The Pact Read online

  The walls upstairs were cinder block, but painted a pale, sunny yellow. The catwalks were twice as wide; the cells a foot and a half bigger in all directions. There were four bunks in each cell, but there was also a large common room that connected the two pods, with tables and chairs and so much space that Chris felt his spine stretch and was only then aware that he'd been stunting himself.

  "What did I tell you?" Steve said, tossing his things onto the left upper bunk. "Nirvana."

  Chris nodded. Their other cellmates were not in, but their belongings were neatly arranged in boxes set squarely on the two lower bunks, a clear attempt to let the newcomers know their place.

  About fifteen men were sitting in the common room, some watching the television mounted high on the wall, others fitting together pieces of the jigsaw puzzles that were stacked on top of the lockers.

  Chris sank down onto a plastic chair--plenty of room for it here, unlike the narrow catwalk in maximum security. Steve sat across from him and propped his feet on the table. "What do you think?"

  Chris grinned. "That I'd sell my own grandmother to keep from being sent down to maximum again."

  Steve laughed. "Yeah, well. Everything's relative." He reached on top of some lockers and pulled down two Milton Bradley boxes. "This is all they've got," he complained. "Someone set the Monopoly board on fire last month."

  Chris laughed out loud. A room full of felons, and the only games were Sorry! and Risk.

  "What's funny?" Steve asked.

  Chris reached for the box in Steve's left hand, Sorry! "Nothing," Chris said. "Nothing at all."

  JAMES STOOD UP AND walked toward the podium to the thunderous applause of his colleagues. Gus thought he was strikingly handsome against the burgundy walls of the dining room, holding up his plaque. "This," he said, brandishing the award, "is a tremendous honor."

  Bainbridge Memorial Hospital toasted one of its own every year in conjunction with the teaching staff of the nearby medical school. Ostensibly, the dinner was supposed to make the young men and women entering the medical field realize what sort of demigods they'd be joining. This year, Dr. James Harte had been chosen as the honoree for his continuing contribution to Bainbridge Memorial Hospital, although everyone present knew that James was being feted because of his inclusion in the "Best Doctors" listing. Unfortunately for the nominating committee, the event had already been planned when the small glitch regarding Dr. Harte's son had come to pass.

  "The good thing about this particular award," James said, "is that I've had some time to figure out what I'm supposed to say to you all. I was told: something inspirational. So before I begin perhaps I should apologize for choosing to become a surgeon, instead of a minister."

  He waited for the polite laughter to die down. "When I was much younger, I believed that studying hard and passing a battery of exams was all I needed to become a doctor. But there is a great difference between being a practicing physician, and a practiced physician. I used to think that the study of ophthalmology was all about getting to the malady. I was looking people, literally, right in the eye, and I wasn't necessarily seeing them. In hindsight--no pun intended--I realized how much I was missing. I urge those of you at the start of your careers to remember that you aren't being trained to treat afflictions, but patients."

  He gestured to the director of surgery. "Of course, I never would have gotten this wise without a brace of bright colleagues to spur me on, and a fabulous institution like Bainbridge in which to do it. And I'd have to thank my parents, who gave me my toy doctor's kit at age two; my mentor, Dr. Ari Gregaran, who blessed me with everything I know; and of course, Augusta and Kate, for teaching me that if there are patients at a hospital, there has to be patience at home." He lifted his plaque again, and the room dissolved into applause.

  Gus clapped woodenly, a smile pasted to her face. He had forgotten to mention Chris.

  Intentionally?

  Her head was spinning. She stood up before James could even make his way back to the table and pushed her way blindly toward the ladies' room. Inside, she leaned against the sink and ran cool water over her wrists, James's words circling inside her head: I was looking people right in the eye, and I wasn't necessarily seeing them.

  She straightened her dress and took her handbag, intending to walk out of the bathroom and head into the lobby where she'd ask the concierge to call her a cab. James would figure it out, and maybe by the time he got home she'd have spit enough anger out of her mouth to be able to speak to him.

  She yanked open the wooden door of the bathroom and almost fell on top of James. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you sick?"

  Gus tilted her head. "As a matter of fact," she said, "I am." She crossed her arms. "Do you realize you didn't mention Chris in your acceptance speech?"

  James had the grace to blush. "Yeah. I realized it just as I was coming off the podium, when I saw you leaving the room. I always said it was a damn good thing I wasn't an actor, because I'd forget someone important when I went up to get my Oscar."

  "It's not funny, James," Gus said tightly. "There you were, preaching acceptance to all these ... fawning medical students, and you can't even practice that in your own backyard. You left Chris's name out on purpose. You didn't want anyone associating the little scandal with your Big Night."

  "I didn't do it intentionally, Gus," James said. "Subconsciously? Well, that's a different story. Yes, if I'm going to be truthful, I didn't want anything to ruin tonight. I'd much rather have the audience pointing at me and saying 'Oh, that's the Best Ophthalmalogical Surgeon in the Northeast' than 'His son's on trial for murder.'"

  Gus felt her face heating. "Just get away from me," she said, trying to push past him. "No wonder you feel so comfortable here. These people are all like you. Not one of them mentioned Chris to me. Not one of them asked if he's all right, if we know when the trial is going to be, nothing."

  "That's not my fault," James pointed out. "It hits too close to home. Don't you see, Gus? I am too similar to these people. If this sort of thing can happen to me, who's to say that one day, it couldn't happen to them?"

  Gus snorted. "Well, it has happened, James. It is happening. And no matter what you say--or don't say--you can't just wish it away."

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard her husband's voice, so soft that she might have imagined the pain striped through it. "No," he said. "But you can't stop me from trying."

  ONE OF THE THINGS THAT Selena Damascus had learned in her ten years as a private investigator was that accidents did not just happen. From time to time they were carefully plotted, calculated, and arranged to one's advantage--all, of course, under the cloak of happenstance.

  She would tell anyone who asked that there was no magic to being an investigator; it required only common sense and an ability to get people to talk. To that end, however, she had developed a repertoire of skills, designed to get her as much information as quickly as possible. She was not above using her looks, her body, or her brain to get her behind a closed door; and once she weaseled her way inside she'd be damned if she left before she had something worthy to take home.

  The day she intended to meet Michael Gold, Selena woke up at four in the morning. She dressed in jeans and a white Gap T-shirt, and was waiting in her car on a Class IV road that veered off Wood Hollow when Michael Gold's truck rambled out of his driveway shortly after five. Of course, by that point, she already knew that Michael owned his own veterinary practice, mostly large animals. She knew that he drove a Toyota 4X4. She knew that when he stopped for coffee en route to his first call, he added milk but no sugar.

  Selena followed Michael's truck discreetly, an act made all the more challenging by the lack of cars on the road at this hour. When he pulled into a long driveway marked "Seven Acre Farm," she drove by without glancing back. She parked a half mile down the road and doubled back, following the sweet scent of hay and horses to a field in the distance.

  Having studied Michael for a few days, Selena kn