The thoughts and feelings whirling inside her made it impossible to concentrate. She took no notice of the dark sedan that cruised past her in the other direction, nor of the huge, featureless man behind the wheel. No notice, that is, until the car suddenly appeared in her rearview mirror only a few yards behind.
Leonard Vincent maneuvered his car close to the smaller Mustang. Christine’s momentary anger at being tailgated changed to terror as their bumpers made contact. At first, it was just a scrape, then a crunch. Suddenly Vincent sped inside her on the right and began forcing her across the road. Christine’s knuckles whitened on the wheel as she strained to keep from spinning out of control. She searched to her left for an escape route and instantly broke into a terrified, icy sweat.
Not ten feet away was the edge of a drop-off—the high slope of rocks and trees where a thirty-six-hour lifetime ago she had stood and gazed for the first time at Rocky Point. Several hundred feet below stretched the Atlantic.
Another crunch, louder than before. Christine’s head spun to the right. The front of Vincent’s car was even with her passenger door. Beyond him, a shallow gully, then a sheer wall of sandstone. The Mustang vibrated mercilessly as its tires bounced sideways. Christine slammed on the brake. The acrid smell of burning rubber filled the car.
Leonard Vincent’s expression looked bland, almost peaceful as he forced her closer and closer to the dropoff. Less than five feet remained between the Mustang and the edge of the road when Christine released the brake and floored the accelerator. Her car shot forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sedan slip away. Then the bumpers of the two cars locked.
In an instant they were both out of control, spinning in a wild death dance across the road. Christine fought the wheel with all her strength, but it ripped from her hands. Her right arm slammed down against the gear shift and shattered just above the wrist. At the moment the white-hot pain registered, Christine’s car hit the sandstone wall. Her head shot forward, smashing into the windshield just above her left ear. The glass exploded and instantly her world went black.
She did not hear the scream of tearing metal as the two cars separated. She did not see the wide-eyed terror in Leonard Vincent’s face as his car snapped free of hers like a whip, then catapulted toward the ocean, hitting nose down on the steep slope and bouncing off trees and boulders over and over again until it disappeared in the thick fog. She did not see her own car ricochet off the rock face, spin full circle, then roll toward the drop-off.
She was unconscious on the seat when the rear wheels of the Mustang dropped over the embankment. The car stopped, its chassis teetering on the soft dirt. Then it slid over the edge.
David felt the emptiness even before he was fully awake. He opened his eyes a slit, then closed them tightly, trying to will what he knew was true not to be so. She’s in the living room, sitting quietly, looking out at the ocean. A dollar says she’s in the living room. He held his breath. The silence in the house was more than the simple absence of sound. It was a void, a nothingness. There was no movement of air, no sense of energy, no life.
She’s gone for a walk, he reasoned desperately. A little morning walk and immediately the great surgeon panics. He rolled toward the window, blinking at the sunless glare. The sky was a thin sheet of pearl—the sort of overcast that would miraculously disappear by midmorning, opening like a curtain on the extravaganza of a new day. A morning walk, that’s all.
He pushed himself to one elbow and scanned the room. The realization that her clothes were gone sank in only moments before he saw the envelope wedged alongside the mirror. It was the scene from countless grade B movies, only this time inexorably real. Sadness as flat as the morning sky swept over him.
“Shit,” was his first word of the day. Then his second and third. He pulled himself out of bed and walked purposefully past the dresser into the bathroom. He peed, then washed, then shaved. He limped to the kitchen and put on water for coffee. The ankle was stiff and slow, but almost free of pain. His nurse had done her job well.
He tidied the living room and waited for the water to boil. In one final jet of hope he checked the driveway. The Mustang was gone. Christine was gone. Mexico and any chance for a new, unencumbered life together were gone.
Numbly, he shuffled back to the bedroom.
His name was printed in the center of the plain white envelope. He watched his hands tear it open. Another note. The second one in less than a week. This time, though, he felt the anguish in every word—as it was written and as it was read.
