"Bloodstream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)

7

Anyone could see that fourteen-year-old Barry Knowlton was his mother’s child.

The resemblance was startling enough to take in with a single glance. Barry and Louise were like a pair of cheerful dumplings, both of them red-haired and apple-cheeked, both with pliant pink mouths. Their smiles of greeting promised to dispel even Claire’s gloom.

Since the classroom shooting nearly a week ago, Claire had awakened each morning to the awful realization that her move to Tranquility had been a mistake. Only eight months ago, she had arrived here full of confidence, had used most of her savings to buy a medical practice she was certain would succeed. And why wouldn’t it? She’d had a thriving practice in Baltimore. But one very public lawsuit would destroy everything.

Every day at work, when she saw the mailman stride up the front walk, she braced herself for the delivery of a letter she dreaded receiving. Paul Dame!! had said she’d be hearing from his attorney, and she had no doubt he’d follow up on his threat.

Is it too late to leave? That was the question she asked herself every day now.

Is it too late to move back to Baltimore?

She forced herself to smile as she stepped into the exam room to see Barry and his mother. Here, at least, was a bright spot in her day.

They both looked genuinely pleased to see her. Barry had already pulled off his boots and was standing on the scale, watching expectantly as the counterweight arm bobbed up and down.

“Hey I think I lost another pound!” he announced.

Claire checked the chart, then glanced at the reading. “Down to two hundred forty-seven pounds. That’s two pounds you’ve lost. Good for you!”

Barry stepped off the scale, which sent the counterweight tilting up with a loud clap. “I think my belt feels looser already!”

“Let me listen to your heart,” said Claire.

Barry waddled over to the exam table, carefully climbed up onto the footstool, and plopped onto the table. He peeled off his shirt, baring folds of pale and sagging flesh. As Claire listened to his heart and lungs and took his blood pressure, she felt his gaze, curious and engaged, following her every move. The first time they’d met, Barry had told her he wanted to be a doctor, and he seemed to relish these bimonthly visits as field trips into his future profession. The occasional blood test, an ordeal for most patients, was a fascinating procedure for Barry, an opportunity to ask in sometimes endless detail about needle gauges and syringe volumes and the purpose of each different colored blood tube.

If only Barry would pay as much attention to what he put in his mouth.

She finished her exam, then stood back and regarded him for a moment. “You’re doing a good job, Barry. How is the diet coming?”

He gave a shrug. “Okay, I guess. I’m trying real hard.”

“Oh, he loves to eat! That’s the problem,” said Louise. “I try my best cooking low-fat meals, But then his daddy comes home with a box of doughnuts and, well.

.. it’s so hard to resist. It just about breaks my heart to see the way Barry looks at us, with those big hungry eyes of his.”

“Could you discourage your husband from bringing home doughnuts?”

“Oh, no. Mel, he’s got this She leaned forward and said, confidentially:

“Overeating problem.”

“Is that so?”

“I gave up on Mel long ago. But Barry, he’s still so young. It’s not good for a boy his age to carry around all that weight. And the other kids, they can be so mean about it.”

Claire looked sympathetically at Barry. “You’re having problems at school?”

A light seemed to dim in the boy’s eyes. He looked down, all cheerfulness gone.

“I don’t much like school anymore.”

“The other kids tease you?”

“They don’t ever stop with the fat boy jokes.”

Claire glanced at Louise, who shook her head sadly. “He has an IQ of a hundred thirty-five, and he doesn’t want to go to school. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Barry,” said Claire. “We’re going to show everyone how determined you are. You’re too intelligent to let those other kids defeat you.”

“Well, they aren’t all that bright,” he agreed hopefully.

“You have to outsmart your own body as well. That’s the part that takes effort.

And Mom and Dad have to work with you, not against you." She looked at Louise.

“Mrs. Knowlton, you have a smart and wonderful boy here, but he can’t do this alone. This takes the whole family.”

