The fog might well be concealing her, at least from farther away than ten feet or so. Carefully, she slipped off her gold cap and stuffed it into the snow. The burning rent in her side was making it hard to concentrate. Should she try crawling away beneath the fog? Would her battered legs even hold weight? Her back was hurting. Should she test it, roll to one side? Could she?
From farther to her left, she heard still another snap and then a soft splash and a groan. Her pursuer had stepped or slipped into the brook.
It was definitely a man, or perhaps there were two. She thought about Roscoe. Was he still alive? Was he helpless? in pain? The images sickened her. For a time, there was silence. Kate peered into the mist, but could see nothing. The pain in her legs, back, and side sent chilly tears down her cheeks. Then she heard it, a soft crunch, still downstream from where she was lying, but almost certainly moving in her direction.
She swept her hand over the snow, searching for a rock or a stick of some sort. Her fingers touched and then curled about a dead branch, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter. She drew it toward her. Was it too long, too unwieldy, to use? She would get one swing, if that, and no more. Again, she jiggled the branch. It seemed unentangled, but she would not know for sure until she made her move. Suddenly, she saw movement to her left, the legs and gloved hand of a man, not ten feet away. Dangling from his hand, swinging loosely back and forth, was a tire wrench. Kate drew in a breath, held it, and tensed. At any moment she would be seen. The legs were just turning toward her when she lunged, rising painfully to her knees and swinging the branch in the same motion. Her weapon, three feet long with several protruding wooden spikes, came free of the snow and connected with the side of the man's knee. He dropped instantly to the water, as much from the surprise and location of the blow as from its force. Ignoring the pain in her legs and side, Kate stood up, readying the branch for another swing. It was then she saw her attacker's face.
"Bill! " she cried, staring at the wild-eyed apparition. Her hesitation was costly. Zimmermann lashed out with his feet, sweeping her legs out from under her and sending her down heavily against the rocks and into the shallow, icy water. The wrench lay in the snow, just to his right.
Zimmermann grabbed at it and still on his knees in the brook, swung wildly. Sparks showered from a small boulder, inches from Kate's hip.
She rolled to her left as he swung again, the blow glancing off her thigh. Another spin and she was free of the water, scrambling for footing on the icy rocks and snow. Zimmermann, still clutching the wrench, crawled from the brook and dove at her ankles. He grabbed the leg of her sweatpants, but she was on her feet with enough leverage to jerk away. Before he could make another lunge, she was off, stumbling along the bank and then under the field stone bridge. The ground fog, once her shield, was now her enemy. Again and again, she slipped on rocks she could not see and tripped over fallen logs. From the grunts and cries behind her, though, she could tell that Zimmermann was encountering similar difficulties. Still, the man was coming. She had been so stupid not to have considered that he might be involved in the evil at the Omnicenter, so foolish to think that he didn't know what was going on. She glanced over her shoulder. Zimmermann, visible from the chest up, was bobbing along not thirty yards behind her. He was over six feet tall, and the deep snow was, she feared, more difficult for her to negotiate than it was for him. In addition, she was hobbled by the tightness and pain in her leg where the fender of Zimmermann's car had struck. She had only two advantages, her conditioning and her knowledge of the area. If the man caught up with her, she knew neither would matter. She risked another check behind her. He was closer, unquestionably closer. The snow was slowing her down too much. She cut to her left and into the brook. There, at least, Zimmermann's longer legs would be no advantage, possibly even a hindrance. The frigid, ankle-high water sloshed in her running shoes and bathe her lower legs in pain. Could she outrun or at least outlast him? It was possible, but one slip, one misplaced branch, and it would be over for her. She had to get back to the road. Either back to the road or… or hide She slowed, casting about for familiar landmarks. Somewhere nearby was a culvert, a