We'll Meet Again

by Mary Higgins Clark

  I like this lady a lot, Fran thought. She doesn’t mind getting down to business. “Mrs. Branagan, you said the other day that you have your ten-year service pin?”

  “That’s right. And, God willing, some day I’ll have my twenty-year pin.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’d like to ask you about something that happened in the hospital a good while ago. It was actually a short time before Dr. Morrow and Dr. Lasch were murdered.”

  “Oh, Ms. Simmons, so much happens here,” Mrs. Branagan protested, “I’m not sure I’ll be of any help.”

  “You might remember this incident, though. Apparently a young woman was brought in after an accident she suffered while she was running, and she went into an irreversible coma. I’m hoping you might know something about her.”

  “Something about her,” Susan Branagan exclaimed. “You’re talking about Natasha Colbert. She was in our long-term care residence for years. She died just last night.”

  “She died last night!”

  “Yes. It’s so sad. She was only twenty-three when she had the accident, you know. She fell while she was jogging and went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. You know the Colbert family; they’re the ones who own the big newspaper chain, so they are very wealthy. After the girl had the accident, her mother and father donated the money for the long-term care residence and named it after her. Look across the lawn—it’s that lovely two-story building there.”

  Cardiac arrest once she was in the ambulance, Fran thought. Who was the ambulance driver? Who were the medics? She’d need to talk to them. They shouldn’t be too hard to track down, though.

  “Her mother collapsed when Tasha died last night. She’s here right now, and I understand she’s had a heart attack as well.” Susan Branagan dropped her voice. “See that good-looking man over there? He’s one of Mrs. Colbert’s sons. There are two of them. One of them is with her every single minute. The other one was down here for a bite to eat about an hour ago.”

  If Mrs. Colbert dies from the strain of her daughter’s death, then she’s one more victim of whatever it is that’s going on here, Fran thought.

  “It’s so painful for the sons,” Susan Branagan said. “Of course, for all intents and purposes, they lost their sister over six years ago, but still, it hits hard when the end really comes.” She dropped her voice. “I hear Mrs. Colbert went a little crazy after Tasha died. The nurse said she was screaming that Tasha had awakened from her coma and had spoken to her—which, of course, was absolutely impossible. She claimed Tasha had said something like, ‘Dr. Lasch, I tripped on my shoelace and went flying,’ and then, ‘Hi, Mom.’ ”

  Fran felt her throat close. She could barely force out the words. “Was the nurse in the room with Mrs. Colbert at the time?”

  “Tasha had a suite, and Mrs. Colbert had sent the nurse into the sitting room. She wanted to be alone with her daughter. But when Tasha died, Mrs. Colbert wasn’t alone. At the last minute the doctor got there. He says he heard nothing, and that Mrs. Colbert was hallucinating.”

  “Who was the doctor?” Fran asked, although she was sure she already knew.

  “The head of the hospital, Dr. Peter Black.”

  If Annamarie’s suspicions were valid over six years ago, and if Mrs. Colbert was right about what happened last night, it sounds as if, after destroying Tasha, Black has continued experimenting on her, Fran thought.

  Helplessly she looked across the room at the man Susan Branagan had pointed out to her. She wanted to rush over to him, to warn him that his mother was a danger to Dr. Peter Black, and that he should get her out of the hospital before it was too late.

  “Oh, there’s Dr. Black now,” Susan Branagan said. “He’s going over to Mr. Colbert. I do hope it isn’t bad news.”

  As they watched, Peter Black spoke quietly to the man, who nodded, got up, and began to follow him out of the room.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Branagan said, “I just know it’s bad news.”

  Fran did not respond. As he was leaving, Peter Black had spotted her, and they stared at each other. His eyes were cold, angry, menacing—certainly not the eyes of a healer.

  I’ll get you, Fran thought. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll get you.

