Prodigy

  Copyright Information

  The Prodigy © 2008 by Charles Atkins

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2011

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2036-4

  Book design and format by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Gavin Dayton Duffy

  Cover art © 2007 Thinkstock/Woman’s Body, and Brand X Pictures/Man’s Face

  Editing by Connie Hill

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  Dedication

  To Steve

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank the following for their help and encouragement: Al Zuckerman, Barbara Moore, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, Gary Jayson, his family, Lisa Hoffman, Stacey Rubin, Doreen Elnitsky, Colette Anderson, Maya Rock, and Elissa Velez.

  ONE

  Jimmy startled from a dream; something was wrong. He sniffed, expecting smoke and charred flesh, but smelled only pine-scented polish and the tang of soured milk, like baby vomit floating across a forgotten cup of tea in a Dresden cup.

  The phone rang—that’s what had pulled him from sleep. Kicking off the mohair throw entangling in his long legs, he belted his robe and stumbled barefoot across the silk Sarouk. The Siamese kitten, who’d been lying in wait, tackled his ankle and wrapped his mewling body around his foot. Jimmy cradled the tiny blue-eyed animal in one hand, hugging him to his chest, as he picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  It was Ellen, his twin. “What’s up, Jimmy? Carrie said you called, said it was urgent.”

  Fear pulsed, “Something bad happened.” He remembered a fragment of his dream, there was a bird, no … two, massive vultures, and a golden-haired child running through a rocky canyon.

  “What?”

  He glanced at his ankle as the red light on his security bracelet pulsed. “Kravitz is dead.”

  “Oh my God! When?”

  “Yesterday, I guess. I got a call from his secretary this morning. I left you a message as soon as I heard. I need another psychiatrist.”

  “How did he die, Jimmy?”

  “I don’t know,” he heard suspicion in her voice. “I need you to take care of this. I can’t wait,” anxiety fueled his speech. “You know it’s part of the agreement, I need to see a psychiatrist once a week. They have to report to the board monthly. I know who I want.” Like an eager child, words blurted out.

  “He wasn’t that old,” Ellen responded slowly, ignoring her brother’s urgency. “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know … Look, I know who I want. I saw her once, and then she didn’t come back; you wouldn’t let her. That’s who I want. You know I never wanted Kravitz.”

  He could hear her slow exhalation. “I know … And if I refuse?”

  Silence.

  “Are you there?” she repeated. “Are you sure? This is how it starts. You need to be sure.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said, letting the kitten suckle the tip of his baby finger. “If I don’t see a shrink this week they can send me back.”

  “I know,” she said. “I spent three years of my life, and a quarter mil in legal fees, working on your release. There are other shrinks. I’ll find someone else.”

  “No. Her. Do this, Ellen.”

  “Too risky.”

  Why was she doing this? Anger bubbled, he had to think. “You know,” he said, switching tactics, and glancing toward the mahogany doors that led to the foyer with its sweeping staircase that spiraled up the six-story townhouse. “How when we were kids we played Hansel and Gretel. Do you remember?” His voice shifted, the vowels wide, and the S’s like the hissing of a snake.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember what Hansel and Gretel did?”

  “Stop this.”

  “You do remember … It’s interesting how they never found any trace of our dear parents and their poor Latino driver. You’d think after dragging the lake they’d have come up with something.”

  “They did,” she corrected him.

  “That’s right, I read it in the paper, an Hermés scarf and one of father’s shoes. A couple of fashion accessories, Ellen, but no flesh and blood. You know, I’m curious, did mother dig up the rose garden before she died … or did that come after?”

  “Jimmy, this is for your own good. You have to know that.”

  He tried to be patient. “I know that’s what you believe … but she’s the one, Chicky. You need to get her. Pay her whatever it takes.”

  She hesitated. “I’m not making promises … I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.” He blinked, and sensed her uncertainty, her unhappiness. His voice softened, sounding younger, sweeter. “Ellen …”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Jimmy.”

  He replaced the handset and stroked the purring cat. He looked out at the clutter of sheet music, and bound collections, piled high across the surface of the carved Chippendale secretary. The scores were the piano accompaniments that Dr. Morris Kravitz preferred. There were the Romberg and the Beethoven duos for cello and piano, some easy Vivaldi and books of short pieces in which Kravitz would identify a bit of Teleman or Handel that his clumsy fingers could negotiate on the Bösendorfer concert grand that stood facing an equally spectacular eighteenth-century Italian harpsichord. Jimmy’s lip curled as he recalled Kravitz’s attempts to conceal his musical mediocrity. “This looks interesting,” he’d say, identifying a largo or lento movement with few notes, easy chords, and a minimum of flats and sharps to tax his limited abilities. It had been agony, but now … now it would be different. So why was he frightened? He could still turn back. One call to Ellen, “get someone else.” He inhaled deeply, and looked across the expanse of the library. Two stories high, it was lined with glass-fronted mahogany bookcases. The parquet floors, glimpsed between intricate carpets, were deeply patinated from generations of Martin men with pipes and cigars. The French windows leaked filtered light through claret-colored drapes faded to a light rose at their sun-kissed edges. The paintings, bronzes, and marble sculptures were English, French, and Italian, purchased by great-great-grandfather James Cyrus Martin on his art-grab tours through cash-hungry, turn-of-the century Europe.

