Abby pulled up beside the fence and parked. Peering through a gap between a forklift and a container, she saw the Trans-Am drive to the foot of the pier and stop. Mapes got out of his car. He strode onto the dock, where a ship was moored. It looked like a small freighter — a two-hundred footer, she estimated.
Mapes gave a shout. After a moment, a man appeared on deck and waved him aboard. Mapes climbed the gangplank and disappeared into the vessel.
"Why did he come here?" she said. "Why a boat?"
"Are you sure it's the same man?"
"If it isn't, then Mapes has a double working at Amity." She paused, suddenly remembering where Katzka had just spent the last half-hour. "What did you pounds d out about the place, anyway?"
"You mean before I noticed someone stealing my car?" He shrugged. "It looked like what it's supposed to be. A medical supply business. I told them I needed a hospital bed for my wife, and they demonstrated some of the latest models."
"How many people in the building?"
"I saw three. One guy in the showroom. Two on the second floor handling phone orders. None of them looked very happy to be working there."
"What about the upper two floors?"
"Warehouse space, I assume. There's really nothing about that building worth pursuing."
She looked past the fence, at the blue Pontiac. "You could subpoena their financial records. Find out where Voss's five million dollars went to."
"We have no basis on which to subpoena any records."
"How much evidence do you need? I know that was the courier! I know what these people are doing."
"Your testimony isn't going to sway any judge. Certainly not under the circumstances." His answer was honest — brutally so. "I'm sorry, Abby. But you know as well as I do that you have a whopping credibility problem."
She felt herself closing off against him, withdrawing in anger. "You're absolutely right," she shot back. "Who'd believe me? It's just the psychotic Dr. DiMatteo, babbling nonsense again."
He didn't respond to that self-pitying statement. In the silence that followed, she regretted having said it. The sound of her own voice, wounded and sarcastic, seemed to hang between them.
They said nothing for a while. Overhead a jet screamed, the shadow of its wings swooping past like a raptor's. It climbed, glittering in the last light of the setting sun. Only as the jet's roar faded away did Katzka speak again.
"It's not that I don't believe you," he said.
She looked at him. "No one else does. Why would you?"
"Because of Dr. Levi. And the way he died." He gazed straight ahead at the darkening road. "It wasn't the way people usually kill themselves. In a room where no one will find you for days. We don't like to think of our bodies decomposing. We want to be found before the maggots get to us. Before we're black and bloated. While we can still be recognized as human. Then there were all the plans he'd made. The trip to the Caribbean. Thanksgiving with his son. He was looking ahead, expecting a future." Katzka glanced sideways, at a streetlamp that had just flickered on in the gathering dusk. "Finally there's his wife, Elaine. I often have to talk to surviving spouses. Some of them are shocked, some of them grieving. Some of them are just plain relieved. I'm a widower myself. I remember, after my wife died, that it was all I could manage just to crawl out of bed every morning. But what does Elaine Levi do? She calls a moving company, packs up her furniture, and leaves town. It's not the act of a grieving spouse. It's what someone does when they're guilty. Or they're scared."
Abby nodded. It's what she'd thought as well. That Elaine was afraid.
"Then you told me about Kunstler and Hennessy," he said. "And suddenly I'm not looking at a single death. I'm dealing with a series of them. And Aaron Levi's is beginning to look less and less like a suicide."
Another jet took off, the scream of its engines making conversation impossible. It banked left, skimming the evening mist now gathering over the harbour. Even after the jet had vanished into the western sky, Abby could still hear the roar in her ears. "Dr. Levi didn't hang himself," said Katzka.
Abby frowned at him. "I thought the autopsy was confirmatory."
"We found something on toxicology. We got the results back just last week from the crime lab."
"Something turned up?"
"In his muscle tissue. They found traces of succinylcholine." She stared at him. Succinylcholine. It was used every day by anaesthesiologists to induce muscle relaxation during surgery. In the OR, it was a vitally useful drug. Outside the OR, its administration would cause the most horrible of deaths. Complete paralysis in a fully conscious subject. Though awake and aware, one would be unable to move or breathe. Like drowning in a sea of air.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "It wasn't a suicide."
"No."
She took a breath and slowly let it out. For a moment she was too horrified to speak. She didn't dare even consider what Aaron's death must have been like. She looked through the fence, towards the pier. Evening fog was forming over the harbour and starting to drift in wispy fingers across the waterfront. Mapes had not reappeared. The freighter loomed, black and silent in the fading light.
"I want to know what's on that boat," she said. "I want to know why he's gone there." She reached for the door. He stopped her. "Not yet."
"When?"
"Let's drive up a block and pull over. We can wait there." He glanced at the sky, then at the fog thickening over the water. "It'll be dark soon."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"How long has it been?"
"Only about an hour," said Katzka.
Abby hugged herself and shivered. The evening had turned even colder, and inside the car, their breaths fogged the windows. In the mist outside, the distant street lamp gave off a yellow glow.
"Interesting you should put it that way. Only an hour. To me it feels like all night."
"It's a matter of perspective. I've put in a lot of time in surveillance. Early in my career."
Katzka as a young man — she couldn't picture that, couldn't imagine him as a fresh-faced rookie. "What made you become a policeman?" she asked.
He shrugged, a blip of shadow in the gloom of the car. "It suited me."
"I guess that explains everything."
"What made you become a doctor?"
She wiped a streak across the fogged windshield and stared out at the boxy canyons formed by ships' containers. "I don't quite know how to answer that."
"Is it such a difficult question?"
"The answer's complicated."
"So it wasn't something simple. Like for the good of humanity."
Now it was her turn to shrug. "Humanity will scarcely notice my absence."
"You go to school for eight years. You train for another five years. It has to be a pretty compelling reason."
The window had fogged up again. She wiped her hand across it and the condensation felt strangely warm against her skin. "I guess, if I had to give you a reason, it would be my brother. When he was ten years old, he had to be hospitalized. I spent a lot of time, watching his doctors. Seeing how they worked."
HARVEST
Katzka waited for her to elaborate. When she didn't, he said softly, "Your brother didn't live?"
She shook her head. "It was a long time ago." She looked down at the moisture glistening on her hand. Warm as tears, she thought. And for one precarious moment she thought she might shed real tears. She was glad Katzka remained silent; she did not feel up to answering any more questions, not up to reviving the images of the ER, of Pete lying on a gurney, the blood splashed on his brand new tennis shoes. How small those shoes had seemed, far too small for a ten-year-old boy. And then there'd been the months of watching him lie in a coma, his flesh shrinking away, his limbs contracting into a permanent self-embrace. The night he'd died, Abby had lifted him from the bed and had sat rocking him in her arms. He'd felt weightless, and as fragile as an infant.