We'll Meet Again

49

She’d been arraigned. Fingerprinted. Photographed. She heard Philip Matthews say, “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” The prosecutor arguing that she might disappear and requesting house arrest. The judge saying one million dollars bail and confining her to her home.

Shivering in the holding cell. The bail paid. Like an obedient child, Molly, listless and detached, did as she was told, until finally she was in the car with Philip, who was driving her home.

His arm around her, he half carried her into the house and to the family room. He made her lie down on the sofa, put one of the decorative pillows under her head, then went hunting for a blanket and tucked it around her.

“You’re shivering. Where’s the starter for the fire?” he asked.

“On the mantel.” She was not aware she was answering a question until she heard her own voice.

A moment later the fire blazed up, warm and comforting.

“I’m staying,” Philip said. “I have my briefcase; I can work on the kitchen table. You close your eyes.”

When she opened them with a start, it was seven o’clock, and Dr. Daniels was sitting beside her. “You okay, Molly?”

“Annamarie,” she gasped. “I was dreaming about her.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Annamarie knew something terrible was going to happen to her. That was why she hurried out of the diner. She wanted to escape her fate. Instead, she ran into it.”

“You think Annamarie knew she was going to die, Molly?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why do you think Annamarie knew that?”

“Doctor, that was part of the dream. You know the fable of the man who was told he was going to meet death that night in Damascus, so he rushed to Samara to hide? And a stranger came up to him in the street there and said, ‘I am Death. I thought our appointment was in Damascus ’?” She grasped Dr. Daniels’s hands. “It was all so real.”

“You mean there was no way Annamarie could save herself?”

“No way at all. I can’t save myself either.”

“Tell me about that, Molly.”

“I don’t really know,” she whispered. “When I was in the holding cell today, and they locked that door, I kept hearing another door being locked or unlocked. Isn’t that odd?”

“Was it a prison door?”

“No. But I don’t know yet what door it is. The sound is part of what happened the night Gary died.” She sighed and, pushing the blanket away, sat up. “Oh God, why can’t I remember? If I could, maybe I’d have a chance.”

“Molly, it’s a good sign that you’re retrieving specific incidents or sounds.”

“Is it?” she said wanly.

The doctor studied Molly carefully. He could see the effects of the recent stress in her face: lethargic, depressed, withdrawn; sure that her own fate was sealed. Clearly she did not want to talk any longer.

“Molly, I’d like to get together with you every day for a while. All right?”

He had expected that she might protest, but she nodded indifferently.

“I’ll tell Philip I’m leaving,” he said.

“He should go home too. I’m so grateful to both of you. There’re not too many people hanging around these days. My father and mother, for example. They’ve been noticeably absent.”

The doorbell rang. Dr. Daniels saw the panic in Molly’s eyes. Not the police? he thought, dismayed.

“I’ll get it,” Philip called.

Dr. Daniels watched the relief that washed over Molly as the click of heels and a woman’s voice preceded Jenna Whitehall’s arrival. Her husband and Philip followed her into the room.

Dr. Daniels watched approvingly as Jenna gave Molly a brief hug and said, “Your Rent-a-Chef service is here, ma’am. No housekeeper, alas, but the mighty Calvin Whitehall himself will serve and clean up, with the able assistance of Attorney Philip Matthews.”

“I’m on my way,” the doctor said with a brief smile, glad Molly’s friends had come to her aid and anxious himself now to be going home. He instinctively disliked Calvin Whitehall, whom he’d met only a few times. His gut instinct was that the man was a natural bully, not remotely hesitant to use his immense power, not only to achieve his goals, but to manipulate people just so he could have the pleasure of watching them twist in the wind.

He was surprised and none too pleased when Whitehall followed him to the door.

“Doctor,” Whitehall said, his voice low, as though he were afraid of being overheard, “I’m glad to see you’re here with Molly. She’s terribly important to all of us. Do you think there is any possibility of having her declared incompetent to stand trial, or failing that, to have her judged not guilty of this second murder by reason of insanity?”

“Your question leaves no doubt that you consider Molly guilty of the death of Annamarie Scalli,” Dr. Daniels said coldly.

It was obvious Whitehall was both startled and offended by the implied rebuke.

“I would hope my question reflects the measure of the affection my wife and I hold for Molly and our awareness that a long prison sentence would be tantamount to a death sentence for her.”

God help the person who tangles with you, Daniels thought, noting the flush of indignation on Whitehall ’s cheekbones and the chipped-ice glint in his eyes. “Mr. Whitehall, I appreciate your concern. I am planning to see or talk with Molly on a daily basis, and we will simply have to take all this one day at a time.” He nodded and turned to the door.

As he drove home, Dr. Daniels thought, Jenna Whitehall may be Molly’s best friend, but she is married to a man who tolerates no interference and who lets no one get in his way. It occurred to him that this renewed interest in the scandal surrounding the death of Gary Lasch, the founder of Remington Health Management, surely wasn’t a welcome turn of events to Remington’s chairman of the board.

Is Whitehall in Molly’s home as the husband of her best friend, or is he there because he’s trying to figure the best plan for damage control? Daniels wondered.