/>   Yes, Jimmy thought, with Kravitz finally out of the way, things would be different. This would be the first step toward a new life; the life he’d always wanted. Dressed only in his plush robe—a present from Ellen—he put down the protesting kitten and picked up Allegra, his darkly varnished Amati cello, and nestled it between his hairless legs. His mind drifted as he resined his bow and plucked the strings, finding them still in tune from last night. His fingers, trained by a lifetime of daily practice, moved effortlessly through the arpeggios of the first movement of the Bach Unaccompanied Suites. Even the years he’d been forbidden from playing had not dulled his talent; if anything his artistry was sharpened. Once the calluses had reformed on the pads of his fingers, the pain of those years locked away … tortured … had given birth to a passion and urgency in the music. His mind floated. Graceful passages soared through the air as he remembered his dream. He was standing over the kitchen sink and through the window saw two massive birds circling the sky over Mother’s rose garden. At first he’d been excited, thinking, the vultures have returned, and then he saw a golden-haired child running below them. Only they were no longer in Manhattan, but in a vast canyon. One of the birds—a black-and-white one with a huge wingspan—swooped down upon the fleeing toddler and sank his talons into the flesh of his back. Horrified, Jimmy ran after the bird, only to see its mate dive toward the dangling child as he was carried into the sky. Just as a mid-air collision seemed inevitable, the black-and-white vulture dropped the boy. Jimmy raced toward the toddler, certain that the fall meant death. He did not want to find a dead child; how would he explain it? They’d blame him. Still, he had to see.

  The boy was alive. He was quiet, almost calm. He couldn’t have been more than three, with apple-blush cheeks, liquid blue eyes, and a shock of thatch-gold hair. He had the face of the perfect American toddler, the one that got plastered on baby food jars, or on milk cartons that carried the tragic whiff of abduction and murder.

  The boy looked at him, “I want to go home,” he said.

  “Where do you live?” Jimmy asked, wondering how it was that a child so young could speak so clearly.

  “You know.”

  As he passed seamlessly into the second movement of the Bach, Jimmy focused on the child’s face. He saw something familiar, something he couldn’t place. As the connection crystallized, the moon-faced grandfather-clock chimed. Halfway through its pronouncement, the doorbell rang.

  Jimmy blinked and stared at the clock as it struck ten. An hour had passed, sometimes much more than that would slip away, sometimes days, and sometimes weeks. Getting up, he let the folds of his robe cover his legs as he placed the priceless cello into its rosewood cradle. He loosened the strings of his gold-and-ivory-tipped bow, picked up the kitten and went to the front door. He knew who it was, but peered through the fisheye anyway, affording him a distorted vision of Gramercy Park and the hundred-fifty-year-old Gingko tree out front. A caramel-colored face smiled up at him; the man lifted a brown-paper shopping bag.

  “Sounding good, man,” Hector said as Jimmy opened the door.

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, I get here early just to hear you play. I didn’t think I liked all that classical music, but I’ve got to tell you I’ve bought some CDs since getting to know you.” Hector looked past Jimmy up the sweeping expanse of the staircase that rose like a twisted spine through the Italianate townhouse. “I even bought one of yours.”

  “They’re hard to find,” Jimmy answered, wondering how long this conversation with his puppy-eager, court-mandated case manager would last. “Everything back then was on vinyl.”

  “You know, I could transfer them to CDs.”

  “Thanks, but that’s a part of my life that’s over. No need to bring it back.” But as he said that, he tasted the long-forgotten feel of stepping across a concert stage, making his way into the spotlight, nodding to the conductor, feeling the applause. What would it be like, to have that again, to have that with her?

  “It seems a pity,” Hector replied. “I mean you could really do something with it. Although I guess money really isn’t your problem.”

  “No,” Jimmy agreed.

  “Well,” Hector put down the grocery bag and pulled a plastic box out of his backpack. “I guess you’ll be wanting these.”

  “I guess I will.” Jimmy set Fred on the table, picked up the bag and led Hector—who even after three months still gawked at the mansion—back toward the kitchen.

  Jimmy opened the polished-chrome refrigerator, pulled out a milk carton and stared at it—no picture of a blond-haired child, just the chart of nutritional benefits. He watched as Hector counted out his medication—900 milligrams of lithium, and 3 of Risperdal—and dropped them into a tiny plastic cup.

  Jimmy took the pills and swigged them back with milk. He sat and opened his mouth so that Hector could inspect. He lifted his tongue and moved it from side to side.

