We'll Meet Again (29 page)

With methodical care, Calvin Whitehall prepared Lou for his assignment in West Redding. He explained that the element of surprise was essential to the plan if it was to work.

“Hopefully, the window from the porch to the laboratory will be open so you can quietly toss in the gasoline-soaked rags; otherwise you will have no choice but to break a pane,” Cal said. “Now I realize that the fuse connected to our little device is short, but it should give you enough time to be down the steps and away from the building before the explosion.”

Lou listened attentively as Cal went on to tell him that Dr. Logue had called, all excited about meeting the press. It was clear he was eager to show Fran Simmons his laboratory, so Lou could count on the two of them being upstairs in the lab when the bomb went off. “It will appear much more likely to be an unfortunate accident if what’s left of them is found in the lab,” Cal said casually, “to say nothing of the fact that if they were downstairs, they might have time to make it out.

“Escape will be impossible from upstairs,” he went on. “The door from the laboratory to the porch has two separate locks, and it’s kept bolted at all times because Dr. Logue is fearful that attempts may be made on his life.”

He’s right to be fearful, Lou thought, but then admitted to himself that, as usual, Cal ’s attention to detail was remarkable and no doubt would prove to be a safeguard for him.

“Unless you botch the job completely, Lou-and need I say,
don’t!
-the fire and subsequent explosion will take care of the dual problems of the doctor and Fran Simmons. The farmhouse is over one hundred years old, and the interior staircase is very narrow and steep. There is no way, assuming the explosion is as great as I anticipate, that either or both of them could get out of the laboratory, run down the hall, and then get down those stairs in time to escape. However, you should be prepared for that eventuality, of course.”

“Be prepared” was Cal ’s way of telling him to carry his gun. It had been seven years since he had fired it, but some skills never got rusty. Like riding a bike or swimming, Lou thought-you never forget how to do it. His most recent weapon of choice had been a good, sharp knife.

The farmhouse was in an isolated, wooded area, and although the explosion might be heard, Cal had assured him he would have enough time to be out of the immediate area and back on a main road before the police and fire departments appeared. Lou tried not to show his impatience at all the information Cal was throwing at him. He’d been to the farmhouse often enough to get the lay of the land, and he certainly knew how to take care of himself.

At five o’clock Lou left the apartment. It was unnecessarily early, but here again, Cal believed in being ahead of the game, and anticipating potential delays like traffic tie-ups was important if all was to go according to plan. “You ought to allow yourself more than enough time to park the car out of view of the farmhouse before Fran Simmons arrives,” Cal had cautioned.

As Lou got in the car, Cal came around the side of the garage. “Just want to see you off,” he said with a friendly smile. “Jenna is spending the evening with Molly Lasch. When you get back, come over to the house and have a drink with me.”

And after assignments like this, it’s okay if I call you Cal, Lou thought. Thanks a
lot,
old buddy. He started the car and headed to the Merritt Parkway north, on the first leg of his important trip to West Redding.

It seemed to Fran that Molly’s state had worsened overnight. There were dark crescents under her eyes; her pupils were enormous; her lips and skin, ashen. When she spoke, her voice was low and hesitant. Fran almost had to strain to hear her.

They sat in the study, and several times, Fran noticed Molly looking around the room as if she were surprised at what she was seeing.

She seems so damn
alone,
so forlorn, Fran thought; she seems so worried. If only her mother and father had been able to be with her. “Molly, I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask you,” she said. “Can’t your mother possibly leave your father and get up here? You need her to be with you.”

Molly shook her head, and for an instant the passivity left her voice.
“Absolutely not,
Fran. Had my father not had a stroke, both of them would have been here; I know that. I’m afraid that the stroke was a lot more serious than they admit. I’ve spoken to him, and he sounds pretty good, but with all the misery I’ve caused them, if something were to happen to him while she was up here, I would go absolutely mad.”

“How much misery will it cause them if they lose you?” Fran asked bluntly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m worried sick about you, and so is Philip, and so, I’m sure, is Jenna. Let’s say it straight-there’s a damn good chance you’ll be taken into custody again on Monday.”

“Ah, we finally say it straight,” Molly said with a sigh. “Thank you, Fran.”

“Hear me out. I believe there’s a very good chance that even if you do have to go back to Niantic, you’ll be out again very soon-and not on parole, but completely exonerated!”

“Once upon a time,” Molly murmured dreamily. “I didn’t know you believed in fairy tales.”

