Harvest

by Tess Gerritsen

  Abby’s gaze was so drawn to the water, she didn’t notice that the car in front of her had slowed down, that traffic had backed up from the toll booth. When she glanced up at the road, she saw that the car in front was stopped dead.

  Abby slammed on the brakes. An instant later, she was jolted by a rear-end thump. She glanced in the mirror and saw the woman behind her shaking her head apologetically. For the moment, traffic on the bridge was going nowhere. Abby stepped out of her car and ran back to survey the damage.

  The other woman got out as well. She stood by nervously as Abby inspected the rear bumper.

  “It looks okay,” said Abby. “No harm done.”

  “I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Abby glanced at the woman’s car, and saw that her front bumper was equally undamaged.

  “This is embarrassing,” the woman said. “I was so busy watching that tailgater behind me.” She pointed at a maroon van idling behind her car. “Then I go and bump someone.”

  A horn honked. Traffic was moving again. Abby returned to her car and continued across. As she drove past the toll booth, she couldn’t help one last backward glance at the bridge, where Lawrence Kunstler had made his fatal leap. They knew each other, Aaron and Kunstler. They worked together. They wrote that article together.

  That thought kept going around in her mind as she navigated the streets back to Cambridge.

  Two doctors on the same transplant team. And both of them commit suicide.

  She wondered if Kunstler had left a widow. Wondered if Mrs. Kunstler had been just as bewildered as Elaine Levi was.

  She looped around the Harvard Common. As she veered off onto Brattle Street, she happened to glance in the rearview mirror.

  A maroon van was behind her. It, too, drove onto Brattle.

  She drove another block, past Willard Street, and looked again at the mirror. The van was still there. Was it the tailgater from the bridge? She hadn’t given that van more than a glance at the time, and all she’d taken in was its color. She didn’t know why seeing it now made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was that recent crossing of the bridge, and that glimpse of the water. The reminder of Kunstler’s death. Of Aaron’s death.

  On impulse, she turned left, onto Mercer.

  So did the van.

  She turned left again, onto Camden, then right onto Auburn. She kept glancing in the mirror, waiting for, almost expecting, the van to come into view. Only when she’d reached Brattle Street again, and the van hadn’t reappeared, did she allow herself a sigh of relief. What a nervous Nellie.

  She drove straight home and pulled into the driveway. Mark wasn’t back yet That didn’t surprise her. Despite drizzly skies, he’d planned to take Gimme Shelter out for another round-the-buoy race against Archer. Bad weather, he’d told her, was no excuse not to sail, and short of a hurricane, the race would go on.

  She stepped into the house. It was gloomy inside, the afternoon light gray and watery through the windows. She crossed to the tabletop lamp and was about to switch it on when she heard the low growl of a car on Brewster Street. She looked out the window.

  A maroon van was moving past the house. As it approached her driveway, it slowed to a crawl, as though the driver was taking a long, careful look at Abby’s car.

  Lock the doors. Lock the doors.

  She ran to the front door, turned the dead bolt, and slid the chain into place. The back door. Was it locked?

  She ran down the hall and through the kitchen. No dead bolt, just a button lock. She grabbed a chair and slid it against the door, propping it under the knob.

  She ran back to the living room and, standing behind the curtain, she peeked outside.

  The van was gone.

  She looked in both directions, straining for a view toward each corner, but saw only empty street, slick with drizzle.

  She left the curtains open and the lights off. Sitting in the dark living room, she stared out the windows and waited for the van to reappear. Wondered if she should call the police. With what complaint? No one had threatened her. She sat there for close to an hour, watching the street, hoping that Mark would come home.

  The van didn’t appear. Neither did Mark.

  Come home. Get off your goddamn boat and come home.

  She thought of him out on the bay, sails snapping overhead, boom slamming across in the wind. And the water, turbid and churning under gray skies. Like the river had been. The river where Kunstler died.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Vivian. The clamor of the Chao household came through the line in a lively blast of noise. Over the sounds of laughter and shouted Cantonese, Vivian said: “I’m having trouble hearing you. Can you say that again?”

  “There was another doctor on the transplant team who died six years ago. Did you know him?”

  Vivian’s answer came back in a shout. “Yeah. But I don’t think it was that long ago. More like four years.”

  “Do you have any idea why he committed suicide?”

  “It wasn’t a suicide.”

  “What?”

  “Look, can you hold on a minute? I’m going to change extensions.”

  Abby heard the receiver clunk down and had to endure what seemed like an endless wait before Vivian picked up the extension. “Okay, Grandma! You can hang up!” she yelled. The chatter of Cantonese was abruptly cut off.

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t a suicide?” Abby said.

  “It was an accident. There was some defect in his furnace and carbon monoxide collected in the house. It killed his wife and baby girl, too.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute. I’m talking about a guy named Lawrence Kunstler.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Kunstler. That must have happened before I got to Bayside.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “An anesthesiologist. The one before they hired Zwick. I’m blocking on his name right now . . . Hennessy. That’s the name.”

