by Harlan Coben
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 can 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 nor even dated nor 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 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 make that novel tragic.
Judy Simmons was dead.
He stared down at the charred and battered body of his friend. Eric hoped that she 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 be 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 blonde 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?'
'Whom 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?'
'She is going to be fine, Dr Ayars. She has a few burns and is being treated for smoke inhalation. Your sister-in-law was not so lucky. I'm sorry to tell you that Judy Simmons is dead.'
Thick, heavy silence. 'Dead?' he asked softly. 'Judy?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'll . . . I'll charter a plane. I'll call my wife at home and -- '
'I just tried your home number, Doctor. There was no answer.'
Again, there was silence. When James spoke again, his voice was without tone. 'Are you sure?'
'The answering machine was on.'
'Sweet Jesus.'
'Dr Ayars?'
'I'll be up as soon as I can, Dr Clarich. Please let my daughter know that I'm on my way.'
James hung up the phone with a quivering hand. His leg was shaking up and down in the same manner that his daughter had inherited.
Laura was injured. Judy was dead.
He picked up the receiver and called home. The first ring blared through the receiver.
Please answer, Mary. Please be home.
But after the fourth ring, the answering machine once again picked up. James closed his eyes, waiting impatiently for the beep. When it came, he spoke in a calm, collected voice.
'Mary, there has been a fire at Judy's place. Laura has been hurt, but she is going to be fine. I'm flying up there right away. Do the same when you get in. She is at St Catherine's Hospital in Hamilton.'
No reason to tell her about Judy's death right now, he decided. It would just make her panic. James hung up the phone. Something was very wrong here. Mary was almost always home by this time, and on the rare occasions when she was going to be late she left him a message so he wouldn't worry. But not today. For the first time that James could remember, his wife had forgotten to leave him a message.
She could just be in the shower. She could have stepped out to buy a few groceries or pick up something at the pharmacy. That might be all there was to it.
James wanted to believe that, really wanted to convince himself that Mary was just around the corner or on her way from the store or at the beauty parlor or in . . .
Hamilton, New York . . .
James felt his knees give way. Oh God, no. Please tell me no.
Maybe Mary paid her sister a little visit, had a friendly chat, yes a nice, friendly, cozy little chat . . .
Could Judy have been so foolish? Could she have said something to Mary? James was certain the answer was no. Judy would never tell Mary what she suspected, never tell anyone until she was certain it was true.
Then what was Laura doing up there, James? Just a casual visit to Colgate's campus? Seems like too much of a coincidence to me.
His face coiled in fear. Hamilton was a good five hours drive from Boston. By the time a plane was chartered and flew through this weather it would still be a few hours. But time was critical now. He had to get to the hospital as soon as possible, had to protect his daughter before the entire world fell around her.
If something bad happens to Laura, oh God if something bad happens to my baby girl . . .
James Ayars decided not to finish his thought.
Laura's eyelids felt like dead weights. She wrestled with them until they finally fluttered open. A light shone in her eyes, making it impossible to see anything but the bursting brightness of white. Mercifully, the light was pushed away and gradually, Laura's vision came into focus. She glanced around the clean room, the sterile smells chilling her. Almost immediately she realized where she was.
'Mrs Baskin?'
Her tongue seemed stuck to the bottom of her mouth. 'Yes?'
> 'My name is Dr Eric Clarich,' the man standing above her said. 'You are at St Catherine's Hospital in Hamilton, New York. Do you remember what happened to you?'
Laura's line of vision zeroed in on the young doctor's unshaven face. His bloodshot, brown eyes looked down at her with a concern and maturity beyond his years. 'Fire,' she managed.
'Yes, there was a fire,' Eric said. 'You suffered a few minor burns, but you are going to be fine.'
Laura uttered one word: 'Judy?'
As the doctor lowered his eyes, Laura felt her stomach drop. Dread rushed through her entire body.
