Lillian was about to say no when John said, “You really should try the flan. It’s ambrosia.” Oh, well. Another fifteen minutes on the elliptical tomorrow. “Sure. Why don’t we split one?” When the waitress had left, Lillian said, “You seem to be known here.” “I used to be, but I haven’t been here since-” He blinked several times. “John, it’s okay to cry. Men can show their emotions the same way women can. And it’s a way to heal.” She sipped her coffee to give him time to recover. “So you and Beth used to come here.” He nodded. “You might say this was ‘our place.’ I haven’t been back here since she died. And truthfully, maybe it was a mistake to bring you here. I feel sort of guilty.” Lillian chose her words carefully. “It is guilt, John. It’s called survivor guilt, and it’s the toughest part of the grieving process. You feel guilty because Beth isn’t here to enjoy it. And you feel like you’re cheating on her by bringing me here.” She opened her purse, rummaged in it, and put a credit card on the table. “You know, I invited you to have dinner tonight. Maybe this will help you accept that this isn’t a date.” The flan came, and Lillian found it to be worth the calories. She and John ate carefully from either side of the cylinder of custard, their spoons finally meeting in the middle. “That last bite is yours,” Lillian said, laying aside her spoon. “That’s what Beth used to do.” The words came out almost as a croak. John brought his napkin to his face and blotted tears. “Sorry.” “No, that’s good. You can’t keep it bottled up. It’s not healthy.” Lillian decided to plunge ahead. “John, until the dessert came, you hardly touched your food. How much weight have you lost since Beth died?” “I really don’t know.” He shrugged. “I know that I probably should get some new shirts. The collars on these are pretty loose.” “But you don’t feel like buying clothes. Right?” “How did you know?” “I’ve been down that road. Remember.” Time to take the plunge. “Have you thought about antidepressants?” “No. I want to-” “You want to experience your grief fully, because it would be disrespectful to Beth not to do so. And, like a typical man, you think that grieving harder will get it over sooner.” His expression told her she’d hit the nail on the head.
“You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re distracted. You descend into self-pity. John, that’s clinical depression. It’s normal under the circumstances. And I think you should see your own doctor and ask him about taking an antidepressant.” John shook his head.
“It’s not that simple. I’d also have to see if an antidepressant would react adversely with the medications I’m on.” “What kind-No, I shouldn’t pry. Talk with your doctor.” “My doctor is Rip Pearson, and the meds are antiretroviral. I got stuck by a needle that someone left in a waste receptacle.” He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she reached forward and took the hand he held out. “Hmm, puncture wound at the base of the thumb. And it looks pretty red.” She pressed and felt the tissue give beneath her fingers. “John, there’s some fluctuance here. I think you may be forming an abscess. Are you on any antibiotic prophylaxis?” “No, just post-exposure prophylaxis against HIV.” “Well, we should needle that area and see if there’s pus there.” She decided that only a couple of doctors could talk like this while still at the dinner table. Lillian could see his male ego struggling with his training as a physician. Fortunately, the medical science won. “You’re right. I’ll ask Rip to look at it tomorrow. He can aspirate it and culture the pus.” John dropped his napkin on the table and held up Lillian’s credit card to get the waitress’s attention. “I guess it’s time I began to take care of myself. Beth used to tell me that if I don’t, no one else will.”
Sara’s first reaction to the infant cry was an instinctive tightening in her gut, followed almost immediately by a wave of relief-the cry was real. Mark heard it. This time it wasn’t just a product of her tortured mind. “Where’s that coming from?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know. It sounded like it came from��� from-” Her throat seemed to close off. She dabbed at her eyes. Mark appeared bewildered.
“Sara, why don’t you sit down? Can I get you some water?” She shook her head. “I’ll be okay. It’s just that-” Again, she couldn’t finish.
Sara felt Mark’s hand guiding her toward the sofa. When she was seated, he hurried from the room, returning with a glass of water.