steel tube, perhaps three feet across, running fifty or so feet through the high embankment on which the road had been built. If she could find it, and if it were not blocked, she could crawl inside, hoping that Zimmermann would not see her or, even if he did, would be too broad across the shoulders to follow She glanced downstream just as the man fell. In seconds, however, he was on his feet and, arms flailing for balance, was again beginning to close on her. If she was to do something, anything, it had to be soon. At that moment, she saw what she had been seeking. It was a huge old elm, sheared in two by lightning, its upper half forming a natural bridge across Martha's Brook. Fifty yards beyond it, if her memory hadn't failed her, the stream would bend sharply to the left, and just beyond the bend, at about knee level, would be the culvert that Roscoe had discovered two or three years before. She ducked beneath the elm and ran low to the water, her eyes barely above the fog. At the bend, she dropped to all fours, and began crawling along the icy embankment. Please, be there. Be there. Frozen chunks of snow scraped her face, and rocks tore away the knees of her sweatpants. She felt a fullness in her throat and coughed, spattering the snow beneath her with blood, more than likely, she knew, from a punctured lung. She crawled ahead, sliding one hand along the slope at the height where she remembered the culvert. Her hopes had begun to fade when she saw it. The diameter was even less than she had thought, nearer two feet than three, but it was still wide enough for her to fit. A fine trickle of water suggested that the small pond on the other side of the embankment was lower than her exit point. From somewhere in the fog, not far back, came a splash. Zimmermann was close. Kate ducked into the dank, rusty pipe, inches at a time, she began to pull herself toward the faint, silver-gray light at the other end. The culvert, coarse and corroded, was painfully cold. With the exertion of her run now past, Kate was beginning to freeze. Her feet, especially her toes, throbbed, and the sound of her teeth chattering like castanets was resonating through the metal tube. Again she coughed. Again there was the spattering of blood. She was, perhaps, a third of the way along when she heard him, crunching about in the snow behind her. Fearing the noise her movement was making, she stopped, biting down on the collar of her sweatshirt to stop the chattering "Kate, I know you're hurt, " he called out. "I want to help you. No more violence. We can work things out." Did he know where she was? Dammit, why couldn't she stop shaking?
"Kate, you want to know about the drugs, about whether or not you are sterile, about how you can stop your friend's bleeding. I can answer all your questions. I can get you someplace warm."
Frightened of the bleeding in her chest and numb in those areas of her body that weren't in merciless pain, Kate found herself actually considering the man's offer. Warm. He had promised she would be warm.
Warmth and answers. Maybe she should try and reason with him. She forced her mind to focus on the wrench and bit down on her sweatshirt all the harder. "You know, " Zimmermann called out, "even if you make it back, no one is going to believe your story. I have my whereabouts at this moment completely vouched for. You're crazy and a pathological liar.
Every one knows that. You're the talk of the hospital. Half the people think you're on drugs, and the other half think you're just plain sick.
I'm the only person who can help you, Kate. I'm the only one who can save your friend. I'm the only one who can get you warm. Now come on over here, and let's talk."
Twenty feet away from where Zimmermann stood, Kate buried her face in the crook of her arm and struggled against the insanity that was telling her the man meant what he was saying about no violence. "Suit yourself,
" she heard him say. "It's your funeral. Yours and your friend's."
Steaming coffee. Crackling, golden fire. Sunshine. White beach.
Flannel. Down comforter. Fur slippers. Stifling her sobs in the sleeve of her sweatshirt, Kate foug
ht the fear and the pain and the cold with images of anything that was warm. Cocoa. Wood stove. Jacuzzi. Tea.
Quartz heater. Electric blanket. Soup. Behind her now, there was only silence. Had he left? She strained to hear the engine of his car.
Had he found the culvert and crossed over the road to wait by the far end?
Her legs and arms were leadened by the cold. Could she even make it out?
