Harvest

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She was in her late forties, with the thin, dry face of a woman who had long ago lost her oestrogenic glow. In Bernard Katzka's opinion, that alone did not make a woman unattractive. A woman's appeal lay not in the lustre of her skin and hair, but in what was revealed by her eyes. In that regard, he had met a number of fascinating seventy-year-olds, among them his maiden aunt Margaret, whom he'd grown particularly close to since Annie's death. That Katzka actually looked forward to his weekly coffee chats with Aunt Margaret would probably bewilder his partner, Lundquist. Lundquist was of the masculine school that believed women were not worth a second glance once they'd crossed the menopausal finish line. No doubt it was all rooted in biology. Males mustn't waste their energy or sperm on a nonreproductive female. No wonder Lundquist had looked so relieved when Katzka agreed to interview Brenda Hainey. Lundquist considered postmenopausal women to be Bernard Katzka's forte, by which he meant Katzka was the one detective in Homicide who had the patience and fortitude to hear them out.

And this was precisely what Katzka had been doing for the last fifteen minutes, listening patiently to Brenda Hainey's bizarre charges. She was not easy to follow. The woman mingled the mystical with the concrete, in the same breath telling him about signs from heaven and syringes of morphine. He might have been amused by the quirky nature of this encounter if the woman had been likeable, but Brenda Hainey was not. There was no warmth in her blue eyes. She was angry, and angry people were not attractive.

"I've spoken to the hospital about this," she said. "I went straight to their president, Mr Parr. He promised he'd investigate, but that was five days ago, and so far I've heard nothing. I call every day. His office tells me they're still looking into it. Well, today I decided enough was enough. So I called your people. And they tried to put me off too, tried to make me talk to some rookie police officer first.

Well I believe in going straight to the highest authority. I do it all the time, every morning when I pray. In this case, the highest authority would be you."

Katzka suppressed a smile.

"I've seen your name in the newspaper," Brenda said. "In connection with that dead doctor from Bayside."

"You're referring to Dr. Levi?"

"Yes. I thought, since you already know about the goings-on in that hospital, you're the one I should speak to."

Katzka almost sighed, but caught himself. He knew she would take it for what it was, an expression of weariness. He said, "May I see the note?"

She pulled a folded paper from her purse and handed it to him. It had one typewritten line: Your aunt did not die a natural death. A friend.

"Was there an envelope?"

This, too, she produced. On it was typed the name Brenda Hainey. The flap had been sealed, then torn open.

"Do you know who might have sent this?" he asked.

"I have no idea. Maybe one of the nurses. Someone who knew enough to tell me."

"You say your aunt had terminal cancer. She could have died of natural causes."

"Then why send me that note? Someone knew differently.

Someone wants this looked into. I want it looked into."

"Vaere is your aunt's body now?"

"Garden of Peace Mortuary. The hospital shipped it out pretty quick, if you ask me."

"Whose decision was that? It must have been next of kin."

"My aunt left instructions before she died. That's what the hospital told me, anyway."

"Have you spoken to your aunt's doctors? Perhaps they can clear this up."

"I'd prefer not to speak to them."

"Why not?"

"Given the situation, I'm not sure I trust them."

"I see." Now Katzka did sigh. He picked up his pen and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Why don't you give me the names of all your aunt's doctors."

"The physician in charge was Dr. ColinWettig. But the one who really seemed to be making all the decisions was that resident of his. I think she's the one you should look at."

"Her name?"

"Dr. DiMatteo."

Katzka glanced up in surprise. "Abigail DiMatteo?"

There was a brief silence. Katzka could see consternation clearly written on Brenda's face.

She said, cautiously, "You know her."

"I've spoken to her. On another matter."

"It won't affect your judgment on this case, will it?"

"Not at all."

"Are you certain?" She challenged him with a gaze he found irritating. He was not easily irritated, and he had to ask himself now why this woman so annoyed him.

Lundquist chose that moment to walk past the desk, and he flashed what could only be characterized as a sympathetic smirk. Lundquist should have interviewed this woman. It would have been good for him, an exercise in polite restraint, which Lundquist needed to develop.

Katzka said: "I always try to be objective, Miss Hainey."

"Then you should take a close look at Dr. DiMatteo."

"Why her in particular?"

"She's the one who wanted my aunt dead."