  “He was on the transplant team?”

  “Yeah. A young guy, right out of fellowship. He wasn’t here very long. I remember he was thinking about moving back West when it happened.”

  “Are you sure it was an accident?”

  “What else would it be?”

  Abby stared out the window at the empty street and said nothing.

  “Abby, is something wrong?”

  “Someone was following me today. A van.”

  “Come on.”

  “Mark isn’t home yet. It’s almost dark and he should be home by now. I keep thinking about Aaron. And Lawrence Kunstler. He jumped off the Tobin Bridge. And now you’re telling me about Hennessy. That’s three, Vivian.”

  “Two suicides and an accident.”

  “That’s more than you’d expect in one hospital.”

  “Statistical cluster? Or maybe there’s something about working for Bayside that’s really, really depressing.” Vivian’s attempt at humor fell flat and she knew it. After a pause she said, “Do you honestly think someone was following you?”

  “What did you tell me? You’re not paranoid. Someone’s really out to get you.”

  “I was referring to Victor Voss. Or Parr. They have reasons to harass you. But to follow you around in a van? And what does it have to do with Aaron or the other two guys?”

  “I don’t know.” Abby drew her legs up on the chair and hugged herself for warmth. For self-protection. “But I’m getting scared. I keep thinking about Aaron. I told you what that detective said—that Aaron’s death may not be a suicide.”

  “Does he have any evidence?”

  “If he did, he certainly wouldn’t tell me.”

  “He might tell Elaine.”

  Of course. The widow. The one who’d want to know, who’d demand to know.

  After she hung up, Abby looked up Elaine Levi’s phone number. Then she sat gathering the nerve to actually make the call. It was now dark outside, and the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Mark still wasn’t home. She shut the curtains a
nd turned on the lights. All of them. She needed brightness and warmth.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Elaine.

  It rang four times. She cleared her throat, preparing to leave a message on the inevitable answering machine. Then she heard three piercing tones, followed by a recording: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check your listing and dial again . . .”

  Abby redialed, painstakingly confirming each number as she punched it in.

  Four rings were followed by the same piercing tones. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service . . .”

  She hung up and stared at the phone as if it had betrayed her. Why had Elaine changed her number? Who was she trying to avoid?

  Outside, a car splashed through the rain. Abby ran to the window and peered through a crack in the curtains. A BMW was pulling into the driveway.

  She offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

  Mark was home.

  16

  Mark refilled his wine glass. “Sure, I knew them both,” he said. “I knew Larry Kunstler better than Hennessy. Hennessy wasn’t with us very long. But Larry was one of the guys who recruited me here, straight from my fellowship. He was an okay guy.” Mark set the wine bottle down on the table. “A really nice guy.”

  The maître d’ swept past, escorting a flamboyantly dressed woman to a nearby table, where she was greeted with a noisy chorus of “There you are, darling,” and “Love your dress!” Their high-pitched gaiety at that particular moment struck Abby as vulgar. Even obscene. She wished she and Mark had stayed home. But he had wanted to eat out. They had so few free evenings together, and they hadn’t properly celebrated their engagement. He had ordered wine, had made the toast, and now he was finishing off the bottle—something he seemed to be doing more and more these days. She watched him drain the last of the wine, and she thought: All the stress of my legal problems is affecting Mark as well.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about them?” she asked.

  “It never came up.”

  “I would think someone would mention them. Especially after Aaron died. The team loses three colleagues in six years, and no one says a thing. It’s almost as if you’re all afraid to talk about it.”

  “It’s a pretty depressing thing to talk about. We try not to bring up the subject, especially around Marilee. She knew Hennessy’s wife. She even arranged her baby shower.”

  “The baby who died?”

  Mark nodded. “It was a shock when it happened. A whole family, just like that. Marilee went a little hysterical when she heard about it.”

  “It was definitely an accident?”

  “They’d bought the house a few months before. They never got the chance to replace the old furnace. Yes, it was an accident.”

  “But Kunstler’s death wasn’t.”

  Mark sighed. “No. Larry’s was not an accident.”

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  “Why did Aaron do it? Why does anyone commit suicide? We can come up with half a dozen possible reasons, but the truth is, Abby, we don’t know. We never know. And we never understand. We look at the big picture and say, things get better. They always get better. Somehow, Larry lost that perspective. He couldn’t see the long range anymore. And that’s when people fall apart. When they lose all sight of the future.” He took a sip of wine, than another, but he seemed to have lost any enjoyment in its taste. Or in the food.

  They skipped dessert and left the restaurant, both of them silent and depressed.

  Mark drove through thickening fog and intermittent rain. The whisk of the windshield wipers filled in for conversation. That’s when people fall apart, Mark had said. When they lose all sight of the future.

  Staring at the mist, she thought: I’m reaching that point. I can’t see it anymore. I can’t see what’s going to happen to me. Or even to us.

