... like something burning . . .
The odor suddenly made Laura ill. Her hand traced a path along the side of the wall until she located the light switch. She flicked it on. Fluorescent lights brightened the darkened room, startling her. She shaded her eyes from the surprising glare. When she was finally able to lower her hand and look toward the back of the house, she saw smoke pouring out from under the study door.
Oh God, no.
Laura ran toward the study. The smoke was getting thicker now, spiraling toward the ceiling in long, black gusts. She reached the door and placed her palm on the wooden panel. Her hand drew back.
The door felt warm.
Get out, Laura. Get out and call the fire department. Judy is not home. She went out and left an iron on or something. Get the hell out!
Laura could hear the crackle of the blaze behind the door.
Get out of here. Get out of here before the fire blows down the door.
The smoke crept closer. Laura covered her eyes with her hand and began to back out toward the exit.
Get out ...
She was about to turn around and run when a sound tore through the door of the study. She froze. Her heart kicked hard against her chest. The terrible sound repeated itself, this time a little louder.
A cough.
Laura felt an icy coldness slide through her.
Then another cough.
Someone was behind that door. Someone was trapped in the study.
Without conscious thought, Laura took action. Her hand reached out toward the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Gusts of thick, black smoke rushed through the doorway. Laura fell and rolled to the side. She heard the cough again, the cough of a female, but this time it was more of a horrid choking sound.
Laura stood and moved back to the doorway. The smoke was everywhere, blinding her eyes and making them tear. Covering her mouth with her hand, Laura ducked into the study. On the ground below her, she found Judy.
Oh Christ . . .
Laura bent down. She opened her mouth to speak but the smoke poured down her throat and silenced her. Judy looked up with pleading eyes, still coughing uncontrollably. A stream of syrupy blood matted down her hair. Laura felt Judy reach up and put something into her hand, forcing Laura's fingers to form a fist around it.
'Take it,' Judy whispered hoarsely.
Laura transferred the items to her pocket and knelt beside Judy. She was unconscious now, her breathing sporadic. Laura grabbed hold of Judy's arm and began to pull. The fire remained mostly in the corner of the study, gaining strength at a slow but steady pace. Papers crinkled from the flames. A chair began to collapse.
Then the fire found the kerosene.
Without warning, the corner of the room burst into flames. The blaze began to gnaw its way onto the carpet. The fire danced across the floor, grasping and then consuming the curtains. And then Laura realized something else, something that made her pull ever harder.
Oh God, oh no . . .
Judy was covered with the kerosene. The flames were racing toward her.
Have to move. Have to get her out before . . .
The smoke made it nearly impossible to see, but Laura knew that the blaze would not rest until it claimed all its victims. The flames grabbed hold of the desk, the books, the chairs. Laura continued to drag Judy inch by inch, but they were not moving fast enough. The fire was gaining on them, circling closer and closer.
And then the flames reached Judy.
There was a short, hideous scream as the blaze crawled across Judy's torso and nestled in. Panic seized Laura in a crushing grip. She summoned some inner strength and renewed her pull on Judy's arm. They began to move faster.
They were only a foot away from the study's doorway when Laura tripped over the bronze bust of Keats. She lost her footing and began to topple forward. Her hands tried to move in front of her to cushion the fall, but they did not move fast enough. Her head caught the edge of door frame, sending shards of pain throughout her skull. Dizziness swam through her.
Have to get up, she thought through the murk. Have to get up and drag Judy out of here.
Laura's throat felt like it was being stomped on. Black smoke was everywhere now. She gasped for air and struggled to a sitting position, the flames licking at her feet. Her head reeled with pain. Her limbs felt like large blocks of lead.
Have to move. Have to do something . . .
She crawled slowly and reached out for Judy. The dull ache in her head consumed her. Breathing became impossible. Laura stopped moving. Her eyes rolled back. Her hand never made it to her aunt.
As Laura lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor, a powerful arm circled her waist and scooped her up.
Chapter 25
For the tourists, it was a unique photo opportunity. Here, in the lobby of the Pacific International Hotel, a mammoth local sheriff sprinted through the front door at breakneck speed, almost shattering the glass. Graham hurdled over suitcases, darted deftly between hotel guests, dashed across the tile floor. Without slowing, he made a left at the receptionist's desk, and traveled another twenty yards before finally pausing in front of a door that read General Manager. He grabbed the knob, not bothering to knock, and turned.
'Where are they?'
Gina Cassler looked up from her desk. 'Good Lord, Graham, you're all out of breath.'
He heaved in oxygen. 'Not important,' he managed. 'Where are the passport cards?'
She shook her head. 'They're in my file cabinet. Will you relax and sit down?'
Graham collapsed into the chair like a punctured lung. 'Hand them over, luv.'
