Last Seen Alive (11 page)

through my teenage years, too. And I still do, she thought in frustration. “If you’re really interested, Deirdre, give me your home phone number and a good time to call. I’ll get back to you this week.”

Deirdre smiled. “That would be great, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“You wouldn’t be. I’m always happy to talk about the medical profession.”

The girl quickly wrote down her name, as if Chyna would forget it, a phone number, and “any time after 8:00
P.M.”
on an order sheet. She tore the small piece of paper off the pad and was handing it to Chyna when a heavyset man behind the counter called, “Hey, Deirdre, you considering taking their order?”

“Sorry, Dad,” Deirdre said over her shoulder, and turned back toward them with a face an even darker shade of red. There’s nothing like being yelled at by your father in front of the man of your dreams, Chyna mused in sympathy.

“Give the girl a chance to be sociable, Ben,” Scott called. “You want to get a reputation for being a slave driver?”

“Already got one,” Ben answered with a barely there smile.

“Well, knock it off. It can’t be good for business.” Scott’s voice was light with a serious undertone. “With those extra pounds you’ve gained, you should be playing the jolly innkeeper.”

Ben finally laughed. “Keep your remarks about my figure to yourself, Kendrick. I just look healthy.”

“Who told you that? Someone wanting free food?”

“Can you believe people used to think he was charming, honey?” Ben asked Deirdre, who giggled politely, clearly at a loss for something to add to the banter between men whose once-lively friendship had grown distant but certainly not dead.

“Dad’s great,” Deirdre finally got out.

“Yeah, he is,” Scott said. “And he adores you, no matter how cantankerous he sounds sometimes.”

Chyna folded the sheet of paper Deirdre had given her

and put it in her purse. “I won’t forget to call her; I promise,” she told Scott.

He grinned. “Am I being accused of criticizing you when I haven’t said a word?”

“No. I can just tell you like her and I don’t want you to think I’ll let her down.”

“She’s a great kid.”

“I can tell that, too.”

Five minutes later, Chyna sipped a cappuccino and nibbled a chocolate biscotti. Scott drank espresso and ordered two pieces of cheesecake. “Is the cheesecake good here?” Chyna asked drily.

Scott flushed. “Well, yeah, and cheesecake is my ultimate weakness.” He leaned across the table and said softly, “It’s good, but not as good as your mother’s.”

Chyna smiled. “She’d be so pleased to hear you say that.”

“Maybe she can hear me.”

“Ah, a believer in the afterlife?”

“Definitely.” He paused, looking at her intently. “And you?”

Intellectually,
no,
she wanted to say. But how could she take that stance when she’d been hearing voices from beyond the grave since she was seven, and particularly the last two days? “I’ll take the Fifth on that issue,” she answered lightly.

Scott sipped his espresso and looked at her with his depthless dark eyes. “Why were you so shaken at the funeral home? And don’t tell me it’s because death always frightens you. I won’t believe that one coming from a doctor who deals with death every day.”

“I try to stop death every day.”

“That’s very noble. It’s also evasive.”

“How about the time-honored expression ’it was meant to be’?”

“That won’t work, either.”

Chyna picked up her cappuccino, saw that her hand was shaking, and immediately put down the cup. “Do I have to tell you what frightened me?”

“No. You don’t
have
to tell me anything. But I think confiding in me might make you feel better. I don’t know why I think that—we’re not exactly best friends—but I’ve known you all your life.”

“You’ve barely known me.”

“I’ve known you better than you think. Our mothers’ friendship, remember? I’ve heard a lot about you. Besides, I’ve had an interest in you since you were a teenager. If I hadn’t been seven years older than you …” Chyna raised an eyebrow and Scott’s cheeks reddened. “Well, that sure didn’t come out right. I sound like a pedophile. What I meant was that you’ve never been invisible to me. Not even when you were only seven or eight. I always thought you were … different.”

“Different? Is that because people thought I was a kook?”

“Different because you were special.” Chyna stared at him. “Oh, forget it,” Scott said. “I can’t explain how I felt. I didn’t understand it myself.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Scott looked at her closely, as if he expected her to be offended, but she smiled at him. “I’ll take ’special’ any day over ’a kook.’” Chyna finally felt calm enough to lift her cappuccino cup to her mouth. “Your mother will be angry when she finds out you didn’t attend the funeral.”