Louise sighed, already preparing for the daunting task ahead. “I know,” she said. “I’ll talk to Mel. No more doughnuts.”

After the Knowitons left, Claire walked into Vera’s office. “Don’t we have a patient at three o’clock?”

“We did,” said Vera, looking puzzled as she hung up the phone. “That was Mrs.

Monaghan. It’s the second cancellation we’ve had today.”

Claire glimpsed movement in the waiting room. Through the sliding business window, she saw a man sitting on the couch. Large, homely, his sad-clown face emphasized by an unflattering crew cut, he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else than in a doctor’s office. “Well, who’s that?”

“Oh, he’s just some magazine reporter who wants to talk to you. His name’s Mitchell Groome.”

“I hope you told him I’m not available.”

“I gave him your standard ‘no comment’ line. But this guy insists on waiting around for you.”

“Well, he can wait all he wants. I’m not talking to any more reporters. Is there anyone left on the schedule?”

“Elwyn Clyde. Wound check on his foot.”

Elwyn. Claire pressed her hand to her head, already anticipating a headache. “Do we have air freshener on hand?”

Vera laughed and clapped a can of Glade on the desk. “We’re all ready for Elwyn.

After him, you’re free for the day. Which works out well, because you have a meeting with Dr. Sarnicki this afternoon. He just called a little while ago.”

Dr. Sarnicki was chief of staff at the hospital. This was the first Claire had heard about any meeting.

“Did he say what it’s about?”

“Something about a letter he just received. He said it was urgent.” Vera’s gaze suddenly shot to the front window and she jumped to her feet. “Damn it, there they are again!” she said, and dashed out the side door.

Claire looked out the window to see Vera, all flashing bangles and earrings, shaking her fist at two boys with skateboards. One of the boys was yelling back at her now, his voice cracking in adolescent outrage.

“We didn’t do anything to your stupid car!”

“Then who left that giant scratch on the door, huh? Who?” demanded Vera.

“Why’re you always blaming us? Like kids are always the ones who get dumped on!”

“I see you here again, I’m calling the police!”

“This is a public sidewalk! We gotta right to skate here!”

A tapping on glass drew Claire’s attention. Mitchell Groome’s hangdog face was gazing at her through the receptionist’s window.

She slid the window open. “Mr. Groome, I’m not talking to any reporters.”

“I just wanted to tell you something.”

“If it’s about Taylor Darnell, you can talk to Dr. Adam DelRay. He’s the boy’s physician now”

“No, it’s about your receptionist’s car. The one that got scratched. Those boys out there didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it happen yesterday. Some old woman scraped past it with her car. I assumed she was going to leave a note on the windshield. Obviously she didn’t, and I think your receptionist has already reached her own conclusions.” He glanced out the window, at the argument raging outside, and he shook his head.

“Why do we always treat kids like the enemy?”

“Because they so often behave like an alien species?”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Spoken like someone who has an alien living in the house.”

“Fourteen years old. You can probably tell by all the gray hairs on my head.”

They regarded each other for a moment through the window.

“Are you sure you won’t talk to me?” he asked. “It would just be for a few minutes.”

“I can’t discuss my patients. It’s a confidentiality issue.”

“No, I’m not going to ask about Taylor Darnell specifically. I’m after more general information, about the other kids in town. You’re the only doctor in Tranquility, and I assume you have a good idea of what’s going on around here.”

“I’ve only been in town eight months.”

“But you’d be aware of drug abuse among the local kids, wouldn’t you? It could explain the boy’s behavior.”

“I hardly think one incident, tragic as it was, means that this town has a drug problem.” Her gaze suddenly focused on the view through the front window The boys with the skateboards were gone. The mail carrier had arrived, and was chatting with Vera on the sidewalk. He handed Vera an armful of mail. Was there a letter from Paul Darnell’s attorney in that stack?