Damn him, she thought, forcing herself ahead an inch. He knew how to save Ellen. Damn him. Another inch. He even knew whether she herself had been sterilized or not. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. The silver-gray hole grew fainter. Her eyes closed. Her other senses clouded. Seconds later, what little consciousness remained slipped away. + It was as if a decade had melted away. Jared faced his father as he had so many times during the confused years of Lisa and Vermont, struggling to remain reasonably calm and maintain eye contact. "Kate is sick, son. Very sick,
" Samuels said. "I would suggest we make arrangements for her hospitalization as soon as possible, and as Rann as that is done. you should begin to senarate your career from her. She will bring you down.
I promise you that. Martha Mitchell did it to her husband, and I assure you, Kate will do it to you-if she hasn't already. I've contacted Sol Creighton at Laurel Hill. He has a bed waiting for her, and he says we have grounds for commitment if necessary. With some time, and perhaps some medication, he assures me that even the worst sociopathic personality can be helped."
"Dad, stop using that word. You have no right to diagnose her."
"Jared, face the facts. Kate is a lovely woman. I care for her very much. But she is a liar, and quite possibly a liar who completely believes her own fabrications. I know she looks perfectly fine and sounds logical, but the hallmark of a sociopath is exactly that physical and verbal glibness. The only way to realize what one is dealing with is to catch her in lie after lie."
"But-"
"I)o you really think someone other than Kate sent that letter to the papers about Bobby Geary?"
"I don't know."
"And the chemist, and the Ashburton Foundation, and the nurse at Stonefield. Do you think they were all lying?"
"I don't-"
"And what about the biopsy? You tell me everyone in Kate's department says she made a mistake. The truth is right there in the slides. Yet there is Kate, insisting she did nothing wrong."
Samuels withdrew a cigar from his humidor, tested the aroma along its full length, and then clipped and lit it. He motioned for Jared to have one if he wished. Jared glanced at his watch, made an expression of distaste, and shook his head. "Christ, Dad, it's only eight-thirty in the morning."
Samuels shrugged. "It's my morning and it's my cigar."
Jared looked across the desk at his father, trim and confident, wearing the trappings of success and power as comfortably as he wore his slippers. Unable to speak, Jared stared down at the gilded feet of his father's desk, resting on the exquisite oriental carpet. A secret weapon, that's what Kate had called him. A source of strength for her.
She had spoken the words to his father, but they were really meant for him. With tremendous effort, he brought his eyes up. "I hear what you are saying, Dad. And I understand what you want."
"And?"
"I can't go along with it. Kate says she's innocent of any lying, and I "You what?"
Jared felt himself wither before the man's glare. "I believe her. And I m going to do what I can to help clear her." There was a strength in his words that surprised him. He stood up. "I'll tell you something else, Dad. If I find that she's telling the truth, you're going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do."
Samuels rose, anger sparking from his eyes. "I seem to recall a conversation similar to this. We were in that matchbox office of yours in Vermont. I warned you not to marry that rootless hippie you were living with. I told you there was nothing to her. You stood before me then just as you are now and as much as threw me out of your office. Two years later your wife and daughter were gone, and you were crawling to me for help. Have you forgotten?"
"Dad, that was then. This is-"
"Have you forgotten?"
"No, I haven't."
"Have you forgotten the money and the time I spent trying to find that woman despite my own personal feelings about her?"
"Look, I don't want to fight."
"Get out, " Samuels said evenly. "When you come to your senses, when you discover once again that I was right, call me."
"Dad, I-"
"I said get out." Samuels turned his back and stared out the window. As Jared opened the door, he nearly collided with Jocelyn Trent, who was standing up and backing away at the same time. Quickly, he closed the door behind him. "What were you doing there? " he asked. "Jared, please, don't make me explain." She took him by the arm, led him to the hall closet, and began helping him on with his coat. "Meet me in ten minutes,
" she whispered in his ear. "The little variety store on the corner of Charles and Mount Vernon. I have something important for you, for Kate actually."
The study door opened just as she was letting Jared out. Winfield Samuels stood, arms folded tightly across his chest, and watched him go.