'She died,' he said. 'I'm very sorry. I was very fond of your aunt. She and I were good friends.'
Laura's head collapsed back. She looked straight into the air, her eyes blinking spasmodically. Aunt Judy was dead, killed in the fire. Laura tried to recall her last moments with her aunt, the desperate look in Judy's eyes as the blaze crept closer and closer. She remembered tripping over something, banging her head, reaching out to Judy, and then . . . blackness.
'How was I rescued?' she asked.
The doctor half smiled. 'That is a bit of a mystery. A man pulled both of you out of the fire. For Professor Simmons, unfortunately, it was too late.'
'But who was the man?'
'We don't know,' Eric answered. 'He called the emergency room and then vanished.'
'Vanished?'
'I found it rather strange myself.'
Laura tried to concentrate through the grief. The fire was no accident, she was sure of it. Someone had set the fire. Someone had knocked poor Judy unconscious and doused her study with some sort of flammable liquid. Someone had set the fire with the intention of killing Laura's aunt. But who?
David's murderer.
Laura's head nodded at the thought. David's murderer had done this. Somehow, Judy had learned the truth behind David's demise and had paid for it with her life. But why a fire, especially when a simple investigation would prove it was arson? Why not simply use a gun or a knife? Why go to the trouble of burning down Judy's house if you just wanted to keep her silent . . . ?
Not the house. The study.
Laura felt a coldness wrap itself around her spine. The study. The fire had taken place in the study.
'I spoke to your father,' Eric Glarich said, interrupting her thoughts. 'He is on his way. He should be here in a couple more hours.'
'Thank you, Doctor. When can I get out of here?' Eric smiled and picked up a clipboard. 'We'll talk about that a little later, okay? Why don't you get some rest now?'
Laura closed her eyes though she knew sleep would not come. She felt scared and so very alone -- a helpless amateur against ruthless killers and arsonists. What chance did she have? None really. And what was she supposed to do next? Judy was dead, silenced before she had the chance to tell Laura what was going on. What had Judy learned that had cost her her life? What had Judy wanted to tell Laura that . . . ?
'. . . to show you, Laura. Show you ...'
Her eyes suddenly flew open.
' . . . show you, Laura . . .'
'Dr Clarich?'
' . . . Take it . . .'
Eric stopped scribbling and looked up. 'Yes, Mrs Baskin?'
Her mouth felt very dry. 'My personal possessions.'
'They're in a plastic bag in your closet.'
The blaze had almost been upon them. Laura could still feel Judy press something into her hand, forcing her to pocket the items while the fire moved in around them. 'May I have it, please?'
Eric sighed heavily. 'You really should get some rest. The fire chief is going to want to talk to you later.'
'I will,' Laura promised. 'I just need my things for a moment.'
Eric spotted the desperation in her voice. 'Okay,' he agreed. 'But then I want you to rest.'
Laura nodded eagerly. She watched Dr Clarich step toward the closet. Seconds dragged.
What did you hand me, Aunt Judy? What was so important that imminent death became merely a distraction?
Eric opened the closet, bent down, and came up holding a red plastic bag marked Emergency Room. Laura tried to sit up, each movement of her body rubbing a burn the wrong way. She thought for a moment of how close she had come to being burned alive and wondered once again about the mystery man who had saved her life.
Dr Clarich walked back over to the bed. 'Here you go. I'll leave you alone now.'
'Thank you, Doctor.'
He smiled gently and left the room. When the door shut, when Laura had been left completely alone, she opened the plastic bag and began to sift through its contents.
A clue, Aunt Judy. Did you save a clue from the treacherous fire?
The first thing that caught her eye was the Svengali label on her ripped and slightly scorched blouse. Part of the sleeve and back were burnt black, the cotton and silk threads seared beyond repair. She found the rest of her clothes, her wallet, her pocketbook, her shoes, her car keys. Then she came upon one of the two things Judy had handed her.
A set of keys.