Groome said something, and she realized he had moved closer, and was practically leaning through the open business window.

“Let me tell you a story, Dr. Elliot. It’s about a perfect little town called Flanders, Iowa. Population four thousand. A clean, decent place where everyone knows everyone else. The sort of people who go to church and join the PTA. Four murders later-all of them committed by teenagers-the shell-shocked residents of Flanders finally got around to facing up to reality.”

“Which was?”

“Methamphetamine. An epidemic of abuse in the local schools. It turned that town into the dark side of America.”

“But what does that have to do with Tranquility?”

“Haven’t you been reading your own newspaper? Look around at what’s happening to your neighbors. First, there was that Street brawl on Halloween night. Then a boy beats his dog to death, and fistfights are breaking out in the school.

Finally, there’s the shooting.”

She was focused on the front sidewalk again, where the mailman was still shooting the breeze with Vera. For heaven’s sakes, bring in the mail!

“I followed the Flanders story for months,” said Groome. “I watched that town implode on itself. Parents blaming the schools. Kids turning on their teachers, on their own families. When I heard about the problems in your town, methamphetamine was the first thing I thought of. I know you must have run a drug screen on that Darnell boy. Could you just tell me one thing: Did methamphetamine turn up in his system?”

Still distracted, she answered: “No, it didn’t.”

“Did anything else?”

She didn’t answer. In truth, she didn’t know, because she hadn’t heard back from the lab in Boston.

“Then there was something,” he said, picking up on her silence.

“I’m not the boy’s physician. You have to ask Dr. DeIRay.”

Groome gave a dismissive snort. “DelRay says it’s Ritalin withdrawal psychosis.

Something so rare, there’s only a few anecdotal reports that it even exists.”

“You don’t accept his diagnosis?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t tell me you do?”

She was beginning to like Mitchell Groome.

The front door opened and Vera stomped in, carrying the mail. Unceremoniously she dumped the whole pile on her desk. Claire eyed the stack of business-size envelopes, and her throat went dry.

“Excuse me,” she said to Groome. “I have work to do.”

“Flanders, Iowa. Just keep it in mind,” he said, and with a wave, walked out of the building.

Claire picked up the mail, headed straight to her office, and shut the door.

Sitting at her desk, she swiftly shuffled through the envelopes, then sank back with a sigh of relief. Another day’s reprieve; no attorney’s name was on any of the return addresses. Maybe Paul Darnell had been bluffing; maybe there would be no repercussions after all.

For a moment she sat with her head tilted back, her tension melting. Then she reached for the first envelope and tore it open. Seconds later she was sitting up, rigid, in her chair.

Inside was a short note from Rachel Sorkin, the woman who’d reported Elwyn Clyde’s gunshot wound.

Dr. Elliot, This letter came in my mail today. I thought you should know about it.

Rachel.

P.S. I don’t believe a word of it.

Attached to it was a typewritten letter:

To whom it may concern, I am writing to inform you of a disturbing incident. On November third, Dr.

Claire Elliot assaulted a hospital patient. Although there were a number of witnesses, this event has not been made public. If Dr. Elliot is your physician, you may wish to reconsider your options. Patients have a right to know.

A concerned health care professional * * *

There were three men waiting for her in the medical staff office. She knew Dr.

Sarnicki only slightly, but her impressions of him had been favorable. A comfortably rumpled man with a gentle voice, he was known to be a caring physician as well as a skillful diplomat who had helped ease tensions during the hospital’s recent contract negotiations with the nurses. The second man was Roger Hayes, the hospital administrator, whom she scarcely knew at all except as a bland and smiling man.

The third man she knew only too well. It was Adam DelRay.

They greeted her with polite nods as she sat down at the conference table. She was already strung so tight she felt close to snapping in two. On the table in front of Sarnicki was a copy of the same anonymous letter that Rachel had forwarded to her.

“You’ve seen this already?” he said.