  Mark said, softly: “I want to show you something, Abby. I want to know what you think about it. Maybe you’ll think I’m just crazy. Or maybe you’ll be wild about the idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “It’s something I’ve been dreaming about. For a long time, now.”

  They drove north, out of Boston, kept driving through Revere and Lynn and Swampscott. At Marblehead Marina, he parked the car and said, “She’s right there. At the end of the pier.”

  She was a yacht.

  Abby stood shivering and bewildered on the dock as Mark paced up and down the boat’s length. His voice was animated now, more animated than it had been all evening, his arms gesturing with enthusiasm.

  “She’s a cruiser,” he said. “Forty-eight feet, fully equipped, everything we’d need. Brand new sails, new nav equipment. Hell, she’s hardly been used. She could take us anywhere we’d want to go. The Caribbean. The Pacific. You’re looking at freedom, Abby!” He stood on the dock, arm raised as if in salute to the boat. “Absolute freedom!”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a way out! Fuck the city. Fuck the hospital. We buy this boat. Then we bail out of here and go.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “There’s no reason to stay. Not now.”

  “Yes there is. For me there is. I can’t just pack up and leave! I’ve got three years left, Mark. I have to finish them now, or I’ll never be a surgeon.”

  “I am one, Abby. I’m what you want to be. What you think you want to be. And I’m telling you, it’s not worth it.”

  “I’ve worked so hard. I’m not going to give up now.”

  “What about me?”

  She stared at him. And realized that, of course, this was all about him. The boat, the escape to freedom. The soon-to-be-married man, suddenly seized with the urge to run away from home. It was a metaphor that perhaps even he did not understand.

  “I want to do this, Abby,” he said. He went to her, his eyes glittering. Feverish. “I put in an offer, on this boat. That’s why I got home so late. I was meeting with the broker.”

  “You made an offer without telling me? Without even calling me?”

  “I know it sounds crazy—”

  “How can we afford this thing? I’m way over my head in debt! It’ll take me years to pay back my student loans. And you’re buying a boat?”

  “We can take out a mortgage. It’s like buying a second home.”

  “This isn’t a home.”

  “It’s still an investment.”

  “It’s not what I’d invest my money in.”

  “I’m not spending your money.”

  She took a step back and stared at him. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “It’s not my money at all.”

  “Abby.” He groaned. “Jesus, Abby—”

  The rain was starting to fall again, cold and numbing against her face. She walked back to the car and climbed inside.

  He got into the car as well. For a moment, neither one of them spoke. The only sound was the rain on the roof.

  He said, quietly, “I’ll withdraw the offer.”

  “That’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought we’d be sharing more. I don’t mean the money. I don’t care about that. What hurts is that you think of it as your money. Is that how it’s going to be? Yours or mine? Should we call in the lawyers now and draw up the prenuptial agreement? Divide up the furniture and the kids?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, and she heard a strange and unexpected note of desperation in his voice. He started the car.

  They drove halfway home without speaking.

  Then Abby said: “Maybe we should rethink the engagement. Maybe getting married isn’t really what you want, Mark.”

  “Is it what you want?”

  She looked out the window and sighed. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I don’t know anymore.”

  It was the truth. She didn’t.

  Tragedy Claims Family of
Three

  While Dr. Alan Hennessy and his family slept through the night, a killer was creeping up the basement steps. Deadly carbon monoxide gas, produced by a faulty furnace, is blamed for the New Year’s Day deaths of thirty-four-year-old Hennessy, his wife Gail, thirty-three, and their six-month-old daughter Linda. Their bodies were discovered late that afternoon by friends who’d been invited to the house for dinner . . .

  Abby repositioned the microfiche, and photos of Hennessy and his wife appeared on the screen, his face pudgy and serious, hers seemingly snapped in mid-laugh. There was no photo of the baby. Perhaps the Globe thought all six-month-old babies looked alike anyway.

  Abby changed microfiches to a date three and a half years before the Hennessy deaths. She found the article she was looking for on the front page of the Metro section.

  Body of Missing Physician Recovered from Inner Harbor

  A body found floating Tuesday in Boston Harbor was identified today as Dr. Lawrence Kunstler, a local thoracic surgeon. Dr. Kunstler’s car was found abandoned last week in the southbound Tobin Bridge breakdown lane. Police are speculating that his death was a suicide. No witnesses, however, have come forward, and the investigation remains open . . .

  Abby centered Kunstler’s photograph on the microfilm screen. It was a blandly formal pose, complete with white coat and stethoscope, Dr. Kunstler gazing directly at the camera.

  And now, directly at her.

  Why did you do it? Why did you jump? she wondered. And she couldn’t suppress the afterthought: Or did you?

  The one advantage of being relieved of ward duties was that Abby could skip out for the whole afternoon and no one at Bayside would notice, or even care. So when she walked out of the Boston Public Library and into the bustle of Copley Square, she felt a sense of both emptiness and relief that she didn’t have to return to the hospital. The afternoon, if she so desired, was hers.