I'll Be Seeing You

  Catherine Collins hurried into the room. “Meggie, you’re all right?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Just now when I was coming up the driveway I got the queerest feeling about you, that something was wrong—almost like a premonition.”

  Meghan forced a chuckle, got up swiftly and hugged her mother. “There was something wrong,” she said. “I’ve been trying to absorb the mysteries of DNA, and believe me, it’s tough, I now know why Sister Elizabeth told me I had no head for science.”

  She was relieved to see the tension ease from her mother’s face.

  Helene Petrovic swallowed nervously as she packed the last of her suitcases at midnight. She left out only her toiletries and the clothes she would wear in the morning. She was frantic to be finished with it all. She had become so jumpy lately. The strain had become too much, she decided. It was time to put an end to it.

  She lifted the suitcase from the bed and placed it next to the others. From the foyer, the faint click of a turning lock reached her ears. She jammed her hand against her mouth to muffle a scream. He wasn’t supposed to come tonight. She turned around to face him.

  “Helene?” His voice was polite. “Weren’t you planning to say goodbye?”

  “I . . . I was going to write you.”

  “That won’t be necessary now.”

  With his right hand, he reached into his pocket. She saw the glint of metal. Then he picked up one of the bed pillows and held it in front of him. Helene did not have time to try to escape. Searing pain exploded through her head. The future that she had planned so carefully disappeared with her into the blackness.

  At four A.M. the ringing of the phone tore Meghan from sleep. She fumbled for the receiver.

  A barely discernible, hoarse voice whispered, “Meg.”

  “Who is this?” She heard a click and knew her mother was picking up the extension.

  “It’s Daddy, Meg. I’m in trouble. I did something terrible.”

  A strangled moan made Meg fling down the receiver and rush into her mother’s room. Catherine Collins was slumped on the pillow, her face ashen, her eyes closed. Meg grasped her arms. “Mom, it’s some sick, crazy fool,” she said urgently. “Mom!”

  Her mother was unconscious.

  17

  At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, Mac watched his lively son leap onto the school bus. Then he got in his car for the drive to Westport. There was a nippy bite in the air, and his glasses were fogging over. He took them off, gave them a quick rub and automatically wished that he were one of the happy contact lens wearers whose smiling faces reproached him from poster-sized ads whenever he went to have his glasses adjusted or replaced.

  As he drove around the bend in the road he was astonished to see Meg’s white Mustang about to turn into her driveway. He tapped the horn and she braked.

  He pulled up beside her. In unison they lowered their windows. His cheerful, “What are you up to?” died on his lips as he got a good look at Meghan. Her face was strained and pale, her hair disheveled, a striped pajama top visible between the lapels of her raincoat. “Meg, what’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “My mother’s in the hospital,” she said tonelessly.

  A car was coming up behind her. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”

  In the driveway, he hurried to open the car door for Meg. She seemed dazed. How bad is Catherine? he thought, worried. On the porch, he took Meg’s house key from her hand. “Here, let me do that.”

  In the foyer, he put his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

  “They thought at first she’d had a heart attack. Fortunately they were wrong, but there is a chance that she’s building up to one. She’s on medication to head it off. She’ll be in the hospital for at least a week. They asked—get this—had she been under any stress?” An uncertain laugh became a stifled sob. She swallowed and pulled back. “I’m okay, Mac. The tests showed no heart damage as of now. She’s exhausted, heartsick, worried. Rest and some sedatives are what she needs.”

  “I agree. Wouldn’t hurt you either. Come on. You could use a cup of coffee.”

  She followed him into the kitchen. “I’ll make it.”

  “Sit down. Don’t you want to take your coat off?”

  “I’m still cold.” She attempted a smile. “How can you go out on a day like this without a coat?”

  Mac glanced down at his gray tweed jacket. “My top-coat has a loose button. I can’t find my sewing kit.”