Brenda's charges struck Katzka as improbable. Still, there was the matter of that note and who had sent it. One possibility was that Brenda had sent it to herself; stranger things had been done by people hungry for attention. That was easier for him to believe than what she was claiming had happened: that Mary Allen had been murdered by her doctors. Katzka had spent weeks watching his wife slowly die in the hospital, so he was well acquainted with cancer wards. He had witnessed the compassion of nurses, the dedication of oncologists. They knew when to keep fighting for a patient's life. They also knew when the fight was lost, when the suffering outweighed the benefits of one more day, one more week, of life. There had been times towards the end, when Katzka had wanted desperately to ease Annie across the final threshold. Had the doctors suggested such a move, he would have agreed to it. But they never had. Cancer killed quickly enough; which doctor would risk his professional future to hurry along a patient's death? Even if Mary Allen's doctors had made such a move, could one truly consider it homicide?

It was with reluctance that he drove to Bayside Hospital that afternoon after Brenda Hainey's visit. He was obligated to make a

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few inquiries. At the hospital's public information office, he confirmed that Mary Allen had indeed expired on the date Brenda said she had, and that the diagnosis had been undifferentiated metastatic carcinoma. The clerk could give him no other information. Dr. Wettig, the attending, was in surgery and unavailable for the afternoon. So Katzka picked up the phone and paged Abby DiMatteo.

A moment later she called back.

"This is Detective Katzka," he said. "We spoke last week."

"Yes, I remember."

"I have some questions on an unrelated matter. Where can I meet you?"

"I'm in the medical library. Is this going to take a long time?"

"It shouldn't."

He heard a sigh. Then a reluctant: "OK. The library's on the second floor, Administrative wing."

In Katzka's experience, the average person — provided he or she was not a suspect — enjoyed talking to homicide cops. People were curious about murder, about police work. He'd been astonished by the questions they asked him, even the sweetest-faced old ladies, everyone longing to hear the details, the bloodier the better. Dr. DiMatteo, however, had sounded genuinely unwilling to speak to him. He wondered why.

He found the hospital library tucked between data processing and the financial office. Inside were a few aisles of bookshelves, a librarian's desk, and a half-dozen study carrels along one wall. Dr. DiMatteo was standing beside the photocopier, positioning a surgical journal on the plate. She'd already collated a number of papers into piles, and had stacked them on a nearby desk. It surprised him to see her performing such a clerical task. He was also surprised to see her dressed in a skirt and blouse rather than the scrub clothes he'd assumed was the uniform of all surgical residents. From the first day he'd met Abby DiMatteo, he'd thought her an attractive woman. Now, seeing her in a flattering skirt, with all that black hair hanging loose about her shoulders, he decided she was really quite stunning.

Shelooked up and gave a nod. That's when he noticed something else different about her today. She seemed nervous, even a little wary.

"I'm almost finished," she said. "I have one more article to copy." "Not on duty today?"

"Excuse me?"

"I thought surgeons lived in scrubsuits."

She placed another page on the Xerox machine and hit the Copy button. "I'm not scheduled for the OR today. So I'm doing a literature search. Dr. Wettig needs these for a conference." She stared down at the copier, as though the flashing light, the machine's whiff, required all her concentration. When the last pages rolled out, she took them to the table, where the other stacks lay waiting, and sat down. He pulled out the chair across from her. She picked up a stapler, then set it back down again.

Still not looking at him, she asked: "Have there been new developments?"

"In regards to Dr. Levi, no."

"I wish I could think of something new to tell you. But I can't." She gathered up a few pages and stapled them together with a sharp snap of the wrist.

"I'm not here about Dr. Levi," he said. "This is about a different matter. A patient of yours."

"Oh?" She picked up another stack of papers and slid it between the stapler teeth. "Which patient are we talking about?"

"A Mrs Mary Allen."

Her hand paused for a second in midair. Then it came down, hard, on the stapler.

"Do you remember her?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I understand she died last week. Here, at Bayside."

"That's right."

"Can you confirm that her diagnosis was metastatic undifferentiated carcinoma?"

"Yes."

"And was she in the terminal stages?"

"Yes."

"Then her death was expected?"

There was a hesitation. It was just long enough to notch up his alertness.

She said, slowly, "I would say it was expected."

He was watching her more closely, and she seemed to know it. He didn't say anything for a moment. Silence, in his experience, was far more unnerving. Quietly he asked: "Was her death in any way unusual?"

At last she looked up at him. He realized she was sitting absolutely still. Almost rigid.