“Stop it!” Fran begged. “Molly, I hate to leave you here like this, but I can’t stay with you right now. I have an appointment that is desperately important to a lot of people, including you especially. Otherwise I wouldn’t leave your side. You know why? It’s because I think you’ve already given up; I think you’ve decided that you’re not even going to
appear
before that parole board.”

Molly raised her eyebrows quizzically, but did not contradict her.

“Trust me, Molly,
please
. We’re getting to the truth. I know we are. Believe in me. Believe in Philip. It may not even be important to you, but that guy loves you, and he won’t rest until he proves you’re the real victim in all this.”

“I loved that line in
An American Tragedy,”
Molly murmured. “I hope I’m remembering it properly: ‘Love me till I die and then forget me.’ ”

Fran got up. “Molly,” she said quietly, “if you really decide to end your life, you’ll find a way to do it whether you’re alone or with ‘the Pope’s standing army,’ as my grandmother used to say.

“I’m going to tell you something: I am angry at my father for committing suicide. No, I’m more than angry-I’m
furious
. He stole a lot of money, and he would have gone to prison. But he also would have come out of prison, and I would have been there with bells on to greet him.”

Molly sat silently, staring at her hands now.

Impatiently, Fran brushed tears from her eyes. “Worse comes to worst,” she said, “you serve out your term. I don’t think you will, but I’ll concede the point. You still would be young enough when you got out to enjoy-and I mean really enjoy-another forty years or so. You didn’t kill Annamarie Scalli. We all know that, and Philip will blow the case apart. So for God’s sake, girl, pull yourself together. You blue bloods are supposed to be classy.
Prove it!”

Molly stood at the window and watched Fran as she drove away. Thanks for the cheery words, but it’s too late, Fran, she thought. There’s nothing left about me that’s classy.

The doctor had been anxiously waiting for Fran Simmons to appear for a full half hour before the headlights of her car signaled her arrival. It was virtually on the stroke of seven when she rang his bell, an attention to promptness that he found gratifying. He-a scientist-was punctual himself and expected it in others.

He opened the door, and with a courtly greeting expressed his delight at meeting her. “For nearly twenty years I have been known in this area as a retired ophthalmologist,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Logue. In fact, my real name, and the one which I now happily resume, is Adrian Lowe. As you already know.”

The pictures she had seen of Adrian Lowe in the magazines were almost twenty years old, and they depicted a decidedly more robust man than the one who was standing before her.

He was just under six feet tall, lean, a little stooped. His thinning hair was more white than gray. The expression in his pale blue eyes could only be described as kindly. His overall manner was deferential-even a little shy, as he invited her into the small living room.

Overall, Fran thought, he’s not at all the kind of person I’d expected him to be. But then, what
did
I expect? she asked herself as she chose a straight-backed chair rather than the rocker he offered. After reading all that stuff he wrote, and knowing what I do about him, I guess I thought he’d look like some kind of zealot, with wild eyes and flailing arms, or like some goose-stepping Nazi doctor.

She had been about to ask him if he would permit her to record him, when he said, “I do hope you brought a recorder with you, Miss Simmons. I do not want to be misquoted.”

“Indeed I did, Doctor.” Fran opened her shoulder bag, slipped out the recorder, and turned it on. Don’t let him guess how much you know already about what he’s been up to, she warned herself. Ask all the important questions. This tape should make valuable evidence later on.

“I will be taking you upstairs to my laboratory directly, and we’ll do most of our talking there. But first let me explain why you are here. No, in point of fact, let me explain why
I
am here.”

Dr. Lowe rested his head against the back of his chair with a sigh. “Ms. Simmons, you must have heard the old cliché, ‘For every positive there is a negative.’ That premise is especially true in the practice of medicine. Therefore choices-sometimes
difficult
choices-must be made.”

Fran listened without comment as Adrian Lowe, his voice sometimes soft, sometimes animated, explained his views about the advances in medical care and the need to redefine the concept of “managed care.”

“There should be a cutoff of treatment, but I’m not talking merely about life-support systems,” he began. “Let us say a person has had a third heart attack, or is past seventy and has been on dialysis for five years, or has been granted the enormous financial outlay needed to cover a heart or liver transplant that has failed.

“Isn’t it about time to let that person cash in his or her chips, Miss Simmons? Clearly it’s God’s will, so why should we keep fighting the inevitable? The patient might not agree, of course, and no doubt the family might sue for continuing coverage. Therefore, there should be another authority enabled to hasten this inevitable outcome without discussion with either the family or the patient, and without the incurring of further expense on the hospital’s part. An authority capable of a clinical, objective,
scientific
decision.”

