returned to the study. Edna Barry looked in on her at 1:30. “Molly, unless there’s something else you want me to do, I’ll be leaving now.”
“Nothing else, thank you, Mrs. Barry.”
Edna Barry stood uncertainly at the door. “I wish you’d let me get you some lunch before I go.”
“I’m not hungry yet, really.”
Molly’s voice was muffled. Edna could tell she had been crying. The guilt and fear that had haunted Edna Barry every waking hour for nearly six years suddenly deepened. Oh God, she begged. Please understand. I couldn’t do anything else.
In the kitchen she put on her parka and fastened a scarf under her chin. From the counter she picked up her key ring, stared at it for a moment, and with a convulsive gesture, folded her fist around it.
Not twenty minutes later she was in her modest Cape Cod-style home in Glenville. Her thirty-year-old son, Wally, was watching television in the living room. He did not take his eyes off the set when she came in, but at least he seemed calm. Some days, even when he’s on the medicine, he can be so agitated, she thought.
Like that terrible Sunday when Dr. Lasch had died. Wally had been so angry that day because Dr. Lasch had scolded him earlier in the week when he came to the house, went into the study, and picked up the Remington sculpture.
Edna Barry had omitted one detail from her account of what had happened that Monday morning. She had not told the police that her key to the Lasch house was not on her key ring where it belonged, that she had had to let herself in with the key Molly kept hidden in the garden, and that later she had found the missing key in Wally’s pocket.
When she asked him about it, he started to cry and ran into his room, slamming the door. “Don’t talk about it, Mama,” he had sobbed.
“We must
never
,
never
talk about this to anybody,” she had told him firmly, and had made him promise that he wouldn’t. And he never had, not to this day.
She always had tried to convince herself it probably had been just a coincidence. After all, she had found Molly covered with blood. Molly’s fingerprints
were
on the sculpture.
But suppose Molly
did
start to remember details of that night?
Suppose she really
had
seen someone in the house?
Had Wally been there? How could she ever be sure? Mrs. Barry wondered.
12
Peter Black drove through the darkened streets to his home on Old Church Road. Once it had been the carriage house of a large estate. He had bought it during his second marriage, which, like his first, had ended within a few years. His second wife, however, unlike his first, had had exquisite taste, and after she left him, he had made no effort to change the decor. His only alteration was to add a bar and stock it plentifully. His second wife had been a teetotaler.
Peter had met his late partner, Gary Lasch, at medical school, and they had become friends. It was after the death of Gary ’s father, Dr. Jonathan Lasch, that Gary had come to Peter with a proposition.
“Health management is the new wave of medicine,” he had said. “The nonprofit clinic my father opened can’t go on like this. We’ll expand it, make it profitable, start our own HMO.”
Gary, blessed with a distinguished name in medicine, had taken his father’s place as head of the clinic, which later became Lasch Hospital. The third partner, Cal Whitehall, came on board when together they founded the Remington Health Management Organization.
Now the state was on the verge of approving Remington’s acquisition of a number of smaller HMOs. Everything was going well, but it wasn’t a done deal yet. They had reached the last step on the tightrope. The only problem they could see was that American National Insurance was fighting to acquire the companies too.
But everything still could go wrong, Peter reminded himself as he parked at his front door. He knew he had no intention of going out again tonight, but it was cold, and he wanted a drink. Pedro, his
“Nothing else, thank you, Mrs. Barry.”
Edna Barry stood uncertainly at the door. “I wish you’d let me get you some lunch before I go.”
“I’m not hungry yet, really.”
Molly’s voice was muffled. Edna could tell she had been crying. The guilt and fear that had haunted Edna Barry every waking hour for nearly six years suddenly deepened. Oh God, she begged. Please understand. I couldn’t do anything else.
In the kitchen she put on her parka and fastened a scarf under her chin. From the counter she picked up her key ring, stared at it for a moment, and with a convulsive gesture, folded her fist around it.
Not twenty minutes later she was in her modest Cape Cod-style home in Glenville. Her thirty-year-old son, Wally, was watching television in the living room. He did not take his eyes off the set when she came in, but at least he seemed calm. Some days, even when he’s on the medicine, he can be so agitated, she thought.
Like that terrible Sunday when Dr. Lasch had died. Wally had been so angry that day because Dr. Lasch had scolded him earlier in the week when he came to the house, went into the study, and picked up the Remington sculpture.
Edna Barry had omitted one detail from her account of what had happened that Monday morning. She had not told the police that her key to the Lasch house was not on her key ring where it belonged, that she had had to let herself in with the key Molly kept hidden in the garden, and that later she had found the missing key in Wally’s pocket.
When she asked him about it, he started to cry and ran into his room, slamming the door. “Don’t talk about it, Mama,” he had sobbed.
“We must
never
,
never
talk about this to anybody,” she had told him firmly, and had made him promise that he wouldn’t. And he never had, not to this day.
She always had tried to convince herself it probably had been just a coincidence. After all, she had found Molly covered with blood. Molly’s fingerprints
were
on the sculpture.
But suppose Molly
did
start to remember details of that night?
Suppose she really
had
seen someone in the house?
Had Wally been there? How could she ever be sure? Mrs. Barry wondered.
12
Peter Black drove through the darkened streets to his home on Old Church Road. Once it had been the carriage house of a large estate. He had bought it during his second marriage, which, like his first, had ended within a few years. His second wife, however, unlike his first, had had exquisite taste, and after she left him, he had made no effort to change the decor. His only alteration was to add a bar and stock it plentifully. His second wife had been a teetotaler.
Peter had met his late partner, Gary Lasch, at medical school, and they had become friends. It was after the death of Gary ’s father, Dr. Jonathan Lasch, that Gary had come to Peter with a proposition.
“Health management is the new wave of medicine,” he had said. “The nonprofit clinic my father opened can’t go on like this. We’ll expand it, make it profitable, start our own HMO.”
Gary, blessed with a distinguished name in medicine, had taken his father’s place as head of the clinic, which later became Lasch Hospital. The third partner, Cal Whitehall, came on board when together they founded the Remington Health Management Organization.
Now the state was on the verge of approving Remington’s acquisition of a number of smaller HMOs. Everything was going well, but it wasn’t a done deal yet. They had reached the last step on the tightrope. The only problem they could see was that American National Insurance was fighting to acquire the companies too.
But everything still could go wrong, Peter reminded himself as he parked at his front door. He knew he had no intention of going out again tonight, but it was cold, and he wanted a drink. Pedro, his
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