  When the coffee was ready, he poured them each a cup and sat opposite her at the table. “I suppose with Catherine in the hospital you’ll come here to sleep for a while.”

  “I was going to anyhow.” Quietly she told him all that had been happening: about the victim who resembled her, the note that had been found in the victim’s pocket, the middle-of-the-night fax. “And so,” she explained, “the station wants me off the firing line for the time being, and my boss gave me the Manning Clinic assignment. And then early this morning the phone rang and . . .” She told him about the call and her mother’s collapse.

  Mac hoped the shock he was feeling did not show in his face. Granted, Kyle had been with them Sunday night at dinner. She might not have wanted to say anything in front of him. Even so, Meg had not even hinted that less than three days earlier she had seen a murdered woman who might have died in her place. Likewise, she had not chosen to confide in Mac about the decision of the insurers.

  From the time she was ten years old and he was a college sophomore working summers at the inn, he’d been the willing confidante of her secrets, everything from how much she missed her father when he was away, to how much she hated practicing the piano.

  The year and a half of Mac’s marriage was the only time he hadn’t seen the Collinses regularly. He’d been living here since the divorce, nearly seven years now, and believed that he and Meg were back on their big brother-little sister basis. Guess again, he thought.

  Meghan was silent now, absorbed in her own thoughts, clearly neither looking for nor expecting help or advice from him. He remembered Kyle’s remark: I thought you were my friend. The woman Kyle had seen driving past the house on Wednesday, the one he’d thought was Meghan. Was it possible that she was the woman who died a day later?

  Mac decided instantly not to discuss this with Meghan until he had questioned Kyle tonight and had a chance to think. But he did have to ask her something else. “Meg, forgive me, but is there any chance however remote that it was your father calling this morning?”

  “No. No. I’d know his voice. So would my mother. The one we heard was surreal, not as bad as a computer voice, but not right.”

  “He said he was in trouble.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the note in the stabbing victim’s pocket was in his writing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your father ever mention anyone named Annie?”

  Meghan stared at Mac.

  Annie! She could hear her father teasing as he called, Meg . . . Meggie . . . Meghan Anne . . . Annie . . .

  She thought in horror, Annie was always his pet name for me.

  18

  On Tuesday morning, from the front windows of her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, Frances Grolier could see the first glimmer of light begin to define the McDowell Mountains, light that she knew would become strong and brilliant, constantly changing the hues and tones and colors reflected on those masses of rock.

  She turned and walked across the long room to the back windows. The house bordered on the vast Pima Indian reservation and offered a view of the primordial desert, stark and open, edged by Camelback Mountain; desert and mountain now mysteriously lighted in the shadowy pink glow that preceded the sunrise.

  At fifty-six, Frances had somehow managed to retain a fey quality that suited her thin face, thick mass of graying brown hair and wide, compelling eyes. She never bothered to soften the deep lines around her eyes and mouth with makeup. Tall and reedy, she was most comfortable in slacks and a loo
se smock. She shunned personal publicity, but her work as a sculptor was known in art circles, particularly for her consummate skill in molding faces. The sensitivity with which she captured below-the-surface expressions was the hallmark of her talent.

  Long ago she had made a decision and stuck by it without regret. Her lifestyle suited her well. But now . . .

  She shouldn’t have expected Annie to understand. She should have kept her word and told her nothing. Annie had listened to the painful explanation, her eyes wide and shocked. Then she’d walked across the room and deliberately knocked over the stand holding the bronze bust.

  At Frances’ horrified cry, Annie had rushed from the house, jumped in her car and driven away. That evening Frances tried to phone her daughter at her apartment in San Diego. The answering machine was on. She’d phoned every day for the last week and always got the machine. It would be just like Annie to disappear indefinitely. Last year, after she’d broken her engagement to Greg, she’d flown to Australia and backpacked for six months.

  With fingers that seemed to be unable to obey the signals from her brain, Frances resumed her careful repair of the bust she had sculpted of Annie’s father.

