by Play Dead
The killer glanced around. The diaries were kept in this study—dangerous journals dating back more than thirty years ago. There was no need to check or read through them. Judy kept all her important papers in this study. Once they were destroyed, once they were consumed by the flames along with their author, no evidence would remain. Nothing would be able to tie the past with the present. They would all be safe again.
A cold gust of wind chilled the room, whispering a warning that something was being overlooked, that the past could not be so easily laid to rest.
The whisper mercifully faded away.
The killer’s face twisted in thought. The fire marshals were sure to figure out eventually that this was no accident, that kerosene had played a key role in the spread of the fire, that this was indeed a case of arson. But by that time, the trail would have gone cold. The snow would have covered the tracks made by the kerosene containers. The rented car would be returned. The killer (now arsonist) would be long gone without so much as a trace left behind.
Perfect. Everything was so perfect.
So how come the tears were starting to flow again?
Why did it have to be this way? Even when the eyes were closed the image of Judy’s bloodied body kept reappearing before the killer. And that meant there would be nightmares for a very long time after today. Poor Judy. Poor loving, sweet Judy. Why did she have to die? Judy could have simply left the past alone, forgotten about it and let it be. But instead she chose to prod it, to poke at it until it awoke and attacked with a torrid vengeance. Now there was only one way to satisfy its growing lust.
“Good-bye, Judy.”
A hand wiped away a stray tear, reached for the book of matches, lit one and … and heard a knock on the door.
The killer’s heart rammed up into the throat, cutting off the air supply. Panic moved in with dizzying speed. Oh, God, what now? What now? The flame moved slowly down the match stick.
Fire.
Another knock. Who? Why … ? The match came close to the killer’s fingers, too close. With a small yelp of pain, the killer dropped the match on top of crumbled papers. They caught fire and began to consume the nearby journals, curling the pages inward as they turned black.
The die was cast. There was no turning back now.
Get out! a small voice said as the knocking came again, more urgently now. Get out now!
But suppose … ?
The legs dismissed the doubt. They sprinted out of the study in a mad dash. The killer closed the study door, trapping Judy and the deadly blaze in the small area. The fire began to grow and fan out.
As the back door swung open, a voice from the front porch called Judy’s name—a familiar voice, a voice so frighteningly, terrifyingly familiar… .
THE front door swung open slowly.
Laura moved past the doorway and into the small foyer. The house was dark, the sun having disappeared completely during the past half hour. A sole streetlight provided shadowy illumination. Laura’s eyes moved from left to right, scanning the entire living room area. There was no movement or sounds.
“Aunt Judy?” she called out but there was still no answer.
Laura took another step forward. Her nose twitched again from the strange, pungent odor that permeated the house. Gasoline or oil or something like that. It had to be coming from the garage. The smell was strong, nearly overwhelming. She took a deep sniff. Now that she really thought about it, it was not just a gassy or oily smell, not merely the smell of a gasoline station or some car repair shop. No, now that she really analyzed it, the smell was more like … like something burning. …
The odor suddenly made Laura ill. Her hand traced a path along the side of the wall until she located the light switch. She flicked it on. Fluorescent lights brightened the darkened room, startling her. She shaded her eyes from the surprising glare. When she was finally able to lower her hand and look toward the back of the house, she saw smoke pouring out from under the study door.
Oh, God, no.
Laura ran toward the study. The smoke was getting thicker now, spiraling toward the ceiling in long black gusts. She reached the door and placed her palm on the wooden panel. Her hand drew back.
The door felt warm.
Get out, Laura. Get out and call the fire department. Judy is not home. She went out and left an iron on or something. Get the hell out!
Laura could hear the crackle of the blaze behind the door.
Get out of here. Get out of here before the fire blows down the door.
The smoke crept closer. Laura covered her eyes with her hand and began to back out toward the exit.
Get out… .
She was about to turn around and run when a sound tore through the door of the study. She froze. Her heart kicked hard against her chest. The terrible sound repeated itself, this time a little louder.
A cough.
Laura felt an icy coldness slide through her.
Then another cough.
Someone was behind that door. Someone was trapped in the study.
Without conscious thought, Laura took action. Her hand reached out toward the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Gusts of thick black smoke rushed through the doorway. Laura fell and rolled to the side. She heard the cough again, the cough of a female, but this time it was more of a horrid choking sound.
Laura stood and moved back to the doorway. The smoke was everywhere, blinding her eyes and making them tear. Covering her mouth with her hand, Laura ducked into the study. On the ground below her, she found Judy.
Oh, Christ …
Laura bent down. She opened her mouth to speak but the smoke poured down her throat and silenced her. Judy looked up with pleading eyes, still coughing uncontrollably. A stream of syrupy blood matted down her hair. Laura felt Judy reach up and put something into her hand, forcing Laura’s fingers to form a fist around it.
“Take it,” Judy whispered hoarsely.