She gave a grim nod. “One of my patients sent me a copy. I’ve called around, and so far I’ve confirmed that at least six others have received it.”

“Mine arrived in the departmental mail this morning.”

“This has been blown completely out of proportion,” said Claire. “I certainly did not assault the patient. The letter’s designed to do only one thing, and that’s to damage my reputation.” She looked directly at Adam DelRay. He returned her gaze without flinching, without even a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

“What exactly happened on November third?” asked Hayes.

She answered evenly: “I drew blood from Taylor Darnell, to send off for a comprehensive drug and tox screen. I’ve already told Dr. Sarnicki who else was in the room. Who witnessed it. I didn’t abuse the patient. It was just a blood draw.”

“Tell them the rest,” said DelRay. “Or are you going to leave out the most important detail? Which is, you had no authority to draw his blood.”

“So why did you?” asked Hayes.

“The boy had a drug-induced psychosis. I wanted that drug identified.”

“There is no drug,” said DelRay.

“You don’t know that,” she said. “You never ran the test.”

“There is no drug.” He slapped a sheet of paper on the table. She stared in dismay at the letterhead: Anson Biologicals.

“I have the the results right here. Apparently, Dr. Effiot managed to get a blood tube out to the reference lab without the father’s knowledge. Or permission. Anson faxed the report to the hospital this morning.” He added, with a note of smugness, “It’s negative. No drugs, no toxins.”

Why had the lab disregarded her instructions? Why had they sent the report to the hospital?

She said, “Our own lab found an unidentified peak on gas chromatography. There was something in his blood.”

DeiRay laughed. “Have you seen our lab’s gas chromatography machine? It’s an antique. A hand-me-down from Eastern Maine Medical Center. You can’t trust our results.”

“But it did need a follow-up test.” She looked at Sarnicki. “That’s why I drew the blood. Because Adam refused to.”

“She made an unauthorized blood draw,” said DelRay.

Hayes sighed. “It’s a mountain out of a molehill, Adam. The boy wasn’t harmed, and he’s doing fine at the Youth Center.”

“She ignored the father’s wishes.”

“But one blood draw does not make a lawsuit.”

Claire’s chin snapped up in alarm. “Is Paul Darnell talking about legal action?”

“No, not at all,” said Hayes. “I spoke to him this morning, and he reassured me he wasn’t suing anyone.”

“I’ll tell you why he’s not suing,” said DelRay. “It’s because that ex-wife of his threatened to sabotage any lawsuit. It’s an automatic reflex for bitter ex-wives. Whatever the husband wants, the wife blindly opposes.”

Thank you, Wanda, thought Claire.

“Then this whole incident is now a nonissue,” said Sarnicki, looking relieved.

“As far as I can see, no action is necessary.”

“What about the letter?” said Claire. “Someone is trying to ruin my practice.”

“I’m not sure what we can do about an anonymous letter.”

“It’s signed ‘A health care professional.” She looked pointedly at DelRay.

“Now wait a minute,” he snapped. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Paul Darnell, then,” she said.

“There were a couple of nurses who were there too, remember? In fact, this sort of sneaky letter is more a woman’s style.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she shot back in outrage. “A woman’s style?”

“I’m just calling it as I see it. Men are upfront about these things.”

Sarnicki warned, “Adam, this isn’t helping.”

“I think it is helping,” said Claire. “It shows us exactly what he thinks about women. Are you implying, Adam, that we’re all liars?”

“Now this really isn’t helping,” said Sarnicki.

“She’s putting words in my mouth! I didn’t send those letters, and neither did Paul! Why should we? Everyone in town’s already heard the gossip!”

“I’m cutting off this meeting now,” said Sarnicki, banging on the table for silence.

That’s when they all heard the announcement over the hospital address system. It was barely audible through the closed doors of the meeting room.

“Code blue, ICU. Code blue, ICU.”

