Hush (28 page)

“Yes,” Rory said. “Everything.”

Lake followed Rory from the hall into a living/dining room. It appeared as if the interior had been gutted to make the space more modern. The walls of the living room were white, with a wall of sleek built-in bookshelves and cabinets. The couch and armchair were covered with white canvas and the only color in the room was from the blue-and-green area rug and the blue throw pillows on the couch. There wasn’t a single picture on the wall.

“Like I told you, we haven’t been here all that long,” Rory said, as if guessing Lake’s thoughts. “We’re still fixing it up.”

Rory led her into a small, pristine kitchen. It was clear from the gleaming pots hanging from the wall and the shelves of spices that Rory liked to cook. Lake remembered Rory saying she’d made jams.

“Do you want milk in your tea?” Rory asked, filling the kettle.

“No, thank you.” Lake said. She glanced around, wondering where the files were.

“Let me just get this started and then I’ll show you the files,” Rory said, as if she’d read her mind again.

“Good,” Lake said. “I also think we need to figure out a place for you to stay until your husband gets back.”

Rory’s shoulders drooped. “But
where
?” she asked. “I don’t want to stay with a stranger.”

“You could stay with me,” Lake said.

“But you said someone tried to kill you.”

“At least I have a doorman. I think you’ll feel safer there.”

Lake peered out the window. They were on the other side of the house from the garage and all she could see was total blackness. There was no way she could leave Rory alone here. Off in the distance, a bolt of lightning sliced the sky. From inside she could hear drops of rain begin to spatter in the yard.

“Do you really think someone was outside the storage room?” Lake asked. She wondered if Rory, in her anxiety, was being paranoid.

“Yes—I could hear that kind of squishy sound people’s footsteps make on the carpet.”

“Who was still at the clinic then?”

“Dr. Levin. Dr. Sherman was probably in his office but I never saw him, but I did see Dr. Hoss in the lab along with one of the other embryologists. Brie was around. Oh, and Dr. Kline.”

“Dr. Kline?” Lake asked, surprised. She’d thought Harry had told her in the park that he wouldn’t be returning to the clinic that day.

“Yes,” Rory said. The kettle screeched and she flicked off the burner. “He walked out with me and asked what I was doing this weekend. He told me I should probably savor my time alone since I wouldn’t have much afterward. Why don’t I get the files now? I have to let the tea steep.”

Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky and a clap of thunder followed a second later. The cell of the new storm was moving their way. Rory walked back into the living room, and as Lake took a seat at the kitchen table, she saw Rory pull a handful of files from a cabinet.

“I didn’t have time to go through very many,” Rory said, re
turning. “But at least I found some.” She handed Lake the stack, all still in their hanging files.

The one on top was the Hunt file and Lake slowly opened it. On the basic information form, by both Alexis and Brian’s names, was a faint scribble of letters:
BLg
and
BLb
. The other charts, as Rory had promised, all had the codes, too, and it was clear Lake had been right—they all corresponded to hair and eye colors.

“Had you ever noticed these notations before?” Lake asked.

“No, but I rarely look at that page,” Rory said. “It’s just for basic information—nothing that matters so much in their treatment.”

As Lake studied the files, Rory set their cups of tea in front of them. A butter cookie was cradled next to the cup in each saucer.

“I hope you don’t mind herbal tea. Once I got pregnant I threw out everything with caffeine so I wouldn’t be tempted.”

“No, that’s fine, I’m wired enough,” Lake said distractedly and took a sip. There was honey in the tea, which she hated, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Rory.

“Are the letters a code—something that has to do with the embryos?” Rory asked.

“Yes. I can’t explain right now, but I will later, once I get more information.”

“Do you really think this is why Dr. Keaton was killed?”

Lake tore her eyes away from the files and looked at Rory.

“I think it’s definitely possible. If Dr. Keaton learned about this and threatened to expose the clinic, that would be a very big motive.”

Rory seemed to look through her, distracted, and Lake wondered what she was thinking. Suddenly she was jostled by a thought. She recalled an odd little pause when she’d spoken to Rory about Maggie’s desk.

“Do you have any ideas, Rory?” she asked. “Did you ever see anyone near Maggie’s desk?”

“Well,” Rory said. She sat down at the table across from Lake and took a long, slow sip from her cup.

