Jill watched for a gap in traffic, then sped quickly onto Jericho Turnpike, to the sounds of an angry truck horn. She accelerated, driving a few miles per hour over the speed limit. When she finally slowed and looked into the rearview mirror again, the car following her was not in sight. At least she could be certain no one would see her going to Shoreline Medical Center.
Early in the morning, long before visiting hours, it was very easy to find a place to park. When Jill entered the lobby, decorated with pumpkins and ghosts for Halloween, she was the only nonstaff person in sight. Nurses and interns, doctors and maintenance workers crisscrossed paths as they began a new shift. The receptionist, busy behind a computer terminal, seemed oblivious to Jill.
“Good morning,” Jill said.
The woman looked up and smiled. “Good morning,” she said. “May I help you?”
Jill placed her hands gently on the countertop. She really wanted to wrap her arms around herself, because suddenly she felt very cold. But a study of body language had told her open arms were often equated with honesty. She knew that taking off her sunglasses would enhance the illusion, but she didn’t dare. Eye color, hair color, these were traits that were easily remembered should she be caught. She smiled herself.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Kenneth Safton,” she said. She had no idea that Safton worked here, but he really hadn’t been out of med school long enough to set up private practice. “I’m Jane Selden, from the Suffolk County Chronicle, and he’s agreed to do an interview. Can you direct me to Otorhinolaryngology?”
“Let me tell Dr. Safton you’re on your way up,” the woman said politely.
Jill suppressed a smile. Bingo! Luck was on her side this morning, leading her to the right place.
The woman punched a few buttons on the computer.
“Oh, I think you’re a little confused,” she said. “Dr. Safton isn’t in ENT. He’s working in Ob-Gyn.”
I should have guessed!
Jill rubbed the back of her neck, trying to think quickly.
“Yes, he is,” she said. “But my article is on the study of ear, nose, and throat problems in unborn babies. Dr. Safton has agreed to introduce me to some of his colleagues.”
“I see,” the receptionist answered. She picked up a telephone and punched in a four-digit code. A moment later, she hung up. “Dr. Safton doesn’t seem to be answering. Perhaps he’s with a patient. If you’ll wait over there on the couch, I’ll try him again in a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Jill said.
She walked to the waiting area and sat down on the red leatherette couch, picking up a magazine and pretending to be busy with it. In a short time, the opportunity she had been awaiting walked through the doors—a group of hospital volunteers armed with tiny plastic pumpkins full of candy. Jill stood up and mingled into the group, unnoticed. When they got off at Pediatrics, she stayed on the elevator until she reached the third floor.
The nurse’s station was the hub of a wheel with spokes that branched off in four different directions. Bold letters identified the floor on a sign that hung from the ceiling—OBSTETRICS/GYNECOLOGY. The front panel of the station bore a notice with big, black letters: VISITORS: 2–3:30 P.M.; 7–8:30 P.M.
Without even looking up, the nurse behind the desk said, “Visiting hours are listed below.”
Jill walked right up to her, putting on her most professional smile.
“I’m not a visitor,” she said. “I’m Jane Selden, of the Suffolk County Chronicle. I have an interview with Dr. Safton this morning.”
“No one told me about it,” the nurse said, peering suspiciously through thick-lensed glasses. Jill knew she would not be swayed as easily as the woman at the front desk.
“Well, I do have a deadline to meet,” Jill said, “and I can’t come back today. Dr. Safton would be quite upset if he wasn’t included in the article I’m writing.”
Now the woman nodded. “That’s probably true,” she said. She mumbled something about Safton being egotistical, then raised her voice to say, “His office is down that hall, second to last on the right. But I didn’t even see him come in this morning.” She sniffed disapproval, as if annoyed that someone had upset the hospital’s schedule.
“Thank you,” Jill said. She hurried toward the hallway before the nurse could stop her, more important, before the front-desk receptionist called upstairs. The door was clearly marked: DR. KENNETH SAFTON, in white block letters on a red plastic plate. Jill knocked, but there was no answer. She knocked again.