Instantly Claire shot to her feet. She had a stroke patient in the ICU. She bolted out of the meeting room and ran for the stairwell. Two flights up, she stepped into the intensive care unit and was relieved to see that her patient was not the one being coded. The crisis was in cubicle six, where a crowd of personnel had massed around the doorway.

They parted to let Claire enter.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. It was the odor of smoke and singed hair, and it came from the massive, soot-streaked man lying in the bed. McNally from the ER was crouched behind the patient’s head, trying without success to insert an endotracheal tube. Claire looked up at the heart monitor.

The rhythm was sinus bradycardia. The patient’s heart was beating, but slowly.

“Does he have a blood pressure?” she asked.

“I think I’m getting a systolic of ninety,” said a nurse. “He’s so big, I’m having trouble hearing it.”

“I can’t get him intubated!” said McNally. “Go ahead, bag him again.” The respiratory tech clapped an oxygen mask on the patient’s face and squeezed the reservoir bag, forcing oxygen into the lungs.

“His neck’s so short and fat I can’t even see the vocal cords,” said McNally.

“Anesthesia’s coming in from home,” a nurse said. “Should I also call a surgeon?”

“Yeah, call him. This one’s gonna need an emergency tracheotomy.” He looked at Claire. “Unless you think you can intubate him.”

She doubted she could, but she was willing to try. Heart pounding, she circled around to the patient’s head and was about to insert the laryngoscope into his mouth when she noticed the man’s eyelids were flickering.

She straightened in surprise. “He’s conscious.”

“What?”

“I think he’s awake!”

“Then why isn’t he breathing?”

“Bag him again!” said Claire, stepping aside to let the respiratory tech back in. As the mask was replaced, as more oxygen was forced into the man’s lungs, Claire swiftly reviewed the situation. The man’s eyelids were indeed twitching, as though he was struggling to open them. Yet he was not breathing, and his limbs remained flaccid.

“What’s the history?” she asked.

“Came in through the ER this afternoon,” said McNally. “He’s a volunteer fireman who collapsed at the scene. We don’t know if it was smoke inhalation or a cardiac event-they had to drag him out of the building. We admitted him for superficial burns and a possible MI.”

“He’s been doing fine up here,” an ICU nurse said. “In fact, he was talking to me just a little while ago. I gave him his dose of gentamicin and he suddenly went bradycardic. That’s when I realized he’d stopped breathing.”

“Why’s he getting gentamicin?” asked Claire.

“The burns. One of the wounds got pretty contaminated.”

“Look, we can’t keep bagging him all night,” said McNally. “Did you call the surgeon?”

“Done,” a nurse answered.

“Then let’s get him prepped for the tracheotomy.”

Claire said, “He may not need one, Gordon.”

McNally looked skeptical. “I couldn’t get that ET tube in. Can you?”

“Let’s try something else first.” Claire turned to the nurse. “Give him an amp of calcium chloride, IV."

The nurse glanced questioningly at McNally, who shook his head in puzzlement.

“Why on earth are you giving calcium?” he asked.

“Just before he stopped breathing,” said Claire, “he got the antibiotic, right?”

“Yeah, for the open burn wound.”

“Then he had the respiratory arrest. But he hasn’t lost consciousness. I think he’s still awake. What does that mean?”

Suddenly McNally understood. “Neuromuscular paralysis. From the gentamicin?”

She nodded. “I've never seen it happen, but it’s been reported. And it’s reversed by calcium.”

“I’m giving the calcium chloride now,” said the nurse. Everyone watched. The prolonged silence was broken only by the intermittent whoosh of oxygen being bagged through the mask. The patient’s eyelids responded first. Slowly they fluttered open, and he looked up, struggling to focus on Claire’s face.

“He’s moving air!” said the respiratory tech.

Seconds later, the patient coughed, took a noisy breath, and coughed again. He reached up and tried to push away the mask.

“I think he wants to talk,” said Claire. “Let him speak.”