“My mother hasn’t gotten even miffed with me since the plane accident. I’m beginning to feel like a hothouse flower. She even lapses into baby talk over the phone.”

“She’s grateful you weren’t killed, Scott.”

“I should have been.” He looked at her with such sudden sadness in his eyes, Chyna felt overwhelmed. His voice was so sincere, his gaze so full of pain, she knew his feeling of guilt ran even deeper than she had imagined.

“Scott, the crash was in no way your fault,” she said softly, even though no one sat near them. “I read everything I could find about it. I know what the investigation revealed.”

“The fan on number three engine failed, slicing through the plane’s hydraulic lines,” Scott said, his voice emotionless. “Without hydraulic fluid, the plane was almost totally

out of control—jerking, shuddering. No elevators to control the pitch. No aileron control.”

“Aileron?”

“It’s a movable surface at the edge of the wing that controls maneuvers like banking. We were losing altitude; we couldn’t turn right. We’d lost the steering. Without hydraulics, we had no brakes.”

Scott’s eyes stared at her without seeing her. They were lost back on that horrible day. She could literally feel his panic, his fight for inner control, his mind scrambling for a way to get the plane down without crashing. He couldn’t know it, but her heart was probably beating as hard as his had during those awful moments as the plane dropped inexorably toward the ground. She knew it had hit, risen again, then nose-dived and split into four pieces.

“Scott, you saved one hundred and four people,” Chyna said gently.

“And killed seventy-two.”

“You
didn’t kill them. The plane malfunctioned. You’re not omnipotent. You couldn’t control what happened to the engine fan. The newspapers said it was a miracle everyone wasn’t killed and that miracle was due to your skill.”

“My
luck.”
Scott looked out the window. “We were over flatlands. If we’d been over a city, mountains, an ocean, there would have been no survivors.”

“Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was destiny.”

Scott looked back at her, a bitter smile on his face. “Then destiny was awfully cruel to those seventy-two people who went up in flames when the plane crashed. Ten of them were children, Chyna. Children under twelve. They never really got a chance at life. But here I am. I was thrown clear of that inferno with some lacerations, a pulled ligament in my leg, and first-degree burns.” He hesitated. “I ask myself a hundred times a day if I should go back to being a pilot, and I don’t think I can.”

Chyna paused, absorbing what he’d said, trying to come up with a comforting line, but she couldn’t and be honest, too. “I wish I had answers, Scott. I wish I knew why those

people died, but I don’t. I haven’t a clue any more than I know why the innocent children I treat so often die of cancer. I wish I had faith that everything happens for the best-it would make death so much easier to accept—but I don’t have that kind of faith. So I simply do what I can to prevent even more sadness in the world than there is, and that’s exactly what you
did,
Scott. You saved one hundred and four people. That’s more than I’ve saved. Many more.”

Scott continued to look at her, but his bitter smile faded. “I’m ashamed of myself for sitting here whining to you. Your job must be incredibly draining. Your mother has just died. You’re still grieving over her and I could see guilt about Zoey in your eyes down at the lake yesterday.” She lowered her gaze. “You can’t hide your sense of responsibility for Zoey or for your mother, Chyna. You don’t have to hide it. I understand.” She glanced up. He looked at her with a softness and compassion in his eyes. “I told you at the lake, I know you better than you think I do.”

“That’s because you’ve heard so much about me from your mother.”

“I’m fairly sure it’s something deeper than that.”

“I don’t know what it could be,” Chyna returned. “Do you know this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had?”

“I guess it is.” Their conversation had become gloomy, and Chyna sensed Scott wanted a change. Eyes twinkling, he looked at her and said, “It seems strange that we’ve never really talked, considering all the intimate stuff I know about you.”

Chyna almost choked on her cappuccino. “All the intimate stuff you know about me? Like what?”

“Well, I can’t go into it
here.”
Chyna played along, staring at him with wide eyes. For at least thirty seconds he stared back solemnly. Then he laughed. “I’m teasing, Chyna, although that horrified look you just gave me has made me wildly curious.”

