We'll Meet Again

“Molly,” Jenna burst out, “don’t you realize that a murder conviction could mean life imprisonment for you? Especially on top of the earlier conviction? We can’t let that happen.”

“No, we can’t,” Molly said, standing. “Jen, come into Gary ’s study with me.”

The light was off in the study. Molly switched it on, then deliberately switched it off again. “Last night after all of you left, I went up to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. About midnight, I came down here-and you know something? When I turned on the light, just as I did now, I could remember doing the same thing when I came home from the Cape that Sunday night. I’m sure now that the light in the study was out when I got here, Jenna. I would swear to that!”

“What does that mean, Molly?”

“Think about it. Gary was at his desk. There were papers on it, so he must have been working. It was nighttime. He must have had the light on. If I’m right about remembering that I came home, opened this door, and then turned the light on, it means that whoever killed Gary had turned it off. Don’t you see?”

“Molly,” Jenna murmured, her voice calm but protesting.

“Yesterday I told Dr. Daniels that I remembered something from that night about a door and a lock.”

Molly turned to face her friend and saw the disbelief in her eyes. Her shoulders sagged. “Today, Mrs. Barry said that the spare key we hid in the garden had been in the house for weeks. She said it was there because one day I forgot my key. But I don’t remember that either.”

“Molly, let Cal bring in lawyers to assist Philip in preparing your defense,” Jenna begged. “He spoke to a couple of the best of them today. They’re both very experienced in presenting psychiatric defenses, and we really think they could help you.” She saw the look of distress in her friend’s face. “At least think about it.”

“Maybe that’s why I was dreaming about a door and a lock,” Molly said grimly, ignoring Jenna’s suggestion. “Maybe I have a choice: a locked prison cell or a locked room in an institution.”

“Molly, come on,” Jenna said, standing, “I’m going to have a cup of tea with you, then I am going to let you get to bed. You say you’re not getting much sleep. Didn’t Dr. Daniels give you anything to help you sleep?”

“He gave me something the other day, and Mrs. Barry came back this afternoon with a prescription that the doctor gave Wally.”

“You shouldn’t take anyone else’s prescription!”

“The label was on it. I know it’s okay. Don’t forget, I was a doctor’s wife, and I did pick up a little knowledge along the way.”

When Jenna left a few minutes later, Molly double locked the front door behind her and stepped on the foot bolt. The sound that the bolt made-something between a click and a snap-made her pause.

Deliberately she repeated raising and lowering the bolt, listening carefully each time, willing her subconscious to supply the reason that familiar household sound was suddenly so chilling.

57

Dr. Peter Black began his day Thursday morning by going to visit Tasha. By any medical standards, she should be dead by now, he thought anxiously as he walked down the hallway to her suite.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to make her a part of the experiment, he thought. Normally this experiment would produce useful-and occasionally fascinating-clinical results, but it was proving to be difficult to carry out, due primarily to Tasha’s mother. Barbara Colbert was much too alert and well connected. There were plenty of other patients at the residence who were more likely candidates for this extraordinary research, patients whose relatives would never suspect anything was amiss and who would take even the slightest sign of deathbed cognition as a gift from heaven.

I should never have mentioned to Dr. Logue that Harvey Magim seemed to recognize his wife at the end, Black thought, excoriating himself. But it was too late to stop now. He had to go on to the next step. That had been made clear to him. That next step was contained in the package he’d brought back from the laboratory in West Redding, and it was now safely tucked into his vest pocket.

When he entered the room, he found the duty nurse nodding by Tasha’s bedside. That was good, he thought. A sleepy nurse was exactly what he wanted. It gave him an excuse to get her out of the room.

“I would suggest you get yourself a cup of coffee,” he said sternly, waking her abruptly. “Bring it back here. I’ll wait. Where is Mrs. Colbert?”

“She’s asleep on the couch,” the nurse whispered. “Poor woman, she finally dozed off. Her sons left. They’ll be here again tonight.”

Black nodded and turned to the patient as the nurse scurried out. Tasha’s condition remained unchanged from last evening. She had stabilized, thanks, he knew, to the injection he’d given her when she started to sink.

He took the small package out of his pocket. It felt unnaturally heavy for its size. Last night’s injection had had the expected results, but the one he was about to administer was totally unpredictable.

Logue is out of control, Black thought.

He lifted Tasha’s limp arm and pinched it to find a suitable vein. Holding the syringe in place, he slowly pushed the plunger and watched as the liquid disappeared into her body.

He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. In about twelve hours it would be over, one way or the other. In the meantime, he was facing the unwelcome prospect of the meeting he had agreed to have with that snoopy newswoman, Fran Simmons.

58

After a restless night, Fran went to the office early Thursday morning to do some background work in preparation for her noontime interview with Dr. Peter Black. She had requested that the research department have whatever biographical information they could find waiting on her desk, and she was pleased to see that it was there already.

She read through it quickly, finding it surprisingly thin and not remotely impressive. Born in Denver of working-class parents; attended local schools; had mediocre to poor grades at medical school; did a residency in Chicago at an unrated hospital, then worked as a staff doctor there. Not much of a record, she said to herself.

Which has to lead one to ask the question, why did Gary Lasch seek him out? Fran thought.

Promptly at noon she was ushered into Dr. Black’s office. She was immediately struck by the way the place was furnished. It impressed her as having a grandeur more suitable to a corporate executive than a physician, even if that physician was CEO of a hospital and health maintenance organization.

She did not know what she had expected Peter Black to be like. Maybe I anticipated something more akin to what I heard Gary Lasch was like, she thought as she shook his hand and followed him to a sitting area in front of a large picture window. A handsome leather couch, two matching armchairs, and a coffee table created a comfortable, living room atmosphere.

Gary Lasch by all accounts had been a handsome man with an engaging personality. Peter Black’s complexion was sallow, and Fran was surprised at how nervous he seemed. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and on his upper lip. There was a rigidity about him, especially in the way he sat on the edge of his chair. It was as if he were on guard against an anticipated attack. Although he was attempting to be courteous, there was no mistaking the stress in his voice.

He offered coffee. When Fran declined, he said, “Ms. Simmons, I have a particularly busy schedule today, and I assume you do as well, so why don’t we get straight to the point. I have agreed to see you because I wanted to emphasize in the strongest possible terms that I think it’s an outrage that in your quest for ratings you are exploiting Molly Lasch, a woman who is clearly mentally ill.”

Fran looked back at him without flinching. “I thought I was helping Molly, not exploiting her, Doctor. May I ask if your diagnosis of mental illness is based on an actual medical evaluation, or is it merely the rush to judgment that seems to be the standard reaction of all her friends?”