  From the moment she entered his office at two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Meghan could sense the difference in Dr. George Manning’s attitude. On Sunday, when she’d covered the reunion, he had been expansive, cooperative, proud to display the children and the clinic. On the phone yesterday, when she’d made the appointment, he’d been quietly enthusiastic. Today the doctor looked every day of his seventy years. The healthy pink complexion she had noted earlier had been replaced by a gray pallor. The hand that he extended to her had a slight tremor.

  This morning, before he left for Westport, Mac had insisted that she phone the hospital and check on her mother. She was told that Mrs. Collins was sleeping and that her blood pressure had improved satisfactorily and was now in the high-normal range.

  Mac. What had she seen in his eyes as he said goodbye? He’d brushed her cheek with his usual light kiss, but his eyes held another message. Pity? She didn’t want it.

  She’d lain down for a couple of hours, not sleeping but at least dozing, sloughing off some of the heavy-eyed numbness. Then she’d showered, a long, hot shower that took some of the achiness from her shoulders. She’d dressed in a dark green suit with a fitted jacket and calf-length skirt. She wanted to look her best. She had noticed that the adults at the Manning Clinic reunion were well dressed, then reasoned that people who could afford to spend somewhere between ten and twenty thousand dollars in the attempt to have a baby certainly had discretionary income.

  At the Park Avenue firm where she’d set out to practice law, it was a rule that no casual dress was permitted. As a radio and now television reporter, Meghan had observed that people being interviewed seemed to be naturally more expansive if they felt a sense of identity with the interviewer.

  She wanted Dr. Manning to subconsciously think of her and talk to her as he would to a prospective client. Now, standing in front of him, studying him, she realized that he was looking at her the way a convicted felon looked at the sentencing judge. Fear was the emotion emanating from him. But why should Dr. Manning be afraid of her?

  “I’m looking forward to doing this special more than I can tell you,” she said as she took the seat across the desk from him. “I—”

  He interrupted. “Miss Collins, I’m afraid that we can’t cooperate on any television feature. The staff and I had a meeting, and the feeling was that many of our clients would be most uncomfortable if they saw television cameras around here.”

  “But you were happy to have us on Sunday.”

  “The people who were here on Sunday have children. The women who are newcomers, or those who have not succeeded in achieving a successful pregnancy, are often anxious and depressed. Assisted reproduction is a very private matter.” His voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. About what, she wondered?

  “When we spoke on the phone,” she said, “we agreed that no one would be interviewed or caught on-camera who wasn’t perfectly willing to discuss being a client here.”

  “Miss Collins, the answer is no, and now I’m afraid I’m due at a meeting.” He rose.

  Meghan had no choice but to stand up with him. “What happened, Doctor?” she asked quietly. “You must know I’m aware that there’s got to be a lot more to this sudden change than belated concern for your clients.”

  He did not reply. Meghan left the office and walked down the corridor to the reception area. She smiled warmly at the receptionist and glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “Mrs. Walters, I have a friend who’d be very interested in any literature I can give her about the clinic.”

  Marge Walters looked puzzled. “I guess Dr. Manning forgot to give you all the stuff he had his secretary put together for you. Let me call her. She’ll bring it out.”

  “If you would,” Meghan said. “The doctor was willing to cooperate with the story I’ve been planning.”

  “Of course. The staff loves the idea. It’s good publicity for the clinic. Let me call Jane.”

  Meghan crossed her fingers, hoping Dr. Manning had not told his secretary of his decision to refuse to be involved in the planned special. Then, as she watched, Walters’ expression changed from a smile to a puzzled frown. When she replaced the receiver, her open and friendly manner was gone. “Miss Collins, I guess you know that I shouldn’t have asked Dr. Manning’s secretary for the file.”

  “I’m only asking for whatever information a new client might request,” Meghan said.