Even dressed down, in pants and a plain wool overcoat, Jocelyn Trent turned heads. Jared stood by the variety store and watched several drivers slow as they passed where she was waiting to cross Charles Street. He left the shelter of the recessed doorway and met her at the corner. Their relationship, while cordial, had never approached a friendship in any sense. His father had taken some pains to keep the interaction between them superficial, and neither had ever been inclined to push matters further. "Thank you for meeting me like this, " she said, guiding him back to the shadow of the doorway. "I don't have much time, so I'll say what I have to say and go."
"Fair enough."
"Jared, I'm leaving your father. I intend to tell him this afternoon."
"I'm sorry, " he said. "I know how much he cares for you."
"Does he? I think you know as well as I do that caring isn't one of Win Samuel's strong suits. It's too bad, too, because strange as it might sound, I think I might actually love him."
"Then why-"
"Please, Jared. I really don't have much time, and what I'm doing is very hard for me. Just know that I have my reasons-for leaving him and for giving you this." She handed him a sealed envelope. "Kate's a wonderful woman. She doesn't deserve the treatment he's giving her. I've been completely loyal to your father. That is until now. I know how hard it is to stand up to him. Lord knows I've wanted to enough. I think you did the right thing back there."
"Jocelyn, do you know if my father is lying or not? It's very important."
She smiled. "I'm aware of how important it is. I was listening at the door, remember? The answer is that I don't know, at least not for sure.
There's a phone number in that envelope, Jared. Go someplace quiet and dial it. If my suspicions about that number are correct, you should be able to decide for yourself which of the two, Kate or your father, is telling the truth."
"I don't understand, " he said. "What is this number? Where did you get it?"
"Please, I don't want to say any more because there's a small chance I might be wrong. Let's just leave it that the number is one your father has called from time to time since I've known him. I handle all of the household bills, including the phone bill, so I know. A year or two ago I accidentally overheard part of a conversation he was having. Some of what I heard disturbed me, so I noted down the exact time of the call.
That's how I learned this number. I don't want to say any more. Okay?"
"Okay, but-"
"I wish you well, Jared. Both of you. The things I overheard Kate say last night have really helped me make some decisions I should have made a long time ago. I hope that what I've done will help her."
She took his hand, squeezed it for a moment, and was gone. Jared watched her hurry up Mt. Vernon Street, then he tore open the plain envelope.
Los Angeles. He drove to his office, trying to imagine what the number might be. Once at his desk, he sat for nearly a minute staring at the card before he finally dialed. A woman, clearly awakened by the call, answered on the third ring. Hello? " she said. Jared struggled for a breath and pressed the receiver so tightly against his ear that it hurt.
"Hello? " the woman said again. "Is anybody there?"
Even after so many years he knew. "Lisa? " He could barely say the word.
"Yes. Who is this? Who is this, please?"
Slowly, Jared set the receiver back in its cradle.
Friday 21 December
It was pressure pain from the pipe more than cold that tugged Kate free of a sleep that was deeper than sleep. In the twilight moment before she was fully conscious, she imagined herself buried alive, the victim of some twisted, vicious kidnapper. In just a few hours she would suffocate or freeze to death. Jared had that little time to raise her ransom, and the only one he could turn to, she knew, was his father. The sound of Win Samuels's laughter echoed in her tomb, growing louder and louder until with a scream she came fully awake. She was on her back. Her lips and cheeks were caked with dried and frozen blood. Dim light from the ends of the culvert barely defined the corroding metal, just a foot or so from her face. Lie still, she thought. Just don't move. Sleep until Jared comes. Close your eyes again and sleep. The thoughts were so comforting, so reassuring, that she had to struggle to remember that they were no more than the cold, lying to her, paralyzing her from within. For a time, all she could think about was sleep, sleep and Zimmermann's taunting warning that even if she survived, no one would believe her story. Sick, crazy, drugged up, that's what they all believed. It was hopeless for her. Zimmermann said it, and he was right.
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