“Drink this. Take some deep breaths. Then start at the beginning and tell me what’s going on.” In a few moments, the roaring in her ears had subsided and her breathing was under control. “It’s sort of a long story.” “I’ve got as long as it takes.” He eased onto the sofa beside her. “What’s this about?” “I told you Jack and I had a baby, a son. He was three months old when I found him dead in his crib, probably SIDS.
After Jack left me, I began having nightmares about our son. Once or twice a month I’d hear an infant crying in the middle of the night, but when I rushed to the nursery there was nothing there. No baby furniture-I’d long since gotten rid of that-and nothing else. Just a bare room, one that I never entered.” “And now���?” “Now you’ve heard the cries, too. It’s not my imagination.” She shivered. “But I still can’t explain it.” “Where’s the room?” She pointed to a door.
“Down the hall, last door on the right.” Mark patted her shoulder.
“Stay here. I’m going to check it out.” He hurried away, and Sara felt a cold wind on the back of her neck. She’d never believed in ghosts before, but now she halfway wondered if the ghost of her son inhabited the nursery. What would Mark find in there? Mark was back in five minutes. “Just an empty room.” She tried to hide her sigh of relief.
“I told you.” “Do you have a flashlight?” “In the middle drawer under the kitchen counter,” Sara said. He rummaged until he found the flashlight. “And where’s your attic access?” He turned in a circle.
“Never mind. I think I saw it a minute ago.” He disappeared into the hall, and soon she heard the attic stairs unfold. Then a series of creaks and groans announced his movement overhead. Just as she was about to venture into the hall and shout up to him, she heard him coming back down the stairs. “I don’t think you’re going to find a baby up there,” she called. He poked his head through the door and gestured with the flashlight in his hand. “No, but I found something even more interesting. Come see.” Sara eased offthe couch and followed Mark on feet that seemed to be made of lead. He led her up the attic stairs, directing her to stand in the small space where plywood bridged the rafters. “Stay here. Don’t step out into the attic. I don’t want you to fall through the sheet rock.” “What am I supposed to see?” “Look where my flashlight’s pointed.” At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary-just rafters and insulation, all coated with a generous layer of dust. But in the area where Mark’s flashlight beam settled, she could see that there was much less dust, fewer cobwebs.
And sitting on a rafter she saw a series of small boxes interconnected with wires. She looked up to see Mark’s eyes were fixed on hers.
“There’s your crying baby. A digital recorder with a separate speaker, connected to a timer, and all neatly wired into the house’s electrical current. I suspect that it’s set to go offon random nights, playing just long enough to get you out of bed.” Sara couldn’t believe it.
This was something you read about in detective novels or saw in a James Bond movie. It didn’t happen to divorced women living in a nice neighborhood in Dallas. The questions flew through her mind. Why? Who?
“Would you happen to have some wire cutters? Or even a pair of pliers with wire-cutting jaws? I’ll cut this thing loose. We can talk later about who did it and how. Right now, I want to assure you that you’re not going to be awakened by those cries anymore.” Sara’s heart sank.
No, she wouldn’t hear the electronic cries anymore. But neither would she hear the cries of her own baby. He was dead. As dead as the love she’d once had for Jack Ingersoll.
The man behind the hotel desk wore a dark suit, a gleaming white shirt with a conservative tie, and
a smile as false as Grandma’s teeth. His English was only slightly accented. “Welcome, Herr Doktor Ingersoll. Or do you perhaps prefer Herr Professor?” “Either will do,”
Ingersoll said. He dropped his passport and American Express Platinum Card on the registration counter. “I’m quite tired from the overseas flight and would like to go to my room as quickly as possible.” “Of course.” The man beckoned to a bellman and said something in German.
The bellman gave a curt nod and hurried away for a luggage trolley.
