Part 8 (1/2)

I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I know this must be a trying time for all of you. I only wanted to say that I am very grateful for what you did for me l.u.s.t year, and that I believe in you and what you are doing. You are the most wonderful doctor I have ever known, and the most honest. You have made my life much better than it would be otherwise, and my husband and I are eternally grateful. I shall pray for you every night. am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I know this must be a trying time for all of you. I only wanted to say that I am very grateful for what you did for me l.u.s.t year, and that I believe in you and what you are doing. You are the most wonderful doctor I have ever known, and the most honest. You have made my life much better than it would be otherwise, and my husband and I are eternally grateful. I shall pray for you every night.

Mrs. Allison Banks I slipped it into my pocket. It wouldn't do to have that one lying around.

I heard voices behind me.”Well, well, well. Fancy that.”I turned. It was Peterson.”My wife called me.”

”Fancy that.” He looked around the room. With all the broken windows, it was getting chilly as night fell. ”Quite a mess, isn't it?”

”You might say so.”

”Yes, indeed.” He walked around the room. ”Quite a mess.”

Watching him, I had a sudden horrifying vision of a uniformed man in heavy boots struggling among ruins. It was a generalized vision, nonspecific, attached to no particular time or place or era.Another man pushed into the room. He wore a raincoat and had a pad in his hand.”Who're you?” Peterson said.”Curtis. From the Globe, Globe, sir.” sir.””Now who called you, fella?”Peterson looked around the room. His eyes rested on me.”Not nice,” Peterson said. ”Not nice at all.””It's a reputable newspaper. This boy will report the facts accurately. You surely can't object to that.””Listen,” Peterson said. ”This is a city of two and a half million and the police department is understaffed. We can't investigate every crackpot complaint and lunatic threat that comes along. We can't do that if we want to do the regular things, like direct traffic.””Family of an accused,” I said. I was aware thatthe reporter was watching me closely. ”Family of an accused receives threats by telephone and letter. Wife and young family. She's afraid. You ignore her.””That's not fair and you know it.””Then something big happens. They start to burn a cross and tear the place apart. The wife calls for help. It takes your boys fifteen minutes to get here. How far away is the nearest station?””That's not the point.”The reporter was writing.”You'll look bad,” I said. ”Lots of citizens in this town are opposed to abortion, but still more are against the wanton, lawless destruction of private property by a band of young hoodlums-””They weren't hoodlums.”I turned to the reporter. ”Captain Peterson expresses the opinion that the kids who burned the cross and broke every window in the house were not young hoodlums.””That's not what I meant,” Peterson said quickly.”It's what he said,” I told the reporter. ”Furthermore, you may be interested to know that two children were seriously lacerated by flying gla.s.s. Children ages three and five, seriously lacerated.””That's not what I was told,” Peterson said. ”The cuts were only-”

”I believe,” I said, ”that I am the only doctor present at this time. Or did the police bring a doctor when they finally answered the call for help?”

He was silent.

”Did the police bring a doctor?” the reporter asked. ”No.” ”Did they summon a doctor?”

”No.”The reporter wrote swiftly.”I'll get you, Berry,” Peterson said. ”I'll get you for this.””Careful. You're in front of a reporter.”His eyes shot daggers. He turned on his heel.”By the way,” I said, ”what steps will the police now take to prevent a recurrence?”He stopped. ”That hasn't been decided yet.””Be sure,” I said, ”to explain to this reporter how unfortunate it all is and how you'll post a twenty-four-hour guard. Be sure to make that clear.”He curled his lips, but I knew he would do it. That's all I wanted-protection for Betty, and a little pressure on the police.EIGHTJUDITH TOOK THE KIDS HOME; I stayed with Betty and helped her board up the windows. It took nearly an hour, and with each one I did, I got angrier.Betty's kids were subdued, but would not go tosleep. They kept coming downstairs to complain that their cuts hurt or that they wanted a gla.s.s of water. Young Henry in particular complained about his foot, so I removed the bandage to be certain I had not missed any gla.s.s. I found a small sliver still lodged in the wound.Sitting there, with his small foot in my hand, and Betty telling him not to cry as I cleaned the wound again, I suddenly felt tired. The house smelled of burning wood, from the cross. It was chilly and drafty from the broken windows. Everything was a shambles; it would take days to clean it up.All so unnecessary.When I finished with Henry's foot, I went back to the letters Betty had received. Reading them made me feel more tired. I kept wondering how people could do it, what they must have been thinking. The obvious answer was that they were thinking nothing. They were simply reacting, as I had been reacting, as everyone had been reacting.

