Jackie outlined the plan to Harry and then left, thinking how wrong Harry was to believe his future in any way had hung on his decision.
17
AFTER DETERMINING THAT her car had been driven without her knowledge, Sarchi suspected it might be damaged. But she found no dings or scratches, and it performed no worse than before. The only lasting effect of the incident was a slight dent in her reputation around the hospital for clear thinking illustrated with a few jokes about someone hiding her patients from her.
Over the next couple of days, her life slipped back into its old routines. Her patient load and the arrival once more of her thirty-six hour shift allowed little time to marshal her thoughts about finding a job, let alone pursuing Latham. Reaching home Tuesday night after a hellishly busy day, her brain felt like cold oatmeal. She pulled the mail from the box and put her key in the lock.
Suddenly, someone was close behind her, pressing a cold round object against her neck.
“That’s a gun you feel,” a nasal male voice said. “Inside.”
Reflexively, she began to turn her head, but was stopped by a gloved hand against her cheek. “Don’t look at me. Inside.” He pushed her head forward.
Sarchi’s once-sodden mind was now boiling with fear. They say never get into a car under force, but what about your home? It seemed the same. She should run, but the gun was a fact she couldn’t overcome. Linda . . . No. She’d be at Huey’s for at least another hour.
Panic clotting in the back of her throat, Sarchi unlocked the door. The moment she had it open she was shoved forward. The mail spilled from her hand.
“Your purse,” the thief said.
Robbery. He just wanted money.
But sometimes thieves kill even when they get what they want. She took her bag from her shoulder and thrust it behind her. “Take it.”
The bag was ripped from her hand. “Where’s the bathroom?” the guy asked.
“Why?”
He cuffed her on the back of the head. “Don’t get me upset.”
“Down that hall.”
He shoved her again. “Move.”
Sarchi thought she was as frightened as she could get, but as they entered the hall, her situation worsened. She’d realized after her first attempt to look at the thief that her chances of escaping unharmed would be far better if she couldn’t describe him. Now she didn’t want to know what he looked like. But as they stepped from the living room, she got a clear view of him in the mirror at the end of the hall.
He had a long, acne-scarred face, small eyes, and disheveled black hair that covered his ears. She stiffened and moved the door key between her fingers so it could be used as a weapon. But then, shockingly, he grinned and cocked his head as though preening.
“Which door?” he said.
Sarchi pointed to her right.
“Open it and get inside. Stay there until you’ve counted to a hundred. Stick your head out before that, and I’ll put a hole in it.”
Relieved that she was going to live, Sarchi darted into the bathroom and slammed and locked the door. No longer in fear for her life, she grew uncooperative. Thinking of escape, she glanced at the bathroom window, an elongated piece of stained glass in a frame that didn’t open.
If it had been easier, she’d have gone out the window. As it was, she decided to stay put. But by God, she would not count to a hundred. She’d just wait the right amount of time.
While her life had been at risk, she’d thought nothing about losing her bag. Now, the inconvenience of it began to sink in—driver’s license, credit cards . . .
She stayed in the bathroom for five minutes, then opened the door. Without showing herself, she shouted, “I’m coming out.” Hearing no warning, she tentatively stepped into the hall and listened for any sounds.
Nothing.
She moved carefully down the hall to the living room, paused at the corner, and listened again. Still she heard nothing.
“I’m coming into the living room,” she shouted. “If you don’t want that, tell me now.”
The house absorbed her announcement and fell silent. Believing he was gone, she walked openly into the living room and looked toward the kitchen. No one there. Unable to do anything else until she was sure he’d left, she went through the house. Satisfied, she headed for the phone and called the police.
While waiting, she picked the mail off the floor and put it on the phone table. She then got out her credit card statements and looked for the number to report them stolen. With the thief gone and all danger past, she became angry at not being safe on the steps of her own home, at having to get a new driver’s license, at the ridicule for not remembering where her car was parked, at losing the chief residency, and at having no one to turn to.
Forty minutes after she’d made the call, a patrol car with only one cop pulled up in front of the house. Forty minutes, one cop. She was outraged at being treated so lightly.
He fiddled around in the car for at least two minutes, then got out and came up the walk, a big blond guy with the build of a fitness trainer. Maybe one cop would be enough after all.
She went onto the porch to meet him.
“I’m Officer Metcalf,” he said. “Are you the woman who was robbed?”
“He stole my handbag.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sarchi Seminoux.”
He took out a small notebook. “Could you spell that, please?”
He put her name in his book. “I understand he had a gun.”
“I didn’t see it, but I felt it against my neck.”
“Exactly what happened?”
They remained on the porch for a few minutes while Sarchi explained that part of her experience. They discussed the rest inside. Talking to him, Sarchi was quickly convinced that Officer Metcalf alone could handle most anything that came his way.
After she’d told him everything, including a description of the thief, he asked a question about something she hadn’t even considered. “Is anything else in the house missing?”