Disappointment shot down Laura's hopes. Why would Judy hand her a set of keys? What significance could that have? There were four keys on the chain. One she recognized as Judy's house key. Two others were for the car. Laura had no idea what the fourth opened.
So why did Judy hand her a set of keys?
Maybe her aunt's mind had been confused at that stage. Maybe she was trying to find her way to the car to make her escape.
You're reaching, Laura.
Any better ideas?
She put the keys down and reached back into the red plastic bag. This time her hand located a thick piece of paper or maybe a thin piece of cardboard. It felt wrinkled and old. She gently lifted the paper/cardboard and brought it into view.
It was a photograph.
Laura's eyes narrowed in confusion. The photograph was an old black and white one. Her mother had a lot of these kind but this one had obviously been handled many times over. Brown spots dotted the photograph with age. But Laura was not interested in the technical aspects of the picture. She was interested in its content.
The picture showed a happy couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes. The man's arms were wrapped passionately around the woman's waist. The woman was Judy. She could not have been more than twenty years old. How happy she looked, Laura thought, how her face glowed in a way Laura had never seen before. It was more than just the simple glow of youth. There was love here, real love.
Laura turned her attention to the man in the photograph. Her throat constricted. It took but a few seconds for her brain to register the impossible truth. When she recognized the man's face, when she was absolutely sure who the man was, she wanted so very much to scream.
The man in the photograph smiled playfully at young, pretty Judy Simmons. His hair was tousled, his face strong and handsome like . . .
... like his youngest son's.
Her head began to swim. David's father. David's father who committed suicide thirty years ago. Sinclair Baskin and Judy were holding each other in a passionate embrace.
The picture dropped from Laura's hand. Judy's last clue. With death just moments away, this photograph had been her aunt's last desperate effort to tell Laura the truth of what had happened to David, of why he was killed.
But what did it mean?
'Hurry, damn it.'
'Hey, buddy, I'm already going too fast. You want to end up in the hospital too?'
James sat back. 'Sorry. It's just that -- '
'I know, I know,' the taxi driver interrupted. 'Your daughter is in the hospital in Hamilton. I got kids too, you know. I understand what you're feeling.'
James tried taking a few deep breaths. 'How much longer?'
'Five minutes. Considering the weather, I'd say we're making great time. Airport to Hamilton in a half-hour. That could be a record.'
'Could you go just a little faster please?'
'No need,' the driver replied. 'We're here.'
James tossed the driver
a fifty-dollar bill. 'Thanks.'
'Thank you, buddy. Hope your daughter's feeling better.'
He stepped out of the car and sprinted into the hospital. His heart raced. The record-breaking, thirty-minute drive from the airport to St Catherine's had felt like weeks.
Laura is okay, he reminded himself. You heard the doctor. Just a few burns and some smoke inhalation. Nothing a little rest won't fix.
And James would make sure she rested. Oh yes, he would stand guard over her twenty-fours a day if necessary, but he would not let anyone ever hurt his baby again. No one. Not ever.
He stormed through the doors. Hospitals were familiar territory to him. He quickly found the on-duty receptionist and asked for his daughter's room.
'Down the hall and to the right,' the receptionist replied. 'Room 117. I believe Dr Clarich is in there now.'
James sped down the corridor. He circled right, his legs propelling him with surprising velocity -- and then he stopped cold. His heart jerked to one side.
Oh no.
Down at the end of the hallway, just a few feet in front of Laura's hospital room, his wife sat crumpled into a plastic chair. Mary looked so small, so fragile. Her face was pale and harried.
'Mary?'
Her head swiveled slowly toward the familiar voice. 'Oh, James.'
How did you get here so fast, Mary? How . . .
She stood and ran toward her husband on wobbly legs, but James moved forward hesitantly, almost afraid to go near her.
She was here the whole time. She was at Colgate.
'I . . . I called the answering machine and heard your message,' she explained weakly. 'I got up here as soon as I could.'