Dear David,
I couldn’t chance waiting for you to wake up and talk me out of doing this. I tried all night to make myself believe there was another way. God, how I tried. In the end, though, all I could think of was how much pain and sadness I’ve caused you. It’s all so very crazy. Something that seemed so good, so right. And now … I am going to see Lt. Dockerty to make a full confession regarding Charlotte. Before I do, I am going to meet with Dr. Armstrong. What you said last night made so much sense. I know she can help me. Despite what has happened, I know in my heart that most of us are only following principles we believe in. With luck, Dr. Armstrong can help put matters to rest with as little public disclosure as possible. I have three names to give her for starters, plus some phone numbers and a few Clinton Foundation newsletters. That’s not much, but it’s a start. Maybe, we can find a way of getting inside the secrecy. Then there is the matter of who is responsible for hiring Ben’s killer. I’ll do what I can to find out before involving the police.
Finally, there is you—a special, magic man. In so short a time, you have reached places inside me that I’m not sure I even knew existed. For that, and much more, I owe you. I owe you a life free from running, from constantly looking over my shoulder. I owe you a chance to fulfill the dreams you’ve worked so hard and endured so much for. If the circumstances were any different, sweet, gentle David—any different—I would have risked it. Gone wherever we decided. I honestly believe you would be worth the gamble.
But circumstances are not different. They are what they are. Don’t worry about me. I’ll go straight to Dockerty after I see Dr. Armstrong. Just be careful yourself.
Please understand, be strong, and most of all, forgive me for causing you so much hurt.
Love,
Christine
P.S. The key to the jeep will be at the end of the turn off for Rocky Point. It’s in an envelope like this one.
The jeep. David laughed in spite of himself. From an even start it was doubtful the jeep could stay with Christine’s Mustang for more than a few yards. She was certainly determined not to be dissuaded. Well, he would not be dissuaded either. He could not change the situation, so he would simply change his expectations. Whatever she had to face he would face with her, as long as she wanted him there.
David dressed, playing through in his mind the situations the two of them might encounter in the days and weeks ahead. He noticed the bulky sweater he had worn on the ride to Rocky Point. Christine had placed it, neatly folded, on a chair by the bureau. David grinned. Perhaps he could return it to Joey as a contribution toward the wardrobe of the next man chased into the Charles River. As he picked it up, Rolsetti’s heavy revolver fell out. David had completely forgotten about it. He hefted the revolver in one hand and felt the queasy tension that he had come to expect when handling guns of any kind. He tried to recall when Christine said Joey would call again. Last night? This morning? A moment of reflection and he went to the phone. Rosetti’s Boston number was printed on a small card taped to the receiver.
The woman’s voice that answered his call was older than Terry’s.
“Hello, is this the Rosettis’ residence?” he asked.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Well, could I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Rosetti, please?” For a time there was silence on the other end.
“Who is this, please?” the woman asked finally. Her voice was ice.
David began to shift nervo
usly from one foot to the other. “My name is David Shelton. I’m a friend of Joey and Terry’s, and I’m stay—”
“I know who you are, Dr. Shelton,” the woman said flatly. Again there was silence. David felt an awful sinking in his gut. “This is Mrs. D’Ambrosio. Terry’s mother. Terry can’t come to the phone. The doctor’s given her some medicine and …” Suddenly the woman began to cry. “Joey’s dead … murdered,” she sobbed. David dropped to the couch and stared unseeing across the room. “Terry hasn’t been able to talk to the police, but she talked to me, and she said it’s because Joey helped you that he’s dead.” She broke down completely, any pretext of anger at him lost in her grief.
“But that’s … impossible,” he mumbled, his mind whirling. It was Leonard Vincent. It had to have been. He pressed his eyes, trying to stop the spinning. First Ben, now Joey … and Christine out there somewhere. “When did this happen?” His voice was lifeless.
“Early this morning. They found him in his car, stabbed and cut and … Dr. Shelton, I just don’t want to talk to you anymore. Joey’s funeral is Tuesday. You can speak with my daughter after that.”