I suddenly wanted it finished. I wanted the letters to stop, the windows to be fixed, the wounds to heal, and life to return to normal. I wanted it very badly.

So I called George Wilson.”1 thought you might call,” Wilson said.”How'd you like to take a trip?””Where?””J. D. Randall's.””Why?””To call off the dogs,” I said.”Meet me in twenty minutes,” he said and hung up. up.As WE DROVE TOWARD THE SOUTH Sh.o.r.e and the Randall house, Wilson said, ”What made you change your mind?””A lot of things.””The kids?””A lot of things,” I repeated.We drove for a while in silence, then he said, ”You know what this means, don't you? It means we put the squeeze on Mrs. Randall and on Peter.””That's all right,” I said.”I thought he was your buddy.””I'm tired.””I thought doctors never got tired.””Lay off, will you?”It was late, approaching nine. The sky was black.”When we get to the house,” Wilson said, ”I'll do the talking, right?””O.K.,” I said.”It's no good if we both talk. It has to be just one.””You can have your moment,” I said.He smiled. ”You don't like me much, do you?””No. Not much.””But you need me.””That's right,” I said.”Just so we understand each other,” he said.”Just so you do the job,” I said.I did not remember exactly where the house was,so I slowed the car as I approached. Finally I found it and was about to turn into the drive when I stopped. Up ahead, in the gravel turnabout in front of the house, were two cars. One was J. D. Randall's silver Porsche. The other was a gray Mercedes sedan.”What's the matter?”I doused my lights and backed away.”What's going on?” Wilson said.”I'm not sure,” I said.”Well are we going in, or not?”

”No,” I said. I backed across the road and parked on the opposite side, near the shrubs. I had a good view up the drive to the house and could see both cars clearly.

”Why not?””Because,” I said, ”there's a Mercedes parked there.””So?””Peter Randall owns a Mercedes.””All the better,” Wilson said. ”We can confront them together.”

”No,” I said. ”Because Peter Randall told me his car was stolen.”

”Oh?””That's what he said.””When?””Yesterday.”

I thought back. Something was beginning to bother me, to pick at my mind. Then I remem- bered: the car I had seen in the Randall garage when I had visited Mrs. Randall.

I opened my door. ”Come on.””Where are we going?””I want to see that car,” I said.We stepped out into the night, which was damp and unpleasant. Walking up the drive, I reached into my pocket and felt my little penlight. I always carried it; a throwback to my days as an intern. 1 was glad to have it now.”You realize,” Wilson whispered, ”that we're trespa.s.sing on private property.””I realize.”We moved from the crunching gravel to the soft gra.s.s and climbed the hill toward the house. There were lights burning on the ground floor, but the shades were drawn, and we could not see inside.We came to the cars and stepped onto the gravel again. The sounds of our footsteps seemed loud. I reached the Mercedes and flicked on my penlight. The car was empty; there was nothing in the back seat.I stopped.The driver's seat was soaked in blood.”Well, well,” Wilson said.I was about to speak when we heard voices and a door opening. We hurried back to the gra.s.s and slipped behind a bush near the drive.J. D, Randall came out of the house. Peter was with him. They were arguing about something in low voices; I heard Peter say, ”All ridiculous,” andJ. D. said, ”Too careful”; but otherwise their voices were inaudible. They came down the steps to the cars. Peter got into the Mercedes and started the engine. J. D. said, ”Follow me,” and Peter nodded. Then J. D. got into the silver Porsche and started down the drive.At the road, they turned right, heading south.”Come on,” I said.We sprinted down the drive to my car, parked on the opposite side of the road. The other two cars were already far away; we could barely hear their engines, but we could see their lights moving down the coast.I started the car and followed them.Wilson had reached into his pocket and was fiddling with something.''What have you got there?”He held it over so I could see. A small, silver tube.”Minox.””You always carry a camera?””Always,” he said.1 stayed back a good distance, so the other cars would not suspect. Peter was following J. D. closely.After a five-minute drive, the two cars entered the ramp for the southeast expressway. I came on a moment later.