“We have for you a very nice room on the Executive Level. Zimmer sieben funfzig.” He paused and translated. “Room seven fifty.” The clerk pushed the credit card back toward Ingersoll, along with a few other pieces of paper. “Here is information about our services. All your expenses will be direct-billed to Jandra Pharmaceuticals. I will return your passport as soon as I have completed your registration form.” Ingersoll scooped up the credit card and other papers. One of them, a business card, fell to the floor, and when Ingersoll picked it up he saw that engraved letters identified the Hotel Hessischer Hof, with an address in Frankfurt, Germany. At the bottom, smaller script spelled out the name and phone number of Wilhelm Lambert, Generaldirektor. Not bad. Business class on Lufthansa. Quartered on the executive level of a first-class hotel, met by the general manager. So far, Jandra was treating him right. Then again, he knew that all this would vanish like the morning mist if Jandramycin failed to live up to corporate expectations. “Please go with Kurt, Herr Professor,” the manager said, and Ingersoll fell in behind the bellman. Apparently the Germans respected him more as a professor than as a physician. Then again, there were several kinds of “Doktor” here.
Most of them were nonmedical and many of them honorary titles, but to be a true “Professor” was a horse of a different color. He made a mental note to identify himself in that fashion in the future.
“Professor Ingersoll. Is that you?” He turned to see a stout, middleaged man in a wrinkled blue serge suit of European cut hurrying after him. “Please forgive me, but I recognize you from your pictures.
I believe it’s important that we meet.” Ingersoll frowned. “Yes, I’m Professor Ingersoll. And you are���?” “I am Doktor Heinz Gruber.
From the University of Ulm Medical Center.” Seeing Ingersoll’s puzzled expression, the man continued, “I lead the research studies being done in Germany on your compound, EpAm848. Or should I say, Jandramycin.”
“Oh, I didn’t recognize the name.” He extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” “I know you are just arriving, and must be tired, but I think it’s very important that we talk. I believe we have much to discuss. Much.” Ingersoll weighed the alternatives. He decided he’d better get this out of the way. He pulled a bill from a roll in his pocket and handed it to the bellman, who’d stood patiently by during this exchange. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the opportunity to change any money into Euros. Please take my bags to my room.” The bellman’s confused expression told Ingersoll that he was dealing with one of the small minority of Germans not fluent in English. Unusual for a four-star hotel, but there it was. Gruber addressed the man. ” Nimmst Du die Sacke zum Zimmer.” The bellman nodded and trundled off. “Thank you,” Ingersoll said. “I didn’t think I’d need any German for my visit.” “In most instances, you won’t. I suspect he understands more English than he lets on.” Gruber flashed a grin. “Bellmen and servants learn a great deal that way.” “You said we needed to talk. Can we do it quickly? I’m really jet-lagged,” Ingersoll said. “Of course.”
Gruber scanned the lobby and pointed toward a quiet corner. “I believe we will have some privacy there.” Ingersoll dropped into an overstuffed chair and settled his briefcase on the floor beside him.
“Now, what’s so important that it can’t wait?” He heard the impatience in his voice, but didn’t really care. This was some German doctor doing grunt work for Jandra, and he probably wanted approval.
Ingersoll hoped to give him a quick “attaboy” before heading for a welldeserved bath and nap. “As you may know, along with my colleague, Dr. Rohde, I have been carrying out the German arm of the study on Jandra’s new antibiotic. We have been following the protocol they set up and forwarding the results to their American office as we accumulate data.” This didn’t seem to call for a response, so Ingersoll nodded and tried to look interested. “The drug was completely successful in treating infections with Staphylococcus luciferus, and we noted no side effects while patients were receiving it. But���” Gruber looked around and beckoned a waiter. ” Zwei Kaffee bitte.” He waited until the waiter hurried away to continue.
“You seem a little unfocused. Perhaps some coffee would help. I believe you will find what I have to say important.” Gruber seemed content to sit in silence until coffee was served. He dropped a few bills on the tray, added cream and sugar to his cup, and took a sip.
