“I don’t know . . . he gave me some medicine. Told me to keep taking it. Said it would help me to feel better. I didn’t want to go, but Sister Theodosia brought me.”
Well, hallelujah, Rory thinks in disbelief. She picks up an orange prescription bottle from her mother’s nightstand, and glances at the label. The name of the medication isn’t familiar, but she recognizes the doctor’s name. Desiderio. It’s the same psychiatrist that Daddy had taken Mom to years ago.
“Have you eaten anything, Mom?” Rory asks, smoothing the quilt on the bed and walking toward the doorway. “Do you want me to make you some soup or something?”
“I’m not hungry anymore. Kevin made me a sandwich earlier. I think I’ll just go to sleep now.”
Rory freezes in the doorway.
“Who made you a sandwich, Mom?”
“Kevin. Where is he now?”
“Mom, he’s in Europe, remember?” She sighs. “Mom, did you take that medicine?”
“Not yet. I will, though. I’ll take it later.”
“You need to take it now, Mom. You keep imagining things. This isn’t good. You go around seeing people who aren’t here . . . Daddy, and Carleen, and Emily, and Kevin.”
“Emily? Where is she, anyway? She was here before, but I haven’t seen her in a while. You need friends, Rory. Someone to play with. You’re so alone here.”
Oh, Mom.
Touched, she says gently, “Mom, I’m not alone. I’m with you and Molly. I don’t need friends. And Emily—”
“I know. She’s gone,” her mother says flatly. “Just like Carleen. And Daddy . . .”
“And Kevin. Good, Mom. I was worried that you didn’t—”
“It’s all right, Rory. I’m all right.” She stands and turns away from the window. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”
In the kitchen, Rory opens a can of tomato soup, pours it into a kettle, and turns on the burner. As she stands stirring it, she shoves aside disturbing thoughts about her mother and thinks instead about her long day at the big stone Lake Charlotte public library on Front Street.
Her misgivings had been eased somewhat when she’d found both of Barrett Maitland’s books listed in the library’s card catalogue. It had taken extensive searching through the paperback spinner racks to locate them, and when she did, she saw that it was indeed the man she knew smiling out from the photo on the back cover.
So Barrett Maitland really is an author.
That means he really could be writing about the Lake Charlotte disappearances . . . and probably is, Rory reminds herself.
Finding that photo of Carleen in his room means nothing. After all, he openly admitted that he’s researching her disappearance—of course he’s going to be interested in photos of her, and maybe have one in his possession. His other two books contain plenty of pictures, including ones of the victims.
But where did he get the picture of Carleen? Rory had recognized it as her senior portrait, the one that hangs above the staircase in the foyer.
Maybe one of her old friends had given it to him.
The thing was, Carleen didn’t have a whole lot of friends left by the time she disappeared. She’d changed so much in the year they were in California, while she was pregnant, that when she came back she seemed to have no interest in picking up where she left off with her crowd. From what Rory knew, she ran around with older kids, mostly guys. Not the kind of people you’d go around exchanging senior portraits with.
Rory had glanced over Barrett Maitland’s brief bio at the back of the book, seeing that he’d been raised in New Hampshire, gone to school at Bennington, and lived in New York, just as he’d told her.
That doesn’t mean he wasn’t lying, she thinks, stirring the tomato soup, pressing the lumps against the sides of the kettle to smooth the texture. He could have been lying about everything, even the book about the Lake Charlotte disappearances. Just because he’s a writer doesn’t mean he can’t be a killer, too. After all, what kind of ghoul writes about such a gory subject?
Oh, come on. The fact that he writes about crime doesn’t make him a killer, Rory reminds herself. That’s like saying all science fiction authors are likely to be aliens.
The thought is so ludicrous that she has to chuckle aloud.
She finishes stirring the soup, pours it into a bowl, and carries it to the table. She sits down to eat, and then, remembering something, stands again and goes over to the phone.
After calling Information, she dials the number for St. Malachy’s, wondering if it’s too late to find Lydia McGovern there. But if she’s not mistaken, it’s the director herself who answers the phone.
“Hello, I’d like to speak to Lydia McGovern, please?” Rory asks.
“This is she. Who’s calling, please?”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Ms. McGovern—my name is Rory Connolly, and I was there yesterday, visiting David Anghardt?”
“Oh, yes, of course I remember you. You left so quickly.”
“I’m sorry. I suddenly felt ill and I needed fresh air.”
“Are you better now?” the woman asks, such genuine concern in her voice that Rory feels instant guilt over the white lie.
She assures her that yes, she’s fine now.
“I’m glad. David was quite worked up after your visit. I think he was thrilled to have another visitor, someone other than Sister Mary Frances. After you left, he kept calling for her. ‘Sister, Sister,’ he kept shouting, and it took us quite some time to get him settled.”
“Sister?” Rory echoes slowly. “That’s what he was saying?”