  72

  Whenever a troubling situation reached crisis level, Calvin Whitehall had the enviable ability to eliminate every trace of frustration and anger from his mind. That ability was put to the test by the call he received from Peter Black at 4:30 that afternoon. “Let me understand,” he said slowly. “You are telling me that Fran Simmons was sitting in the coffee shop of the hospital, gossiping with one of the volunteers, when you went there to tell Barbara Colbert’s son that his mother had died?”

  It was a rhetorical question.

  “Did you then speak to the volunteer and ask her the exact nature of her discussion with Fran Simmons?”

  Peter Black was calling from his library at home and holding his second scotch in his hand. “Mrs. Branagan was gone by the time I could decently leave Mrs. Colbert’s sons. I phoned her home every fifteen minutes until I got her. She had been at the hairdresser.”

  “I am not interested in where she had been,” Whitehall said coldly. “I am interested in what she told Simmons.”

  “They were talking about Tasha Colbert,” Peter Black said bleakly. “Simmons had asked her if she knew about a young patient at the hospital who had been in an accident and gone into an irreversible coma more than six years ago. Apparently Mrs. Branagan identified the patient for her and filled Simmons in on whatever knowledge of the events she had.”

  “No doubt including Barbara Colbert’s statement that she had heard her daughter speak before she died?”

  “Yes. Cal, what are we going to do?”

  “I am going to save your skin. You are going to finish your drink. We are going to talk later. Goodbye, Peter.”

  The click of the receiver being replaced was barely audible. Peter Black gulped down the remaining contents of his glass and instantly refilled it.

  Calvin Whitehall sat nearly motionless for several minutes while he considered and rejected possible avenues to follow. After some time, he reached a decision, analyzed it thoroughly, and was satisfied that it would eliminate two of his problems—West Redding and Fran Simmons.

  He dialed West Redding. The phone rang a dozen times before anyone answered.

  “Calvin, I’ve been watching the tape.” The excitement in the doctor’s voice made him sound almost youthful. “Do you realize what has been achieved? What arrangements have you made for press interviews?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m calling, Doctor,” Cal said smoothly. “You don’t watch television, so you wouldn’t know who I’m talking about, but there is a young woman who is achieving national prominence as an investigative reporter, and who I am arranging to have come out and do a preliminary interview with you. She understands we have to maintain absolute secrecy, but she will immediately begin plans for a thirty-minute special that will be aired within seven days of now. You must realize that it is essential to whet public interest so that when this stunning scientific achievement is unveiled, the show will be watched by a huge national audience. It’s all got to be carefully planned.”

  Whitehall got the response he anticipated. “Calvin, I am very pleased. I realize that we may have some minor legal problems to contend with, but that is of little importance given the significance of what I have achieved. At seventy-six years of age, I want to see my accomplishments recognized before my own time runs out.”

  “And you shall, Doctor.”

  “I don’t think you’ve told me the name of the young woman.”

  “It’s Simmons, Doctor. Fran Simmons.”

  Calvin hung up the phone and pressed the button on the intercom that connected him to the garage apartment. “Get over here, Lou,” he said.

  Even though Cal had announced no plans to go out that evening, and Jenna had left earlier, taking her own car, Lou Knox had been waiting for t
he summons. He had seen and heard enough to know that Cal was having serious problems and that, sooner or later, he would be called in to help solve them.

  He was right on the money, as usual.

  “Lou,” Cal said, his manner almost genial, “Doctor Logue in West Redding has become a serious problem, as has Fran Simmons.”

  Lou waited.

  “Believe it or not, I am setting up an appointment for Ms. Simmons to interview the good doctor. I think you should be in the vicinity when it takes place. Now I should tell you that Doctor Logue has a good many combustibles in his laboratory at the farmhouse. I know you’ve never been inside, so let me explain. The laboratory is on the second floor, but quite accessible thanks to an outside staircase to a back porch that leads directly to it. The window onto the porch is always left slightly open for ventilation. You’re following me, aren’t you, Lou?”