She took out a key and unlocked the file cabinet behind her. 'I wanted to keep them safe for you.'
'I appreciate that.'
Her hand reached into the cabinet. 'Can I get you something to drink, Graham?'
'In a minute, thanks.'
She took hold of a large manila envelope and pulled it out of the file. 'Here they are,' she said.
'Have you looked through them yet?'
'Looked through them?' she repeated, tossing the envelope across her desk. 'For what? I don't even know what you're looking for.'
Graham nodded, satisfied. He took hold of the envelope and ripped it open. 'Was there any problem getting these?'
'None.'
'No one asked you why you needed them?'
'I told them I kept superlative records but one of my staff members had carelessly misplaced some data.'
Once again, Graham looked around the paper-cluttered room. 'They bought that?'
She nodded. 'Lucky for you they've never seen this office.'
He shrugged, slipped the cards out of the envelope, and began to sort through them. He piled the ones filled out by Americans on the side.
'What do you want to drink, Graham?'
Without looking up he said, 'Whiskey.'
Gina reached behind her into the same file cabinet and withdrew a bottle. She poured some into two shot glasses and passed one of them to Graham's side of the desk. He ignored it.
'Find anything yet?' she asked.
Graham shook his head and continued to flip through the cards. When he was finished, he picked up the pile of the ones he had sorted out. He skimmed through them. On the upper corner of each card, a receptionist had jotted down the room numbers. The name and address were underneath that, followed by the nationality (most Americans just wrote U.S.A.), the passport number, date of issue, place of issue. When he reached the passport card that had room 607 scribbled on the top, he checked out the address. Boston, Massachusetts. Then he read name. A hammer blow struck Graham's heart. He read the name again.
'Sweet Jesus . . .'
'Graham, are you all right?'
The other cards slipped through his hands and onto the floor. Graham grabbed the shot glass in front of him and threw the liquid contents down his throat.
'Mary Ayars,' he said. 'Laura's mother.'
Dr Eric Clarich had lived in Hamilton, New Y
ork, since he was three years old. He had attended John Quincy Adams Elementary School, Heritage Junior High School, Hamilton High School, Colgate College. In fact, the only time he lived outside of freezing-cold Hamilton was during his days of medical school at Cornell. Even his residency and internship had been performed at the hospital nearest to the home of his childhood, adolescence and college years.
Eric was what prep-school students would call a townie. Many claimed that his devotion and indeed obsession with Hamilton was dangerous. Dr Eric Clarich's lack of exposure to the outside world, they claimed, would cause his outlook to be somewhat myopic. Perhaps that was true. But Eric did not worry about it very much. He had his life here. Delta, his high-school sweetheart-turned-wife, was pregnant with child number two. His new and growing practice was doing well. Life was good, solid. There was even talk of having Eric run for town council next year.
'Isn't she that famous model?' one of the nurses asked him. Eric nodded solemnly. Two women had just been rushed into the emergency room. One he recognized; the other he knew very well. The two women were also related, he knew, the younger being the niece of the older. Eric had first met the older woman more than a decade ago. Professor Judy Simmons had brought Shakespeare to life for a sophomore Eric Clarich, offering insights and reflections that stunned and stimulated the lucky students who had been selected to take her class. She prided herself on being easily accessible to her students and Eric took full advantage of that fact. He would never forget the hours they had chatted over cups of herbal tea in both her faculty office and her home study. Now, from what he had been told, that study and indeed her entire home was little more than ashes.
Memories drifted gently across Eric's mind. Professor Judy Simmons had written a glowing recommendation to Cornell's medical school describing Eric as 'a true Renaissance man.' Describing someone as being truly renaissance, she explained, was the ultimate compliment. Many would-be doctors can claim a cold, impersonal knowledge of the sciences, but how many could combine that with a glowing love of literature and the arts? That, she surmised in her letter, was what made Eric Clarich, her student and friend, stand above the rest.
Eric took a deep breath and continued working. And what about the brilliant Professor Simmons herself? Would he describe her as a true Renaissance woman? Perhaps. But Judy had always been a bit of an enigma to Eric. He never understood why she never married nor even dated nor for that matter had any close friends. He had only broached the subject with her on one occasion, and she merely joked that her relationships with men read like a Dickens novel. Still, her whole attitude toward herself and the world was a little off-center. To the casual observer Judy Simmons was a pretty and cheerful woman, but beyond the facade, Eric saw her as some sort of sad-eyed, lonely character from a gothic novel Judy herself would undoubtedly cherish. Now, he could make that novel tragic.
Judy Simmons was dead.
He stared down at the charred and battered body of his friend. Eric hoped that she died quickly, that she had not survived long enough to feel her nerve endings being singed, that she had not known the agony of having her skin melted into thick clumps of waxy tallow. He prayed that fallen debris had mercifully knocked Judy unconscious before the blaze had a chance to swarm over her body and eat away at her flesh.
