Play Dead
Page 98So why did Judy hand her a set of keys?
Maybe her aunt’s mind had been confused at that stage. Maybe she was trying to find her way to the car to make her escape.
You’re reaching, Laura.
Any better ideas?
She put the keys down and reached back into the red plastic bag. This time her hand located a thick piece of paper or maybe a thin piece of cardboard. It felt wrinkled and old. She gently lifted the paper/cardboard and brought it into view.
It was a photograph.
Laura’s eyes narrowed in confusion. The photograph was an old black-and-white one. Her mother had a lot of these kind but this one had obviously been handled many times over. Brown spots dotted the photograph with age. But Laura was not interested in the technical aspects of the picture. She was interested in its content.
The picture showed a happy couple staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. The man’s arms were wrapped passionately around the woman’s waist. The woman was Judy. She could not have been more than twenty years old. How happy she looked, Laura thought, how her face glowed in a way Laura had never seen before. It was more than just the simple glow of youth. There was love here, real love.
Laura turned her attention to the man in the photograph. Her throat constricted. It took but a few seconds for her brain to register the impossible truth. When she recognized the man’s face, when she was absolutely sure who the man was, she wanted so very much to scream.
The man in the photograph smiled playfully at young, pretty Judy Simmons. His hair was tousled, his face strong and handsome like . . . like his younger son’s.
Her head began to swim. David’s father. David’s father, who’d committed suicide thirty years ago. Sinclair Baskin and Judy were holding each other in a passionate embrace.
The picture dropped from Laura’s hand. Judy’s last clue. With death just moments away, this photograph had been her aunt’s last desperate effort to tell Laura the truth of what had happened to David, of why he was killed.
But what did it mean?
“Hey, buddy, I’m already going too fast. You want to end up in the hospital, too?”
James sat back. “Sorry. It’s just that—”
“I know, I know,” the taxi driver interrupted. “Your daughter is in the hospital in Hamilton. I got kids, too, you know. I understand what you’re feeling.”
James tried taking a few deep breaths. “How much longer?”
“Five minutes. Considering the weather, I’d say we’re making great time. Airport to Hamilton in a half hour. That could be a record.”
“Could you go just a little faster, please?”
“No need,” the driver replied. “We’re here.”
James tossed the driver a fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”
“Thank you, buddy. Hope your daughter’s feeling better.”
He stepped out of the car and sprinted into the hospital. His heart raced. The record-breaking thirty-minute drive from the airport to St. Catherine’s had felt like weeks.
Laura is okay, he reminded himself. You heard the doctor. Just a few burns and some smoke inhalation. Nothing a little rest won’t fix.
And James would make sure she rested. Oh, yes, he would stand guard over her twenty-fours a day if necessary, but he would not let anyone ever hurt his baby again. No one. Not ever.
“Down the hall and to the right,” the receptionist replied. “Room one seventeen. I believe Dr. Clarich is in there now.”
James sped down the corridor. He circled right, his legs propelling him with surprising velocity—and then he stopped cold. His heart jerked to one side.
Oh, no.
Down at the end of the hallway, just a few feet in front of Laura’s hospital room, his wife sat crumpled into a plastic chair. Mary looked so small, so fragile. Her face was pale and harried.
“Mary?”
Her head swiveled slowly toward the familiar voice. “Oh, James.”
How did you get here so fast, Mary? How . . . ?
She stood and ran toward her husband on wobbly legs, but James moved forward hesitantly, almost afraid to go near her.
She was here the whole time. She was at Colgate.
“I . . . I called the answering machine and heard your message,” she explained weakly. “I got up here as soon as I could.”
In less than three hours? Talk about breaking speed records.
“Where is the doctor?” James asked, trying like hell to sound like his usual cool, controlled self.
James took her in his arms and held her closely. His eyes closed, and a transformation took place within him. This, after all, was what it was all about. He loved her. God forgive him, he loved her so damn much. She had sinned and done some horrible things—things most husbands would never forgive. But try as he might, James could not help but love her more every day. She was so seemingly innocent, so helpless and beautiful. He had to protect her . . . no matter what she may have done in the past.
“It’s okay, my love,” James whispered, his eyes still tightly shut. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be okay.”
The tender moment, perhaps the last Mary and James would share together, came to a sudden halt when the door of room 117 opened. James released his wife and automatically fixed his professional mask back onto his face. He turned toward Dr. Eric Clarich.
“Dr. Clarich?”
“Dr. Ayars?” Eric asked. They shook hands. “Glad you both are here.”
“Is she all right?” James asked. “Can we see her?”
“She’s doing just fine,” Dr. Clarich assured him. “She’ll be out of here in no more than a day or two.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mary said.
“She is a bit shaken up. It was quite a harrowing ordeal.”
“Can you tell us what happened, Doctor?”
Eric led them over to a waiting area, where they all sat down. “Apparently, your daughter walked in on a fire at Professor Simmons’s home. According to Laura, she opened the study door and found Professor Simmons on the floor. She tried to rescue her aunt, and in doing so, she nearly got herself killed. You see, Laura got trapped in the study. She tried to pull Professor Simmons out but the smoke was too much. Laura passed out.”