  “Yes, Cal.”

  “Mr. Whitehall, Lou, please. Otherwise you might forget yourself in front of others.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Whitehall.”

  “There is a clearly marked oxygen tank in the laboratory. I am sure that a fellow as clever as you are could toss a flaming object into that room and be down those steps and clear of the house before the tank explodes. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do, Mr. Whitehall.”

  “This mission may take you away from here for several hours. Of course, any overtime service you do for me is always suitably rewarded. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have been turning over in my mind the best way to persuade Ms. Simmons to visit the farmhouse. Naturally the utmost secrecy about her trip there must be maintained. Therefore I think she should receive a tip she can’t resist, preferably from an anonymous source. You get my drift?”

  Lou smiled. “Me.”

  “Exactly. How say you, Lou?”

  “How say you?” was Cal’s habitual touch of humor when he was satisfied that a good plan was about to be executed.

  “You know me,” Lou said, swallowing Cal’s name before he uttered it, “I love to play Deep Throat.”

  “You’ve done it so well before. This time I think it should be particularly interesting. And rewarding, Lou. Don’t forget that.”

  As they smiled at each other, Lou thought back to Fran Simmons’s father and to the hot tip Lou had passed along to him, telling him he’d heard Cal talking of overnight riches to be made in a stock that was about to go public. The $40,000 Simmons had hastily borrowed from the library fund, thinking he would replace it in a few days. What led Simmons to take his own life was that a second withdrawal, under his forged signature, had been made that raised the deficit to $400,000. He knew that after he admitted the first illegal withdrawal, nobody would believe that he wasn’t guilty of the second.

  Cal had been particularly generous that time, Lou remembered. He’d been allowed to keep the original $40,000 Simmons had eagerly pressed into his hand and the worthless stock certificates that Simmons had trustingly put in Lou’s name.

  “Given our history, it seems only fitting that I be the one to make the call to Fran Simmons, sir,” Lou said to his former school chum. “I look forward to it.”

  73

  As soon as Fran left the hospital, she phoned Molly from the car. “I really need to see you,” she said urgently

  “I’m certainly here,” Molly told her. “Come by. Jenna is with me, but she has to leave soon.”

  “I hope I don’t miss her. I’ve been trying to set up a date to talk with both her and her husband. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  I’m cutting it close, Fran thought, checking her watch and calculating that she had to start back to New York in the next half hour, but I do want to see for myself how Molly is doing. She has to have received the notice for the special meeting of the parole board scheduled for Monday. It occurred to her that if Jenna was still there, she couldn’t ask Molly about Gary Lasch’s inviting Peter Black to join him in running the hospital. She’d be sure to tell her husband. Of course, Fran realized that given their history, Molly might tell Jenna what they talked about anyhow.

  At ten minutes to three, Fran turned into Molly’s driveway. There was a Mercedes convertible parked in front of the house, which she knew had to be Jenna’s car.

  I haven’t seen her in so many years, Fran thought. I wonder if she’s still as great looking as she was back then? For a moment the old sense of inadequacy enveloped her as she thought of the years she had lived in Greenwich and gone to school there.

  When they were at Cranden Academy, it was generally known that Jenna’s family didn’t have money. Jenna herself used to joke, “My great-great grandfather made big bucks, and his descendants spent it all!” But there was no debating her blue-blood lineage. Like Molly’s ancestors, Jenna’s had been late-seventeenth-century settlers from England who came to Boston as wealthy appointees of the Crown, not like most who arrived, hoping to scrape together a living in the New World.

  Molly opened the door as Fran came up the walk. She obviously had been watching for her. Fran was startled at Molly’s appearance. She was ghostly pale, and her eyes were heavily circled. “Reunion time,” she said. “Jenna waited to see you.”

  Jenna was in the study, looking through a stack of photographs. She jumped up when she saw Fran. “We’ll meet again,” she sang as she swooped across the room to embrace her.

