"Fine." Don't shake. Don't let him see how frightened she was. "I'll take a shower and try to call Dr. Gardner and introduce myself and ask about Phillip. Then I'll e-mail my friend Scott and his wife, Jana, and tell them I'm fine and not to worry. I didn't get a chance before I left Atlanta. I'm going to ask Scott to keep tabs on three of my patients. I can trust him to make sure they'll be okay."
"And that's all you'll tell them."
"Of course, that's all. They wouldn't understand any of this. It would worry them. Hell, I don't understand."
But what she did understand was that in only a few hours she was going to be on her way to Carmegue's Circus and that the fear was growing by the moment.
MEGAN FOUND DR. JASON GARDNER as warm and direct as Grady had said.
"I've read your uncle's report and I can't promise you anything but that I'll do my best to bring him back," he said gently. "I'll never lie to you, Dr. Blair. You've been told how serious his condition is and many people have a tendency to regard coma patients with very little hope."
"Of course, they do. Most patients remain in a deep coma no more than four weeks. After that they either die or they go into a vegetative state. Now what can we do to keep both those results at bay?"
"I believe your Mr. Grady has told you the procedures I use to treat my patients."
"Do they work?"
"Not as often as I'd like. I wish I could bring them all back," he said wearily. "It's a constant fight to keep the nursing home from shutting my annex down because the results don't warrant the cash outlay. I can't make them see that saving just one human being is worth all their fund-raisers. But I always have hope. And I work my butt off trying everything I can to bring them back. You can be sure that Phillip Blair will be given every chance, every effort by me and my staff."
"How can I help? Should I be there?"
"Not until the coma shows some sign of lessening." He paused. "Some of the patients respond. Some don't. And in the end, I don't know if my successes are due to what I'm doing or what God decides to do. How is that for a scientific approach?"
"It's an honest approach. May I call you tomorrow?"
"Anytime."
She felt a mixture of emotions as she hung up the phone. Gardner had not been optimistic but she hadn't expected optimism. But it was good to know that Phillip was being taken care of by a man who believed that a coma could be broken. As Grady said, Gardner had passion and that kind of drive could move mountains …or perhaps pull Phillip from his darkness.
"Was that Gardner?" Grady was standing in the doorway of their adjoining rooms. "Yes. Do you always listen at doors?"
"I was standing by to tell you to keep the call short. Any phone calls from now on should be limited to less than three minutes. Phones are wonderful technical gadgets but they can be traced."
"I'll remember." She looked at her watch. It was only a few minutes after midnight. Three hours before it would be time to leave for the circus. Great heavens, she was nervous. She wanted it over. She wanted to leave now.
"Do you want a cup of coffee?" Grady asked.
She shook her head. "How about a walk?"
She frowned. "At midnight? What are you trying to do?"
"Waiting is always hard."
And, as usual, Grady could sense what she was feeling. "I'll be fine." She sat down at her computer. "I can keep myself busy."
She could feel Grady's gaze on her back and a moment later the door closed behind him. Distraction was the name of the game. It's only three hours.
CARMEGUE CIRCUS.
The banner over the fairgrounds was a bit faded, but the red script was bold and joyous. The same shade of red in the stripes on the big top tent in the center of the fairgrounds.
It was after three in the morning and the fairways were deserted and the booths closed.
"Edmund Gillem's trailer is on the far side of the grounds," Grady murmured. "It's being used by one of the roustabouts, Pierre Jacminot, but Harley bribed him to go into town for the night. He should have left the door unlocked."
"I'm relieved we're not going to be arrested for breaking and entering." She followed him down the fairway. It was tense and a little eerie walking down this aisle that was usually crowded with busy, happy people and that was now dark and without life.
And the trailer where she was headed was also without life. It was the place where a man had killed himself in that terrible way.
"I wouldn't be that inefficient," Grady said. "You have enough to face without dealing with the local gendarmes."
"Maybe." She could see the small silver trailer gleaming in the distance. Her palms were cold and sweating. "What if Edmund doesn't come to the party?"
"Then you'll be relieved and I'll have to find another path to follow." His gaze was also fastened on the trailer. "You could put it off until tomorrow."
"I've always hated procrastinators. I won't be one, Grady." They had arrived at the door of the trailer. "Let's just get me in there."
"Right away." He opened the door and stepped aside. He handed her a small flashlight. "Don't turn on the lights. You're sure you don't want me with you?"
"At the moment I'd welcome anyone, even Dracula, with me in this trailer." She stepped up into the darkness of the trailer and was immediately assaulted with the smell of lemon polish and sweat. "I'm okay." She slammed the door behind her.
Darkness.
Isolation.
She couldn't get rid of the isolation, but she could do something about the darkness. She turned on the flashlight.
She was standing in a tiny room with a comfortable-looking hideabed couch and a TV on a stand. An even tinier kitchenette led off the room. A black sweatshirt was tossed on the back of the couch.
Edmund's sweatshirt?
No, what was she thinking? It had to belong to the roustabout, Pierre... what's his name, who had taken over this trailer after Edmund's death. It just seemed that everything that concerned her was connected and focused on Edmund Gillem. She could feel him here.
Imagination.
Or not.
What did she do now? She didn't want to sit on that couch. She didn't want to touch anything that had belonged to Edmund. She sank down on the floor beside the door and played the beam of her flashlight around the room. A landscape print of a poppy field hung above the TV. The furniture was cheap and well used, but the carpet was gray and looked brand-new. She lifted the beam to the walls. They were wood-paneled and the surface also appeared old and discolored.
Except for a lighter, two-foot square beside the curtains. The square was an entirely different color than the rest of the walls. A photo or picture must have once occupied that spot.
Or a mirror.
He cut his throat with a jagged piece of mirror. New carpet.
Because the bloodstains would not come out of the old one? Lord, she felt sick. Poor man.
He was a good man. I think I would have liked him. Were you a good man, Edmund? What made you take your life?