Play Dead

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’s desk, and 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.

‘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 U.S.A.), 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 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 College. In fact, the only time he 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 was 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 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.’

In less than three hours? Talk about breaking speed records.

‘Where is the doctor?’ James asked, trying like hell to sound like his usual cool, controlled self.

‘He’s in with Laura. He said she’s doing just fine.’ Mary started to cry. ‘Oh James, say it isn’t true. Not Judy. She can’t be dead. She just can’t be.’

James took her in his arms and held her closely. His eyes closed and a transformation took place within him. This, after all, was what it was all about. He loved her. God forgive him, he loved her so damn much. She had sinned and done some horrible things, things most husbands would never forgive. But try as he might, James could not help but love her more every day. She was so seemingly innocent, so helpless and beautiful. He had to protect her…

… no matter what she may have done in the past.

‘It’s okay, my love,’ James whispered, his eyes still tightly shut. ‘I’m here now. Everything is going to be okay.’

The tender moment, perhaps the last Mary and James would ever share together, came to a sudden halt when the door of room 117 opened. James released his wife and automatically fixed his professional mask back onto his face. He turned toward Dr Eric Clarich.

‘Dr Clarich?’

‘Dr Ayars?’ Eric asked. They shook hands. ‘Glad you both are here.’

‘Is she all right?’ James asked. ‘Can we see her?’

‘She’s doing just fine,’ Dr Clarich assured him. ‘She’ll be out of here in no more than a day or two.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Mary said.

‘She is a bit shaken up. It was quite a harrowing ordeal.’

‘Can you tell us what happened, Doctor?’

Eric led them over to a waiting area where they all sat down. ‘Apparently, your daughter walked in on a fire at Professor Simmons’s home. According to Laura, she opened the study door and found Professor Simmons on the floor. She tried to rescue her aunt and in doing so she nearly got herself killed. You see, Laura got trapped in the study. She tried to pull Professor Simmons out but the smoke was too much. Laura passed out.’

Mary looked at the doctor in horror. ‘Passed out? Then how did she…?’

‘Get out alive?’ Eric finished for her. ‘A bit of a mystery, I suppose. A man who has since chosen to remain anonymous pulled your daughter out of the fire. If not, she would undoubtedly have died in your sister’s study.’

‘Can we see her?’ James asked again.

‘She’s napping right now. She should be awake in a few hours.’

‘We’ll wait,’ James said, taking his wife’s shaking hand into his own. ‘Are you okay, Mary?’

She nodded.

‘I contacted Gloria,’ James continued. ‘She and Stan are on their way up.’

Another nod.

James turned his attention back toward his fellow physician. ‘Do they know what caused the fire?’

‘Not for sure,’ Eric replied, ‘but they suspect arson.’

Dr Eric Clarich watched as whatever little color had been left in their faces vanished with his words.

Later that night, there was a soft knock on Laura’s door.

‘Come in.’

The door swung open and a head of blond hair peeked around the corner. ‘Hi.’

‘Gloria!’ Laura said as a smile jumped to her lips. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

Another female voice came from behind the door. ‘What about little ol’ me?’

‘Serita,’ Laura chuckled. ‘How the hell did you two get here so fast?’

Gloria and Serita came in, the door closing behind them. They kissed Laura and sat on the corners of her bed. ‘You will never guess in a million years,’ Serita replied.

‘Huh?’

‘Stan drove us,’ Gloria explained.

‘And Laura, he was a perfect gentleman.’

‘Where is he now?’ Laura asked.

‘Go on, Gloria. You tell her.’

‘He left,’ Gloria explained. ‘He told us that he said some really stupid things to you the other night and that he couldn’t face you yet.’

Laura looked puzzled. ‘He told you that?’

Both women nodded.

‘And now he’s heading back to Boston?’

‘That’s right, honey. Can you believe it? The guy played chauffeur for the last six hours and now he’s shlepping all the way back.’

‘He was very drunk the other night, Laura,’ Gloria added. ‘He really feels terrible about it.’

Laura did not know what to say. ‘Forget it.’

‘So how you feeling, champ?’ Serita asked.

‘Not bad.’

Gloria wrung her hands. ‘I can’t believe this. Aunt Judy dead. It’s so horrible. Mom and Dad are in shock.’

‘I know,’ Laura said. ‘They were in here a little while ago.’

‘Such a terrible accident,’ Serita added.

‘No accident.’

Laura’s sister and best friend stared at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘It was no accident,’ Laura repeated. ‘Aunt Judy was murdered.’

‘Are you sure?’ Serita asked.