”1 don't get it,” Wilson said. ”One minute you're defending the guy, and the next minute you're tracking him like a bloodhound.”

”I want to know,” I said. ”That's all. I just want to know.”

I followed them for half an hour. The road narrowed at Marshfield, becoming two lanes instead of three. Traffic was light; I dropped even farther back.”This could be completely innocent,” Wilson said. ”The whole thing could be a-””No,” I said. I had been putting things together in my own mind. ”Peter loaned this car to Karen for the weekend. The son, William, told me that. Karen used that car. There was blood on it. Then the car was garaged in the Randall house, and Peter reported it as stolen. Now . . .””Now they're getting rid of it,” Wilson said.”Apparently.””Hot d.a.m.n,” he said. ”This one's in the bag.”The cars continue south, past Plymouth, down toward the Cape. The air here was chilly and tangy with salt. There was almost no traffic.”Doing fine,” Wilson said, looking at the taillights ahead. ”Give them plenty of room.””As the road became more deserted, the two cars gained speed. They were going very fast now, near eighty. We pa.s.sed Plymouth, then Hyannis, and out toward Provincetown. Suddenly, I saw their brake lights go on, and they turned off the road to the right, toward the coast.We followed, on a dirt road. Around us were scrubby pine trees. 1 doused my lights. The wind was gusty and cold off the ocean.”Deserted around here,” Wilson said.I nodded.Soon I could hear the roar of the breakers. I pulled off the road and parked. We walked on foot toward the ocean and saw the two cars parked, side by side.I recognized the place. It was the east side of the Cape, where there was a long, one-hundred-foot sandy drop to the sea. The two cars were at the ledge, overlooking the water. Randall had gotten out of his Porsche and was talking with Peter. They argued for a moment, and then Peter got back in the car and drove it until the front wheels were inches from the edge. Then he got out and walked back.J. D. had meanwhile opened the trunk to the Porsche and taken out a portable can of gasoline. Together the two men emptied the can of gasoline inside Peter's car.I heard a click near me. Wilson, with the little camera pressed to his eye, was taking pictures.”You don't have enough light.””Tri-X,” he said, still taking pictures. ”You can force it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And I have the right lab.”

I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning the tank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche engine and backed the car around, so it was facing the road, away from the ocean.

”Ready for the getaway,” Wilson said. ”Beautiful.”

J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. He stood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burst into flames.

The two men immediately ran to the rear of the car and leaned their weight against the car. It moved slowly, then faster, and finally began the slide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparently exploded, because there was a loud sound and a bright red flash of light.They sprinted for the car, got in, and drove pastus.”Come on,” Wilson said. He ran forward to the edge with his camera. Down below, at the edge of the water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.Wilson took several pictures, then put his camera away and looked at me.He was grinning broadly. ”Baby,” he said, ”have we got a case.”NINEON THE WAY BACK, I turned off the expressway at the Coha.s.set exit.”Hey,” Wilson said, ”what're you doing?””Going to see Randall.””Now?””Yes.””Are you crazy? After what we saw?”I said, ”I came out tonight to get Art Lee off the hook. I still intend to do it.””Uh-uh,” Wilson said. ”Not now. Not after what we saw.” He patted the little camera in his hand. ”Now we can go to court.””But there's no need. We have an iron case. Unbeatable. Unshakable.”I shook my head.

