Skimming through the research material, she could see that the pages on both Calvin Whitehall and Dr. Gary Lasch seemed detailed and extremely thorough. It looks like research has pulled out all the stops in this one, she thought gratefully. I have a hunch I’ll be doing a lot of reading tonight.

“You must plan to do a lot of reading.”

Fran looked up. Tim was at the door. “Make a wish fast,” she told him. “You just said exactly what I was thinking, and when that happens, you get whatever you wish for.”

“I never heard that one, but anyhow it’s easy to do. Here goes: I wish you’d have a hamburger with me. How’s that?” he asked with a laugh. “I was on the phone with my mother earlier today, and when I told her I let you pay for dinner the other night, she yelled at me. She said she doesn’t agree with this business of men and women splitting checks unless it’s a business appointment or a case of dire financial necessity. She said that with my paycheck and total lack of responsibilities, I shouldn’t be so chintzy.” He grinned. “I think she was right.”

“I’m not sure about that, but yes, I’d love to have a hamburger-if you don’t mind making it a fast one.” Fran pointed to the stack of files and magazines. “I need to start working my way through all this stuff tonight.”

“I was sorry to hear about the parole board emergency session. That’s not good for Molly, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

Fran hesitated. “There’s something terribly wrong, even bizarre, going on at Lasch Hospital, but in all fairness, since I don’t have a shred of proof yet, I shouldn’t even talk about it.”

“Maybe you should take a break from it anyhow,” Tim suggested. “P.J.’s okay with you?”

“You bet, and I’ll be home in two minutes from there.”

With an easy motion, Tim picked up the magazines and research data from her desk. “You want all this stuff?”

“Yes. I’ll have the whole weekend to wade through it.”

“Sounds like fun. Let’s go.”

Over hamburgers at P. J. Clarke’s they discussed baseball-the start of spring training and the strengths and weaknesses of the various players and teams. “I’d better be careful. You could take over the sports desk,” Tim told her as he paid the check.

“I might do a better job there than I’m doing right now,” Fran responded wryly.

Tim insisted on seeing Fran to her apartment. “I’m not going to let you carry all this stuff,” he said. “You’d break your arm. But I assure you I’ll get right out.”

As they left the elevator on her floor he mentioned the deaths of Natasha and Barbara Colbert. “I jog in the morning,” he said. “And today, while I was enjoying a run, I started thinking how Tasha Colbert went out one morning to jog, just like I do, and she tripped and fell and never had another thought.”

Tripped on a loose shoelace? Fran thought as she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. She switched on the light.

“Where do you want these?” Tim asked.

“Right on that table, please.”

“Sure.” He laid them down and turned to go. “I guess the reason Tasha Colbert was on my mind so much was that she went into the hospital while my grandmother was there.”

“She did?”

Tim was stepping into the hall. “Yes. I was visiting when she was brought in one afternoon in cardiac arrest. She was only two rooms away from Gran. Gran died the next day.” He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. “Oh, well. Goodnight Fran. You look tired. Don’t work too late.” He turned and headed down the hall too soon to see the stricken look on Fran’s face.

She closed the door and leaned against it. With every fiber of her being, she was sure that Tim’s grandmother must have been the elderly woman Annamarie Scalli had referred to, the one with a heart condition who was the original intended recipient of the experimental drug that destroyed Tasha Colbert and, a night later, was also given to her.

76

“Molly, before I leave I’m going to give you a sedative that will ensure that you sleep tonight,” Dr. Daniels told Molly.

“If you like, Doctor,” Molly said indifferently.

They were in the family room. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” Dr. Daniels said. He stood to go into the kitchen.

Molly thought of the bottle of sleeping pills she’d left out on the counter there. “The bar sink is closer, Doctor,” she said quickly.

She knew he was watching her closely as she put the pill in her mouth and swallowed it with water. “I’m really all right,” she said, as she put the glass down.

“You’ll be more all right after you have a good sleep. You go right upstairs to bed.”

“I will.” She walked with him to the front door. “It’s past nine. I’m sorry. I certainly have ruined your evenings this week, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t ruined anything. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Remember. Straight upstairs to bed, Molly. You’re going to start feeling groggy pretty soon.”

Molly waited until she was sure he was driving away before she double locked the door and stepped on the foot bolt. This time the sound it made-something between a click and a snap-seemed to be familiar and nonthreatening.

I made it all up, she thought dully-that sound, the feeling that someone was in the house that night. I remember it that way because that’s the way I wanted it to be.

Had she turned off all the lights in the study? She couldn’t remember. The door to the study was closed. She opened it and leaned inside, reaching for the light switch. As light flooded the room, something caught her eye. Something was moving outside the front window. Was someone out there? Yes. In the glow from the study light, she could see Wally Barry, standing on the lawn, just a few feet from the window, staring in at her. With a startled cry she turned away.

And suddenly the study was different. It was paneled again, as it had been… before… And Gary was there, his back to her, at his desk-he was slumped over, his head soaked in blood.

Blood was running down from the deep gash in his head, soaking his back, pooling on the desk, dripping onto the floor.

Molly tried to scream but could not. She turned back and looked beseechingly to Wally for help, but he was gone. The blood was on her hands, her face, her clothes.

Dazed by terror, she staggered out of the room, up the stairs, and fell into bed.

When she awoke twelve hours later, still groggy from the sleeping pill, she knew that the vivid, bloody horror she had remembered was only part of the unendurable nightmare that her life had become.

77

Fran knew that if she tried to read in bed, she would fall asleep, so she opted instead to change into a pair of comfortable old pajamas and then settled in her leather chair, her feet on the hassock.

She tackled Gary Lasch’s file first. It reads like a slightly sophisticated Beaver Cleaver profile, she thought. He attended a good prep school and a good college, but not Ivy League. Couldn’t make one, I’ll bet, she told herself. He finished college with a B minus average, then went to Meridian Medical School in Colorado. After that he joined his father’s practice. Soon thereafter his father died, and Gary was made head of the hospital.

And here we start to shine, Fran noticed. Engagement to socialiteMolly Carpenter. More and more articles about Lasch Hospital and its charismatic CEO. Then stories about Gary and his partner, Peter Black, starting Remington HMO with financier Calvin Whitehall.

Next came his dazzling wedding to Molly. Then clippings about the beautiful couple-Gary and Molly at benefits and charity balls and other top-drawer social events.

Interspersed there were more items about the hospital and the HMO, including pieces about Gary being invited to make speeches at medical conventions. Fran read some of them. The usual fluff, she decided, putting them to one side.