Fran listened in astonishment at the almost unimaginable philosophy he was articulating. “Do I understand, Dr. Lowe, that you are actually saying that neither the patient nor the family should have anything to say or even know about the decision that is being made to terminate the patient’s life?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you also saying that the handicapped should be unknowing and unwilling guinea pigs for any experiments you and your colleagues might wish to conduct?”

“My dear,” he said condescendingly, “I have a videotape I want you to see. It may help you understand why my research is so important. You may have heard recently of Natasha Colbert, a young lady from a very prominent family.”

My God, he’s going to admit what he did to her, Fran thought.

“Due to a most unfortunate accident, the terminal treatment that was about to be given to a chronically ill elderly woman was administered to Ms. Colbert instead of the routine saline solution that she required.

“This resulted in an irreversible coma, in which state she had existed for over six years. I have been experimenting to find a drug that would reverse that deep coma and last night, for the first time, enjoyed success, if only for a few moments. But that success is the beginning of something magnificent in science. Allow me to show you the proof.”

Fran watched as Dr. Lowe placed a cassette into the VCR attached to a wide-screen television.

“I never watch television,” he explained, “but for research purposes, I have this unit. I will show you only the final five minutes of the last day of Natasha Colbert’s life. That is all you will need to understand what I have accomplished in the years that I have spent here.”

In disbelief, Fran watched the tape and saw Barbara Colbert murmuring her dying daughter’s name.

She knew her audible gasp when Natasha stirred, opened her eyes, and began to speak delighted Dr. Lowe.

“You see, you see,” he exclaimed.

Shocked, Fran watched as Tasha recognized her mother, then closed her eyes, opened them again, and pleaded with her mother to help her.

She felt tears well in her own eyes at the agonizing sight of Barbara Colbert pleading with her daughter to live. With something approaching hatred, she witnessed Dr. Black denying to Barbara Colbert that Natasha had regained consciousness.

“She could only last a minute. The drug is that powerful,” Dr. Lowe explained as he stopped and rewound the tape. “Someday it will be routine to reverse comas.” He slipped the tape into his pocket. “What are you thinking, my dear?”

“I am thinking, Dr. Lowe, that with your obvious genius, it is incredible that all your efforts are not devoted to the preservation of life and to improving the quality of life, not to the destruction of lives whose quality you deem to be less than acceptable.”

He smiled and stood up. “My dear, the number of thinking people who agree with me are legion. Now let me show you my laboratory.”

Feeling a mixture of horror and growing uneasiness that she was alone with this man, Fran followed Lowe up the narrow staircase. Natasha Colbert, she thought angrily. She was put in that condition by one of his “highly effective drugs.” Also Tim’s grandmother, who had hoped to celebrate her eightieth birthday. And Barbara Colbert, who was too intelligent to be told she was hallucinating by Lowe’s murderous disciple, Peter Black. He may even be talking about Billy Gallo’s mother. How many others? she asked herself.

The upstairs hall was gloomy and dimly lit, but when Adrian Lowe opened the door to his laboratory, it was like stepping into another world. Knowing little about research laboratories, Fran could still see that this one appeared to be the epitome of technical perfection.

The room was not large, but the limited space was more than made up for by the careful arrangement of equipment so that every inch was put to practical use. In addition to the latest in computer technology, Fran recognized some of the equipment she had seen in her own, very high-priced doctor’s office. There was also a rather substantial oxygen tank, with valves and tubes attached. Many of the machines appeared to be geared to testing chemicals, with others more suited to testing live subjects. Rats, I hope, Fran said to herself with a sinking feeling. Most of the lab equipment meant nothing to her, but what she did find impressive was the extreme cleanliness and orderliness of the place. It is both impressive and absolutely terrifying, she thought as she advanced into the room.

Adrian Lowe’s face glowed with pride. “Miss Simmons, my former student Gary Lasch brought me here after I had been hounded out of medicine. He believed in me and my research and was devoted to lending me the support I needed to carry out my tests and experiments. Then he sent for Peter Black, another of my former students, and one who had been Gary ’s classmate. That proved not to be the wisest move, in retrospect. Possibly because of his problem with alcohol, Black has turned out to be a dangerous coward. He has failed me on a number of occasions, although most recently he has helped to hand me the greatest achievement of my career. In addition, there is Calvin Whitehall, who was kind enough to arrange our meeting, and who has been an ardent supporter of my research, both financially and philosophically.”