  “Don’t remind me of that idiotic class history I wrote,” Fran begged with an exaggerated grimace. After the quick embrace, she stepped back. “Come on, Jenna, isn’t it about time you started to lose your looks?”

  Jenna did look spectacular. Her dark brown hair fell with casual elegance to a point just above the collar of her jacket; her enormous hazel eyes positively glowed; her slender body moved with a seemingly unconscious air of careless elegance, as if the beauty she possessed and whatever compliments she received for it were no more than her due.

  For an instant, Fran felt as though the clock had spun backwards. The closest she had been to Molly and Jenna during those four years at the academy was the time they all spent working on the yearbook. Today, this room reminded her of the yearbook office, with the piles of papers and files, the scattered photographs, the stack of old magazines.

  “It’s been a useful day,” Molly said. “Jenna got here at ten and hasn’t let up since. We’ve been going through everything that was in Gary’s desk and on the shelves of this room when it was his study. We got rid of a lot of stuff.”

  “Not a fun day, but there’s time for that later, isn’t there, Fran?” Jenna asked. “When this nightmare is over, Molly is coming into the city and staying in the apartment with me. We’re going to spend days in the marvelous new salon I’ve found, just being pampered. We’re going on a shopping spree that will make the term ‘excessive’ seem inadequate, and then we’re going to dine our way through the best restaurants in New York. Le Cirque 2000 will be our kickoff.”

  She spoke with such confidence that Fran suspended reality for a moment and actually believed her, even to the point of experiencing the feeling of being left out and a longing to be included in the plans. Again, shades of yesterday, she thought.

  “I’ve given up believing in miracles, but if that miracle should happen, then Fran is definitely one of the celebrants,” Molly said. “Without you two in my corner, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”

  “You’ll make it, I promise, on my honor as the wife of Cal the Mighty,” Jenna said with a smile. “Speaking of whom, Fran, I’m afraid that this merger business has him busy and cranky at the same time, which is an awesome combination. I can get together with you almost any day next week, but it would be better to hold off trying to make an appointment with him.”

  She hugged Molly. “I’ve got to run, and Fran may want to go over something with you. Fran, it’s really good to see you again. Next week, right?”

  Fran thought fast. If Molly’s parole were to be revoked, it would happen on Monday, and Jenn
a would certainly want to be with her. “How about Tuesday, around ten, in your office?”

  “Perfect.”

  Molly walked with Jenna to the door. When she came back to the study, Fran said, “Molly, I’ve got to get back to New York on the double, so I’ll be quick. I’m sure you heard about the special meeting of the parole board on Monday.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve not only heard about it, I’ve received a notice to attend.” Molly’s face and voice were calm.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but hang in there, Molly. Something’s going to break, I swear to you. I spoke to Annamarie’s sister today, and she told me some shocking things about Lasch Hospital. They involve your husband and Peter Black.”

  “Peter Black didn’t kill Gary. They were close.”

  “Molly, if even half of what I suspect about Peter Black is true, he’s a thoroughly evil man, capable of committing just about any crime. This is what I need to know from you, and hopefully you’ll have the answer: Why did your husband invite Peter Black to move here and share his practice? I’ve done research on Black. He was no great shakes as a doctor, and he didn’t have a nickel to contribute to the operation. Nobody just gives away half a hospital to an old buddy—which, in fact, I don’t believe Black really was to Gary Lasch. Do you know the reason Gary brought Black here?”

  “Peter was already in place at the hospital when I started dating Gary. The subject never came up.”

  “I was afraid of that. Molly, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but do me a favor and let me come back and go through all Gary’s files before you discard anything. Maybe I’ll find something helpful.”

  “If you want,” Molly said indifferently. “I’ve got three full garbage bags already in the garage. I’ll put them in the storage closet for you. How about the photos?”

  “Hold on to them for now. We may want some of them for the program when we do it.”