by Dinah McCall
The desk clerk looked up as she came through the door.
“I need a room,” Ginny said.
“One night?” the clerk asked.
Ginny hesitated, then nodded.
“Smoking or non-smoking?”
“Non, please.”
“Single?”
Ginny stared. What the hell did it matter whether she was married or not? “I’m sorry? What did you say?”
“Do you want a single room, or is there someone with you?”
If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have laughed.
“Oh…no…there’s no one but me.”
“How will you be paying?” he asked.
She laid a credit card on the counter and then turned to scan the lobby while the clerk continued his work. Her eyes were burning, her belly grumbling from hunger. It took her a few moments to realize she didn’t even know where she was.
“Where am I?”
The clerk looked up. “Excuse me?”
Ginny sighed. “I know I’m at a motel. What I need to know is where the closest city is located.”
“I wouldn’t call Hoxie a city, miss, but that would be it. It’s about fifteen miles back that way.”
He pointed west. She nodded, absorbing the fact that she had already passed through it.
“What’s the next city east?” she asked.
He squinted as he thought. “That would probably be Memphis.”
Suddenly Ginny had a faint mental image of where she was and made a note to herself to get a map tomorrow. Driving headlong into nowhere would gain her nothing but more trouble.
“Thank you,” she said, ignoring the wary look he kept giving her. She wasn’t drunk, and she wasn’t high, and to hell with what he thought. She just needed a place to lay her head.
He laid a credit card slip in front of her. “The room rate is forty-five dollars a night. Sign here.”
Ginny signed.
A few minutes later she stuck the key in the lock and entered her room, locking and chaining the door behind her. The color scheme screamed at her. Ignoring the noise, she staggered to the bathroom.
Emerging a couple of minutes later, she fell facedown on the bed without removing her clothes. Within seconds she was fast asleep.
High above the city of St. Louis, a 747 was entering the flight path for landing. Sullivan Dean glanced out the window, then looked down. The night was clear. The lights of the city below lay like diamonds on a bed of black velvet, and yet all he could see was the distance between him and his goal.
I’m coming, Virginia. Please don’t be dead.
4
Sully had retrieved his baggage and was exiting the airport when it began to rain. He paused beneath the canopy, trying to decide what to do first.
Problem number one: Virginia Shapiro wasn’t answering her phone, which made him nervous. What if she couldn’t? What if she was already dead?
Problem number two: Problem number one.
The way he figured it, her apartment had to be first stop on the list of things to do. He had her address. The rest was simple. At that point, he hailed a taxi, and after giving the driver the address, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, but his mind wouldn’t let him relax. He kept seeing Georgia at five years old, chasing after him and Tommy when they were kids—the crush she’d had on him during his sixteenth summer, while her twelve-year-old body hovered on the brink of womanhood, still wrapped in freckles and braces. The look on her face when she’d told him that she was going to become a nun. The passion in her eyes had been as fervent as always, but it was the quieting of her spirit that had humbled him. For the first time he had seen her as a woman in her own right and not just as Tommy Dudley’s little sister.
Now the authorities wanted him to believe a woman like her was capable of taking her own life? Not now. Not ever.
Then he sighed. He wouldn’t deny the how of her death. After all, a priest with no reason to lie had seen it all. But what in God’s sweet name would it take for her to walk off a cliff into a flood-swollen river? At the thought, he shuddered, then wiped a hand across his face. Nothing short of the Devil.
He clenched his jaw. God help us all.
One thing was certain: when he got to a hotel, he was going to call Tommy. The family deserved to know what was going on, and from the little he had gained from Georgia’s letter, he didn’t think she’d shared her suspicions with them.
His mind was still lost in the past when the cab took a sudden swerve to the right. He looked out the window and then up, peering at the three-story building. Although his view was somewhat marred by the rain, this was not where he’d supposed Virginia Shapiro would live. It was a Victorian home in an ordinary neighborhood, as opposed to a high-rise apartment befitting a hard-nosed, hardworking journalist.
“That’ll be fifteen seventy-five,” the cabby said.
Sully handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”
As he got out of the cab, a pizza delivery car pulled up behind them at the curb. Mentally thanking his luck, Sully followed the delivery boy up the steps. When the boy buzzed to be let in, he followed him inside, then took the stairs as the delivery boy rang the bell on the downstairs door. It soon became apparent that there were only three apartments plus the super’s room in the whole of the house, and Virginia’s was the one on the second floor.
He paused at her door and rang the bell, then stood in the shadows of the hallway, listening to the echo of the bell on the other side of the door. It was now five minutes after midnight. If she was in there, probably the last thing she would do was come to the door, but he’d come too far to stop now. He rang again and when there was still no response forthcoming, began to knock.
Now his imagination was starting to kick in, imagining her unable to answer—imagining her dead—and he damn sure wasn’t leaving until he knew for sure. Dropping the duffel bag near his feet, he reached in his jacket pocket. Moments later, he inserted a small lock pick into the keyhole and gave it a couple of twists. The click of the tumblers seemed loud in the silence of the small hallway, and he glanced over his shoulder before stepping inside. No alarms went off. No bells and whistles sounded.