“Calvin Whitehall did
what?”
Fran asked, a shiver of alarm running down her back.

Adrian Lowe looked puzzled. “Why, he arranged this meeting, of course. He suggested you would be the appropriate media contact. He made the arrangements with you and verified with me that you would be coming.”

Fran chose her next words carefully: “Exactly
what
did Mr. Whitehall tell you I would do for you, Doctor?”

“My dear, you are here because you are going to produce a thirty-minute interview with me that will then allow me to share my achievements with the world. The members of the medical establishment will continue to excoriate me. But even they over time, as well as the general public, will come to embrace the wisdom of my philosophy and the genius of my research. And you, Miss Simmons, will lead the way. You are going to publicize that program in advance and place it on your own prestigious network.”

Fran stood silent for a moment, both dumbfounded and horrified by what she had heard. “Dr. Lowe, you
do
realize that you will be exposing yourself,
and
Dr. Black,
and
Calvin Whitehall to possible criminal prosecution?”

He bristled. “Of course I do. Calvin has willingly accepted that as a necessary part of our important mission.”

Oh dear God, Fran thought, he’s become dangerous to them. And so have I. This laboratory is also dangerous to them. They’ve got to get rid of it-and
us
. I’ve walked into a trap.

“Doctor,” she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt, “we’ve got to get out of here. Immediately. We’ve both been set up. Calvin Whitehall would never let you go public with all this, especially on television. You
must
realize that!”

“I don’t understand…” the doctor responded, an almost childlike confusion crossing his face.

“Trust me.
Please!”

Dr. Lowe was standing next to her by the laboratory’s center island, his hands on the Formica surface. “Miss Simmons, you’re not making sense. Mr. Whitehall-”

Fran grabbed his hand. “Doctor, it isn’t safe here. We have to get out.”

She heard a faint noise and felt a sharp draft. At the far end of the room the window was being raised. “Look!” she screamed pointing to the shadowy figure, barely visible against the night.

She saw the flicker of a tiny flame, watched as an arm lifted it, then seemed to pull back. Suddenly she realized what was happening. Whoever was outside that window was going to throw a firebomb into the room. He was going to blow up the laboratory-and both of them with it.

Doctor Lowe pulled his hand from her tight grasp. Fran knew it was useless to run, but she also knew she had to try. “Doctor, please.”

But in a lightning movement he reached below the counter of the island, pulled out a shotgun, racked back the slide with a loud, ominous click, then aimed and fired. The noise deafened her. She saw the arm holding the flame disappear, then heard the thud of a body. An instant later flames shot up from the porch.

Dr. Lowe pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall and thrust it at her. Then he ran to a wall safe, opened it quickly, and frantically began to search through it.

Fran leaned out the window. Flames were licking at the shoes of their would-be assailant, who lay on the porch. He was groaning and clutching at his shoulder, trying to stem the gushing flow of blood. Fran pressed down with her finger, and a stream of foam sprouted from the extinguisher, putting out the flames directly around him.

But the fire had spread already to the railing of the porch and was seconds away from reaching the steps. Some of the flaming liquid from the firebomb had also flowed between the floorboards of the porch, and she could see flames already licking underneath. It was clear to Fran that no extinguisher could save this house. She knew also that if she opened the door to the porch, the flames would sweep through the laboratory and engulf the oxygen tank.

“Doctor, get out,” she shrieked. He nodded, and with his arms full of files, he ran out of the laboratory and down the hall. She could hear the clatter of his feet on the stairs as he descended.

She looked back out onto the porch. There was only one way to try to save the life of the injured man, which she was determined to try to do. She could not leave him to be blown up when the laboratory went. Holding the extinguisher, Fran squeezed herself out of the narrow window and onto the small porch. The flames had returned, inching closer to the wounded man and threatening soon to climb the house’s outside wall. Spraying foam from the fire extinguisher in the space between the window and the stairs, she created a temporary path. The would-be killer was lying almost at the top of the steps. Fran set the extinguisher down, put her hands under the man’s right shoulder, and with all her strength, she lifted and rolled him. For an instant he teetered at the top step, then in an end-over-end motion that brought agonized cries from his lips, he tumbled down the stairs.

Fran tried to straighten up but lost her balance in the slippery foam and fell, her feet going out from under her. Her head struck the top step, her shoulder banged against the sharp edge of the next one, her ankle twisted as she finally dropped to the ground.

Dazed, she managed to scramble to her feet just as Dr. Lowe came around the side of the house. “Grab him,” she shouted. “Help me to get him clear before the whole place explodes.”