"In what way unusual?" she asked.

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"The circumstances. The manner in which she expired."

"Can I ask why you're pursuing this?"

"A relative of Mrs Allen's came to us with some concerns."

"Are we talking about Brenda Halhey? The niece?"

"Yes. She thinks her aunt died of causes unrelated to her disease." "And you're trying to turn this into a homicide?"

"I'm trying to determine if there's anything worth investigating. Is there?"

She didn't answer.

"Brenda Hainey received an anonymous note. It claimed that Mary Allen didn't die of natural causes. Do you have any reason, any reason at all, to think there might be substance to that?"

He could have predicted several likely responses. She might have laughed and said this was all ridiculous. She might have told him that Brenda Hainey was crazy. Or she might show puzzlement, even a flash of anger, that she was being subjected to these questions. Any one of those reactions would have been appropriate. What he did not expect was her actual response.

She stared at him with a face suddenly drained white. And she said softly: "I refuse to answer any more questions, Detective Katzka."

Seconds after the policeman left the library, Abby reached in panic for the nearest telephone and paged Mark. To her relief, he immediately answered her call.

"That detective was here again," she whispered. "Mark, they know about Mary Allen. Brenda's been talking to them. And this cop's asking questions about how she died."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No, I-' She took a deep breath. The sigh that followed was close to a sob. "I didn't know what to say. Mark, I think I gave it away. I'm scared and I think he knows it."

"Abby, listen. This is important. You didn't tell him about the morphine in your locker, did you?"

"I wanted to. Jesus, Mark, I was ready to spill my guts. Maybe I should. If I just came out and told him everything-'

"Don't."

"Isn't it better to just tell him? He'll find out anyway. Sooner or later, he'll dig it all up. I'm sure he will." She let out another breath, and felt the first flash of tears sting her eyes. She was going to be sobbing in a minute, right here in the library, where anyone could see her. "I don't see any way around it. I have to go to the police."

"What if they don't believe you? They take one look at the circumstantial evidence, that morphine in your locker, and they'll jump to the obvious conclusion."

"So what am I supposed to do? Wait for them to arrest me? I can't stand this. I can't." Her voice faltered. In a whisper she repeated, '! can't."

"So far the police have nothing. I won't tell them a thing. Neither will Wettig or Parr, I'm sure of it. They don't want this out in the open any more than you do. Just hold on, Abby. Wettig's doing everything he can to get you reinstated."

It took her a moment to regain her composure. When at last she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady. "Mark, what if Mary Allen was murdered? Then there should be an investigation. We should bring this to the police ourselves."

"Is that what you really want to do?"

"I don't know. I keep thinking it's what we ought to do. That we're obligated. Morally and ethically."

"It's your decision. But I want you to think long and hard about the consequences."

She already had. She'd thought about the publicity. The possibility of arrest. She'd gone back and forth on this, knowing what she should do, yet afraid to take action. I'm a coward. My patient's dead, maybe murdered, and all I can worry about is saving my own goddamn skin.

The hospital librarian walked into the room, wheeling a squeaky cart of books. She sat down at her desk and began stamping the inside covers. Whap. Whap.

"Abby," said Mark. "Before you do anything, think."

"I'll talk to you later. I've got to go now." She hung up, and went back to the table, where she sat down and stared at the stack of photocopied journal articles. This was the extent of her work today. This was what she'd spent all morning doing, collecting this pile of paper. She was a physician who could no longer practise, a surgeon banished from the OR.The nurses and house staff didn't know what to make of it all. She was sure the rumours were already swirling thick and furious. This morning, when she'd walked through the wards looking for Dr. Wettig, the nurses had all turned to look at her. What are they saying behind my back? she wondered.

She was afraid to find out.

The whap, whap had ceased. She realized the librarian had stopped stamping her book covers and was now eyeing Abby.

Like everyone else in this hospital, she, too, is wondering about me.

Flushing, Abby gathered up her papers and carried them to the librarian's desk.

"How many copies?"

"They're all for Dr. Wettig. You can charge them to the residency office."

"I need to know the exact count, for the copier log. It's our standing policy."

Abby set the stack of papers down and began counting pages. She should have known the librarian would insist. This woman had been at Bayside forever, and she'd never failed to inform each new crop of interns that, in this room, things were done her way. Abby was getting angry now, at this librarian, at the hospital, at the mess her life had become. She finished counting the last article.

