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Max began pacing. “Okay, good. I’ll go with Michael and the doctor.”
“Wouldn’t advise it, Twitch.”
“Why not?”
“I got a call from the county coroner’s office. Ralph Edmund said he had vital information you wanted on Riccardo Martino. He also said that you would definitely want to see it. He’s waiting for you at the morgue.”
Max felt the familiar excitement rush through him. If his suspicions were right about Martino’s tests . . . “The doctor here can escort Michael to the hospital,” Max said hurriedly. “Willie, drive like a maniac to the morgue.”
Willie smiled. “I’m your man.”
“HERE you go, lady.”
“Thank you.”
Susan Grey paid the driver. After a long (too long) hiatus, she and her son, Tommy, were finally home. Home. A city. Lots of people. Real life. Susan had missed them all, and that was why they were home two days early. Vegging out in the woods had been fun at first, beneficial even. But then it began to wear on them both. She and Tommy had reached the stage where they craved some good old-fashioned civilization. Yes, American civilization. Electricity. Hot water. Men without beards. Women who shaved their legs. A television set. An episode of Wheel of Fortune. A Michelob Light commercial. One damn issue of Cosmopolitan. A mall. A conversation that did not employ the word granola.
But the retreat had worked. With absolutely nothing else to do, she and Tommy had been forced to confront their problems, to discuss Bruce’s suicide, to try to make sense of their lives. Things were not yet perfect, but at least they were on the path to normalcy. Tommy no longer blamed her for the death of his father, and that was a good thing.
Now if only I could stop blaming myself . . .
Tommy reached down and grabbed his mother’s suitcase. “I got it, Mom,” he said. His smile, so like his dead father’s, tweaked her heart.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Tommy carried the suitcase to the door and turned the knob.
Why, Bruce? You were hardly the suicide type. Why kill yourself? Why leave your son without a father?
Susan had already asked herself those questions a million times, and there had been no answer. She guessed that she would never know, that one day she would stop asking herself and move on with her life.
Why . . . ?
They entered the apartment.
“Jennifer?” Susan called out.
“Susan? Is that you?”
“We came home a little early,” Susan called back. “The woods were starting to get to us. Anything new in the civilized world?”
Jennifer did not answer. Instead, she came out of the kitchen and faced them both. Susan was taken aback by her sister’s appearance. Jennifer’s face was ashen, her eyes deep dark circles that looked as though they had not closed for weeks. Her body looked frail, her posture slumped.
In her left hand she held a white envelope.
“Jen . . . ?”
Jennifer handed Susan the envelope. “This,” she began, “came for you.”
Susan took the note from her sister. She had to scream when she recognized the handwriting.
23
I WILL kill both of them in the lab.
I wish there were another way. I am not a killer. I do not enjoy it. I loathe it. I fear it. And yet what choice do I have ?
None.
My hands can’t stop shaking. Everything has gone so awry. My plan should have been simple and precise. But I got fancy. I went overboard. Getting Michael involved was necessary, but I should have seen the possible problems. Now I have my back against the wall and there is only one thing I can do.
Kill again.
I feel nauseous, but I know what must be done. There is no turning back now. I have to go on. Two more lives—the lives of a doctor and a beautiful woman—must be sacrificed too. Then everything will settle down. Everything will fall back into place.
I must remain focused. I must remember why I am doing this. I must rid myself of sentimentality. It is hard, but I will have to perform these deeds myself. There is no George Camron to do the work for me this time. On my own hands will be the blood of the innocent man, the innocent woman, and the child within her womb.
Stop it!
I must think of the positive, of my goal, of my dream. And for Sara Lowell it may be for the best. Once Sara Lowell is dead, she will know no more pain. I can take some solace in that. Sara Lowell is strong and has overcome obstacles before. But she has never faced an agony like the one that awaits her.
You see, I never wanted to kill any innocent people. But look at the list of names:
Bruce Grey . . .
Janice Matley . . .
Michael Silverman . . .
And now I have to add two more names.
When they get to the lab.
SARA knocked.
“Come in,” Harvey called out.
Sara opened the door and stepped into the office. Again, she was greeted with Harvey’s tired smile. “Hi, Sara. Hear anything from Lieutenant Bernstein?”
“Not yet. I got your message on my machine.”
“Good.”
“I guess you were calling about Bruce’s package.”
He nodded. “Jen told you about it?”
“I spoke to her an hour ago,” she replied. “Did you get it yet?”
“It came in this morning.”
“And?”
Harvey took a deep breath. “I don’t know yet, Sara. I’ve been going through the files for hours now and I still don’t know what to think.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Be my guest.” He handed her a stack of files from the top of his desk. “These are all the files from Bruce’s package. Six of them.”
“The six cured patients?”
He nodded. “There were also six containers, each containing two vials of a patient’s blood. One vial was labeled A, the other B.”
Her eyes scanned Trian’s file and then Whitherson’s. “What’s this last entry mean?”
“You mean that ‘DNA. A versus B’? I found that puzzling too.”
She flipped to the back of all six files. “It’s the last entry in all six files.”
“I know. I am not sure of the significance. It is all very strange. I assume the A and B stand for the blood vials. But I can’t imagine what DNA has to do with them.”
Sara sat back and closed her eyes. DNA. A memory came to her like a deep, hard punch. She sprang forward suddenly, nearly shouting. “Do you remember the Betsy Jackson murder case a couple of years ago?”
“The one where the husband murdered his wife with the butcher knife?”
