She crossed the turnpike on Harrison Avenue and drifted away from the downtown area. She felt drained, deflated. Her search for Scott was, to all intents, over.
What remained was no more than the thankless struggle to expose what had been done with his body. it helped her to think naively and romantically of what he actually did in his job, the lives he had saved by intercepting drug shipments; of the assassins he had eliminated.
A group of youths, sitting on an outside stairway, whistled and made a number of lewd requests. Laura was not even aware of them. She glanced over at her reflection in a shop window. Scott had accomplished so much in his life, made such a difference. She had spent years struggling just to connect with herself.
Perhaps it was time she explored her capabilities, her capacity for helping others. There were a number of excellent physical therapy programs in Massachusetts. If by some miracle Eric managed to stay on at White Memorial, they could continue their relationship while she went to school.
She noticed a cluttered secondhand store across the street and cut diagonally across toward it. The roar of the accelerating car engine was no more than the faintest background noise to her until she caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye. By the time she sensed danger, the chance to react properly had passed.
"Laura, watch out!"
The shout-a man's voice from somewhere behind her-only further confused her and kept her from effective action. She was frozen, dead center in the intersection. The car, a large black domestic model, was bearing down on her with terrifying speed, lining her up for impact with the very center of the grill. She turned to run, but the driver needed only a minuscule adjustment to keep her locked between the headlights. Her last thought was the totally irrational impulse to avoid the impact by jumping up and over the hood. Before she could do anything, though, she was hit-not by the car but from behind. A pair of hands shoved her viciously in the small of her back, sending her sprawling to the pavement, away from the auto's path he whirled as she fell, landing heavily on — her shoulder at the instant the speeding car hit the man who had pushed her. His body careened upward off the hood, hit the roof line just above the windshield, and sailed a dozen or more feet in the air. It landed with a sickening, lifeless thud as the dark sedan screeched off down the street.
Gasping for breath, mindless of the scrapes on her legs and elbows, Laura scrambled across the road on her hands and knees. The man, lying on his back, was shattered. A pool of blood expanded obscenely from beneath his head, which was bent at a grotesque angle to his neck.
Bubbling crimson rivulets trickled from each ear.
Laura battled an intense dizziness and nausea as people rushed at her from all directions. it was then that she realized the man lying there-the man who had called her by name before givine up his life for hers-was wearing a tan windbreaker" Lie down." 'INTO, leave her be."
"Are — you all right?"
"Did anyone call an ambulance?"
"Shit, look at this guy."
"Did anyone get a license number?"
"Look, man, I know dead, and this guy is dead."
"Don't move, dear. Everything's going to be all right."
"Hey, look, man, this guy's packin'. See, he's got a piece in his waistband."
"I'm all right," Laura heard herself say. "Please help him if you can.
I'm all right. I'm fine."
"Lady, no one's gonna help that dude except a priest." Laura glanced over at the gun in the dead man's belt, and knew that it was he who had fought off the attackers on the East Boston docks. Over the protests of several people, she forced herself to her feet. Gingerly, she tested her arms and legs.
"Please, leave me alone. just leave me alone," she begged.
She knelt by the man's body, and after finding no pulse, checked his jeans for a wallet. The thin billfold she withdrew from his right front pocket identified him as Roger Ansefl of Ocala, Florida. Laura knew the identification was false. She studied his pallid face.
"You knew Scott ' didn't you?" she whispered.
"You've been trying to help me find him all along."
Gently she reached up and closed his eyes. In the distance she could hear the wailing of sirens. She stood and walked slowly through the crowd, which was now a circle at least ten deep. Far down the street she could see the flashing lights of an approaching patrol car.
The last thing she wanted was any kind of publicity. Unobtrusively, she worked her way around the mob; no one seemed to realize that she was the one involved in the accident. Then she slipped away down a side street, through an alley, and hailed a cab.
She ordered the cabbie just to drive, and leaned back in the seat, trying desperately to sort out what had happened and why. She wanted so to believe that the hit-and-run driver was some sort of madman, someone insane on alcohol or pills. But no amount of reasoning could convince her of that. Someone wanted her dead-someone who had been following her at the same time as had Roger Ansell. Surely whoever it was-knew where she was staying. Did they know about Eric as well?
She stopped at a phone and once again called White Memorial. This time she was told that Eric had signed out and could not be reached for the rest of the day. She had the cabbie drive for another twenty-five minutes, then ordered him back down Harrison Avenue. A patrol car, parked on one corner near the accident scene, suggested there was still perhaps some questioning going on. But otherwise the street seemed as normal to her as the horrible events that had occurred there seemed dreamlike.
After considering and then rejecting sevibral possibilities, Laura paid the driver off on Boylston Street and mounted the grimy stairs to Bernard Nelson's office. Thirty minutes later she was seated beside the detective in his Volvo wagon, on the way to his South Shore home.
Nelson chewed on his cigar stub as she brought him day by day through her stay in Boston.
"You've come far, child," Nelson said, "and in a very short time.
I don't impress easily, but you have impressed me. Say, listen, I've been considering taking on an apprentice. Perhaps you'd be interested in applying for the position?"
"I'll consider it," Laura said, uncertain 'of the seriousness of the offer.
"So," Nelson said, "what do you want to do about all this?"
"I'm not sure. I don't see that there's much to be gained from going back to Captain Wheeler."
"Neither do I. At least there's no big rush.
"I guess it's worth calling that man Harten in Virginia."
"Maybe. But I wouldn't expect him to admit anything. That's the way those people operate. My guess is he's the one responsible for sending that note to you. I would bet he was using you as bait to flush out whoever had killed your brother, The man who died back there was probably assigned, to make sure you weren't hurt."
"That's terrible."
Expediency is the name of their gain specially when one of their people is missing or dead."
"So what's left?"
"Well, I don't know about you, but I certainly find this Devine character intriguing. I'd like a chance to visit his establishment."
"what makes you think he'd talk to you?"
"Who said anything about talking to him?"
"You mean break in?"
"Hey, easy with those terms. We call it searching for the truth."
He nodded modestly. "It's sort of my specialty."
"May I come?"
"I'd prefer you didn't. But considering that you might sign on as my apprentice, I suppose I could work you in."
"When?"
"As soon as I'm certain he's not home. Maggie will clean up those scrapes of yours and fatten you up with some of her lasagna. Then, after dinner, we'll give Devine a call. If necessary, we'll send him off to pick up a body somewhere in the suburbs."