"Two hundred fourteen pages," she said, and slapped it down on the pile. The name Aaron Levi, &ID seemed to jump out at her from the top page. The article's title was: "Comparison of cardiac transplant survival rates between critically ill and outpatient recipients?The authors were Aaron, Rajiv Mohandas, and Lawrence Kunstler. She stared at Aaron's name, shaken by the unexpected reminder of his death.

The librarian, too, noticed Aaron's name and she shook her head. "It's hard to believe Dr. Levi's gone."

"I know what you mean," Abby murmured.

"And to see both those names on the same article?The woman shook her head.

"Excuse me?"

"Dr. Kunstler and Dr. Levi."

"I'm afraid I don't know Dr. Kunstler."

"Oh, he was here before you came." The librarian closed the copier log and primly slid it back onto her bookshelf. "It must have happened six years ago, at least."

"What happened six years ago?"

"It was just like that Charles Stuart case.You know, the man who jumped off the Tobin Bridge. That's where Dr. Kunstler jumped."

Abby focused again on the article. On the two names at the top of the page. "He killed himself?."

The librarian nodded. "Just like Dr. Levi."

The clatter of mahjongg tiles being stirred on the dining table was too loud to talk over. Vivian shut the kitchen door and went back to the sink, where she'd set the colander of beansprouts. She resumed snapping off the shrivelled tails and throwing the tops into a bowl.

Abby didn't know anyone bothered to snap off beansprout roots. Only the goddamn nitpicky Chinese, Vivian told her. The Chinese spent hours labouring over some dish that's devoured in minutes. And who noticed the tails, anyway?Vivian's grandmother did. And her grandmother's friends did. Put a dish of beansprouts with the tails still attached in front of those ladies, and they'd all wrinkle their noses. So here was the obedient granddaughter, the gifted surgeon soon to be opening her own practice, concentrating on the weighty task of snapping sprouts. She did it swiftly, efficiently, every movement vintage Vivian. The whole time she listened to Abby's story, those graceful hands of hers never fell still.

"Jesus," Vivian kept murmuring. "Jesus, you are screwed."

In the next room the clatter of tiles had stopped, the new round of play begun. Every so often, through the buzz of gossip, there'd be a clunk as someone tossed a tile into the centre. "What do you think I should do?" said Abby. "Either way, DiMatteo, he's got you."

"That's why I'm talking to you. You've been screwed by Victor Voss. You know what he's capable of."

"Yeah." Vivian sighed. "I know too well."

"Do you think I should go to the police? Or should I ride this out and hope they don't dig any deeper?"

"What does Mark think?"

"He thinks I should keep my mouth shut."

"I agree with him. Call it my inherent distrust of authority. You must have more faith in the police than I do, if you're thinking of turning yourself in and hoping for the best." Vivian reached for a dish towel and dried her hands. She looked at Abby. "Do you really think your patient was murdered?"

"How else do I explain that morphine level?"

"She was already getting it. And probably tolerant enough to need sky-high levels just to stay comfortable. Maybe the doses finally accumulated."

"Only if she got an extra dose. Accidentally or intentionally."

"Just to set you up?"

"No one ever checks morphine levels on terminal cancer patients! Someone wanted to make sure her murder didn't slip by unnoticed. Someone who knew it was murder. And sent that note to Brenda Hainey."

"How do we know Victor Voss did it?"

"He's the one who wants me out of Bayside."

"Is he the only one?"

Abby stared atVivian. And wondered: Who else wants me out? In the dining room, the thunderous clatter of mahjongg tiles signalled the end of another round. The noise startled Abby. She began to pace the kitchen. Past the rice cooker burbling on the counter, past the stove where steam wafted, spicy and exotic, from cooking pots. "This is crazy. I can't believe anyone else would do this, just to get me fired."

"Jeremiah Parr's got his own neck to save. And Voss is probably breathing down it right this minute. Think about it. The hospital board is packed with Voss's rich buddies. They could have Parr fired. Unless he fires you first. Hey, you're not paranoid, DiMatteo. People really are out to get you."

Abby sank into a chair at the kitchen table. The noise from the game in the next room was giving her a headache. That and all the old-lady chatter. This house was full of noise, visitors talking Cantonese at a near-shout, friendly conversation raised to argument pitch. How could Vivian stand having her grandmother live with her? The din alone would drive Abby crazy.

"It still all comes back to Victor Voss," said Abby. "One way or the other, he'll have his revenge."