Laura transferred the items to her pocket and knelt beside Judy. She was unconscious now, her breathing sporadic. Laura grabbed hold of Judy’s arm and began to pull. The fire remained mostly in the corner of the study, gaining strength at a slow but steady pace. Papers crinkled from the flames. A chair began to collapse.
Then the fire found the kerosene.
Without warning, the corner of the room burst into flames. The blaze began to gnaw its way onto the carpet. The fire danced across the floor, grasping and then consuming the curtains. And then Laura realized something else—something that made her pull ever harder.
Oh, God, oh, no …
Judy was covered with the kerosene. The flames were racing toward her.
Have to move. Have to get her out before …
The smoke made it nearly impossible to see, but Laura knew that the blaze would not rest until it claimed all its victims. The flames grabbed hold of the desk, the books, the chairs. Laura continued to drag Judy inch by inch, but they were not moving fast enough. The fire was gaining on them, circling closer and closer.
And then the flames reached Judy.
There was a short, hideous scream as the blaze crawled across Judy’s torso and nestled in. Panic seized Laura in a crushing grip. She summoned some inner strength and renewed her pull on Judy’s arm. They began to move faster.
They were only a foot away from the study’s doorway when Laura tripped over the bronze bust of Keats. She lost her footing and began to topple forward. Her hands tried to move in front of her to cushion the fall, but they did not move fast enough. Her head caught the edge of doorframe, sending shards of pain through her skull. Dizziness swam through her.
Have to get up, she thought through the murk. Have to get up and drag Judy out of here.
Laura’s throat felt like it was being stomped on. Black smoke was everywhere now. She gasped for air and struggled to a sitting position, the flames licking at her feet. Her head reeled with pain. Her limbs felt like large blocks of lead.
Have to move. Have to do something …
She crawled slowly and reached out for Judy. The dull ache in her head consumed her. Breathing became impossible. Laura stopped moving. Her eyes rolled back. Her hand never made it to her aunt.
As Laura lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor, a powerful arm circled her waist and scooped her up.
25
FOR the tourists, it was a unique photo opportunity. Here, in the lobby of the Pacific International Hotel, a mammoth local sheriff sprinted through the front door at breakneck speed, almost shattering the glass. Graham hurdled over suitcases, darted deftly between hotel guests, dashed across the tile floor. Without slowing, he made a left at the receptionist desk, traveled another twenty yards before finally pausing in front of a door that read GENERAL MANAGER. He grabbed the knob, not bothering to knock, and turned it.
“Where are they?”
Gina Cassler looked up from her desk. “Good Lord, Graham, you’re all out of breath.”
He heaved in oxygen. “Not important,” he managed. “Where are the passport cards?”
She shook her head. “They’re in my file cabinet. Will you relax and sit down?”
Graham collapsed into the chair like a punctured lung. “Hand them over, luv.”
She took out a key and unlocked the file cabinet behind her. “I wanted to keep them safe for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
Her hand reached into the cabinet. “Can I get you something to drink, Graham?”
“In a minute, thanks.”
She took hold of a large manila envelope and pulled it out of the file. “Here they are,” she said.
“Have you looked through them yet?”
“Looked through them?” she repeated, tossing the envelope across her desk. “For what? I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”
Graham nodded, satisfied. He took hold of the envelope and ripped it open. “Was there any problem getting these?”
“None.”
“No one asked you why you needed them?”
“I told them I kept superlative records but one of my staff members had carelessly misplaced some data.”
Once again, Graham looked around the paper-cluttered room. “They bought that?”
She nodded. “Lucky for you they’ve never seen this office.”
He shrugged, slipped the cards out of the envelope, and began to sort through them. He piled the ones filled out by Americans on the side.
“What do you want to drink, Graham?”
Without looking up, he said, “Whiskey.”
Gina reached behind her into the same file cabinet and withdrew a bottle. She poured some into two shot glasses and passed one of them to Graham’s side of the desk. He ignored it.
“Find anything yet?” she asked.
Graham shook his head and continued to flip through the cards. When he was finished, he picked up the pile of the ones he had sorted out. He skimmed through them. On the upper corner of each card, a receptionist had jotted down the room numbers. The name and address were underneath that, followed by the nationality (most Americans just wrote USA), the passport number, date of issue, place of issue. When he reached the passport card that had room 607 scribbled on the top, he checked out the address. Boston, Massachusetts. Then he read the name. A hammer blow struck Graham’s heart. He read the name again.
“Sweet Jesus …”
“Graham, are you all right?”
The other cards slipped through his hands and onto the floor. Graham grabbed the shot glass in front of him and threw the liquid contents down his throat.
“Mary Ayars,” he said, “Laura’s mother.”
DR. Eric Clarich had lived in Hamilton, New York, since he was three years old. He had attended John Quincy Adams Elementary School, Heritage Junior High School, Hamilton High School, Colgate University. In fact, the only time he had lived outside of freezing-cold Hamilton was during his days of medical school at Cornell. Even his residency and internship had been performed at the hospital nearest to the home of his childhood, adolescence, and college years.