The patient responded with a look of profound relief as the mask was removed from his face.

“Sir, did you want to say something?” Claire asked.

The man nodded. Everyone leaned forward, eager to hear his first words.

“Please,” he whispered.

“Yes?” prompted Claire.

“Let’s not… do that… again.”

As laughter broke out all around her, Claire patted the man on the shoulder.

Then she looked at the nurses. “I think we can cancel the tracheotomy.”

“I’m glad someone around here still has a sense of humor,” McNally said as he and Claire walked out of the cubicle a few minutes later. “It’s been pretty grim recently.” He paused in the nurses’ station and looked at the bank of monitors.

“I don’t know where we’re going to put anyone else.”

Claire was startled to see eight cardiac rhythms tracing across the screens. She swung around, her gaze sweeping the ICU in disbelief.

Every bed was filled.

“What on earth has been going on?” said Claire. “When I made rounds this morning, there was only my one patient in here.”

“It started on my shift. First a little girl with a skull fracture. Then a wreck up on Barnstown Road. Then some nutty kid sets his house on fire.” McNally shook his head. “It’s been going nonstop in the ER all day, and the patients still keep coming in.”

Over the hospital address system, they heard the page: “Dr. McNally to the ER.

Dr. McNally to the ER.”

He sighed and turned to leave. “It must be the full moon.”

Noah shed his jacket and lay it across the boulder. The granite felt warm, a day’s worth of sunshine radiating back from the stone. Turning, he squinted across the lake. The afternoon was windless, the water a glassy, brilliant mirror reflecting sky and leafless trees.

“I wish it was summer again, said Amelia.

He looked up at her. She was perched on the highest rock, chin resting on her blue-jeaned knees. Her blond hair was tucked behind one ear, revealing the streak of healing flesh on her temple. He wondered if she’d have a scar, and almost wished there would be one-just a small scar, so she would never forget him. Every morning, looking in her mirror, she’d see that faint trace of the bullet and would remember Noah Elliot.

Amelia tilted her face toward the sun. “I wish we could skip winter. Just one winter.”

He clambered up onto her rock and sat down beside her. Not too close, not too far. Almost, but not quite, touching. “I don’t know, I’m kind of looking forward to it.”

“You haven’t seen what it’s like here.”

“So what is it like?”

She stared across the lake with what was almost an expression of dread. “In a few weeks, it’ll start to freeze over. First there’ll be patches of ice along the shore. By December, it’ll be frozen all the way across, thick enough to walk on. That’s when it starts to make these sounds at night.”

“What sounds?”

“Like someone moaning. Like someone in pain.”

He started to laugh, but then she looked at him, and he fell silent.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she said. “Sometimes I wake up at night and I think I’m having a nightmare. But it’s just the lake. Making those horrible sounds.”

“How can it?”

“Mrs. Horatio says She stopped, remembering that Mrs. Horatio was dead. She looked back at the water. “It’s because of the ice. The water freezes and expands. It’s always pushing, pushing against the banks, trying to escape, but it can’t because it’s trapped. That’s when you hear the moaning. It’s the pressure building up, building until it can’t take any more. Until it finally crushes itself.” She murmured: “No wonder it makes such terrible sounds.”

He tried to imagine what the lake would look like in January. The snow drifting against the banks, the water turned to a glaring sheet of ice. But today the sun was bright in his eyes, and with the warmth radiating off the stone, the only images that came to mind were of summer.

“Where do the frogs go?” he asked.

She turned to him. “What?”

“The frogs. And the fish and things. I mean, the ducks all migrate, they get away from here. But what do the frogs do? Do you think they just freeze up like green Popsicles?”

He’d meant to make her laugh, and he was glad to see a smile appear on her face.

“No, they don’t become Popsicles, silly. They bury themselves in the mud, way at the bottom.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water. “We used to have lots and lots of frogs around here. I remember catching bucketfuls of them when I was little.”

