Memories of something bad, he concludes, something terrible, because his left wrist is chained to the hospital bed and there’s a uniformed cop guarding the door, and because the woman attending him seems fearful, as if he might lunge at her, take a bite.

“Mr. Shane? Randall Shane? I’m Dr. Gallagher. You’ve been admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital. I’m sorry about the handcuffs, but they insisted.”

“Killer,” he says, the word rumbling from the hollow in his throat.

“Excuse me?” the pretty doctor says, flinching.

He rattles the cuff. “Who did I kill?”

“I, um, don’t know anything about your legal situation, Mr. Shane. All I know is, you’re under my care, and will remain here until I’m satisfied it’s medically safe for you to be released. You’ve been rather badly beaten. It wasn’t obvious when you were first admitted, but your body is massed with bruises. Most of the fingers on your right hand were dislocated, and the ligaments have been badly strained.”

Shane glances at his right hand. Noticing the elaborate splint must trigger something, because now it hurts like hell.

“The physical bruising is actually the least of it,” the pretty young doctor continues. “Bruises heal. My real concern is neurological damage from the drugs. We know you were given a massive dose of benzodiazepine, enough to black out an elephant, frankly. You must have been on a drip for hours, or possibly even days. And there’s evidence of other psychotropic drugs, of a type we’ve not been able to identity. We do know they were quite powerful, because there’s been evidence of dementia.”

“I’m demented,” he says, not the least surprised.

“You seem to be coming out of it, slowly,” she assures him. “It will be some time before we can assess whether there’s been any long-term damage.”

Shane looks at her, carefully forming his words before letting them go. “They removed part of my brain,” he says, confiding.

She smiles. “So you’ve been saying ever since you regained consciousness. Let me assure you once again: there’s absolutely no evidence of surgery. None. No such surgery took place. The MRI revealed perfectly normal brain mass. No lesions, no sign of intrusion. Whatever loss you’re feeling, Mr. Shane, is a result of the drugs that were administered.”

“Drill,” he insists, the memory bursting. “They drilled a hole in my head.”

The sound of the drill bit vibrating through his skull, rattling his eyes in their sockets. Screeching as it hits bone.

But the pretty doctor says, “No. No. Nothing like that happened. Perhaps it was suggested to you, when you were under the influence of the benzodiazepine. Maybe they used the sound of a drill to frighten you. But I assure you, no holes have been drilled in your skull. You’re perfectly intact. The only damage that concerns me is from the drugs themselves, and there’s simply no way of knowing about long-term neurological effects—you might well make a complete recovery. Although it’s doubtful you’ll regain the short-term memory of whatever transpired. You’ve lost a few days, Mr. Shane. They’re gone. You’ll just have to accept that.”

“Bastards.”

“Whoever did this to you, yes.”

“Sleepy.”

“You’ve been given a mild sedative. Nothing like the powerful hypnotics you were given, but it will help with the anxiety.”

“No,” he says, struggling to rise. “The boy! The boy!”

He sleeps.

“Hey, Shane. That’s what they call you right? Just plain Shane? I’m your attorney. And don’t you worry, we’re going to get ’em.”

“What?” he asks, mouth dry.

Strange, but he doesn’t remember waking up. Another young woman. Pixie with big eyes. Not like the doctor, who has freckles, chubby cheeks and seems to be afraid of him. This one isn’t afraid.

“The bad guys,” the pixie says. “Identity as yet unknown. We’ll find ’em, though. Naomi Nantz is on the case, and she always gets her man, ha-ha. Seriously, she does. So, do you remember anything at all?”

“Nothing there to remember. Black hole. Who you?”

“Sorry. Dane Porter. I’m the only one allowed to talk with you, other than your physician.”

“Lawyer.”

“Correct. I’m representing you. This murder beef is bull, we know that much. A bad frame job, way over the top. I’ve been on the horn with Tommy Costello, he’s the Middlesex D.A., about what kind of guy you are, a genuine hero, and how there’s no way you shot your client, not a possibility, did not happen. He’ll come around. Leave that to me. Until then, the important thing is to find the kid, right? The little boy? Your client’s missing child? Joey? That’s the boy’s name, correct?”

Shane feels as if a small, dim light has been turned on, in the darkness inside his head. “Little Joey, yes. Call his father, please. Very important.” He searches, is astonished to find the name. “Joseph Keener,” he exclaims. “Professor, MIT.”

The pixie winces. “Sorry. Professor Keener was killed in his home. You found the body. I’m sorry, I assumed you remembered that much.”

“I found the body?”

“Uh-huh. Called 911 to report it, then arranged to meet your buddy Jack Delancey. He brought you to see Naomi Nantz. But before you had a chance to tell us much about the case, a team of badass cowboys kicked in the windows, put you down, took you away.”

“Cowboys?”

“Figure of speech. More like a covert special-ops team. They had you for three days. You were tortured, drugged, then dumped at this hospital.”

“Wrecked my brain. Stole my memories.”

“Yeah, that really sucks, I’m sure,” she says kindly. “We’re hoping you get it back. The memories. Not the torture memories, it might best if you forgot that part entirely. But anything you know about the boy. Where he might be. Who might be holding him. And for that matter what happened to his mother.”

“Here,” Shane says instantly, the word firing like a bullet from a waking synapse in his brain. “Joey is here.”

“Oh my God,” the pixie says. “You remembered something! The boy is here? Where, exactly? Do you know?”

Shane shakes his head, trying to clear away the tendrils of emptiness. “Bridge,” he says suddenly. “Crossing Harvard Bridge. Video.”

The pixie looms closer, her eyes as large as moons. “Let me get this: you saw a video recording of Joey Keener crossing Harvard Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“By himself?”

“Can’t remember. No, somebody else was there.”

“His mother?”

“Can’t remember. No, not his mother.”

“Where did you see this video? Was it part of a ransom demand?”

Shane grits his teeth, concentrates. Nothing. Wherever it came from, the memory has retreated.

“Gone,” he says, and collapses back on his pillow.

Somebody groans in pain. Can’t be the pretty pixie, voice too deep. Then the darkness reaches up, pulls him down.

He doesn’t fight it.

Chapter Twenty-One

8-Ballers

“That’s huge,” Naomi says. “Harvard Bridge. That puts Joey right in the middle of the MIT campus, not far from the professor’s residence.”

“Maybe he was going the other way,” Teddy points out. “From Cambridge to Boston. Like running away.”

“A possibility,” boss lady concedes. “Jack? Any thoughts?”

“Shane might well be referring to a video ransom note, as Dane suggests. Sent to the father, I’m assuming. We’ve got your son, close enough for you to reach out and touch. Here’s proof, now pay up or else. Or give us the secret, or whatever they’re after. Whoever they are.”

“There were no cameras or computers found at the residence,” Naomi points out. “No DVDs. Not even a cell phone. Nothing to store a video file.”