After one quick glance back at the stairwell, he closed and locked the door behind him. Motionless, he stood with his back against the door, listening for sounds of life, but heard nothing. Not even a dripping faucet. Hesitantly, he turned on the lights.
Within seconds, he knew she was gone.
There was a throw pillow on the floor, and a drawer in a nearby table was only half shut, as if someone had grabbed something out of it and, in their haste, had not pushed it shut.
Following the layout of the apartment, he began to move through the rooms. Her bed was made, but there was a large indentation in the middle of the spread that would accommodate the size of a suitcase. Her closet door was half-open, a dresser drawer still ajar. A pair of shoes lay in the corner of the room, as if they’d been tossed aside for something else. In the adjoining bath, her cosmetics were gone.
There were a dirty bowl and glass sitting in the kitchen sink and nothing else. Absently, he ran a little water in the bowl to soak loose the dried cereal and rinsed out the glass, then stood in the middle of the floor, mentally mapping her progress through the house.
Moving to the living room, he began a more thorough search.
As he was looking, a phone began to ring in an apartment downstairs. The faint sound jarred his memory about Georgia’s warning to avoid taking calls, and he thought of Virginia’s phone.
At first glance he didn’t see it. On closer inspection, he found it on the floor by the sofa. He picked it up and set it back on the table, then lifted the receiver. The line was dead. Tracing the cord to its end, he soon saw that the jack had been pulled from the wall. A small smile crossed his lips as relief settled in his gut.
She knew! By God…she knew!
Now the urgency to find her was over. He didn’t know how, but somewhere within
the next couple of days he would locate her, only not tonight. And, since it seemed obvious that Virginia Shapiro was not coming back any time soon, he saw no reason to let a perfectly good bed go to waste. He thought of his promise to call Tommy and decided it was too late for that now. He would do it in the morning, before he left.
As he turned toward the bedroom, a picture on the wall caught his eye. He moved closer for a better look and caught himself staring at the trio—an older man and woman, and a young, dark-haired woman caught in the middle of their embraces.
Me, Mom and Dad: Yellowstone—1997
The woman in the middle had to be Virginia. He took a step closer, curiously examining her face. The picture was about four years old, but she couldn’t have changed that much. The image was grainy, obviously an enlargement from a smaller snapshot, but the joy and vibrancy on her face were impossible to miss. He couldn’t help but superimpose what she must be feeling now. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness.
He reached out and touched her smile, frowning at the obstruction of the glass between him and her image. She seemed so real.
As he stood, the air-conditioning unit suddenly kicked on, and he became aware of the wet clothing on his back. Sully gave her picture a last thoughtful glance before striding toward the bedroom. It was time to get out of these clothes and into a bed.
It was 2:15 a.m. and Sully had yet to fall asleep. The faint scent of her shampoo was on the pillows, while echoes of her perfume stirred through the air. Frustrated, he rolled onto his belly and shoved her pillow onto the floor. Never in his life had he fixated on something as juvenile as a pretty girl’s picture, and he wasn’t going to start now. The only thing wrong with him was that he’d been too long without a woman.
Just before three, he finally drifted off to sleep, but Virginia Shapiro was still in his dreams, mixed up in the nightmare that this trip had become—a beautiful smiling face, staring sightlessly up at the sky and covered in blood.
Bainbridge, Connecticut
“Emile, not that tie, dear. Wear this one. It’s much more dignified.”
Emile Karnoff traded ties with his wife and smiled.
“Lucy, darling, what would I do without you?”
Lucy Karnoff hung up the other tie and then turned to her husband, giving him a judicious stare.
“Maybe if you change the—”
Emile held up his hand. “Relax. The rest of my attire is fine. It’s just another press conference, after all.”
“It’s no such thing,” Lucy argued. “You’re an important man. People deserve to hear what you have to say.”
Emile smiled as he began to knot the new tie.
Lucy fussed about the room, picking up a sock from beneath the bed, then rearranging Emile’s shoes inside their closet. He seemed easier with his new-found fame than he had in weeks. When the buzz began that he was up for the award, Emile had suffered many sleepless nights, often waking up in a cold, shaking sweat. She’d begged him to see a doctor, but he’d refused, calling it nothing but a case of nerves. As the weeks had progressed, so had his troubles. Only in the last few days had he seemed more at ease with himself and what he’d become. She could only imagine how difficult it would be—going from an obscure physician to having his picture on the front of all the news magazines.
She brushed a piece of lint from the back of his jacket as he smoothed down his thin, graying hair. Not only was it her job, but it was her joy, to have Emile presented to the world in perfect order. After years of financial struggle and behind-the-back ridicule from the women in their social circle, her husband, the man her family had disowned her for marrying, the man who’d so often been the butt of her friends’ bad jokes, had won the Nobel Prize for Medicine. That the call had come more than a month ago and the story was beginning to be old news didn’t matter. Lucy Karnoff had come into her own.
“Don’t fuss,” Emile said. “I’m fine.”