“But wait …” The woman hung up.
For several minutes David sat motionless, oblivious to the bleating of the receiver in his lap. Then he grabbed the sweater and the revolver, along with his crutches, and raced from the house. Hoping against hope, he checked the jeep. There was no key. He threw the gun on the seat and pushed himself down the road in long, swinging arcs. Still, by the time he returned, nearly half an hour had passed. He was soaked with perspiration, gasping for air. His ribs, battered by the unpadded arm supports, screamed as he pulled himself up behind the wheel. Then he stopped.
“Will you calm down,” he panted. “She’s fine. She’s all right.” He started the motor. She was probably in Dr. Armstrong’s office right now, or even with Dockerty. All he had to do was cool down and get to Boston in one piece.
He glanced over at the revolver and thought about Rosetti’s admonition to him. How had he put it? Do it unto others if you even think they’re gonna do it unto you? Something like that. David shuddered, then cradled the gun in his hands. Had Joey died because he didn’t have the revolver when he needed it? The possibility drained away what little spirit David had left. All that remained was anger. Anger and a consuming hatred. He would find Vincent, or whoever had murdered Joey. He would find them and either kill them or die trying. He clenched one hand, then squeezed it with the other until it hurt. Finally he worked the jeep into reverse and started down the driveway.
Concern for Christine diluted his anger with a sense of urgency. He tried accelerating, but the carburetor, choked on dust and sand, flooded. The idea occurred to him that a perfect thank-you gift for Joey would have been a tune-up and alignment for the jeep.
Would have been. David shook his head helplessly, then glanced at the watch Joey had given him. It was after nine. Above, the frail overcast was showing the first signs of surrender to the autumn sun. He forced himself to loosen up and restarted the engine. By the time he reached the ocean road, he had mastered a rhythm of shifting and acceleration that was acceptable to the relic. His thoughts returned to Christine. Perhaps he should have called the police. If she didn’t have too great a start, at least they could detain her long enough for him to catch up. But who—the state police? Would she be upset if he involved them before she was ready? He turned the notion over in his mind. He had decided to stop at the first phone booth when he saw the flashing lights and barriers of a roadblock ahead.
A battered maroon pickup truck in front of him was struggling through a U-turn, its grizzled driver mouthing obscenities. David leaned out of the jeep and called to him.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?”
“Eh?” The man stopped the truck obliquely across the road, still several maneuvers from a complete U.
“Up ahead, what’s happened?” David tried again, this time shouting.
“Accident. Bad one too, damn it.” The old man’s tone left no doubt that he was taking the inconvenience personally. “Two cars over the side. One they just hauled up. One’s comin’ from way at the bottom. Fifteen, twenty minutes more, they said. Probably be an hour, the way Mac Perkins works that old tow rig of his.”
Uneasiness took hold as David strained to see past the truck. “Did you see either of the cars involved?” he asked too softly.
“Eh?”
David groaned. “The cars,” he yelled. “Did you see either … Oh, never mind. Could I get by, please?”
“Sure, but you ain’t goin’ nowhere. An’ there’s no need for you to go snappin’ about it neither.” All at once David’s questions registered. “The cars, you say? Did I see the cars?” Totally exasperated, David nodded. “Only the little blue one,” the man called out. “Smashed to smithereens it is, too.”
David’s hands knotted on the wheel. A sinking terror deepened inside him. He closed his eyes while the old man worked his pickup out of the way. In that instant the photolike image of another accident appeared in his mind. The rain, the lights, Becky’s and Ginny’s faces, even their screams. He wanted to open his eyes, to end the horror, but he knew that when he did only a new nightmare awaited. He had no doubt that the blue car the old man had seen was Christine’s.
“Mister, road’s closed. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn around.”