Jill looked over her shoulder and watched a woman in a bathrobe shuffle toward a sign marked SHOWERS. On the other side of the floor, a newborn baby set up wailing. The intercom called “Dr. Nicholas to labor.”
Slowly, she turned the knob on the door, surprised to find it unlocked. Jill knew she had only a few minutes, but she hoped that in that time she would be able to find something of value. It was unlikely Safton kept anything incriminating here, but while she had the opportunity to spy, she had to take the chance.
The office was attractive, simply furnished in graduated shades of brown. Posters depicting forest and mountain scenes decorated the walls, and a cross-sectioned model of a pregnant torso sat on an end table. There were books lining the wall behind the desk, and a skull set on a post on top of a black file cabinet.
But there was something wrong. In spite of the sterility of the atmosphere—not a speck of dust or a paper out of place—in spite of the magazine-photo layout of the office, Jill sensed something that made her uneasy. There was an odd smell in the air, a mix of smoke and . . . something.
“Nonsense,” she whispered. “You don’t have time for this.”
She started toward the file cabinet, pulling open the top drawer. Manila folders gave the names of dozens of patients; categorized articles clipped from the Journal of the American Medical Association; receipts for purchased items. Jill took a step back to open the next drawer down, and something crunched beneath the heel of her shoe. She looked down at the rug and saw a half-dozen white slivers. Jill bent to retrieve them, turning them carefully in her hands. Bone.
She swung around quickly. Kenneth Safton was lying facedown behind his desk, one arm extended with his fingers curled around a shotgun. At right angles to him lay a skeleton, a huge chunk of its skull shattered by the impact of a bullet.
Safton had shot at a skeleton.
Jill stared down at the body, unmoving, unsure what to do. If she called for help, they would question her, and they would know she had lied about her identity.
She took a step toward the corpse and felt her gorge rise. She pressed her hands hard into her stomach to fight the queasiness therein.
Safton’s neck was gripped in the jaws of the skeleton, long-dead teeth sunk deep enough to sever the doctor’s jugular vein. It was the other smell she had noticed—stale blood.
Jill found her legs and hurried from the office. When she got to the end of the hallway, she nearly slammed into two patients and forced herself to slow down. She stopped at the desk.
“Dr. Safton wasn’t in yet,” she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. “But I left a note on his desk. I’ll call him later.”
She sped toward the elevators even as the woman was asking her again about her name. By the time she reached her car, she was shaking so badly that she had to sit for a few minutes until she was relaxed enough to drive.
Kenneth Safton had been murdered, in a bizarre and horrifying way. How could a skeleton come to life, to sink its jaws into a man’s neck? Safton must have been trying to defend himself when he shot at the skeleton. The fragments of bone Jill had found on the carpet were bits of the thing’s skull. But Safton couldn’t defend himself against something that was already dead. Somehow, someone had brought it to life long enough to commit murder.
Almost the way Ryan used to bring his animals to life.
“They must know that he tried to scare me,” Jill said, cutting off the thought about Ryan. “Somehow, they found out the kid goofed up
and revealed Safton’s name to me.”
A sick feeling passed through her as she imagined what they had done to that poor, frightened teenager. She was so lost in thought that she nearly ran a red light on Jericho Turnpike and slammed her brakes to avoid a collision. The man in the car she almost hit gave her the finger.
“Screw you,” Jill growled.
When the light turned green, she forced herself to drive at a steady pace until she reached the museum. She had to let the day go on as usual, so as not to arouse suspicion. It was certain they were spying on her, and if they knew she had found Safton’s body, they would surely kill her.
When she entered the museum, Virginia was busy unpacking a box of magnetic marbles. She pulled up a string that seemed magically connected.
“Aren’t these fun?” she asked. “The kids are going to go wild with them. By the way, we have another school group scheduled this afternoon.”