Eric was what prep school students would call a townie. Many claimed that his devotion and, indeed, obsession with Hamilton was dangerous. Dr. Eric Clarich’s lack of exposure to the outside world, they claimed, would cause his outlook to be somewhat myopic. Perhaps that was true. But Eric did not worry about it very much. He had his life here. Delta, his high school sweetheart-turned- wife, was pregnant with child number two. His new and growing practice was doing well. Life was good, solid. There was even talk of having Eric run for town council next year.
“Isn’t she that famous model?” one of the nurses asked him.
Eric nodded solemnly. Two women had just been rushed into the emergency room. One he recognized; the other he knew very well. The two women were also related, he knew, the younger being the niece of the older. Eric had first met the older woman more than a decade ago. Professor Judy Simmons had brought Shakespeare to life for a sophomore Eric Clarich, offering insights and reflections that stunned and stimulated the lucky students who had been selected to take her class. She prided herself on being easily accessible to her students and Eric took full advantage of that fact. He would never forget the hours they had chatted over cups of herbal tea in both her faculty office and her home study. Now, from what he had been told, that study and indeed her entire home were little more than ashes.
Memories drifted gently across Eric’s mind. Professor Judy Simmons had written a glowing recommendation to Cornell’s medical school describing Eric as “a true Renaissance man.” Describing someone as being truly Renaissance, she explained, was the ultimate compliment. Many would-be doctors could claim a cold, impersonal knowledge of the sciences, but how many could combine that with a glowing love of literature and the arts? That, she surmised in her letter, was what made Eric Clarich, her student and friend, stand above the rest.
Eric took a deep breath and continued working. And what about the brilliant Professor Simmons herself? Would he describe her as a true Renaissance woman? Perhaps. But Judy had always been a bit of an enigma to Eric. He never understood why she never married or even dated or, for that matter, had any close friends. He had only broached the subject with her on one occasion, and she merely joked that her relationships with men read like a Dickens novel. Still, her whole attitude toward herself and the world was just a little off-center. To the casual observer Judy Simmons was a pretty and cheerful woman, but beyond the facade, Eric saw her as some sort of sad-eyed, lonely character from a Gothic novel Judy herself would undoubtedly cherish. Now he could consider that novel tragic.
Judy Simmons was dead.
He stared down at the charred and battered body of his friend. Eric hoped that she had died quickly, that she had not survived long enough to feel her nerve endings being singed, that she had not known the agony of having her skin melted into thick clumps of waxy tallow. He prayed that fallen debris had mercifully knocked Judy unconscious before the blaze had a chance to swarm over her body and eat away at her flesh.
Dead. Another tragedy for a family that should have had everything. First, David Baskin. Now this. Two healthy bodies destroyed by two of Earth’s purest elements. Water had claimed David Baskin. Fire had taken away Judy Simmons.
“More oxygen,” he barked to the nurse.
“Yes, Doctor.”
Eric turned his attention back toward his younger patient. Laura Ayars-Baskin, Judy’s famous and beautiful niece, lay on the emergency room stretcher. He checked her pulse again and spread ointment on a burn. With proper care and bed rest, Laura would be fine. Miraculous really. Just fifteen minutes ago, she had been lying unconscious in the middle of a blazing inferno. By some bizarre twist of luck, someone had been walking past at the time—a very brave someone who rushed in and somehow managed to pull both women out of the burning wreck. This courageous fellow had then called the hospital. Paramedics were dispatched immediately, but by the time the ambulance arrived on the scene, the mystery hero was gone. Very strange.
Most folks would have been dialing up the local news stations to be interviewed on the eleven o’clock news. This hero decided to just take off.
“Do you have those emergency numbers yet?”
“Yes, Doctor. They were written in her telephone diary.”
“Let me have them.” The blond nurse handed him the telephone numbers. “Find me if anything happens.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Eric Clarich walked over to the phone in the hallway. He pushed nine to get an outside line, waited for the tone, and dialed the number of Laura’s parents. After four rings, the answering machine picked up and told him that he had reached the Ayars residence. Eric left a message and replaced the receiver.
Damn.
He checked his watch. Nearly seven thirty. Even if he did reach her parents, Boston was a good five hours from here—maybe more in this weather. He thumbed through Laura’s book and found her father’s office number. Bingo, he was a doctor. There was a decent chance that Dr. James Ayars was still in his office at Boston Memorial Hospital. Worth a try anyway.
Eric dialed the number. On the second ring, a receptionist picked up. “Doctor’s office.”
“May I speak with Dr. James Ayars, please?”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“My name is Dr. Eric Clarich. This is something of an emergency.”
“Please hold.”
A minute later, the phone was picked up. “James Ayars here. Can I help you?”
“Dr. Ayars, this is Dr. Clarich at St. Catherine’s in Hamilton, New York.”
“Yes?”
“I have some rather bad news.”
The voice remained steady, authoritative. “I’m listening.”
“There has been a fire at your sister-in-law’s home. Your daughter has been injured—”
“Injured?” he shouted. “Is she all right?”