"How do we know Victor Voss did it?"
"He's the one who wants me out of Bayside."
"Is he the only one?"
Abby stared atVivian. And wondered: Who else wants me out? In the dining room, the thunderous clatter of mahjongg tiles signalled the end of another round. The noise startled Abby. She began to pace the kitchen. Past the rice cooker burbling on the counter, past the stove where steam wafted, spicy and exotic, from cooking pots. "This is crazy. I can't believe anyone else would do this, just to get me fired."
"Jeremiah Parr's got his own neck to save. And Voss is probably breathing down it right this minute. Think about it. The hospital board is packed with Voss's rich buddies. They could have Parr fired. Unless he fires you first. Hey, you're not paranoid, DiMatteo. People really are out to get you."
Abby sank into a chair at the kitchen table. The noise from the game in the next room was giving her a headache. That and all the old-lady chatter. This house was full of noise, visitors talking Cantonese at a near-shout, friendly conversation raised to argument pitch. How could Vivian stand having her grandmother live with her? The din alone would drive Abby crazy.
"It still all comes back to Victor Voss," said Abby. "One way or the other, he'll have his revenge."
"Then why did he drop those lawsuits? That part doesn't make sense. He sends steamrollers coming right at you. Then suddenly, they all stop."
"Instead of being sued by everyone, I'm accused of murder. What a wonderful alternative."
"But you do see that it doesn't make sense?Voss probably paid a lot to get those lawsuits rolling. He wouldn't just drop them. Not unless he was concerned about some possible consequence. A countersuit, for instance. Were you planning something like that?"
"I discussed it with my lawyer, but he advised against it."
"So why did Voss drop the lawsuits?" It didn't make sense to Abby, either.
She considered that question all the way home, driving back from Vivian's house in Melrose. It was late afternoon, and the traffic was heavy as usual on Route 1. Though it was drizzling outside, she kept her window open. The stench of rotting pig organs still lingered in her car. She didn't think the smell would ever disappear. It would always linger, a permanent reminder of VictorVoss's rage.
The Tobin Bridge was coming up — the place where Lawrence Kunstler had chosen to end his life. She slowed down. Perhaps it was a morbid compulsion that made her glance sideways, towards the water, as she drove onto the bridge. Under dreary skies, the river looked black, its surface stippled by wind. Drowning was not a death she would choose. The panic, the thrashing limbs. Throat closing against the rush of cold water. She wondered if Kunstler had been conscious after he hit the water. Or whether he had struggled against the current. She wondered, too, about Aaron. Two doctors, two suicides. She'd forgotten to ask Vivian about Kunstler. If he had died only six years ago, Vivian might have heard of him.
Abby's gaze was so drawn to the water, she didn't notice that the car in front of her had slowed down, that traffic had backed up from the toll booth. When she glanced up at the road, she saw that the car in front was stopped dead.
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?"