“Call me if you need help with them,” Jill said. “I’ll be upstairs in my office.”
Virginia watched her partner hurry up the stairs, wondering what was wrong with her. Jill’s face was white as a sheet and there had been a slight tremor in her voice.
“Come to think of it,” she said, letting the marbles fall back into the box, “she’s been weird ever since the gala.” She went upstairs herself and walked through Jill’s open door. Jill shoved something quickly into her desk drawer, but not quick enough for Virginia to miss that it was a photograph. She walked toward her partner’s desk.
“What is it, Jill?” Virginia asked gently. “You’ve been so edgy lately. Is it that family problem you were telling me about?”
Jill nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
Jill shook her head. How could she tell Virginia the truth, knowing what these people were capable of doing? Knowing they had murdered at least two people, had crippled another, and had kidnapped a child? She sighed.
“No, it’s something private,” she said. “There’s really nothing you can do for me.” She stood up and forced a smile on her face. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to get ready for the troops.”
When the group of schoolchildren arrived, they were so enthusiastic that Jill was almost able to forget what had happened an hour earlier. But she walked through the tour in a fog, introducing the exhibits by rote. She signaled to Virginia, who came quickly and took over. Jill went upstairs and got her jacket, slipping out of the museum without being seen.
Where was she to go from here? Every time she came a step closer to finding Ryan, an invisible ax chopped away the next step. If only Deliah were still alive . . . If only she were able to tell Jill how she I came to be privy to the thoughts in Ryan’s mind . . .
Jill started driving through Port Lincoln, down streets lined with orange and yellow and red trees, past houses decorated with pumpkins and Indian corn and an occasional hanging sheet-ghost. She drove nowhere in particular, just needing the steady hum of the car’s engine to steady her own nerves.
Somehow, Deliah had to have been near Ryan. But where? If she had been in Michigan, why hadn’t she told Jill this in the first place?
Because she was murdered before she could do it.
The more she drove, the more clearly Jill began to think, and an idea occurred to her that had not come up previously. One way to find out where Ryan might be was to learn where Deliah had been on her most recent trip. She couldn’t very well call the woman’s family, who had had enough grief. But hadn’t Virginia said the woman wrote a syndicated column? As another reporter, maybe Patrick Cameron could help her out.
Jill turned a few corners and headed south. Twenty minutes later, Route 110 took her into Melville, and the parking lot of the Suffolk County Chronicle. But no sooner had she rounded the back of the building than she saw three police cars with their red lights blaring. It didn’t take her long to figure out what they were doing there.
Someone had found Ken Safton’s body, and the police were looking for Jane Selden.
21
LYING IN BED THE NIGHT AFTER BETH’S ACCIDENT, Stuart had racked his brain trying to think of an answer to all that had happened. If it had been a political enemy, they certainly had a roundabout way of protesting his work. Besides, how could anyone have gotten near to Beth? The older the night grew, the less he was convinced it had anything to do with him and his buildings. Natalie had mentioned the way the twins had been able to communicate through their thoughts. Maybe that’s what was happening now . . .
He flipped onto his side, bunching up his pillow in anger. How could he let himself be drawn in by this spell? He had to remain strong, for Natalie and Beth.
But he had to do something to help them. Somehow, he had to convince them it was all a hoax. He fell asleep thinking of this . . .
. . . and woke up with an idea.
“Natalie, if I can show you once and for all that Peter was on that airplane, would you accept the fact that he’s gone?”
“Of course,” Natalie said. “But it’s Beth you’ll have to convince.”
“I can do it,” Stuart said. “I’m going to call in a very big favor.”
Beth walked into the kitchen then, dark circles under her eyes. She shuffled over to the table and sat down. Natalie put a glass of milk in front of her.
“Are you okay, Beth?” Stuart asked gently.
She shook her head. “I want my brother home.”
Stuart looked up at his wife, but Natalie had turned to the stove again. “I wish I could make that happen, Beth,” he said. “But Peter is gone.”