Dead. Another tragedy for a family that should have had everything. First, David Baskin. Now this. Two healthy bodies destroyed by two of Earth's purest elements. Water had claimed David Baskin. Fire had taken away Judy Simmons.
'More oxygen,' he barked to the nurse.
'Yes, Doctor.'
Eric turned his attention back toward his younger patient. Laura Ayars-Baskin, Judy's famous and beautiful niece, lay on the emergency-room stretcher. He checked her pulse again and spread ointment on a burn. With proper care and bed rest, Laura would be fine. Miraculous really. Just fifteen minutes ago, she had been lying unconscious in the middle of a blazing inferno. By some bizarre twist of luck, someone had been walking past at the time, a very brave someone who rushed in and somehow managed to pull both women out of the burning wreck. This courageous fellow had then called the hospital. Paramedics were dispatched immediately, but by the time the ambulance arrived on the scene, the mystery hero was gone. Very strange. Most folks would be dialing up the local news stations to be interviewed on the eleven o'clock news. This hero decided to just take off.
'Do you have those emergency numbers yet?'
'Yes, Doctor. They were written in her telephone diary.'
'Let me have them.' The blonde nurse handed him the telephone numbers. 'Find me if anything happens.'
'Yes, Doctor.'
Eric Clarich walked over to the phone in the hallway. He pushed nine to get an outside line, waited for the tone, and dialed the number of Laura's parents. After four rings, the answering machine picked up and told him that he had reached the Ayars residence. Eric left a message and replaced the receiver.
Damn.
He checked his watch. Nearly seven thirty. Even if he did reach her parents, Boston was a good five hours from here -- maybe more in this weather. He thumbed through Laura's book and found her father's office number. Bingo, he was a doctor. There was a decent chance that Dr James Ayars was still in his office at Boston Memorial Hospital. Worth a try anyway.
Eric dialed the number. On the second ring, a receptionist picked up. 'Doctor's office.'
'May I speak with Dr James Ayars please?'
'Whom shall I say is calling?'
'My name is Dr Eric Clarich. This is something of an emergency.'
'Please hold.'
A minute later, the phone was picked up. 'James Ayars here. Can I help you?'
'Dr Ayars, this is Dr Clarich at St Catherine's in Hamilton, New York.'
'Yes?'
'I have some rather bad news.'
The voice remained steady, authoritative. 'I'm listening.'
'There has been a fire at your sister-in-law's home. Your daughter has been injured -- '
'Injured?' he shouted. 'Is she all right?'
'She is going to be fine, Dr Ayars. She has a few burns and is being treated for smoke inhalation. Your sister-in-law was not so lucky. I'm sorry to tell you that Judy Simmons is dead.'
Thick, heavy silence. 'Dead?' he asked softly. 'Judy?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'll . . . I'll charter a plane. I'll call my wife at home and -- '
'I just tried your home number, Doctor. There was no answer.'
Again, there was silence. When James spoke again, his voice was without tone. 'Are you sure?'
'The answering machine was on.'
'Sweet Jesus.'
'Dr Ayars?'
'I'll be up as soon as I can, Dr Clarich. Please let my daughter know that I'm on my way.'
James hung up the phone with a quivering hand. His leg was shaking up and down in the same manner that his daughter had inherited.
Laura was injured. Judy was dead.
He picked up the receiver and called home. The first ring blared through the receiver.
Please answer, Mary. Please be home.
But after the fourth ring, the answering machine once again picked up. James closed his eyes, waiting impatiently for the beep. When it came, he spoke in a calm, collected voice.
'Mary, there has been a fire at Judy's place. Laura has been hurt, but she is going to be fine. I'm flying up there right away. Do the same when you get in. She is at St Catherine's Hospital in Hamilton.'
No reason to tell her about Judy's death right now, he decided. It would just make her panic. James hung up the phone. Something was very wrong here. Mary was almost always home by this time, and on the rare occasions when she was going to be late she left him a message so he wouldn't worry. But not today. For the first time that James could remember, his wife had forgotten to leave him a message.
She could just be in the shower. She could have stepped out to buy a few groceries or pick up something at the pharmacy. That might be all there was to
it.
James wanted to believe that, really wanted to convince himself that Mary was just around the corner or on her way from the store or at the beauty parlor or in . . .
Hamilton, New York . . .
James felt his knees give way. Oh God, no. Please tell me no.
Maybe Mary paid her sister a little visit, had a friendly chat, yes a nice, friendly, cozy little chat . . .
Could Judy have been so foolish? Could she have said something to Mary? James was certain the answer was no. Judy would never tell Mary what she suspected, never tell anyone until she was certain it was true.
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 dead weights. 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.