“Yes, he just adores her. I think I told you—she’s an occasional visitor to our home, but David is her favorite. She brings him a little gift every time—or, maybe I shouldn’t say little. She does always remember to bring him those chocolate-covered raisins he likes so much, but she’s also the one who gave him that beautiful quilt, and the lovely, framed watercolor prints on his walls. She understands how little money we have for the kinds of homey touches that mean so much to our residents.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“Poor David misses her so terribly when she isn’t here. In fact, I didn’t realize she’d made a recent visit, as Susan said yesterday, but now it makes sense.”
“What does?”
“That David ran away again on Saturday. He does that every once in a while . . . manages to sneak out of here, and get away. I think he’s trying to find Sister Mary Frances, or maybe his father, poor thing. This time, he was missing for almost twenty-four hours before he was found Sunday morning wandering in the bus terminal in Albany.”
“That’s awful.” Rory has chills just thinking about David Anghardt stumbling out into the world, where he’d be at the mercy of anyone ruthless who happened to get their kicks taunting someone like David. “How did he get all the way up there?”
“We’re not sure. He must have taken a bus. The Adirondack Trailways line makes a daily stop at the gas station right across the road from our gate. Anyway, is there something I can help you with, Rory? I know you’re calling long-distance.”
“Actually, Ms. McGovern, there is. I was wondering if you’re familiar with someone named Barrett Maitland.”
“Barrett Maitland? Should I be?”
“He’s a true-crime writer, and he’s here in Lake Charlotte researching the disappearance of Emily Anghardt and several other girls.”
“Oh, the writer.”
Rory doesn’t have to see Lydia McGovern’s face to know that it’s wearing a disapproving look.
“You know him, then?”
“He’s called here a few times. I spoke to him once or twice, and I told him that we don’t release personal information from our residents’ records under any circumstances.”
“What did he want to know?”
&nb
sp; “Where he could find David’s family, for one thing. He needed an address. I pointed out that we don’t even have one, but if we did, we certainly couldn’t provide it to a total stranger.”
“So he didn’t say why he needed it?”
“Just that he needed to interview them for his book. He wanted to come here to talk to David, but I said absolutely not. I can’t have him upsetting the poor boy.”
Again, Rory feels a prickle of remorse for her own visit, hoping the woman doesn’t realize that it stemmed more from curiosity and suspicion than a genuine desire to cheer up someone less fortunate than herself. She vows to go to St. Malachy’s again this summer, and, next time, to bring David Anghardt some Raisinets, one of those huge boxes like they sell at movie theaters.
“Why are you curious about that writer, Rory? Has he been bothering you, too?”
“In a way,” Rory admits. “But I wasn’t sure whether to trust him.”
“I wouldn’t. These days, you just never know what strangers are up to.”
“No,” Rory agrees thoughtfully, “you certainly don’t.”
“Are you all right, hon?”
He blinks, sees that Kelly is staring at him across the table they managed to snag in the crowded Irish pub near Faneuil Hall. Concern is etched in her wide-set hazel eyes.
She’s beautiful, he thinks—young, and beautiful, and excited about our future. She has no idea that I’m still hopelessly entrenched in my sordid past. What would she do if she knew the truth? Leave me?
Would I blame her?
“I’m fine,” he says, picking up his mug of Sam Adams and taking a long drink. “Just thinking about that research paper I’m working on. Who says professors get to take the summers off? I’ve spent every day in my office since the semester ended, and I’m not even teaching a course this session.”
“You work too hard. Come with me to DC this weekend. It’ll be fun. You can’t come to my dress fitting, though—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding day.”
“I was thinking . . . maybe we should think twice about having a Christmas wedding.”
“What do you mean?”
“That time of year, with the weather so unpredictable, and so many people having to travel to get there . . .”
“We’re the only ones who have to travel to get there,” Kelly points out, her wineglass poised in front of her lips. “Everyone else lives in the Washington area, since you didn’t want to invite anyone from here, or your family.”
“I told you, I really don’t have much family, and I’m not close to them.”
“Whatever.” She shrugs, watching him. “You’re the one who wanted a Christmas wedding. You pointed out that you’ll have all that time off for winter recess, and I’ll hopefully have my thesis done by then.”
“I know. I just never thought about the weather. That’s all.”
“So what are you saying? You want to move the wedding up?”
Actually, he’d been thinking of pushing it back. Way back. Waiting awhile longer, just to make sure . . .
Make sure of what? he demands of himself.
That she really loves you?
That the past isn’t going to explode in your face and destroy this whole new life it took so damn long to build?
“I don’t know . . .” He sips more ale.
“Because we can always have an October wedding. The foliage is so beautiful then. Of course, you wouldn’t have any extra time off, unless we could do it Columbus Day weekend—but my parents’ country club is probably booked then.”
“It’s okay, Kelly. We’ll just leave it at Christmas.”
“Are you sure?” She’s watching him closely, as though she’s worried about him.
“I’m positive.” He forces a smile.
“You’ll see, honey.” She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “Everything will work out perfectly. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” he assures her.
The question is, Kelly, do you trust me? And if you do—you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.
“All right, Michelle,” Dr. Kabir says, striding briskly back into the labor room, her chart in his hand. “The baby isn’t necessarily premature—”
“But he wasn’t due until August,” Lou interrupts.