“I haven’t really looked. When he told me not to come out until I’d counted to a hundred, I figured it was just to give him an opportunity to get away. I mean, that’s not enough time to search the house. If he wanted to take anything more, wouldn’t he have tied me up or something?”
“Sarchi, what’s happened?” It was Linda.
“I was robbed. Someone took my handbag. Right here in the house.”
She rushed to Sarchi’s side. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll never think of this neighborhood the same way again. Otherwise, I’m fine.” Sarchi explained that Linda was her housemate.
“We were about to determine if anything other than her bag was stolen,” Metcalf said. “Maybe you could help.”
“Of course.”
Sarchi and Linda went through the house taking inventory. As Sarchi suspected, nothing else was missing. Having reached the end of what he could accomplish there, Metcalf reminded Sarchi to cancel her credit cards.
“I’ve done that.”
“You should also change the locks on your house.”
“He didn’t get my keys.”
“What did this guy look like?” Linda asked. Sarchi described the thief for her. “Sounds creepy,” Linda said.
“I don’t believe you’ll ever see him again,” Metcalf said, “but I’ll cruise by a couple times each night on my next few shifts and keep an eye out for him.”
Linda remained at the door, watching Metcalf until he’d driven off.
“If I could have ordered a cop, he’s the one I’d have asked for,” she said. “Wonder what he looks like under his uniform.”
“Oh, thanks for all your concern,” Sarchi said.
“I’m an insensitive tart. What can
I say? Of course, being a cop and looking like that, he probably crushes beer cans on his head and is therefore not your type. Now, I want to hear exactly what happened. Come on, I’ll make you some tea, and you can give me all the details.”
They went into the kitchen, and Sarchi sat at the breakfast table while Linda filled the teakettle with water and put it on to heat. Her cavalier response to Sarchi’s confrontation with a man who might have killed her was vintage Linda, and it made Sarchi wish she and Sharon McKinney lived in the same city or—she had a brief vision of Officer Metcalf in street clothes listening to her tale of the stolen bag, his concern for her real instead of paid for with her taxes.
Linda set out two mugs, put a tea bag in each one, and walked to the table. “Come on, let’s hear that story.”
She pulled out the other chair and looked at the seat, her eyes wide. She turned to Sarchi. “The handbag he stole—was it that tan one you always carry?”
“Why?”
Linda reached down and came up with the missing bag. Sarchi jumped to her feet and took it from her. Knowing that her wallet would be gone, she looked inside. But there it was.
She took out the wallet and opened it.
“I don’t get it,” she said, looking at Linda. “Everything’s here.” She dumped the contents of the bag on the table and sorted through them. “Nothing’s missing. This is crazy. Why would someone take my bag at gunpoint just to bring it in here and put it on the chair?”
Linda had an odd expression on her face.
“What?” Sarchi asked.
“Nothing. I was just wondering the same thing. What did you say this thief looked like?”
Sarchi repeated her description.
“I thought you said he had brown hair.”
“I’ve been very clear on that. It was black. I never said brown.”
“Don’t take my head off.”
Sarchi got the impression that Linda was wondering if she’d simply misplaced the bag and made up the thief story. “I didn’t imagine this.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“And I didn’t forget where I parked my car the other day, either.”
“Get a grip, girl. I’m on your side.”
Side? Sarchi thought. Why are there sides? There were only the facts. There weren’t sides. She was about to say that when the whistle of the teakettle called Linda away. With Linda’s attention diverted, Sarchi thought better of pushing the issue.
Linda filled the cups with hot water and brought them to the table. “I do think, though, that you should call the police and tell them you found your bag intact.”
That at least was a sensible comment, so after they drank their tea in awkward silence, Sarchi went to her room and made the call. She was lying on her bed thinking about the robbery that wasn’t when Linda knocked on the door.
She came in holding a white envelope. “I guess in all the excitement, you didn’t notice this in the mail.”
Sarchi got up, took the envelope, and glanced at the name on the return address. Sharon McKinney. Good old Sharon. There when she needed her. But why a letter? They always communicated by phone or e-mail.
“You’re welcome,” Linda said.
“Yeah, thanks, really.”
When Linda was gone, Sarchi took the letter to her bed and opened it. Inside were two small zip-top plastic bags, each containing a white powder. Accompanying them was a handwritten note on University Hospital letterhead:
Here’s what you asked for. To get it, I had to agree to marry the guy. Hope your wedding gift will be commensurate with my sacrifice. Let me know what you find.
—Sharon
Latham’s primers.
Sarchi’s recent brush with attempted larceny took a step into the past. Aware that Carl Lanza often worked late, she went to the phone and punched in his office number.
It rang five times and rolled over to the lab, where the soft voice of his Chinese graduate student, Mabel Li, answered.
“Mabel, this is Sarchi. Is Carl there?”
“I’ll call him.”