“Rory, please,” Lake urged. “Tell me.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. But one day—it was just kind of odd. I saw Dr. Kline there. He doesn’t usually come by the nurses’ station.”

“Harry?”

“Um-hm. And he seemed kind of surprised when I came up behind him. He said he was looking for a pencil sharpener.”

Lake felt as if someone had shoved her from behind.

“I almost told you the other day,” Rory added. “But I didn’t want to upset you. I can tell you…you know—like Harry.”

“What do you mean?” Lake asked.

“I thought you two might even be dating.”

Lake shifted her body in surprise. Clearly Rory had picked up the interest on Harry’s part and thought it went both ways.

“I like Harry as a person,” Lake said. “But we aren’t dating.”

“Oh, my mistake, then. I think Harry’s great, too. I know he had problems with Dr. Keaton, but I can’t imagine him ever hurting him.”

“What do you mean, ‘problems’?” Lake asked. The hair on the back of her neck lifted.

“Because of what happened with his daughter—and Dr. Keaton.”

LAKE STARED ACROSS
the kitchen table at Rory. She’d heard the words but it seemed as if they’d been said out of order and she could barely make sense of them.

“I’m not understanding at all,” Lake said. “What does Harry’s daughter have to do with Dr. Keaton?”

Rory cocked her head and lowered her eyes, as if she felt qualms about sharing the information.

“Please, Rory,” Lake urged.

“Okay,” she said, looking back up. “His daughter did a kind of internship during her spring break in March. Her name’s Allison. I guess she’s a biology major or something and she wanted to learn about embryology and help out—though I’m not sure what help anyone thought she could be. Well, that’s when Dr. Keaton was consulting the first time around, and she was very, very flirty with him. You could tell it made him uncomfortable, and when he ignored her she got mad. She told her father Dr. Keaton was
the one being flirty and then Harry became very upset with Dr. Keaton.”

Lake couldn’t believe this. Harry had made no reference to the situation when he’d spoken of his daughter. Why not at least mention that she’d worked at the clinic?

“How did Dr. Kline feel when it was announced that Keaton was joining the clinic?”

Rory lowered her eyes again and took another long sip of tea.

“I don’t think very good,” she said softly. “I have a feeling it’s why he wasn’t around that day. It’s like Dr. Levin had told him that if he didn’t like it, tough luck.”

Lake’s mind began to reel. Flirting didn’t seem like much of a motive for murder. But what if Rory didn’t know the whole story? Maybe Keaton
had
been interested in Harry’s daughter. Maybe he’d even seduced her. He’d been so slick—it wasn’t hard to imagine. And then, in a rage, Harry had killed him. Perhaps this explained why Harry had tried so hard to tune into what Lake was feeling—he’d suspected she’d been with Keaton and knew something that could incriminate him. Maybe he was the one who’d shaved Smokey and put the catnip in her bag. But then who was the man who had forced her to jump in the river? Was the embryo stealing a whole separate issue?

Lake took a quick sip of tea to steady her nerves. “Have you told the police this?” she asked bluntly.

“The
police
? You don’t really think Harry killed Dr. Keaton, do you? Just because of what his daughter said?”

Lake didn’t answer. She was trying to get a grip on their situation. Harry had asked Rory what she was doing this weekend. He knew she was home alone. She’d have to convince Rory that staying at her apartment was the right thing to do—at least for a night or two.

A bolt of lightning lit up outside again, followed by an instant
crack of thunder. The lights in the house flashed off and then on again.

“Oh God,” Rory said. “If the lights go out, I’ll die.”

“You’ve got flashlights, I hope,” Lake said. Her heart was beating fast now. She didn’t like being here. And she would like it a hell of a lot less, she realized, without any electricity.

“Somewhere,” Rory said. She jumped up and yanked a couple of kitchen drawers all the way open. “I don’t see them. Well, I know I have candles—probably in the living room.”

As Rory hurried into the other room, Lake pressed her fingertips to her lips, thinking. She doubted she’d have any more difficulty persuading Rory to leave. She took one last sip of tea and poured the rest in the sink, setting the cup there. As she turned, the yard outside seemed to explode in whiteness, as if it was being lit by a strobe. Thunder rolled over the house and the lights flashed off and on again. Lake could now hear that it was pouring hard outside.

Rory scurried back into the room, carrying a smudged cellophane-covered box with two white taper candles inside. It looked like it had been purchased in some other decade.

“This is it? You don’t have any more?”

