Harvest (27 page)

Abby didn't know anyone bothered to snap off beansprout roots. Only the goddamn nitpicky Chinese, Vivian told her. The Chinese spent hours labouring over some dish that's devoured in minutes. And who noticed the tails, anyway?Vivian's grandmother did. And her grandmother's friends did. Put a dish of beansprouts with the tails still attached in front of those ladies, and they'd all wrinkle their noses. So here was the obedient granddaughter, the gifted surgeon soon to be opening her own practice, concentrating on the weighty task of snapping sprouts. She did it swiftly, efficiently, every movement vintage Vivian. The whole time she listened to Abby's story, those graceful hands of hers never fell still.

"Jesus," Vivian kept murmuring. "Jesus, you are screwed."

In the next room the clatter of tiles had stopped, the new round of play begun. Every so often, through the buzz of gossip, there'd be a clunk as someone tossed a tile into the centre. "What do you think I should do?" said Abby. "Either way, DiMatteo, he's got you."

"That's why I'm talking to you. You've been screwed by Victor Voss. You know what he's capable of."

"Yeah." Vivian sighed. "I know too well."

"Do you think I should go to the police? Or should I ride this out and hope they don't dig any deeper?"

"What does Mark think?"

"He thinks I should keep my mouth shut."

"I agree with him. Call it my inherent distrust of authority. You must have more faith in the police than I do, if you're thinking of turning yourself in and hoping for the best." Vivian reached for a dish towel and dried her hands. She looked at Abby. "Do you really think your patient was murdered?"

"How else do I explain that morphine level?"

"She was already getting it. And probably tolerant enough to need sky-high levels just to stay comfortable. Maybe the doses finally accumulated."

"Only if she got an extra dose. Accidentally or intentionally."

"Just to set you up?"

"No one ever checks morphine levels on terminal cancer patients! Someone wanted to make sure her murder didn't slip by unnoticed. Someone who knew it was murder. And sent that note to Brenda Hainey."

"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?"

Vivian's answer came back in a shout. "Yeah. But I don't think it was that long ago. More like four years."

"Do you have any idea why he committed suicide?"

"It wasn't a suicide."

"What?"

"Look, can you hold on a minute? I'm going to change extensions." Abby heard the receiver clunk down and had to endure what seemed like an endless wait before Vivian picked up the extension. "OK, Grandma! You can hang up!" she yelled. The chatter of Cantonese was abruptly cut off.

"What do you mean, it wasn't a suicide?" Abby said.

"It was an accident. There was some defect in his furnace and carbon monoxide collected in the house. It killed his wife and baby girl, too."

"Wait. Wait a minute. I'm talking about a guy named Lawrence Kunstler."

"I don't know anyone named Kunstler. That must have happened before I got to Bayside."

"Who are you talking about?"

"An anaesthesiologist. The one before they hired Zwick. I'm blocking on his name right now... Hennessy. That's the name."

"He was on the transplant team?"

"Yeah. A young guy, right out of fellowship. He wasn't here very long. ! remember he was thinking about moving back west when it happened."

"Are you sure it was an accident?"

"What else would it be?"

Abby stared out the window at the empty street and said nothing. "Abby, is something wrong?"

"Someone was following me today. A van."

"Come on."

"Mark isn't home yet. It's almost dark and he should be home by now. I keep thinking about Aaron. And Lawrence Kunstler. He jumped off the Tobin Bridge. And now you're telling me about Hennessy. That's three, Vivian."

"Two suicides and an accident."

"That's more than you'd expect in one hospital."

"Statistical cluster? Or maybe there's something about working for Bayside that's really, really depressing." Vivian's attempt at humour fell flat and she knew it. After a pause she said, "Do you honestly think someone was following you?"

"What did you tell me? You're not paranoid. Someone's really out to get you."

"I was referring to Victor Voss. Or Parr. They have reasons to harass you. But to follow you around in a van? And what does it have to do with Aaron or the other two guys?"

"I don't know." Abby drew her legs up on the chair and hugged herself for warmth. For self-protection. "But I'm getting scared. I keep thinking about Aaron. I told you what that detective said that Aaron's death may not be a suicide."

"Does he have any evidence?"

"If he did, he certainly wouldn't tell me."

"He might tell Elaine."

Of course. The widow. The one who'd want to know, who'd demand to know.

After she hung up, Abby looked up Elaine Levi's phone number. Then she sat gathering the nerve to actually make the call. It was now dark outside, and the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Mark still wasn't home. She shut the curtains and turned on the lights.

All of them. She needed brightness and warmth.

She picked up the phone and dialled Elaine.

It rang four times. She cleared her throat, preparing to leave a message on the inevitable answering machine. Then she heard three piercing tones, followed by a recording:

"The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please check your listing and dial again..."

Abby redialled, painstakingly confirming each number as she punched it in.

Four rings were followed by the same piercing tones. "The number you have dialled is no longer in service..."

She hung up and stared at the phone as if it had betrayed her. Why had Elaine changed her number?Who was she trying to avoid?

Outside, a car splashed through the rain. Abby ran to the window and peered through a crack in the curtains. A BMW was pulling into the driveway.

She offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

Mark was home.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mark refilled his wine glass. "Sure, I knew them both," he said. "I knew Larry Kunstler better than Hennessy. Hennessy wasn't with us very long. But Larry was one of the guys who recruited me here, straight from my fellowship. He was an OK guy." Mark set the wine bottle down on the table. "A really nice guy."