by Robin Cook
Sitting on the couch, Laura contemplated what she should do. She could stay where she was and let Larry fend for himself in the kitchen, though she’d tried that before with no results. Until recently, her husband had been sensitive to her moods. But for some reason, ever since he’d come back from his medical meeting four months ago, he’d been generally cold and inconsiderate.
Noises drifted up the back stairs from the kitchen, suggesting that Larry was already making himself something to eat. Not bothering to come and say hello added insult to injury. Laura lifted her legs off the hassock, wiggled her toes into her sandals, and stood up. Walking over to a gilt frame mirror, she peered at herself. For fifty-six she looked pretty darn good. But over the last eight weeks Larry had shown absolutely no sexual interest in her. Could that be the reason for his new burst of professional enthusiasm? It had taken Larry and Clark Vandermer twenty years to build their practice to the point where they could concentrate on gynecology rather than obstetrics. And then Larry had thrown it all away. After coming back from that medical meeting, he’d calmly announced that he’d quit GYN Associates and had accepted a salaried position at the Julian Clinic. At the time Laura had been so stupefied that she’d been unable to respond. And since joining the Julian Clinic, Larry had been taking on more obstetrical cases, even though he got the same salary no matter how hard he worked.
A crash interrupted Laura’s thoughts. That was another problem. Larry had become clumsy of late, as well as having lapses of attention. Laura wondered if he were on the verge of some sort of breakdown.
Deciding that it was time to confront her husband, Laua straightened her robe and started down the back stairs. Ginger followed at her heels.
She found Larry at the kitchen counter, eating a large sandwich and reading a medical journal. He’d taken off his jacket and had thrown it over the back of a chair. When he heard her enter, he looked up. His face had that curious slackness it had developed in recent weeks.
“Hello, dear,” he said in a flat tone.
Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, allowing her anger to build. Her husband looked at her for a moment, then went back to his journal.
“Why didn’t you call?” snapped Laura, infuriated by his attempt to ignore her.
Larry raised his head slowly and turned to face his wife. He didn’t speak.
“I asked you a question,” said Laura. “I deserve an answer. I’ve asked you a dozen times to call me if you are going to be late.”
Larry didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” Laura stepped closer and looked into her husband’s eyes. The pupils were large, and he seemed to be looking right through her.
“Hey,” said Laura, waving her hand in front of his face. “Remember me? I’m your wife.”
Larry’s pupils constricted and he blinked as if he had just noticed her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he said. “We decided to open an evening clinic for the neighborhood around the Julian and the response was better than we’d anticipated.”
“Larry, what is wrong with you? You mean to tell me that you stayed until after nine o’clock to man a free clinic?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. I feel fine. I enjoyed myself. I picked up three cases of unsuspected VD.”
“Wonderful,” said Laura, throwing up her hands and sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs. She stared at Larry and took an exasperated breath. “We have to talk. Something weird is going on. Either you are going crazy or I am.”
“I feel fine,” said Larry.
“You might feel fine, but you are acting like a different person. You seem tired all the time, as if you hadn’t slept in weeks. This whole idea of giving up your practice is insane. I’m sorry, but it is crazy to give up what has taken you a lifetime to build.”
“I’m tired of fee-for-service private practice,” said Larry. “The Julian Clinic is more exciting and I’m able to help more people.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Laura, “but the problem is that you have a family. You have a son and daughter in college and a daughter in medical school. I don’t have to tell you how much their tuition is. And keeping up this ridiculous house that you insisted on buying ten years ago costs a fortune. We don’t need thirty rooms, particularly now that the children are gone. The salary you’re on at the Julian Clinic barely keeps us in groceries, much less covers our commitments.”
“We can sell the house,” said Larry flatly.
“Yes, we can sell the house,” repeated Laura. “But the kids are in school and unfortunately we have little savings. Larry, you have to go back to GYN Associates.”
“I gave up my partnership,” said Larry.
“Clark Vandermer will give it back,” said Laura. “You’ve known him long enough. Tell him you made a mistake. If you want to change your professional circumstances, you should at least wait until after the children’s schooling is complete.”
Laura stopped talking and watched her husband’s face. It was as if it were carved from stone. “Larry,” she called. There was no response.
Laura got up and waved her hand in front of her husband’s face. He didn’t move. He seemed to be in a trance. “Larry,” she yelled as she shook his shoulders. His body was strangely stiff. Then his eyes blinked and looked into hers.
“Larry, are you aware that you seem to blank out?” She kept her hands on his shoulders while she studied his face.
“No,” said Larry. “I feel fine.”
“I think that maybe you should see someone. Why don’t we call Clark Vandermer and have him come over and look at you. He only lives three houses away, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. We can talk to him about getting back your practice at the same time.”
Larry didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes assumed the blank look again while his pupils dilated. Laura stared at him for a moment, then quickly walked over to the kitchen phone. Her irritation had become concern. She looked up the Vandermers’ number in the address book that hung from the cork bulletin bord and was about to dial when Larry grabbed the phone from her hand. For the first time in months the slackness had gone from his face. Instead, his teeth were bared in an unnatural grimace.