“Yes. I mean, no, I don’t have any more.”

“All right—I’ve got a flashlight out in the car,” Lake said, digging her key out of her purse. “Have you got a slicker I can throw on?”

“Yes,” Rory said, following her to the door. “It’s in the hall.”

“I’ll only be a minute. As soon as I get back, we really need to pack up and leave.”

“Okay,” Rory said, squeezing her arms tightly around her bulging belly. “There’s no way I’m staying here now.”

There were just two coats on the hooks in the hallway—a lightweight woman’s jacket and a green slicker. Lake pulled the slicker over her head, and with her car key in hand made a dash from the door.

The rain seemed to be coming down in rivers. As she plunged across the muddy yard, trying to scan the surroundings with her eyes, she didn’t know what she was more afraid of—being attacked out there or hit by lightning. She unlocked the car with her key from fifteen feet away, yanked open the door, and quickly locked it again once she was safely inside. Her hands trembled as she hit the button on the glove compartment. She felt overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding.

The flashlight was where she remembered it to be—wedged behind the owner’s manual—but when she turned it on she saw that the battery was low and the light was a dull beam. Maybe Rory at least had batteries inside.

She pulled the slicker hood over her head again and jumped from the car. As she staggered through the mud, all the lights in the house went off again—and this time they stayed off. Damn, she thought.

“Rory,” she called out as she entered the darkened entranceway. “Have you got any C batteries?” She quickly locked the door behind her and kicked off her muddied clogs.

“Did you hear me?” she called out as she felt for the peg and hung the slicker. “I need batteries.”

There wasn’t any answer.

She trained the flashlight through the doorway to the living room and let it bounce around. It lit up only the first several feet of the room, and beyond that was only darkness.

“Rory,” Lake called again. “Where
are
you?” Maybe she can’t hear me from the kitchen, Lake thought. And yet something didn’t seem right.

She edged her way through the living room, her anxiety mounting. Finally she reached the kitchen. She ran the flashlight in an arc around the room. There was no one there.

From what she’d been able to see earlier, there were only two main rooms on the ground floor—the living room and the kitchen.
But a doorway at the far end of the kitchen seemed to open onto some kind of mudroom. Lake walked toward it and pointed the flashlight into the space. It was actually more of a pantry than a mudroom, with shelves of canned and packaged foods—and a door to the outside. Had Rory fled the house in a panic? she wondered.

I’ve got to get out of here, she thought desperately. But first she had to find Rory. She turned and inched back into the kitchen. The light from the flashlight seemed even fainter now, and she knew it might be only seconds before it went out all together. She flicked the light toward the table. She could just make out the package of candles. It had been ripped open and one of the candles was missing.

Squeezing the flashlight in her armpit, Lake pulled out the other candle and then turned and squinted at the stove. To her relief she saw that it had gas burners. She fired up a burner and thrust the candle into the flame, lighting it. Suddenly there was a sound behind her. She spun around. Rory was standing there, a burning candle in one hand and a box of matches in the other.

“God, Rory, where were you?” Lake blurted out.

“I’m sorry. I went upstairs,” Rory said. “I thought I heard a noise up there.”

“What
kind
of noise?”

“It was this sort of knocking sound. It really scared me. It turned out to be just the drapes in the bedroom—they were flapping against the wall.”

“What do you mean?” Lake asked anxiously.

“The window was open a little. The wind was blowing them.”

“But I thought you said you’d locked all the windows,” Lake said. She could barely hide her irritation.

“I know—I thought I had. But I must not have noticed that one because the drapes were closed.”

“And you’re certain you’re the one who left it open?”

“Yes. But it’s closed now and locked.”

“Fine, okay, you’ve got to pack now. What do you need besides clothes and toiletries?”

“I take heparin for my pregnancy. I have to get that.”

Suddenly Lake felt overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue. She took a deep breath, trying to summon her strength. “It’s going to be tough for you to pack with a candle. Do you have any C batteries?”

“I’m not sure. But I remembered where my husband keeps the flashlights—in the basement.” As Rory spoke she cocked her head toward a wooden door across the kitchen that obviously led downstairs. “He’s got a workbench down there with flashlights in the drawer.”

“Good,” Lake said. “Take a seat at the table. I’ll get the flashlights and then I’ll help you pack your stuff. We can be out of here in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Rory replied, but she stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, staring at Lake.