"Then why did he drop those lawsuits? That part doesn't make sense. He sends steamrollers coming right at you. Then suddenly, they all stop."

"Instead of being sued by everyone, I'm accused of murder. What a wonderful alternative."

"But you do see that it doesn't make sense?Voss probably paid a lot to get those lawsuits rolling. He wouldn't just drop them. Not unless he was concerned about some possible consequence. A countersuit, for instance. Were you planning something like that?"

"I discussed it with my lawyer, but he advised against it."

"So why did Voss drop the lawsuits?" It didn't make sense to Abby, either.

She considered that question all the way home, driving back from Vivian's house in Melrose. It was late afternoon, and the traffic was heavy as usual on Route 1. Though it was drizzling outside, she kept her window open. The stench of rotting pig organs still lingered in her car. She didn't think the smell would ever disappear. It would always linger, a permanent reminder of VictorVoss's rage.

The Tobin Bridge was coming up — the place where Lawrence Kunstler had chosen to end his life. She slowed down. Perhaps it was a morbid compulsion that made her glance sideways, towards the water, as she drove onto the bridge. Under dreary skies, the river looked black, its surface stippled by wind. Drowning was not a death she would choose. The panic, the thrashing limbs. Throat closing against the rush of cold water. She wondered if Kunstler had been conscious after he hit the water. Or whether he had struggled against the current. She wondered, too, about Aaron. Two doctors, two suicides. She'd forgotten to ask Vivian about Kunstler. If he had died only six years ago, Vivian might have heard of him.

Abby's gaze was so drawn to the water, she didn't notice that the car in front of her had slowed down, that traffic had backed up from the toll booth. When she glanced up at the road, she saw that the car in front was stopped dead.

Abby slammed on the brakes. An instant later, she was jolted by a rear-end thump. She glanced in the mirror and saw the woman behind her shaking her head apologetically. For the moment, traffic on the bridge was going nowhere. Abby stepped out of her car and ran back to survey the damage.

The other woman got out as well. She stood by nervously as Abby inspected the rear bumper.

"It looks OK," said Abby. "No harm done."

"I'm sorry, I guess I wasn't paying attention."

Abby glanced at the woman's car, and saw that her front bumper was equally undamaged.

"This is embarrassing," the woman said. "I was so busy watching that tailgater behind me." She pointed at a maroon van idling behind her car. "Then I go and bump someone."

A horn honked. Traffic was moving again. Abby returned to her car and continued across. As she drove past the toll booth, she couldn't help one last backward glance at the bridge, where Lawrence Kunstler had made his fatal leap. They knew each other, Aaron and Kunstler. They worked together. They wrote that article together.

That thought kept going around in her mind as she navigated the streets back to Cambridge.

Two doctors on the same transplant team. And both of them commit suicide.

She wondered if Kunstler had left a widow. Wondered if Mrs Kunstler had been just as bewildered as Elaine Levi was.

She looped around the Harvard Common. As she veered off onto Brattle Street, she happened to glance in the rearview mirror. A maroon van was behind her. It, too, drove onto Brattle.

She drove another block, past Willard Street, and looked again

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at the mirror. The van was still there. Was it the tailgater from the bridge? She hadn't given that van more than a glance at the time, and all she'd taken in was its colour. She didn't know why seeing it now made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was that recent crossing of the bridge, and that glimpse of the water. The reminder of Kunstler's death. Of Aaron's death.

On impulse, she turned left, onto Mercer.

So did the van.

She turned left again, on Camden, then right on Auburn. She kept glancing in the mirror, waiting for, almost expecting, the van to come into view. Only when she'd reached Brattle Street again, and the van hadn't reappeared, did she allow herself a sigh of relief. What a nervous Nellie.

She drove straight home and pulled into the driveway. Mark wasn't back yet. That didn't surprise her. Despite drizzly skies, he'd planned to take Gimme Shelter out for another round-the-buoy race against Archer. Bad weather, he'd told her, was no excuse not to sail, and short of a hurricane, the race would go on.

She stepped into the house. It was gloomy inside, the afternoon light grey and watery through the windows. She crossed to the tabletop lamp and was about to switch it on when she heard the low growl of a car on Brewster Street. She looked out the window.

A maroon van was moving past the house. As it approached her driveway, it slowed to a crawl, as though the driver was taking a long, careful look at Abby's car.