”Listen,” Wilson said, ”you can rattle a witness. You can discredit him, making him look like a fool. But you can't discredit a picture. You can't beat a photograph. We have them by the b.a.l.l.s.”

”No,” I said.

He sighed. ”Before, it was going to be a bluff. I was going to walk in there and bulls.h.i.+t my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frighten them, to make them think we had evidence when we didn't. But now, it's all different. We have the evidence. We have everything we need.”

”If you don't want to talk to them, I will.””Berry,” Wilson said, ”if you talk to them, you'll blow our whole case.””I'll make them quit.”

”Berry, you'll blow it. Because they've just done something very incriminating. They'll know it. They'll be taking a hard line.”

'”Then we'll tell them what we know.””And if it comes to trial? What then? We'll have blown our cool.””I'm not worried about that. It won't come to trial.”

Wilson scratched his scar again, running his finger down his neck. ”Listen,” he said, ”don't you want to win?”

”Yes,” I said, ”but without a fight.””There's going to be a fight. Any way you cut it, there'll be a fight. I'm telling you.”I pulled up in front of the Randall house and drove up the drive. ”Don't tell me,” I said- ”Tell them.””You're making a mistake,” he said.”Maybe,” I said, ”but I doubt it.”We climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.RELUCTANTLY, the butler led us into the living room. It was no larger than the average-size basketball court, an immense room with a huge fireplace. Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall, in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both with large snifters of brandy in their hands.The butler stood erectly by the door and said, ”Dr. Berry and Mr. Wilson, sir. They said they were expected.”J. D. frowned when he saw us. Peter sat back and allowed a small smile to cross his face. Mrs. Randall seemed genuinely amused.J. D. said, ”What do you want?”I let Wilson do the talking. He gave a slight bow and said, ”I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee's defense attorney.””That's lovely,” J. D. said. He glanced at his watch. ”But it's nearly midnight, and I am relaxing with my family. I have nothing to say to either of you until we meet in court. So if you will-””If you will pardon me, sir,” Wilson said, ”we have come a long way to see you. All the way from the Cape, in fact.”J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Peter coughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, ”What were you doing on the Cape?””Watching a bonfire,” Wilson said.”A bonfire?””Yes,” Wilson said. He turned to J. D. ”We'd like some brandies, please, and then a little chat.”Peter could not suppress a laugh this time. J. D. looked at him sternly, then rang for the butler. He ordered two more brandies, and as the butler was leaving, he said, ”Small ones, Herbert. They won't be staying long.”

Then he turned to his wife. ”If you will, my dear.”

She nodded and left the room.”Sit down, gentlemen.”

”We prefer to stand,” Wilson said. The butler brought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised his gla.s.s. ”Your health, gentlemen.”

”Thank you,” J. D. said. His voice was cold. ”Now what's on your minds?”

”A small legal matter,” Wilson said. ”We believe that you may wish to reconsider charges against Dr. Lee.”

”Reconsider?””Yes. That was the word I used.””There is nothing to reconsider,” J. D. said.Wilson sipped the brandy. ”Oh?””That's right,” J. D. said.

”We believe,” Wilson said, ”that your wife may have been mistaken in hearing that Dr. Lee aborted Karen Randall. Just as we believe that Peter Randall was mistaken when he reported his automobile stolen to the police. Or hasn't he reported it yet?”