‘Arson. The house was doused with kerosene and Judy had been knocked unconscious.’

‘But who would do such a thing?’

Laura knew it was unsafe to involve anyone else in this, but her feelings of loneliness and despair made her reach out. She had to confide in someone. ‘You have to promise me you won’t say a word about this to anyone. Not one word. It could be a matter of life and death.’

‘Not a word,’ Serita replied while Gloria nodded her head in agreement.

‘I don’t know who killed Aunt Judy, but take a look at this.’

Laura reached into her bag and pulled out the old black-and-white photograph. She handed it to Gloria, who looked at it and then passed it on to Serita.

‘I don’t get it,’ Gloria said. ‘It’s an old picture of Aunt Judy, but who’s the guy?’

‘Any guesses, Serita?’

‘He looks familiar…’

‘Like David… or maybe Stan?’

‘A little, I guess.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Gloria asked.

‘The man in the photograph is Sinclair Baskin. Stan and David’s father.’

Gloria gasped. She remembered Stan’s words about his father’s death and she began to shake.

‘I don’t get it,’ Serita said. ‘What does this have to do with Judy’s death?’

‘I don’t know yet. But take a look at them. This is no casual pose.’

‘No,’ Serita agreed, ‘they definitely seem fond of one another.’

‘And take a look at that banner in the background. Brinlen College 1960. That’s where Sinclair Baskin taught. And 1960 – that’s the year he died.’

Serita continued to stare at the picture. ‘I still don’t get it. So your aunt might have had an affair with David’s father before he died in 1960. What does that have to do with the fire today?’

‘I haven’t figured out the connection yet, but I know one exists. I have to go to Chicago and find it.’

‘Chicago? Why Chicago?’

‘Brinlen College is in Chicago. My mother and Aunt Judy were raised there.’

Gloria finally spoke, her words coming from a fog. ‘We used to live there, Laura, before you were born.’

‘I know. There has to be a connection somehow. There has to be a link between Judy’s murder and Sinclair Baskin’s suicide.’

Gloria nearly screamed. She put her hand in her mouth, her teeth biting down hard upon her tender skin. A small shriek made its way past her lips.

‘What is it, Gloria? What’s the matter?’

Gloria took her hand away. She remembered what Stan had told her just a few nights ago, just after she had woken from her nightmare. Her eyes bounced about the room as though looking for a place to hide. ‘I… I can’t say.’

Laura sat up and grabbed her sister’s shoulders. ‘This is important, Gloria. Whoever killed Judy may have killed David too.’

‘Wha…? Killed David? But he drowned.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me what you know.’

‘But I promised.’

‘Promised who?’

‘Stan. I promised him I wouldn’t say anything.’

‘You have to tell me, Gloria. You could be in danger. Stan could be in danger.’

‘I don’t know…’

Laura began to shake her. ‘Tell me. Tell me.’

Serita stepped in and disengaged the two sisters. ‘Just relax a second, Laura.’

Laura let go and lay back down. ‘I can’t relax. The killer is still out there.’

‘You’re not making any sense, girl. Pictures from thirty years ago. Murderers running around. A suicide that’s thirty years old – ’

‘Not a suicide!’ Gloria shouted.

Laura and Serita spun toward Gloria’s voice. She was huddled in a corner, her whole body quivering and quaking as though she were caught in the grip of a fever. ‘He didn’t commit suicide,’ Gloria said.

Laura could not believe what she was hearing. ‘What are you talking about? Of course he committed suicide.’

Gloria shook her head violently. ‘He was murdered. Sinclair Baskin was murdered.’

‘What?’

‘Stan was hiding behind the couch in his father’s office. He was only ten years old but he saw the whole thing. Somebody murdered Sinclair Baskin.’

‘But…?’ Laura’s mouth fell open. She stared dumbstruck. ‘My God,’ she finally managed. ‘Does Stan know who did it?’

‘No. He didn’t recognize the killer. But he remembers the face…’

Laura fell back on the bed. Another piece of the puzzle had been handed to her and, once again, that piece did not seem to fit. Murdered. Sinclair Baskin. David. Judy. Something had happened thirty years ago, something horrible and evil, something that did not end with the passing of a decade or two. Judy’s haunting words came back to her, tearing at her heart with sharpened claws.

‘… There are things that you know nothing about. Things that happened many years ago… sometimes the past can overlap with the present. That was what happened with David…’

‘Serita?’

‘Yeah?’

There was only one way to find the answer to what happened so many years ago, to what happened to David. ‘Would you do me a favor?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t tell my folks or the doctor.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Can you get me a plane ticket to Chicago?’