“Used to?”

“There aren’t so many now. Mrs. Horatio says Again, that pause of remembered loss. Again, that sad sigh before she continued. “She said that it could be acid rain.”

“But I heard plenty of frogs this summer. I used to sit here and listen to them.”

“I wish I’d known about you then,” she said wistfully.

“I knew about you.”

She looked at him in puzzlement. Reddening, he averted his gaze. “I used to watch you in school,” he said. “Every lunchtime in the cafeteria, I’d be looking at you. I guess you didn’t notice.”

He felt his face flush hotter, and he stood up, his gaze on the water, avoiding hers. “You ever go swimming? I used to come here every day.”

“This is where all the kids hang out.”

“So where were you last summer?”

She gave a shrug. “Ear infection. The doctor wouldn’t let me swim.”

“Bummer.”

There was a silence. “Noah?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like… not going home?”

“You mean like running away?”

“No, it’s more like staying away.”

“Staying away from what?”

She didn’t answer his question. When he turned to look at her, she had already risen to her feet and was hugging her arms to her chest. “It’s getting cold.”

Suddenly he too noticed the chill. Only the rock retained any warmth, and he could feel it quickly dissipating as the sun dropped behind the trees.

The surface of the water rippled, then flattened to black glass. The lake seemed alive at that moment, a single fluid organism. He wondered if everything she’d said about the lake was true, if it really did moan on winter nights. He supposed it could happen. Water expands as it freezes-a scientific fact. The ice would solidify at the surface first, a fine crust that slowly thickens through the dark months of winter, layer building upon layer. And far below, deep in the bottom mud, the frogs would burrow with nowhere else to go. They would be trapped beneath the ice. Entombed.

Sweat filmed Claire’s face as she strained at the oars. She felt them drag evenly through the water, felt the satisfying lurch of the rowboat as it cut across the surface of the lake. Over the months her rowing had grown smoothly efficient. Back in May, when she’d first dipped oars into water, it had been a humbling experience. One or both oars would whip wildly across the water, throwing up spray, or she’d favor one oar over the other and would end up rowing in circles. Control was the key. Power, perfectly balanced. Fluid movements, gliding, not splashing.

She had it down, now.

She rowed to the center of the lake. There she raised the oars, lay them in the boat, and sat back to drift. The sun had just dropped behind the trees, and she knew the sweat would soon feel like rime against her skin, but for these few moments, while she was still flushed from exertion, she enjoyed dusk without noticing its chill. The water rippled, black as oil. On the opposite shore, she saw the lights of houses where suppers were being prepared, where families came together in warm and complete universes. The way we three used to be when you were alive, Peter Not shattered, but whole.

She stared across at the glow of those houses, her longing for Peter suddenly so overwhelming it hurt her to breathe. On summer days, when they had gone rowing in their neighborhood pond, Peter had always been the one to wield the oars.

Claire would perch in the bow and admire his graceful rhythm, the way his muscles stood out and his smiling face glowed with perspiration. She’d been the pampered passenger, magically ferried across the water by her lover.

She listened to the ripples slap the hull, and could almost imagine Peter was sitting across from her now, his gaze focused sadly on hers. You have to learn to row alone, Claire. You must be the one to guide the boat.

How can I, Peter? I’m already foundering. Someone’s trying to drive me from this place. And Noah, our darling Noah, has grown so distant.

She felt tears chilling on her face. Felt his presence so clearly, she thought if she could just reach out, he’d be there. Warm and alive, flesh and blood But he wasn’t there, and she was alone in the boat.

She continued to drift, nudged toward land by the wind. Overhead the stars grew brilliant. Now the boat slowly rotated and she saw, in the distance, the northern shoreline, where seasonal cottages stood dark and boarded up for the winter.