Laura screamed. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. She backed up, knocking over one of the kitchen chairs. Ginger barked and growled.
Despite the horrid expression on his face, Larry didn’t respond to Laura’s scream. He hung up the phone, then turned. In agonized slow motion he grasped the sides of his head with both hands while an anguished wail escaped from his lips. Laura fled up the back stairs in panic.
Reaching the top, she passed through the sitting room and ran down the corridor. The huge house was built like the letter H with the upper hallway traversing the crossbar. The master bedroom was over the living room in the wing opposite the kitchen.
Reaching the bedroom, Laura closed and locked its paneled door. She ran to their bed and sat on its edge, her breath coming in short gasps. On the night table was another address book. She flipped it open to the Vs. Keeping her finger on Vandermer’s number, she lifted the princess phone to her ear and started dialing. But before the call could go through, one of the downstairs phones was picked up.
“Laura,” said Larry in a cold, mechanical voice. “I want you to come downstairs immediately. I don’t want you calling anybody.”
A wave of terror swept over Laura, constricting her throat. Her hand holding the phone began to shake.
The connection went through and Laura could hear the Vandermers’ phone ringing. But as soon as the phone was answered, the line went dead. Laura looked at the phone helplessly. Larry must have cut the wire.
“My God,” she whispered. Slowly she replaced the receiver and tried to collect herself. Panicking was not going to solve anything. She had to think. It was obvious that she needed help; the question was how to get it. Turning her head, she looked out of the bedroom window. Lights were on at her neighbors’. If she raised the window and yelled w
ould anybody hear, and if they did, would they respond?
Laura tried to convince herself she was overreacting. Perhaps she should just go downstairs as Larry suggested and tell him that he simply had to get help.
A thump on the door jolted her upright. She listened and was relieved when she heard a sharp bark. Going to the door, she pressed her ear against it. All she could hear was Ginger’s whining. Hastily she undid the lock so the poodle could run inside.
The door slammed wide open, bruising her hand and crashing against the wall. To Laura’s shock, Larry was in the doorway. Ginger rushed to Laura’s feet and began to jump up and down, wanting to be picked up.
Laura screamed again. Larry’s face was still grotesquely contorted. In his left hand was a Remington 12-gauge pump gun.
Spurred by utter panic, Laura turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming and bolting the door. Ginger had followed her and was trembling at her feet. She picked up the shaking dog and, backing up, watched the door. She knew that it was not much of a barrier.
A horrendous blast echoed around the tiled room as part of the door splintered and tore away. Flying debris stung Laura’s face and the dog uttered a helpless yelp.
The bathroom had another door and, dropping Ginger, Laura struggled with its latch. She was dazed but got the door open and ran into a dressing room that led back into the bedroom. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Larry’s hand coming through the hole made by the shotgun blast.
As she raced though the bedroom, Laura caught a brief glimpse of Larry disappearing into the bathroom. Knowing she had only a few moments’ head start, she dashed into the hall and half ran and half fell down the staircase. Ginger stayed at her heels.
Vainly she gave the front door a tug, but it was locked. The old man who had originally built the house had been so paranoid that he had equipped all the doors with locks that could be secured from both sides. There were keys somewhere in the bureau in the foyer, but Laura didn’t have time to search for them. Her keys were in her purse in the kitchen. Hearing Larry start down the stairs, Laura ran down the gallery on the ground floor.
Normally, she put her purse on the desk beneath the kitchen phone, but it wasn’t there. She tried the back door but, as she expected, it too was locked. With mounting panic, she tried to think of what to do. The fact that Larry had actually used the shotgun on the bathroom door made her heart pound. Ginger leaped into her arms, and she hugged him to her chest. Then she heard Larry’s heels striking the marble of the gallery floor.
In desperation Laura opened the cellar door, flipped on the cellar lights, and pulled the door shut behind her. As quietly as she could, she descended the angled stairway. There was a way out of the cellar that was secured with an oak beam rather than a lock.
They had never used the basement because they had such an overabundance of space upstairs. Consequently, it was musty and filled with all sorts of junk from previous owners. It was a warren of little rooms, and poorly illuminated with infrequent light bulbs. Laura stumbled over debris in the hallway, clutching Ginger to herself as she navigated the strangely tortuous route. She was almost at the exit when the lights went out.
The darkness was sudden and complete. Laura froze in her tracks, disoriented. The terror consumed her. Desperately, she swung her left hand in front of her, searching for a wall. Her fingers hit rough wood. Stumblingly, she made her way along the wall until she came to a doorway. Behind her she heard Larry start down the cellar stairs. The sound of his footsteps was distinct, as if he were moving very slowly and deliberately. A flickering light indicated he was carrying a flashlight.
Knowing that she could never find the exit in the dark, Laura frantically realized that she’d have to hide. With all the rooms and junk that were there, she felt that she had a chance. She stepped through the doorway she’d found, and groped in the darkness. Almost at once her hands encountered window shutters leaning against the wall. Stepping around them, her foot hit a wooden object. It was a large barrel resting on its side.