“We could have gotten the dates wrong, though he is on the small side—”
“How small?” Michelle asks, tense, still breathing her way through a contraction.
“Not dangerously so. Looks like he’s in the safe zone, over six pounds, and, so far, everything looks okay, so—”
“But he’s still breech?” Lou asks, standing by Michelle’s head. He’s been coaching her, doing his best, to his credit, to remember the breathing exercises they’d used two years ago when Ozzie was born.
“He’s still breech,” the doctor confirms. “But, given his size and the fact that labor is progressing normally, we’re going to have you attempt a vaginal delivery.”
“No surgery?” Michelle asks, half relieved, half intimidated by the prospect of the enormous, excruciating task ahead.
“Is that a good idea?” Lou asks warily.
“I’ve had twenty years of experience, Mr. Randall, and I’ve seen many patients through this type of delivery,” Dr. Kabir says. “We’ll monitor your wife and the baby very closely, and allow labor to proceed only as long as it progresses normally.Michelle will be transferred to an operating room at the end of the first stage, just in case a cesarean section is needed.”
“When will that be?”
Lou asks the question that’s on the tip of Michelle’s tongue, as though he’s read her mind. She can’t speak anyway; another agonizing contraction is taking hold, squeezing the middle of her body from the inside out.
“The length of time depends, basically, on Michelle—on how long it takes her cervix to fully dilate. There’s no way of predicting. When I examined her a few minutes ago, she was at three centimeters. She has to go to ten.”
Michelle looks at Lou. “Ozzie,” she bites out, her face clenched against the pain. “Molly . . .”
“She can take good care of him, Michelle,” Lou says. “Don’t worry. She was fine the other day.”
“That wasn’t overnight.” She can’t ignore a growing sense of trepidation—a distinct malaise that has nothing to do with labor and pain. She looks at the clock, sees that the hour hand has clicked its way past seven. It’ll be dark soon.
And Rebecca Wasner’s kidnapper—maybe killer—is still out there someplace.
She takes a deep breath, manages to speak over the contraction. “It’s . . . owww . . . getting . . . late.”
Dr. Kabir looks sternly at Michelle. “You need to focus on your labor, Michelle. That should be your main concern now. Don’t use your energy to talk through the contractions; you’re fighting a losing battle if you do. Try not to worry about other things—”
“My son!” she shouts, irritated. “He’s alone.”
“Molly’s there.”
“But she’s afraid, Lou!”
She sees the glance that passes between her husband and the doctor.
“Our teenaged baby-sitter is staying with our son,” Lou explains. “Michelle is worried about her being alone with him overnight.”
“Women in labor can sometimes become irrational and paranoid,” the doctor says in a low voice.
“I’m not paranoid!” Michelle practically screams, hating both of them.
“I’m sorry, Michelle,” the doctor says, and turns to Lou. “Isn’t there someone else you could call to go over and stay at your house so that she won’t worry about this?”
“We’re trying to reach my mother, but she’s out of town. We left a message for her to get in touch and we’ll ask h
er to come back.”
“I’m sure your son and his sitter will be fine in the meantime,” the doctor says in a calming voice, looking down at Michelle. He pats her hand, which is gripping the bed rail, and urges, “Try to relax. Don’t fight the pain, try to breathe with it.”
“No!”
“Michelle!” Lou says tersely. “He’s the doctor. He knows what he’s talking about.”
She feels frantic, trapped in this bed, in this body, knowing only that Ozzie might be in danger and she’s powerless to do anything about it. “Lou, you go . . . go home. I’ll be fine.”
“No way. I’m not leaving you now, Michelle.”
“Your husband should be here, Michelle,” the doctor agrees. “His job is to stay with you and coach you through labor. Both of you need to focus on that, now, okay? For the baby’s sake, and your own.”
“No,” Michelle protests weakly, as the contraction eases and she allows her head to flop back onto the pillow.
“Keep her as calm as you can,” Dr. Kabir tells Lou as he turns to leave.
“I’ll try,” Lou promises.
“No,” Michelle says again, pleading with Lou. “Go . . . please. Before . . .”
But another contraction is building in a fierce, sudden, agonizing wave that sweeps her away before she can utter the rest.
Before it’s too late.
Molly turns on the television set, idly flipping the remote control from channel to channel. Nothing good is on in the summer, she decides, considering turning it off. But then the house will be silent, and that would be much worse than watching some boring sitcom rerun.
She’s still waiting for the phone to ring, for Ozzie’s grandmother to say, “They’re at the hospital? I’ll hurry right back and be there in a few hours,” or for Lou to say, “It’s a boy! And I’ll be home by midnight.” Anything so Molly won’t have to stay here alone all night.
She puts the remote control on the end table, next to the baby monitor, which is plugged in and turned on. Ozzie had cried miserably when she put him to bed, wailing that he was afraid of the lady in his room.
Molly figures he was talking about the painting of Old Mother Hubbard on the wall above his crib. Michelle had painted her smiling, but you never know with little kids. They’re afraid of the strangest things.
All the Way Home Page 28