“What’s the matter?” Lake said.

“Are you all right?” Rory asked. “You look funny all of a sudden.” Rory’s face was drawn with concern, her pale skin like a mask in the flickering glow of the candle flame.

“I’m—I’m just tired. And I just want to get out of here.”

“Me, too,” Rory said.

Lake crossed the kitchen. After opening the basement door, she instinctively felt for the light switch and flipped it up. Dumb, she thought. She stared below. With the light from the candle, the basement looked like an empty black pit that went on forever. At least there was a railing to grasp. With one hand sliding along it, Lake made her way tentatively down the wooden stairs.

As she reached the bottom step she saw that the basement was split in two by the stairs. To the right were a washer and dryer against the wall and a big, stand-alone freezer, the horizontal kind.
On the far left she could see the workbench with just a few tools hanging from a pegboard above it. All I have to do, she told herself, is find the flashlights and get out.

She crossed the cement floor and tugged at one of the two drawers. Her arm felt oddly weak, and the drawer refused to budge. She tugged again, harder, and this time the drawer jerked open. Its bottom was scattered with loose nails, nothing more. She tried the other drawer. Two flashlights lay side by side. They were the long heavy-duty kind security cops carried.

She grabbed one, pushed the switch up and to her relief saw that it worked. She blew out the candle and then grabbed the other flashlight. Now get the hell out of here, she told herself. As she turned, a muffled crash sounded directly above her, making her whole body jerk. Something had fallen hard in the kitchen. Had Rory tripped? Had someone gotten into the house? Was it Harry? Or the man from Brooklyn? She had to get back upstairs to help Rory.

Flooded with fear, she lunged through the near-darkness toward the stairs. Suddenly she felt dizzy and disoriented in the near-darkness. She raised her foot to meet the first step but didn’t reach it, and she stumbled, falling. As she landed in a heap, both flashlights bounced from her hands. She heard one roll across the floor to her left. The other, the one she’d been using, was just a few feet away, shooting a beam of light across the hard cement floor. Terrified, she crawled toward it on her knees. Don’t let it go out, she begged.

She reached the flashlight and stuck her arm out feebly to grab it. Then she felt an intense, searing pain in her head. A split second later she slipped into unconsciousness.

Pain woke her, forced open her eyes. She was lying in pitch-black darkness, and her head was throbbing, as if someone had smashed the back of it with a chair. There was a weird taste in her mouth—
metallic. I’ve cut the inside of my mouth, she thought. She tried to find the spot with her tongue, but it was too swollen to move.

Where am I? she wondered panic-stricken. Her heart began to pound in time with the throbbing in her head. She tried to shift her body, but she felt paralyzed.

She forced herself to take a breath. I’m in a nightmare, she told herself, one of those nightmares you can dream and see yourself in at the same time. And I’m going to wake up. As she breathed, she smelled something musty, like mildewed clothes. No, this was real. She tried again to shift her body. Her arms didn’t move but she was able to twist her head a little.

A sound slid through the blackness—a long, low groan that she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded harder. It’s a motor, she thought finally.

She realized at last where she was. But why? Had she fallen? Or had someone
hit
her? Her mind was so confused, her thoughts choked like a tangle of weeds in a lake. She found the beginning and tried to go step by step from there. The last thing she recalled was trying to reach the flashlight. It must have gone out, though. How long had she been here and why was she alone? And then suddenly she knew. She remembered everything. She let out an anguished sob at the truth.

She realized that the hum of the motor must be from the freezer she’d seen earlier, which meant that the power was back on. She had to get out. She twisted her head back and forth and commanded the rest of her body to move. Her legs felt leaden, like they were metal drums filled to the brim, but she was able to move one of her arms—the right one. She flexed her right hand slowly open and closed, back and forth.

There was another noise—from far above this time. Footsteps. And next a door opening. Terror engulfed her body, squeezing air from her lungs.

The killer was coming to get her.

Lake tried desperately to move again. She managed to drag her hand to her face, but that was it. Suddenly the lightbulb in the ceiling popped on. The light made her head hurt even more but she forced her eyes to stay open. She realized that she was lying just to the left of the bottom of the steps. Raising her pounding head, she saw Rory descending the stairs.

“Rory,” she said weakly as her head fell back onto the hard floor. “I must have passed out.”

“Of course you did,” Rory said, stepping in front of Lake. She smiled down at her.