Play Dead
Page 97
Then what was Laura doing up there, James? Just a casual visit to Colgate’s campus? Seems like too much of a coincidence to me.
His face coiled in fear. Hamilton was a good five hours’ drive from Boston. By the time a plane was chartered and flew through this weather, it would still be a few hours. But time was critical now. He had to get to the hospital as soon as possible, had to protect his daughter before the entire world fell around her.
If something bad happens to Laura—Oh, God, if something bad happens to my baby girl . . .
James Ayars decided not to finish his thought.
LAURA’S eyelids felt like deadweights. She wrestled with them until they finally fluttered open. A light shone in her eyes, making it impossible to see anything but the bursting brightness of white. Mercifully, the light was pushed away, and gradually, Laura’s vision came into focus. She glanced around the clean room, the sterile smells chilling her. Almost immediately she realized where she was.
“Mrs. Baskin?”
Her tongue seemed stuck to the bottom of her mouth. “Yes?”
“My name is Dr. Eric Clarich,” the man standing above her said. “You are at St. Catherine’s Hospital in Hamilton, New York. Do you remember what happened to you?”
Laura’s line of vision zeroed in on the young doctor’s unshaven face. His bloodshot brown eyes looked down at her with a concern and maturity beyond his years. “Fire,” she managed.
“Yes, there was a fire,” Eric said. “You suffered a few minor burns, but you are going to be fine.”
Laura uttered one word: “Judy?”
As the doctor lowered his eyes, Laura felt her stomach drop. Dread rushed through her entire body.
“She died,” he said. “I’m very sorry. I was very fond of your aunt. She and I were good friends.”
Laura’s head collapsed back. She looked straight into the air, her eyes blinking spasmodically. Aunt Judy was dead, killed in the fire. Laura tried to recall her last moments with her aunt, the desperate look in Judy’s eyes as the blaze crept closer and closer. She remembered tripping over something, banging her head, reaching out to Judy, and then . . . blackness.
“How was I rescued?” she asked.
The doctor half smiled. “That is a bit of a mystery. A man pulled both of you out of the fire. For Professor Simmons, unfortunately, it was too late.”
“But who was the man?”
“We don’t know,” Eric answered. “He called the emergency room and then vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“I found it rather strange myself.”
Laura tried to concentrate through the grief. The fire was no accident—she was sure of it. Someone had set the fire. Someone had knocked poor Judy unconscious and doused her study with some sort of inflammable liquid. Someone had set the fire with the intention of killing Laura’s aunt. But who?
David’s murderer.
Laura’s head nodded at the thought. David’s murderer had done this. Somehow, Judy had learned the truth behind David’s demise and had paid for it with her life. But why a fire, especially when a simple investigation would prove it was arson? Why not simply use a gun or a knife? Why go to the trouble of burning down Judy’s house if you just wanted to keep her silent . . . ?
Not the house. The study.
Laura felt a coldness wrap itself around her spine. The study. The fire had taken place in the study.
“I spoke to your father,” Eric Clarich said, interrupting her thoughts. “He is on his way. He should be here in a couple more hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor. When can I get out of here?”
Eric smiled and picked up a clipboard. “We’ll talk about that a little later, okay? Why don’t you get some rest now?”
Laura closed her eyes, though she knew sleep would not come. She felt scared and so very alone—a helpless amateur against ruthless killers and arsonists. What chance did she have? None really. And what was she supposed to do next? Judy was dead, silenced before she had the chance to tell Laura what was going on. What had Judy learned that had cost her her life? What had Judy wanted to tell Laura that . . . ?
“. . . to show you, Laura. Show you . . .”
Her eyes suddenly flew open.
“. . . show you, Laura . . .”
“Dr. Clarich?”
“. . . Take it . . .”
Eric stopped scribbling and looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Baskin?”
Her mouth felt very dry. “My personal possessions.” “They’re in a plastic bag in your closet.”
The blaze had almost been upon them. Laura could still feel Judy press something into her hand, forcing her to pocket the items while the fire moved in around them. “May I have it, please?”
Eric sighed heavily. “You really should get some rest. The fire chief is going to want to talk to you later.”
“I will,” Laura promised. “I just need my things for a moment.”
Eric spotted the desperation in her voice. “Okay,” he agreed. “But then I want you to rest.”
Laura nodded eagerly. She watched Dr. Clarich step toward the closet. Seconds dragged.
What did you hand me, Aunt Judy? What was so important that imminent death became merely a distraction?
Eric opened the closet, bent down, and came up holding a red plastic bag marked EMERGENCY ROOM. Laura tried to sit up, each movement of her body rubbing a burn the wrong way. She thought for a moment of how close she had come to being burned alive and wondered once again about the mystery man who had saved her life.
Dr. Clarich walked back over to the bed. “Here you go. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled gently and left the room. When the door shut, when Laura had been left completely alone, she opened the plastic bag and began to sift through its contents.
A clue, Aunt Judy. Did you save a clue from the treacherous fire?
The first thing that caught her eye was the Svengali label on her ripped and slightly scorched blouse. Part of the sleeve and back were burned black, the cotton and silk threads seared beyond repair. She found the rest of her clothes, her wallet, her pocketbook, her shoes, her car keys. Then she came upon one of the two things Judy had handed her.
A set of keys.
Disappointment shot down Laura’s hopes. Why would Judy hand her a set of keys? What significance could that have? There were four keys on the chain. One she recognized as Judy’s house key. Two others were for the car. Laura had no idea what the fourth opened.