“I only want to help,” she said.
Emile turned and touched the side of his wife’s face with his forefingers, tilting the saddened corners of her lips into a smile.
“Lucy, my love, you are always a help to me.”
Emile smiled as she giggled. In his eyes, she became a girl again, rather than his sixty-eight-year-old wife. It was a blessing that Lucy was so easily pleased. He suspected it was the single reason their marriage had lasted. In the early years his passion for his studies had overflowed into his personal life to such a degree that his son, Phillip, was almost a stranger. But Lucy’s faith had never wavered, and for that he was truly thankful.
He turned to the mirror for one last look at himself as Lucy hastened from the room, murmuring something about making sure the drawing room was in order and the flowers in place. Only in the past couple of years had they been able to afford a cleaning lady, and while Lucy liked the picture it presented to her friends, he suspected she resented another woman’s presence in her house. However, the fact that they now had help was an important factor in keeping their lives in order, because the truth was, Phillip had become a burden to them both. Unable to maintain a job, his periodic bouts with depression seemed destined to keep him under their roof, and neither of them was getting any younger. Because of Phillip, Lucy had been tied to their home, unable to travel with Emile for any length of time for fear they would come home to a family disaster.
Emile yanked at his tie, pulling it straight, and then reached for his cuff links. It was too bad that the discovery that had netted him the Nobel Prize had no effect on mental instabilities, although in the early days he had pursued that train of thought. After realizing the dangers that hypnosis represented to those in an unstable state of mind, he had quickly foregone the theory.
The sound of footsteps in the hall outside his door sent his focus in another direction, as did the familiar hesitation in his son’s voice.
“Father?”
Emile turned, wondering again, as he had for almost thirty years, how he could have sired a son such as this. He was tall, good-looking in an effeminate sort of way, yet he hadn’t a clue as to what life was really about.
“Yes, Phillip, what is it?”
Phillip Karnoff shifted from one foot to the other and hated himself for being such a wimp where this man was concerned. He was forty years younger, half a head taller, and just once he would like to be the one to stand unflinchingly beneath that all-seeing gaze instead of always, always, being the first to look away.
“I was wondering…about the press conference, I mean. Do I need to be there this time? I don’t really—”
“You are family! You will sit at my side!”
Come on, wimp. Tell him how you feel. If you’re too big a coward, then stand back and give me a chance at him. Phillip’s gut knotted, ignoring the constant presence of the voice inside his head.
“Why, Father? I am nothing. Compared to you I am a failure. I have no focus—no dreams. I still live at home, and I haven’t held a full-time job in four years.”
Yeah, but I can show you how to have fun.
“You are my son,” Emile said. “You will find your way when it’s time.”
“And what if I don’t?” Phillip asked.
Emile shook his head in denial, as if the thought did not bear consideration.
“This is not the time for such discussion,” Emile said. “Some other time, when we aren’t so rushed.”
He strode past his son, giving him a halfhearted pat on the shoulder in passing.
Phillip sighed. Time never turned in his favor. There was no reason to assume anything would change. Especially now. He would never be able to come close to what his father had done, let alone top it. His shoulders slumped as he followed his father downstairs. How did one compete with a man who had discovered how to unleash the healing power of the human mind when he couldn’t even control his own thoughts?
Sully came awake suddenly and sat straight up in bed. He’d been dreaming, but about what? Already the dream was fading from his memory, but
he remembered it hadn’t been good. Glancing at the clock, he swung his legs out of bed and strode to the bathroom, turning on the shower as he passed. Outside the old Victorian house, a new day had begun. It was time he joined it.
He dressed quickly after showering, anxious to get back on the road. But he had a call to make first, and it wasn’t going to be easy. He sat down on the side of Virginia Shapiro’s bed and picked up the phone. It was time to talk to Tom Dudley. The phone rang twice, and then a woman answered.
“Susan, this is Sully. I need to talk to Tom. Is he still there?”
“Sully! How wonderful to hear your voice,” Susan said. “He’s here, and he’ll be so glad to hear from you.” Then she added in a lower tone, “You know about Georgia?”
“Yes, that’s why I called.”
“Just a minute, I’ll go get him.”
Sully waited. This was the kind of call he hated. There was nothing to say but “I’m sorry” when someone died, but when it was a member of your very best friend’s family, the words came even harder.
“Sully, is this really you?” Tom Dudley asked.
Sully grinned despite the sad circumstances. “Yeah, it’s me. How have you been?”
There was a pause, and then it was as if the life had gone out of Tom’s voice. “We’ve certainly been better,” he said.
“Look, that’s why I called. There’s something about Georgia’s death that I think your whole family should know, but I’m leaving it up to you to spread the word.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“I’m not officially working on the case, but—”
“What case? What the hell are you talking about? Georgia killed herself. Father Joseph witnessed the whole thing.”
“Just listen,” Sully said. “And trust me.”
He repeated everything he knew about what Georgia had learned, right up to where he’d received her letter too late to help, then explained that he was trying to find the last classmate before it was too late.