  “Looks good,” Hector replied, in a chatty tone. “So we need to find you a new psychiatrist. It’s sad. I liked Dr. Kravitz.”

  “Me too,” Jimmy said, “but I think I’ve already found a replacement.”

  “No kidding, that’s great, man. Who did you get?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

  Hector eyed Jimmy warily, “You know it’s got to be somebody that the board approves.”

  “I know. I’m trying to get someone who already works for the department. I met her once when I was in Croton, so I don’t think there should be a problem.”

  “A woman psychiatrist? You think they’ll go for that … I mean with what you … sorry, man. I shouldn’t say shit like that, it was a long time ago. Right?”

  “Right,” Jimmy glanced up at the clock, wondering when Hector would leave.

  “Maybe I know her.”

  “Maybe,” Jimmy stared at his ankle bracelet as it winked its fifteen-second reminder.

  “You don’t want to say?” Hector persisted.

  “I can’t see the point. If she agrees, then I’ll tell you.”

  “Oh, come on, man. What’s the big secret?”

  Jimmy looked at the eager smile on his aide’s face. “Dr. Barrett Conyors.”

  Hector whistled, “Hot shit!”

  “You know her?” Jimmy asked, surprised by the response.

  “Who doesn’t? They call her in for all the hard cases. She’s one very smart lady. And …” Hector smiled, “she’s not hard to look at either. You think she’ll take over for Dr. Kravitz?”

  “I hope so,” he said, finding that Hector’s response triggered a mixture of emotions, pride that she was so highly esteemed and fear that he was getting into something that might go bad. Still, the memory of her beautiful face and stormy gray eyes called to him. Fate had brought her to him in the hospital. He’d recognized her immediately; she was the one, the only one.

  “I hope you’re right,” Hector said. “But if it doesn’t work, let me know. You know we can’t let too much time go by … So, you want me to pick you up anything for this afternoon or tomorrow?”

  Jimmy heard the eagerness in his youthful voice, like feeding time at the zoo. “Sure,” he reached into his pocket and felt the sandpaper rasp of hundred-dollar bills. He glanced at the refrigerator. “Just some milk, a T-bone steak—have them trim the fat—some frozen macaroni-and-cheese, some kind of fish for Fred—maybe wild salmon—not the farmed kind—but make sure they take out the bones—and if it’s not too much trouble, you could stop by Fisher’s and get me an A string.”

  “Pirastro Eudoxa, right?”

  “That’s right,” Jimmy said, pleased that Hector had remembered the correct brand of cello string. He pulled out three one-hundred dollar bills, two of them he’d ironed together to where they looked and felt like a single piece of currency—an honest mistake. “Just keep the change for your trouble,” he said, well aware that the total amount would have been covered by a little more than a hundred dollars.
/>
  “No problem,” Hector wadded the bills into the pocket of his chinos. “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

  Jimmy thought about saying, my freedom, but even things said in jest had a way of getting distorted and magnified into something that could hurt him. “I’m all set.” Without further talk, he led Hector back through the banquet hall that could seat forty, the Victorian side parlor, and finally, the foyer.

  “Our boy’s doing well,” Hector remarked as Fred lunged for his ankle.

  Jimmy paused, not certain what Hector was referring to.

  “The cat, man.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s getting big. I was a little worried they weren’t going to let you keep him. Or that he wouldn’t make it. He was pretty sick when we found him.”

  Jimmy froze, sensing that a trick was about to be played on him. Don’t let them take Fred.

  The aide kept talking, unaware of the mounting panic surging in Jimmy; don’t let them take my kitty.

  “I’m glad they let you keep him. You need somebody in a place like this. It’s an awesome crib, but I’d go out of my mind without some people around.”

  Jimmy pressed his lips into a smile. “It’s better like this. I can deal with animals, it’s people that give me a hard time.”

  “I hear you,” Hector replied. “I’ll see you at five, then.”

  Jimmy opened the door, clutching the purring kitten and keeping his face hidden in the shadows. He watched as Hector bounced down the eight brownstone stairs and walked across the street to where he’d chained his bicycle to the cast-iron spokes of the fence that encircled Gramercy Park. Not for the first time, Jimmy noted how the tips of the fence were like spearheads. He wondered if that was intentional, an added reminder to outsiders that they were not welcome inside the private park. He locked the heavy oak door and watched through the fisheye as Hector liberated his bicycle and pedaled away.

  To Jimmy, this twice-daily ritual had achieved a dance-like quality. As Hector vanished, Jimmy retraced his steps to the kitchen. Turning on the faucet he observed the silvery flash of water as it landed on stainless steel and swirled clockwise down the drain. He stuck two well-calloused fingers down his throat. The pills, protected from his gastric juices by the milk bath, found their way easily out of his stomach and into the sink. He grabbed the hose and chased the undissolved medications down the drain.