A sudden splash made her sit up in surprise. Turning, she stared at the nearby shore, and made out a man’s silhouette. He was standing on the bank, his thin frame slightly bent, as though peering down at the water. He jerked and lunged sideways. There was another loud splash, and his silhouette dropped from sight.

It could be only one person.

Quickly Claire wiped the tears from her face and called out: “Dr. Tutwiler? Are you all right?”

The man’s head popped back up into view. “Who’s there?”

“Claire Elliot. I thought you’d fallen in the water.”

He finally seemed to locate her in the gloom and he gave a wave. She had met the wetlands biologist only a few weeks before, soon after he’d moved into the Alford cottage, which he was renting for the month. They’d both been rowing on the lake that morning, and as their boats drifted past each other through the mist, they had waved in greeting. Ever since, whenever she rowed past his cottage, they would say hello. Sometimes he’d bring out jars with the latest addition to his amphibian collection. The frog dweeb, Noah called him.

Her boat drifted closer to shore, and she saw Max’s glass jars lined up on the bank. “How is your frog collection coming?” she asked.

“It’s getting too cold now. They’re all heading for deep water.”

“Have you found any more six-legged specimens?”

“One this week. It really makes me worry about this lake.”

Now her rowboat had reached the shore and bumped up against the mud. Max stood above her, a spindly silhouette, moonlight reflecting off his glasses.

“It’s happening in all these northern lakes,” he said. “Amphibian deformities. A massive die-off.”

“How did the lake samples turn out? The ones you collected last week?”

“I’m still waiting for the results. It can take months.” He paused, glancing around at the sudden sound of chirping. “What’s that?”

Claire sighed. “My beeper.” She’d almost forgotten it was still clipped to her belt. She saw a local exchange on the luminous readout.

“It’s a long row back to your house,” he said. “Why don’t you use my telephone?”

She made the call from his kitchen, the whole time staring at the glass jars sitting on his countertop. These were not cucumbers floating in brine. She picked up a jar and saw an eye staring back at her. The frog was strangely pale, the color of human flesh, mottled with purplish blotches. Both hind legs branched into two, forming four separate flippers. She looked at the label:

“Locust Lake. November 10.” Shuddering, she put down the jar.

On the phone, a woman answered, her voice slurred, obviously drunk. “Hello?

Who’s this calling?”

“This is Dr. Elliot. Did you page me?” Claire winced as the receiver was slammed down. She heard footsteps, then recognized Lincoln Kelly’s voice, speaking to the woman.

“Doreen, can I have my phone?”

“Who are all these women calling you?”

“Give me the phone.”

“You’re not sick. Why’s the doctor calling?”

“Is that Claire Elliot?”

“Oh, it’s Claire now. First names!”

“Doreen, I’m going to drive you home in a minute. Now let me speak to her,"

At last he came on the line, sounding embarrassed. “Claire, are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Look, I’m sorry about what just happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, and thought: You have enough things in your life to worry about.

“Lucy Overlock suggested I give you a call. She’s finished the dig.”

“Any interesting conclusions?”

“I think you’ve already heard most of it. The burial’s at least a hundred years old. The remains were of two children. Both of them had obvious signs of trauma.”

“So it was an old homicide.”

“Apparently. She’s presenting the details tomorrow, to her undergraduate class.

It may be more than you care to hear, but she thought I should invite you. Since you’re the one who found the first bone.”

“Where’s the class held?”

“In the museum lab, at Orono. I’m driving there, if you’d care to ride with me.

I’ll leave around noon.”

In the background, Doreen whined, “But tomorrow’s Saturday! Since when do you work on Saturday?”

“Doreen, let me finish this call.”

“That’s how it always is! You’re always too busy. Never here for me-”

“Put on your coat, and get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

“Hell, I can drive myself.” A door slammed shut.

“Doreen!” said Lincoln. “Give me back those car keys! Doreen!” His voice came back on the line, hurried. Frantic. “I have to go. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Noon. I’ll be waiting.”