  “You’d better take that up with Dr. Manning.” She hesitated. “I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Collins, but I work here. I take orders.”

  It was clear that there would be no help from her. Meghan turned to go, then paused. “Can you tell me this? Was there very much concern on the part of the staff about doing the feature? I mean, was it everybody or just a few who objected at the meeting?”

  She could see the struggle in the other woman. Marge Walters was bursting with curiosity. The curiosity won. “Miss Collins,” she whispered, “yesterday at noon we had a staff meeting and everyone applauded the news that you were doing a special. We were joking about who’d get to be on-camera. I can’t imagine what changed Dr. Manning’s mind.”

  19

  Mac found his work in the LifeCode Research Laboratory, where he was a specialist in genetic therapy, to be rewarding, satisfying and all-absorbing.

  After he left Meghan, he drove to the lab and got right to work. As the day progressed, however, he admitted to himself that he was having trouble concentrating. A dull sense of apprehension seemed to be paralyzing his brain and permeating his entire body so that his fingers, which could as second nature handle the most delicate equipment, felt heavy and clumsy. He had lunch at his desk and, as he ate, tried to analyze the tangible fear that was overwhelming him.

  He called the hospital and was told that Mrs. Collins had been removed from the intensive care unit to the cardiac section. She was sleeping, and no calls were being put through.

  All of which is good news, Mac thought. The cardiac section was probably only a precaution. He felt sure Catherine would be all right and the enforced rest would do her good.

  It was his worry about Meghan that caused this blinding unease. Who was threatening her? Even if the incredible were true and Ed Collins was still alive, surely the danger was not coming from him.

  No, his concern all came back to the victim who looked like Meghan. By the time he’d tossed out the untasted half of his sandwich and downed the last of his cold coffee, Mac knew that he would not rest until he had gone to the morgue in New York to see that woman’s body.

  Stopping at the hospital on his way home that evening, Mac saw Catherine, who was clearly sedated. Her speech was markedly slower than her usual spirited delivery. “Isn’t this nonsense, Mac?” she asked.

  He pulled up a chair. “Even stalwart daughters of Erin are allo
wed time out every now and then, Catherine.”

  Her smile was acknowledgment. “I guess I’ve been traveling on nerve for a while. You know everything, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Meggie just left. She’s going over to the inn. Mac, that new chef I hired! I swear he must have trained at a takeout joint. I’ll have to get rid of him.” Her face clouded. “That is, if I can figure a way to hang on to Drumdoe.”

  “I think you’d better put aside that kind of worry for at least a little while.”

  She sighed. “I know. It’s just that I can do something about a bad chef. I can’t do anything about insurers who won’t pay and nuts who call in the middle of the night. Meg said that kind of sick call is just a sign of the times, but it’s so rotten, so upsetting. She’s shrugging it off, but you can understand why I’m worried.”

  “Trust Meg.” Mac felt like a hypocrite as he tried to sound reassuring.

  A few minutes later he stood up to go. He kissed Catherine’s forehead. Her smile had a touch of resiliency. “I have a great idea. When I fire the chef, I’ll send him over to this place. Compared to what they served me for dinner, he comes through like Escoffier.”

  Marie Dileo, the daily housekeeper, was setting the table when Mac got home, and Kyle was sprawled on the floor doing his homework. Mac pulled Kyle up on the couch beside him. “Hey, fellow, tell me something. The other day, how much of a look did you get at the woman you thought was Meg?”

  “A pretty good look,” Kyle replied. “Meg came over this afternoon.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. She wanted to see why I was mad at her.”

  “And you told her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Oh, just that Wednesday afternoon she was in court and that sometimes when people are on television other people like to see where they live. That stuff. Just like you, she asked how good a look I got at that lady. And I told her that the lady was driving very, very slow. That’s why when I saw her, I ran down the driveway and I called to her. And she stopped the car and looked at me and rolled down the window and then she just took off.”