Lock the doors. Lock the doors.

She ran to the front door, turned the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place.

The back door. Was it locked?

She ran down the hall and through the kitchen. No deadbolt, just a button lock. She grabbed a chair and slid it against the door, propping it under the knob.

She ran back to the living room and, standing behind the curtain, she peeked outside.

The van was gone.

She looked in both directions, straining for a view towards each corner, but saw only empty street, slick with drizzle.

She left the curtains open and the lights off. Sitting in the dark living room, she stared out the windows and waited for the van to reappear. Wondered if she should call the police. With what complaint? No one had threatened her. She sat there for close to an hour, watching the street, hoping that Mark would come home.

The van didn't appear. Neither did Mark.

Come home. Get off your goddamn boat and come home.

She thought of him out on the bay, sails snapping overhead, boom slamming across in the wind. And the water, turbid and churning under grey skies. Like the river had been. The river where Kunstler died.

She picked up the phone and dialledVivian. The clamour of the Chao household came through the line in a lively blast of noise. Over the sounds of laughter and shouted Cantonese, Vivian said: "I'm having trouble hearing you. Can you say that again?"

"There was another doctor on the transplant team who died six years ago. Did you know him?"

Vivian's answer came back in a shout. "Yeah. But I don't think it was that long ago. More like four years."

"Do you have any idea why he committed suicide?"

"It wasn't a suicide."

"What?"

"Look, can you hold on a minute? I'm going to change extensions." Abby heard the receiver clunk down and had to endure what seemed like an endless wait before Vivian picked up the extension. "OK, Grandma! You can hang up!" she yelled. The chatter of Cantonese was abruptly cut off.

"What do you mean, it wasn't a suicide?" Abby said.

"It was an accident. There was some defect in his furnace and carbon monoxide collected in the house. It killed his wife and baby girl, too."

"Wait. Wait a minute. I'm talking about a guy named Lawrence Kunstler."

"I don't know anyone named Kunstler. That must have happened before I got to Bayside."

"Who are you talking about?"

"An anaesthesiologist. The one before they hired Zwick. I'm blocking on his name right now… Hennessy. That's the name."

"He was on the transplant team?"

"Yeah. A young guy, right out of fellowship. He wasn't here very long.! remember he was thinking about moving back west when it happened."

"Are you sure it was an accident?"

"What else would it be?"

Abby stared out the window at the empty street and said nothing. "Abby, is something wrong?"

"Someone was following me today. A van."

"Come on."

"Mark isn't home yet. It's almost dark and he should be home by now. I keep thinking about Aaron. And Lawrence Kunstler. He jumped off the Tobin Bridge. And now you're telling me about Hennessy. That's three, Vivian."

"Two suicides and an accident."

"That's more than you'd expect in one hospital."

"Statistical cluster? Or maybe there's something about working for Bayside that's really, really depressing." Vivian's attempt at humour fell flat and she knew it. After a pause she said, "Do you honestly think someone was following you?"

"What did you tell me? You're not paranoid. Someone's really out to get you."

"I was referring to Victor Voss. Or Parr. They have reasons to harass you. But to follow you around in a van? And what does it have to do with Aaron or the other two guys?"

"I don't know." Abby drew her legs up on the chair and hugged herself for warmth. For self-protection. "But I'm getting scared. I keep thinking about Aaron. I told you what that detective said that Aaron's death may not be a suicide."

"Does he have any evidence?"

"If he did, he certainly wouldn't tell me."

"He might tell Elaine."

Of course. The widow. The one who'd want to know, who'd demand to know.

After she hung up, Abby looked up Elaine Levi's phone number. Then she sat gathering the nerve to actually make the call. It was now dark outside, and the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Mark still wasn't home. She shut the curtains and turned on the lights.

All of them. She needed brightness and warmth.

She picked up the phone and dialled Elaine.

It rang four times. She cleared her throat, preparing to leave a message on the inevitable answering machine. Then she heard three piercing tones, followed by a recording:

"The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please check your listing and dial again…"

Abby redialled, painstakingly confirming each number as she punched it in.

Four rings were followed by the same piercing tones. "The number you have dialled is no longer in service…"

She hung up and stared at the phone as if it had betrayed her. Why had Elaine changed her number?Who was she trying to avoid?

Outside, a car splashed through the rain. Abby ran to the window and peered through a crack in the curtains. A BMW was pulling into the driveway.

She offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

Mark was home.