“Would you like a tissue or some water?”
“No, thank you.”
“As I was saying,” Hubbard continued, “we’ve responded to the request to assist in this inquiry from the Big Cloud County Sheriff’s Office.”
She knew this. Was Hubbard being officious for her benefit?
“And, we’ve used all the records and information you volunteered. Working with authorities in California we have confirmed that you did receive a call at the time you reported.”
Emma inhaled.
“The call originated from a public phone in Santa Ana, California, in Orange County,” Hubbard read from his notebook.
“It must have something to do with the clinic,” she said.
“No, we don’t think that’s the case.”
“Then something to do with Dr. Durbin’s letter. Did you talk to him?”
“We’re coming to that,” Hubbard said. “The phone is located near a Burger King outlet some thirty-five miles south of West Olympic Boulevard, in Los Angeles, the location of the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation. So we’ve ruled out that it was a call from the clinic.”
Emma said nothing.
“With your permission and using your volunteered material we spoke with Dr. Durbin and with officials at the clinic in Los Angeles.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They acknowledged receiving delivery of Dr. Durbin’s letter confirming Tyler Lane’s death. But they’ve closed their file. They also stressed that no one at the clinic called you or would have reason to call you.”
“That’s it?”
“The clinic expressed its sympathies,” Hubbard said.
Looking into the faces studying her, Emma felt like she was falling.
“But how do you explain a woman calling me, telling me Tyler is alive?”
“We can only surmise what happened.”
“And what is that?”
“That you got a wrong number call from California and in your semiconsciousness, in your grief, and with Dr. Durbin’s letter fresh in your mind, you got confused about what you heard.”
“Confused? No!”
“Emma.” Her aunt tried to calm her.
“It was crystalline. The woman on the phone knew exactly who she was calling and exactly what she was saying. You’re wrong!”
“Emma.” Dr. Kendrix had been tapping the tip of his pen to his chin. “It is not uncommon for bereaved people under stress, traumatized by an unbearable event like yours, to experience what you’ve experienced.”
“A phone call like that?”
Kendrix removed his glasses. “I’m talking about a post-tragic phenomenon whereby you see or hear deceased loved ones. It happens in dreams. You may hear them or see them in a room. And, yes, people have reported receiving phone calls or messages from those who have passed away suddenly. Usually they say, ‘I’m all right, don’t worry,’ or ‘I forgive you,’ or something to alleviate guilty feelings or fears. It’s not a supernatural event-it’s simply a coping mechanism.”
Emma shook her head.
“My case is different.”
“Of course,” Kendrix said. “Each case is. For you, you’re hearing what you need to hear, that your baby did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to help him.”
Emma stifled a great sob.
“This call, this phenomenon,” Kendrix said, “is your mind working at helping you cope, so you can live, so you can move forward.”
“It’s not true,” Emma said.
“Sweetheart,” Aunt Marsha said, “maybe this is because you haven’t been taking the pills the doctor prescribed for you when you were released from the hospital?”
Kendrix arched an eyebrow.
“You’re all wrong,” Emma said. “I know what I heard. I know what I feel. Tyler’s not dead.”
“You need to rest, Emma,” Uncle Ned said.
Kendrix was scribbling on a pad.
“We need to call the FBI,” Emma said. “Why didn’t you call the FBI?”
“Emma,” Kendrix said. “You should take your medication. I’m writing you a new prescription, a stronger one. Now, I’ve spoken with Dr. Durbin and with Dr. Sanders. We all agree you need to talk to someone, get counseling. Dr. Allan Pierce at Big Sky Memorial Hospital in Cheyenne is excellent. I’ve called ahead-”
“No, thank you.” Emma stood.
“Excuse me.” Kendrix looked at Emma, then the others.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to think. I’m sorry.”
Emma left the room with her worried aunt following after her until Emma turned.
“Aunt Marsha, please, I need to be alone. I just need some air.”
Emma left the building for the small patch of lawn at the side and the shade tree that framed the mountains. She stood there, searching the snow-capped peaks, knowing the whole world thought she was crazy.
Insane with grief.
But she didn’t care, for in her heart she knew, she felt, that Tyler was alive.
Emma replayed the night call in her mind a million times. Never wavering because she knew with certainty that what she’d heard was no dream, no hallucination, no “coping mechanism.”
“Emma Lane in Big Cloud, Wyoming? Listen to me. Your baby is not dead! Your baby is alive. That’s all I can tell you.”
She cupped her hands to her face thinking of Joe, touching him as he died, remembering what he’d said to her that day.
“You’re one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler.”
She felt Joe with her now and she knew.
Emma reached into her bag, saw two tiny eyes looking up at her and caressed Tyler’s stuffed bear.
She’d reached a decision on what she had to do.
She would find her son.
32
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
This one was disturbing.
Dr. Wayne Marcott, chief medical examiner for Broward County, stroked his chin in his office on Thirty-first Avenue.
Again he read over his notes for Autopsy No. 10-92787. The decedent’s name: Roger Timothy Tippert, a white male, age forty-one from Indianapolis, Indiana.
Was this an outbreak? This case was unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Marcott checked on the status of his request to accelerate additional tests from the autopsy. He’d grown concerned over his findings.
Tippert was a cruise ship passenger on the Spanish liner, Salida del Sol. According to the report from Dr. Estevan Perez, the ship’s chief medical officer, the ship was returning to Florida from a seven-day cruise of eastern Caribbean islands when Tippert, a teacher, experienced a sudden seizure, collapsed and died while drinking a beer at an upper deck lounge.