He smacked his lips. “Good coffee is truly one of the forces that keeps doctors and scientists going, is that not true?” Ingersoll ignored his own cup. “Can we get to the point? I’m quite tired.” “I apologize,” Gruber said, while looking anything but sorry. “The point is that we have heard rumors, nothing certain but definite rumors, about��� ” He spread his hands. ” Komplikationen?” “Complications, I suppose.” Suddenly Ingersoll was alert. “What about these rumors?”
“We are happy to carry out this research. The money supports much of our other work. But it is of concern when we learn that perhaps we are putting our patients at risk for troubles that come later.” He leaned forward. “What can you tell me about these rumors?” Ingersoll remembered his conversation with Wolfe. Was this a trap? Had Jandra set this up to test him? Or was this a well-meaning researcher, simply seeking information? In either case, he knew what his answer would be, and he recited it, just as he’d recited it less than thirty-six hours earlier. “I know of no such effects.”
Gloria stuck her head into the dictation room and waggled the chart in her hand. Sara covered the phone mouthpiece and whispered,
“One minute.” She removed her hand and said, “What did you ask?” Mark repeated his question. “How did you sleep?” Sara thought she’d never heard a sillier question. She felt like she’d been put through a wringer. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep too well.” “Oh.” Mark’s disappointment was obvious. “I was hoping that getting that digital recorder out of your attic would let you sleep through the night for a change.” Didn’t he realize that the cries that triggered her nightmares weren’t the only thing disturbing her sleep? She had so much weighing on her that the removal of one factor didn’t make everything all well. “Mark, I have to get back to patients. Can we talk later?” “Sure. How about lunch?” This was going much too fast.
She’d thought dinner would be a nice change, but dinner had turned into a time of sharing for which Sara wasn’t ready. Better slow it down. “Not today, Mark. Why don’t I call you?” The disappointment in Mark’s voice was obvious. “Sure. And if you don’t call-” “I’ll call.
Now I have to go.” Sara noticed that the phone receiver was damp when she cradled it. Wasn’t a phone conversation with a good-looking man who was interested in you supposed to be an enjoyable experience? She should be thrilled that Mark was obviously interested in her. Instead, she was a little afraid. “What’s going on?” Rip Pearson stood in the doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. “Whatever the problem is, you can tell me. I’m a pretty good listener, and you look like you could use a friend.” “That’s my problem,” she said. “Maybe I don’t really have any friends-at least, any I can trust.” “Whoa!” Rip held up his hand. “You and I’ve known each other for���” He counted silently. “For eight years. We’ve been friends all that time, although admittedly after you married Jack you didn’t seem to have time for anyone else. But I’ve never stopped being your friend.” He eased into the chair beside her. “Want to tell me about it?” Gloria appeared in the doorway, but Sara motioned her away. “Give
me five minutes, please. And close the door. Thank you.” She took a deep breath, then launched into her tale of finding the digital recorder in her attic.
Rip, to his credit, listened without interruption, although the expression on his face when she mentioned her evening with Mark reminded Sara of someone who’d bitten into a lemon. When she finished, Rip said, “So who do you think left it there? And why?” “I’ve thought about this. Matter of fact, I was up all night thinking about it. I thought about the when, and the who, and the why.” “So what did you come up with?” “It started a few months after the baby died-about the time Jack moved out and announced he wanted a divorce. At first I thought it was just another manifestation of my guilt. My baby was dead. Therefore I had to be a bad mother.” “But now that you know about the recorder, you think-” “I think Jack left it in the attic.”
“Why would he do that?” “I have no doubt he did it to torture me. It was simply a gesture of pure evil.” “What can you do about it?” Rip asked. “That’s the problem. I have no proof. He’d deny it and accuse me of being paranoid.” There was a tap on the door. Without opening it, Sara called, “Okay, Gloria. I’ll be right there.” “So what do you intend to do?” Rip asked. “Nothing-except be very careful around Jack Ingersoll.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “And I’d advise you to do the same.”
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