Abby slammed on the brakes. An instant later, she was jolted by a rear-end thump. She glanced in the mirror and saw the woman behind her shaking her head apologetically. For the moment, traffic on the bridge was going nowhere. Abby stepped out of her car and ran back to survey the damage.
The other woman got out as well. She stood by nervously as Abby inspected the rear bumper.
'It looks OK,' said Abby. 'No harm done.'
'I'm sorry, I guess I wasn't paying attention.'
Abby glanced at the woman's car, and saw that her front bumper was equally undamaged.
'This is embarrassing,' the woman said. 'I was so busy watching that tailgater behind me.' She pointed at a maroon van idling behind her car. 'Then I go and bump someone.'
A horn honked. Traffic was moving again. Abby returned to her car and continued across. As she drove past the toll booth, she couldn't help one last backward glance at the bridge, where Lawrence Kunstler had made his fatal leap. They knew each other, Aaron and Kunstler. They worked together. They wrote that article together.
That thought kept going around in her mind as she navigated the streets back to Cambridge.
Two doctors on the same transplant team. And both of them commit suicide.
She wondered if Kunstler had left a widow. Wondered if Mrs Kunstler had been just as bewildered as Elaine Levi was.
She looped around the Harvard Common. As she veered off onto Brattle Street, she happened to glance in the rearview mirror. A maroon van was behind her. It, too, drove onto Brattle.
She drove another block, past Willard Street, and looked again
HARVEST
at the mirror. The van was still there. Was it the tailgater from the bridge? She hadn't given that van more than a glance at the time, and all she'd taken in was its colour. She didn't know why seeing it now made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was that recent crossing of the bridge, and that glimpse of the water. The reminder of Kunstler's death. Of Aaron's death.
On impulse, she turned left, onto Mercer.
So did the van.
She turned left again, on Camden, then right on Auburn. She kept glancing in the mirror, waiting for, almost expecting, the van to come into view. Only when she'd reached Brattle Street again, and the van hadn't reappeared, did she allow herself a sigh of relief. What a nervous Nellie.
She drove straight home and pulled into the driveway. Mark wasn't back yet. That didn't surprise her. Despite drizzly skies, he'd planned to take Gimme Shelter out for another round-the-buoy race against Archer. Bad weather, he'd told her, was no excuse not to sail, and short of a hurricane, the race would go on.
She stepped into the house. It was gloomy inside, the afternoon light grey and watery through the windows. She crossed to the tabletop lamp and was about to switch it on when she heard the low growl of a car on Brewster Street. She looked out the window.
A maroon van was moving past the house. As it approached her driveway, it slowed to a crawl, as though the driver was taking a long, careful look at Abby's car.
Lock the doors. Lock the doors.
She ran to the front door, turned the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place.
The back door. Was it locked?
She ran down the hall and through the kitchen. No deadbolt, just a button lock. She grabbed a chair and slid it against the door, propping it under the knob.
She ran back to the living room and, standing behind the curtain, she peeked outside.
The van was gone.
She looked in both directions, straining for a view towards each corner, but saw only empty street, slick with drizzle.
She left the curtains open and the lights off. Sitting in the dark living room, she stared out the windows and waited for the van to reappear. Wondered if she should call the police. With what complaint? No one had threatened her. She sat there for close to an hour, watching the street, hoping that Mark would come home.
The van didn't appear. Neither did Mark.
Come home. Get off your goddamn boat and come home.
She thought of him out on the bay, sails snapping overhead, boom slamming across in the wind. And the water, turbid and churning under grey skies. Like the river had been. The river where Kunstler died.
She picked up the phone and dialledVivian. The clamour of the Chao household came through the line in a lively blast of noise. Over the sounds of laughter and shouted Cantonese, Vivian said: 'I'm having trouble hearing you. Can you say that again?'
'There was another doctor on the transplant team who died six years ago. Did you know him?'
Vivian's answer came back in a shout. 'Yeah. But I don't think it was that long ago. More like four years.'
'Do you have any idea why he committed suicide?'
'It wasn't a suicide.'
'What?'
'Look, can you hold on a minute? I'm going to change extensions.' Abby heard the receiver clunk down and had to endure what seemed like an endless wait before Vivian picked up the extension. 'OK, Grandma! You can hang up!' she yelled. The chatter of Cantonese was abruptly cut off.
'What do you mean, it wasn't a suicide?' Abby said.
'It was an accident. There was some defect in his furnace and carbon monoxide collected in the house. It killed his wife and baby girl, too.'
'Wait. Wait a minute. I'm talking about a guy named Lawrence Kunstler.'
'I don't know anyone named Kunstler. That must have happened before I got to Bayside.'
'Who are you talking about?'
'An anaesthesiologist. The one before they hired Zwick. I'm blocking on his name right now… Hennessy. That's the name.'
'He was on the transplant team?'
'Yeah. A young guy, right out of fellowship. He wasn't here very long.! remember he was thinking about moving back west when it happened.'
'Are you sure it was an accident?'
'What else would it be?'
Abby stared out the window at the empty street and said nothing. 'Abby, is something wrong?'
'Someone was following me today. A van.'
'Come on.'
'Mark isn't home yet. It's almost dark and he should be home by now. I keep thinking about Aaron. And Lawrence Kunstler. He jumped off the Tobin Bridge. And now you're telling me about Hennessy. That's three, Vivian.'
'Two suicides and an accident.'
'That's more than you'd expect in one hospital.'
'Statistical cluster? Or maybe there's something about working for Bayside that's really, really depressing.' Vivian's attempt at humour fell flat and she knew it. After a pause she said, 'Do you honestly think someone was following you?'
'What did you tell me? You're not paranoid. Someone's really out to get you.'
'I was referring to Victor Voss. Or Parr. They have reasons to harass you. But to follow you around in a van? And what does it have to do with Aaron or the other two guys?'
'I don't know.' Abby drew her legs up on the chair and hugged herself for warmth. For self-protection. 'But I'm getting scared. I keep thinking about Aaron. I told you what that detective said that Aaron's death may not be a suicide.'
'Does he have any evidence?'
'If he did, he certainly wouldn't tell me.'
'He might tell Elaine.'