“No!”
Natalie came back to the table with a platter of bacon and eggs. “Let’s not discuss this during breakfast,” she insisted. “Beth, Daddy says he’s going to look into the matter. He’s going to find out what really happened to Peter.”
Now Beth’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried. “Thank you.”
Stuart held up his hand. “I can’t make any promises,” he said. “But I’ll try.”
Stuart was as good as his word. When he arrived at the office, he asked his secretary to look up an exchange in Albuquerque, New Mexico. When the party came on the other end, he heard, “Sunflower Airlines.”
“I’d like to speak to Philip Dositt.”
Moments later, the president of the airline was on the phone. Pleasantries were exchanged, for these were two men who had known each other for years.
“I need a favor, Phil,” Stuart said.
“And I owe you dozens,” Phil said. “When I think of what you’ve done for me over the years, how you helped me when this airline was nearly bankrupt—”
Stuart interrupted him. “This is a big one. Just listen, Phil.” He explained what had been happening with his daughter and just how he planned to put a stop to it.
Hearing the story, Phil whistled softly. “It’ll take some doing, Stu,” he said. “But I’m sure I can dig it up. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
In fact, he was back to Stuart by late that afternoon. Stuart listened carefully, asked Phil to repeat what he had said, then thanked his old friend for all his help. Armed with this new information, he headed home. As he drove, staring at the road through a gray curtain of rain, he could feel the muscles in his body growing more and more tense. How could he have let this slip by? Why didn’t he ask questions at the right time, six years ago? He clenched the steering wheel so hard the tensed muscles of his forearms began to quake. By the time he arrived home, he felt so horrible inside that all he could do was hold Natalie when she greeted him in the foyer.
“Stuart, you’re white as a sheet,” Natalie cried, tucking back a lock of wet hair that had fallen over his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
“Is Daddy sick?” Beth asked.
Stuart pulled away. He took a deep breath and told his family what he had learned from Phil Dositt.
“Peter wasn’t on that airplane.”
Natalie gasped.
“I knew it,” Beth cried, triu
mphant.
“Stuart, how . . . ?” She helped him out of his coat.
With his arms around his wife and daughter’s shoulders, he went into the living room and sank down on the couch before answering. “I called in an old favor,” Stuart said. “You remember how I lent Dositt money about twenty years ago, when his airline was going downhill?”
Natalie nodded, but she was eager to hear what had happened.
“I knew they took films of people as they passed through security,” Stuart said. “So I asked Phil to look up the film shot the day Peter supposedly got on the plane.” He pulled Beth closer to himself, but turned his gaze fully in his wife’s direction. “Peter wasn’t on the film,” he said. There were tears brimming in his eyes, but he took a deep breath to keep them from falling. “Phil said he looked at the movie over and over. He knows what Peter looked like. How could you miss him, with that red hair? But no one at the airport knew the child’s description. Natalie, they put another little boy on the plane. Some other child had Peter’s ticket, with Peter’s name.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Natalie cried. “Remembers, Stu, when I had to stay home because Beth was sick, I hired Peter’s nursery-school teacher to take the trip with him. Agatha would never have gotten on that plane without him. And surely my parents took him right up to the gate—”
“Nevertheless,” Stuart said, “Peter was not on that flight. Someone must have gotten him after your parents left.”
“But what about Agatha?” Natalie asked.
Beth’s eyes rounded. “Maybe she’s alive, too.”
Stuart shook his head. “No, Beth. I thought the same thing, but Phil checked into it for me and said that Agatha was definitely on the plane. He called a friend in Records who said her body had been positively identified. Somehow, someone was able to get to Peter between the time Grandma and Grandpa left him and the time the plane took off. More strangely, they even substituted another child for him.”
“Then they took Peter away,” Beth said. “But why? Who are they, Daddy? Are we going to get Peter back?”
“We’re damned well going to try, Beth,” Stuart replied.
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