His face coiled in fear. Hamilton was a good five hours’ drive from Boston. By the time a plane was chartered and flew through this weather, it would still be a few hours. But time was critical now. He had to get to the hospital as soon as possible, had to protect his daughter before the entire world fell around her.
If something bad happens to Laura—Oh, God, if something bad happens to my baby girl . . .
James Ayars decided not to finish his thought.
LAURA’S eyelids felt like deadweights. She wrestled with them until they finally fluttered open. A light shone in her eyes, making it impossible to see anything but the bursting brightness of white. Mercifully, the light was pushed away, and gradually, Laura’s vision came into focus. She glanced around the clean room, the sterile smells chilling her. Almost immediately she realized where she was.
“Mrs. Baskin?”
Her tongue seemed stuck to the bottom of her mouth. “Yes?”
“My name is Dr. Eric Clarich,” the man standing above her said. “You are at St. Catherine’s Hospital in Hamilton, New York. Do you remember what happened to you?”
Laura’s line of vision zeroed in on the young doctor’s unshaven face. His bloodshot brown eyes looked down at her with a concern and maturity beyond his years. “Fire,” she managed.
“Yes, there was a fire,” Eric said. “You suffered a few minor burns, but you are going to be fine.”
Laura uttered one word: “Judy?”
As the doctor lowered his eyes, Laura felt her stomach drop. Dread rushed through her entire body.
“She died,” he said. “I’m very sorry. I was very fond of your aunt. She and I were good friends.”
Laura’s head collapsed back. She looked straight into the air, her eyes blinking spasmodically. Aunt Judy was dead, killed in the fire. Laura tried to recall her last moments with her aunt, the desperate look in Judy’s eyes as the blaze crept closer and closer. She remembered tripping over something, banging her head, reaching out to Judy, and then . . . blackness.
“How was I rescued?” she asked.
The doctor half smiled. “That is a bit of a mystery. A man pulled both of you out of the fire. For Professor Simmons, unfortunately, it was too late.”
“But who was the man?”
“We don’t know,” Eric answered. “He called the emergency room and then vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“I found it rather strange myself.”
Laura tried to concentrate through the grief. The fire was no accident—she was sure of it. Someone had set the fire. Someone had knocked poor Judy unconscious and doused her study with some sort of inflammable liquid. Someone had set the fire with the intention of killing Laura’s aunt. But who?
David’s murderer.
Laura’s head nodded at the thought. David’s murderer had done this. Somehow, Judy had learned the truth behind David’s demise and had paid for it with her life. But why a fire, especially when a simple investigation would prove it was arson? Why not simply use a gun or a knife? Why go to the trouble of burning down Judy’s house if you just wanted to keep her silent . . . ?
Not the house. The study.
Laura felt a coldness wrap itself around her spine. The study. The fire had taken place in the study.
“I spoke to your father,” Eric Clarich said, interrupting her thoughts. “He is on his way. He should be here in a couple more hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor. When can I get out of here?”
Eric smiled and picked up a clipboard. “We’ll talk about that a little later, okay? Why don’t you get some rest now?”
Laura closed her eyes, though she knew sleep would not come. She felt scared and so very alone—a helpless amateur against ruthless killers and arsonists. What chance did she have? None really. And what was she supposed to do next? Judy was dead, silenced before she had the chance to tell Laura what was going on. What had Judy learned that had cost her her life? What had Judy wanted to tell Laura that . . . ?
“. . . to show you, Laura. Show you . . .”
Her eyes suddenly flew open.
“. . . show you, Laura . . .”
“Dr. Clarich?”
“. . . Take it . . .”
Eric stopped scribbling and looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Baskin?”
Her mouth felt very dry. “My personal possessions.” “They’re in a plastic bag in your closet.”
The blaze had almost been upon them. Laura could still feel Judy press something into her hand, forcing her to pocket the items while the fire moved in around them. “May I have it, please?”
Eric sighed heavily. “You really should get some rest. The fire chief is going to want to talk to you later.”
“I will,” Laura promised. “I just need my things for a moment.”
Eric spotted the desperation in her voice. “Okay,” he agreed. “But then I want you to rest.”
Laura nodded eagerly. She watched Dr. Clarich step toward the closet. Seconds dragged.
What did you hand me, Aunt Judy? What was so important that imminent death became merely a distraction?
Eric opened the closet, bent down, and came up holding a red plastic bag marked EMERGENCY ROOM. Laura tried to sit up, each movement of her body rubbing a burn the wrong way. She thought for a moment of how close she had come to being burned alive and wondered once again about the mystery man who had saved her life.
Dr. Clarich walked back over to the bed. “Here you go. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled gently and left the room. When the door shut, when Laura had been left completely alone, she opened the plastic bag and began to sift through its contents.
A clue, Aunt Judy. Did you save a clue from the treacherous fire?
The first thing that caught her eye was the Svengali label on her ripped and slightly scorched blouse. Part of the sleeve and back were burned black, the cotton and silk threads seared beyond repair. She found the rest of her clothes, her wallet, her pocketbook, her shoes, her car keys. Then she came upon one of the two things Judy had handed her.
A set of keys.
Disappointment shot down Laura’s hopes. Why would Judy hand her a set of keys? What significance could that have? There were four keys on the chain. One she recognized as Judy’s house key. Two others were for the car. Laura had no idea what the fourth opened.