A few seconds later, he came on the line. “Carl, this is Sarchi. Can you talk?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I have a favor to ask. Could you sequence some PCR primers for me?”
“What kind of molecular biologist would I be if I couldn’t? I’m intrigued. What’s the deal?”
“I’ll fill you in tomorrow when I drop them off.”
“I’ve got a full morning doing some transfections, so how about we make it at one thirty.”
“That’s fine. How long will it take to get the results?”
“It’s not difficult. There are just a lot of steps involved. I’ll probably need a week. Is that too long?”
“It takes as long as it takes.”
She then thought briefly about getting his opinion on a thief who takes nothing, but realizing he was likely too busy to listen, she simply said, “See you tomorrow.”
Nudged now into thinking about Latham, Sarchi went to her computer and turned it on. Though she had yet to receive a second message from the anonymous source who’d given her the Stanhills’ address, she wondered tonight, as she did every night when she checked her e-mail, if there’d be another. But the silence from that quarter continued.
IN HIS MOTEL room, Jackie winced at the smell of the acetone he was using to remove the rigid collodion he’d employed to fashion the pock marks on his face. He was glad they’d happened onto a mirror when they’d gone into that hall to put her in the bathroom. To be convincing, he’d had to pretend he didn’t wish to be seen. Actually, he’d wanted very much for her to view his work. He mentally placed a check mark opposite step three of this most interesting assignment. Step four would be harder, and five would be a major test. But he was up to it.
18
THE MORNING AFTER the stolen handbag excitement, Sarchi stepped out of her room ready to mend the rift the incident had created in her relationship with Linda. She found her at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee and a toaster pastry.
“Are those things any good?” Sarchi asked.
“I just eat them for the antioxidants,” Linda replied. “There’s more coffee.”
“Thanks. About last night. I’m sorry I acted like that.”
“Forget it. I have.”
Sarchi was hoping Linda would be willing to take a little of the responsibility, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. She finished her pastry and brushed the crumbs from her hands. “Well, off to the wonderful world of medicine.”
If they hadn’t just gotten over a tiff, Sarchi would have reminded Linda to put her cup and saucer in the dishwasher. Instead, she did it herself.
A few minutes later, as she was putting her own cup in there, the doorbell rang. Puzzled at who it could be, she went to the door and found Officer Metcalf on the porch dressed in stone-washed jeans and a bomber jacket. In the driveway was a blue pickup.
“Hi. Sorry to bother you so early,” he said, “but after I heard you found your bag with nothing missing, I got to wondering what that was all about.”
“So you came to see if there really was a thief?”
He gave her a surprised look. “Not at all. I’m here to suggest that the guy might have simply wanted to get inside and unlock a window so he could come back when you’re at work and clean you out at leisure.”
“Guess I should check the windows then.”
“I would.”
“Please, come in.”
He stepped inside.
Leaving him in the living room, Sarchi went through the house, looking at the window locks.
“It was a good thought,” she said, coming back. “But everything’s in order.”
“Then I don’t get it,” he sai
d.
“Lately, I seem to be a sink for odd occurrences.”
“What do you mean?”
“A couple of days ago someone moved my car from where I parked it to a different spot.”
“That’s interesting.”
Metcalf’s cologne seemed to be beckoning her. “You must be a very dedicated policeman. I mean you’re obviously not on duty, but you’re still working.” It was a leading comment, something Linda would be more likely to say than Sarchi.
Metcalf seemed to give that careful consideration. He then threw out a feeler himself. “Some cases are inherently more interesting than others.”
Unaccustomed to this kind of banter, Sarchi went swimming for an answer. Happily, Metcalf rescued her. “You and the woman who lives here are doctors?”
For the first time since he’d arrived, Sarchi realized that she was dressed in scrubs. “We’re residents . . . at the children’s hospital.” Remembering he’d seen her dressed the same way the night before, she added, “I really do have other clothes.”
Up to that moment, Robert Redford’s smile was the most appealing Sarchi had ever seen. The one that came to Metcalf’s face was better. He extended his hand. “John Metcalf.”
They exchanged a lingering handshake. “You already know me.”
“No, not yet,” Metcalf said.
Sarchi waited to see if he’d follow up with something more concrete. When that didn’t happen, he left her with no choice except to say, “If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to be late for work. Thanks for the thought about the windows.”
“My pleasure. Take care of yourself. If I have any more ideas, I’ll let you know.”
“Do that.”
Sarchi went to her car and drove two blocks thinking about John Metcalf—totally male, completely self-assured, but without a hint of a swagger. It was clear he hadn’t come back just to tell her about the windows. He was interested in her. So why had he left without asking to see her again? For that matter, why had she let him? The mating game . . . It was all too diffuse and fuzzy for her tastes. She much preferred activities with clear rules and boundaries, like racquetball. There’s a thought. Maybe he plays.
The Killing Harvest Page 14