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 or even dated or, 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 just 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 consider that novel tragic.
Judy Simmons was dead.
He stared down at the charred and battered body of his friend. Eric hoped that she had 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 have been 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 blond 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?”
“Who 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 is 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.
Judy Simmons was dead.
He stared down at the charred and battered body of his friend. Eric hoped that she had 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 have been 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 blond 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?”
“Who 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 is 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.