”Neither my wife, nor my brother, were mistaken,” J. D. said.Peter coughed again and lit a cigar.”Something wrong, Peter?” J.D. asked.”No, nothing.”He puffed the cigar and sipped his brandy.”Gentlemen,” J. D. said, turning to us. ”You are wasting your time. There has been no mistake, and there is nothing to reconsider.”Wilson said softly, ”In that case, it must go to court.””Indeed it must,” Randall said, nodding.”And you will be called to account for your actions tonight,” Wilson said.”Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall's firm testimony that we spent the evening playing chess.” He pointed to a chessboard in the corner.”Who won?” Wilson asked, with a faint smile.”I did, by G.o.d,” Peter said, speaking for the first time. And he chuckled.”How did you do it?” Wilson said.”Bishop to knight's twelve,” Peter said and chuckled again. ”He is a terrible chess player. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times.””Peter, this is no laughing matter.””You're a sore loser,” Peter said.”Shut up, Peter.”Quite abruptly, Peter stopped laughing. He folded his arms across his ma.s.sive belly and said nothing more.J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, then said, ”Was there anything else, gentlemen?””YOU SON OF A b.i.t.c.h,” I said to Wilson. ”You blew it.””I did my best.””You got him angry. You were forcing him into court.””I did my best.””That was the lousiest, rottenest-””Easy,” Wilson said, rubbing his scar.'You could have scared him. You could have told them how it would go-the way you explained it to me in the bar. You could have told them about the pictures. . . .””It wouldn't have done any good,” Wilson said.”It might.”

”No. They are determined to take the case to court. They-”

”Yes,” I said, ”thanks to you. Strutting around like a self-satisfied b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy-that was beautiful, that was.”

”I attempted to persuade them,” Wilson said.”c.r.a.p.”He shrugged.”I'll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushed them into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance to make a name for yourself, to prove that you're a ruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if the case ever comes to trial, Art Lee-no matter what the outcome-will lose. He'll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes to trial, the Randalls will also lose. They'll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, destroyed. Only one person will come out on top.””Yes?””You, Wilson. Only you can win in a trial.””That's your opinion,” he said. He was getting angry. I was getting him.”That's a fact.””You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable he was.””You could have made him listen.””No,” Wilson said. ”But he'll listen in court.” He sat back in the car and stared forward for a moment, thinking over the evening. ”You know, I'm surprised at you, Berry. You're supposed to be a scientist. You're supposed to be objective about evidence. You've had a bellyful of evidence tonight that Peter Randall is guilty, and you're still unhappy.””Did he strike you,” I said, ”as a guilty man?” He can act.”Answer the question.””I did,” Wilson said.”So you believe he's guilty?”

”That's right,” Wilson said. ”And I can make a jury believe it, too.”

”What if you're wrong?””Then it's too bad. Just the way it's too bad that Mrs. Randall was wrong about Art Lee.””You're making excuses.””Am I?” He shook his head. ”No, man. You are. You're playing the loyal doctor, right down the line. You're sucking up to the tradition, to the conspiracy of silence. You'd like to see it handled nice and quietly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at the end.””Isn't that the best way? The business of a lawyer,” I said, ”is to do whatever is best for his client.””The business of a lawyer is to win his cases.””Art Lee is a man. He has a family, he has goals, he has personal desires and wishes. Your job is to implement them. Not to stage a big trial for your own glory.””The trouble with you, Berry, is that you're like all doctors. You can't believe that one of your own is rotten. What you'd really like to see is an ex-army medical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice littleold midwife. That's who you'd like to stick with this rap. Not a doctor.””I'd like to stick the guilty person,” I said, ”n.o.body else.””You know who's guilty,” Wilson said. ”You know d.a.m.ned well.”

I DROPPED WILSON OFF, then drove home and poured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was silent; it was after midnight.

I drank the vodka and thought about what I had seen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Peter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gallon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now-or would be, if we hadn't seen him burning the car.

Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything made sense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that they hadn't seen Karen; she had gone to Peter that Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She had told Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospital in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn't known that the EW diagnosis would not call in the police; to avert a family scandal she had blamed the abortion on the only other abortionist she knew: Art Lee. She had jumped the gun, and all h.e.l.l had broken loose.Everything made sense.Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter Randall had been Karen's physician for years. He knew she was a hysterical girl. Therefore he would have been certain to perform a rabbit test on her. Also, he knew that she had had a prior complaint of vision trouble, which suggested a pituitary tumor which could mimic pregnancy. So he would certainly have tested.