After first checking to make sure that the barrel was empty, Laura got down on her hands and knees and backed into it, pulling Ginger after her. She didn’t have long to worry if her hiding place were adequate. No sooner had she stopped moving than she heard Larry approach in the hallway. Although the barrel pointed away from the door opening, she could see dim evidence of his flashlight.
Larry’s footsteps came closer and closer, and Laura struggled to breathe quietly. The flashlight beam entered the room and Laura held her breath. Then Ginger growled and barked. Laura’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the pump action of the shotgun. She felt Larry kick the barrel, rolling her upside down. Ginger yelped and fled. Frantically, Laura struggled to right herself.
CHAPTER
5
The Eastern shuttle to Washington provided the first peace Adam had experienced since the previous night. After Jennifer had slammed the bedroom door, Adam tried lying down on the uncomfortable Victorian couch. He’d attempted to read about pancreatitis, but found it impossible to concentrate. There was no way he could stay in medical school if they lost Jennifer’s income. At dawn, after only a couple of hours of restless sleep, he’d called the hospital and had a note left for his intern saying he wouldn’t be in that day. One way or the other, Adam knew he had to come up with a solution.
Adam stared out the window at the tranquil New Jersey countryside. The captain announced that they were passing over the Delaware River and Adam estimated it was another twenty minutes to Washington. That would put him in the city at eight-thirty; he could be at his father’s office at the Food and Drug Administration around nine.
Adam was not looking forward to the meeting, especially under the present conditions. He hadn’t seen his father since the middle of his first year in medical school, and it had been a traumatic encounter. At that time Adam had informed the old man that he was definitely marrying Jennifer.
Adam was still trying to decide how to open the conversation as he walked through the revolving door of his father’s building. As a child, Adam had not visited his father’s office often, but had gone enough times to leave him with a feeling of distaste. His father had always acted as if the boy were an embarrassment.
Adam had been the middle child, sandwiched between an overachieving older brother, David, and a younger sister, Ellen, the darling of the family. David had been the outgoing child and had decided as a youngster to become a doctor like his father. Adam had never been able to make up his mind what he wanted to be. For a long time he thought he wanted to be a farmer.
Adam got on the elevator and pushed the button for the eighth floor. He could remember going up in the elevator with David when David was in medical school. David was ten years older than Adam and, as far as Adam was concerned, seemed more like an adult than a brother. Adam used to be left in his father’s waiting room while David was taken to meet doctor colleagues.
Adam got off at the eighth floor and turned to the right. As the offices became larger and more attractive, the secretaries got plainer. Adam could remember that it was David who had pointed that out to him.
Hesitating before the executive offices, Adam wondered what his relationship with his father would be like if David hadn’t died in Vietnam. Not too many doctors had been killed over there, but David had managed it. He’d always been one to volunteer for anything. It had been the last year of the war and Adam had been fifteen at the time.
The event had crippled the family. Adam’s mother had gone into a terrible depression that required shock therapy. She still wasn’t her old self. Adam’s father hadn’t weathered the news much better. After several months of his withdrawn silence, Adam had gone to him and told him that he’d decided to become a doctor. Instead of being pleased, his father had cried and turned away.
Adam paused in front of his father’s office, then screwing up his courage, walked up to Mrs. Margaret Weintrob’s desk. She was an enormous woman who swamped her swivel chair. Her dress wa
s a tentlike affair made from a flower-print cotton. Her upper arms had enormous rolls of fat, making her sizable forearms appear slender by comparison.
But, aside from her weight, she was exceptionally well groomed. She smiled when she saw Adam and, without getting up, extended a hand in greeting.
Adam shook the slightly damp hand and returned the smile. They had always gotten along fine. She’d been Adam’s father’s secretary as far back as Adam could remember, and she’d always been sensitive to Adam’s shyness.
“Where have you been?” she asked, pretending to be angry. “It’s been ages since you’ve visited.”
“Medical school doesn’t allow for too much free time,” said Adam. His father kept few secrets from Margaret, and Adam was sure she knew why he hadn’t been around.
“As usual, your father’s on the phone. He’ll be off in a minute. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
Adam shook his head no, and hung his coat on a brass coatrack. He sat down on a vinyl bleacher. He remembered that his father did not like to give the impression that the government was wasting the public’s money on such frills as comfortable seating. In fact, the whole outer office had a utilitarian look. For Dr. Schonberg Senior it was a matter of principle. For the same reason, he refused the car and driver that came with his office.
Adam sat trying to marshal his arguments, but he wasn’t very sanguine. When he had called early that morning to arrange the meeting, his father had been gruff, as if he knew that Adam was going to ask for money.
There was a buzz. Margaret smiled. “Your father’s waiting for you.”
As Adam grimly rose to his feet, she reached out and placed a hand on his forearm.
“He’s still suffering from David’s death,” she said. “Try to understand. He does love you.”
