for the store, and I wonder what else is going to be built here. There is a car parked alone in the distant corner near the woods, a Toyota Highlander. I can see a golf course through a strip of trees. Convenient location, I guess.
“What happened with Cheryl?” Rachel asks.
“She went through with the sperm donation.”
Silence.
“Did you know?” I ask.
“No.” Her voice is soft. “David, I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
She doesn’t reply to that.
“Even if I’m not the biological father, he’s still my son,” I say.
“I know.”
“And he is mine. Not that it matters. But I know it.”
“I know it too,” Rachel says as she parks next to the Toyota Highlander.
A man in a Yankees cap gets out of the Highlander.
Rachel says to me, “Let’s go.”
She leaves the keys, and we head for the Highlander. The man in the Yankees cap says, “Drive out in the lane hugging the tree line. The CCTV doesn’t cover that area.”
We switch cars. Simple as that. Rachel’s attorney arranged it. We both realized as soon as we left the hospital that we couldn’t trust that Ronald wouldn’t make a call or that somehow our covers weren’t blown.
Rachel pulls back onto the highway. The man with the Yankees cap left us new burner phones on the car seat. We set them up so that any communications to our old burners will be forwarded to us. There is also a hammer inside one of those reusable grocery store bags. At a Burger King up the highway, I jump out with our old burners and the hammer. Once inside the bathroom, I close myself into a stall, obliterate the burners with the hammer, dump the remains in a garbage bin.
Rachel picked up food at the drive-thru. I always hated fast-food restaurants. Now a Whopper with fries feels like a religious experience. I scarf it down.
“What’s our next move?” she asks.
“Only two leads left,” I say, between bites. “The amusement park and the fertility clinic.”
“I asked Hayden to get us all the pictures from the company photographers.” We hit a red light. Rachel checks her phone. “In fact…”
“What?”
“Hayden came through.”
“He sent the photos?”
The traffic light turns green, so Rachel says, “Let me pull over and take a look.”
She veers onto the ramp for a Starbucks and parks. Rachel fiddles with the burner. “They’re in some kind of cloud we have to access. The files are too big to download.”
“Can we do that on a burner?”
“I think we’re going to need a laptop or something. I have mine, but they might be able to track it.”
“I think we need to take the chance.”
“I have a VPN. That might be enough.”
Rachel reaches into her bag and takes out a superthin laptop. She turns it on and gets to the relevant page. We don’t want to stay on too long, so we fly through the photos. They are all taken in front of that corporate banner/backdrop.
“How long should we sit here and go through this?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe you should drive? A moving target might be harder to locate.”
“I doubt it, but okay.”
I keep going through the photographs. I speed through a bunch, but this feels like a waste of time. If you’re going to an amusement park with a kidnapped boy, you don’t pose in front of the welcoming screen. Or do you? It’s been five years. He’s grown. Everyone believes he’s dead. No one is doubting it. So maybe you do. Maybe you figure enough time has passed. No one is going to spot a boy they believe is dead. And even if it is somewhat risky, what else can you do? Keep the boy locked up in a cage forever?