She set down her cup casually. “I’m really very boring.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I
am.”

“Do you know you’re the first woman who has ever tried to convince me she’s
boring?”

“Really?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Oh. Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Chyna paused. “But I
am
boring.”

“Whatever you say.”

Chyna was on the verge of going into details about just how boring she was, suddenly perplexingly bent on proving she wasn’t worth his interest, when she realized Scott’s smile was genuine. She thought of the misery that had been there only minutes ago and decided she’d say just about anything to keep that look from returning. “Well, all right, you’ve found me out, Scott. I stay on the down low here in Black Willow, but I’m an absolute wild woman in Albuquerque.”

“I’ve always suspected it, no matter how hardworking your mother claimed you were.”

“Oh, I’m not really a medical resident. Actually, I run a call girl service.”

“I’m impressed. You’re so young to be a
madam.”

“Well, you said I was smart.”

“Not to mention enterprising.” Scott grinned, motioning for the waitress. Deirdre had appeared beside them again, this time looking slightly more composed.

“Would you like something else?”

Scott nodded. “I’d like another espresso.”

“And more cheesecake?” Deirdre asked in amusement, looking at his two empty cake plates. Chyna couldn’t stifle a snicker.

“No, I think I’ve had enough, Deirdre. It was delicious.” He looked at Chyna. “Another cappuccino or biscotti?”

“Another cappuccino,” Chyna said.

After Deirdre left, Scott looked at the white silk rose on the table for moment, then raised his dark eyes to Chyna. “I’ve poured out my heart to you for the last twenty minutes. Why don’t you tell me why you looked like you were going to faint outside the mortuary?”

Chyna immediately stiffened. “I don’t like mortuaries.”

“Here we go again. You’re trying to evade my questions, but you’re not getting off that easily, Chyna.” He leaned across the table and spoke softly. “There was definitely something wrong when I came up to you, and as disagreeable as arranging your mother’s funeral must have been, I don’t think it would have left you looking near death yourself.”

“I was just tired, nervous..” Deirdre brought the cappuccino and left with a whiff of vanilla-scented cologne— the same scent Zoey had worn twelve years ago. Chyna felt the color drain from her face.

Scott reached out and took her hand with a firm grip. “You’re like ice and it’s not cold in here.” He frowned. “Chyna, what’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know.” Let go of my hand, she thought. Let me go home and be alone. I don’t want to talk about my feelings. “I’m just sad and I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. …”

“You’re not the helpless type,” Scott said sternly. “And no, I’m not turning loose of your hand so you can run away.” She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t read your mind. You’re trying to pull your hand out of mine and you’re looking desperately at the door.”

“Oh. The master detective.”

“Just observant.” He seemed to scrutinize her face, his hand still firmly holding hers. “I can’t let you leave and drive home when you’re so obviously upset. Come on, Chyna; humor me. I’ve just been through a terrible experience, remember? Humor me and tell me what’s wrong.”

Chyna glanced down at his hand holding hers, a hand much larger than her own, with a light dusting of black hair on the back, and two Band-Aids. The stitches have been removed, she thought absently, but the wounds still need protection.

“Chyna?”

When she was thirteen, Chyna had vowed she would never discuss her ESP with anyone except Zoey, a vow she’d

kept. She realized she still harbored her old attraction to Scott, but that didn’t explain why she now had the urge to tell him the thing about herself she’d kept secret for years. Abruptly Chyna made up her mind. She felt as if she
needed
to open that secret part of herself, to tell her secret, and she wanted the recipient of that secret to be Scott.

“All right.” Still looking down, she began to talk. “Scott, have you ever thought you heard voices?”

She lifted her gaze. His face had become expressionless and she thought she saw wariness creeping into his eyes. “You mean those voices that say, ’This isn’t a good idea,’ or, ’Maybe I should check this lock, just to be sure’? That kind of voice?”

“Well, yes,” Chyna said carefully, not wanting to immediately lose Scott’s attention by describing the kind of voices she
did
mean. “I guess you’d call them thoughts, only loud thoughts.”