David whirled toward the voice. It was a state trooper, tall and thin, with a high schooler’s face that made him look slightly ridiculous in his authoritative blue uniform. Before David could respond, his gaze swung past the spot where the truck had been to the cluster of police cars, tow trucks, and ambulances ahead. In the midst of them, resting on flattened tires, was the shattered, twisted wreck of Christine’s Mustang.
“Mister? …” The young trooper’s voice held some concern.
David’s face was ashen. “I … I know the woman who was driving that car,” he said in a remote, hollow voice. “She was my … friend.”
“Mister, are you all right?” When David did not answer, the trooper called down the road, “Gus, send one of the paramedics over here. I think this guy’s gonna pass out or something.” He opened the door of the jeep. As he did, David pushed past him and began a hobbling run toward the car, oblivious to the salvos of pain from his ankle. He stumbled the last five yards and hit heavily against the door. Gasping, he stretched his arms across the roof and held on. The car was empty. The windshield was blown out, and the engine had been smashed backward, nearly to the front seat. An ugly brown swatch of blood stood out against the soft blue seat cover.
“God damn it,” he cried softly. “God damn it … God damn it!” Louder and louder until he was screaming.
Several men rushed toward him just as the trooper took his arm.
“Mister, please calm down,” he said in more of a plea than an order. He led David to the side of the road and helped him lean against the trunk of a half-dead birch.
After a minute, David managed to speak. “Wh … where’s her body?” he stammered.
“What?”
“Her body, damn it,” he screamed. “Where have they taken it?”
The young man broke into a relieved grin. “Mister, there isn’t any body. No dead one, I mean. Not from this car anyway.”
David sank to one knee and stared up at him.
“Passerby found the lady wanderin’ down the road,” the trooper explained. “Pretty battered up, with a nasty cut or two, and probably a broken arm, but nowheres near dead. Now, can you calm down enough to tell me who you are?”
Kensington Community Hospital, a twenty-minute drive according to the trooper, took thirty-five in the jeep. David had stayed at the accident scene for a short while, learning what he could. Christine’s survival was miraculous. A couple had come upon her, bloodied and incoherent, wandering along the road. Later the rescue team found her Mustang wedged upside down against a tree fifty feet down the rocky slope and nearly half a mile from where she was pic
ked up.
David remained long enough to watch with total dispassion as Leonard Vincent’s mangled corpse was pried from his car and transferred to an ambulance. He left during the commotion that followed discovery in the wreckage of a silenced revolver and a variety of knives. Throughout his drive to the hospital he sensed renewed hatred building—hatred no longer directed at Leonard Vincent, but at those who had hired him.
The hospital was fairly new and very small—fifty beds or less, David guessed. He paused momentarily inside the front door, trying to develop some feel for the place. The lobby was deserted save for the ubiquitous salmon-coated volunteer behind the desk, rearranging the contents of her purse. To her right an impressive brass board listed the two dozen or so physicians on the hospital staff. Beside each name was a small amber bulb that the physician could switch on when he was “in the house.” Only one had a glowing amber light. No one could accuse Kensington Community Hospital of being overstaffed, he thought sardonically.
The emergency wing was labeled with black paste-on letters above a set of automatic doors. As they slid shut behind him, David heard the volunteer say, “Can I help you, sir?” He shook his head without bothering to look back.
The physician on duty, an Indian woman with dark, tired eyes, met him hallway down the corridor. She wore a light orange sari beneath her clinic coat and had a White Memorial Hospital name tag that identified her as Dr. T. Ranganathan.
“Excuse me,” David said anxiously, “my name is David Shelton. I’m a surgeon at Boston Doctors. A friend of mine, Christine Beall, was brought in here a short time ago?”
“Ah, yes, the automobile accident,” she said in sterile English. “I saw her only briefly before Dr. St. Onge arrived and … ah … took over the case. She has a fractured wrist and possibly some fractured ribs on the left side. Also two scalp lacerations. However, at the time Dr. St. Onge dismissed me she seemed in no immediate danger. You will find her in there.” She pointed at one of the rooms.
The Sisterhood Page 28