The Panic Zone Part 27

It worked out beautifully, until the day her world exploded.

Emma sat on the bed.

She ached for Joe. She needed him now, because here she was, back where their dream began, fighting her way alone through a nightmare. Your baby is not dead! the mystery caller from California had said. Your baby is alive. Emma had replayed that call a million times as her determination battled her doubt.

"Am I doing the right thing, Joe? Will I find Tyler? G.o.d, I miss you both so much it hurts."

As Emma looked around her empty room, a wave of encouragement pa.s.sed through her. She ran her hands over her face, collected herself, and considered her situation since leaving Wyoming.

She'd left a note for her aunt and uncle on the kitchen table at her house in Big Cloud. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. This is something I have to do." She'd taken out several thousand dollars in cash from the bank, left her phone and credit cards behind. She did not want anyone to find her.

Or stop her.

She stood, went back to the mirror and summoned the will to apply a little eye shadow and a bit of cover-up. After she finished getting dressed, she called a cab.

The Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation was on West Olympic Boulevard, about a mile from the Staples Center. It occupied the third floor of a three-story rectangle of dark green gla.s.s that reflected the McDonald's and 7-Eleven across the street. The reception area was finished with a soft pink-blue-and-yellow floral pattern. Emma thought she detected a hint of baby powder in the air.

"May I help you?" said the young woman at the desk.

"Yes, I'm a client, Emma Lane. I'm here for Christine Eckhardt."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm in the city on business but this is an urgent matter. Christine was our advisor. She helped us with our baby boy. I brought my files and I need to see her."

"Please, have a seat. I'll see if she's free."

The waiting area had white cus.h.i.+oned chairs. Family magazines with laughing babies on the covers were fanned out on the table. It had been over two years since she and Joe were here. Emma was glad she'd called earlier today to confirm that Christine Eckhardt was still at the clinic and on duty today.

"Excuse me," the receptionist said, "Chris just stepped out of a meeting. This way please."

They went down the hall to a corner office where Christine pulled her attention away from her computer monitor, closed a file and got up from her desk. Her metal bracelets clinked as she hugged Emma.

"Goodness, Emma!"

"h.e.l.lo, Chris."

Christine was in her late thirties. Her hair was a bit longer but her smile was as bright as Emma remembered.

"I am so sorry about what happened, Emma," she said. "When word got to us, I didn't know what to do. My condolences, I am so sorry." Christine indicated the small sofa. "Forgive my rudeness--please wait here. It'll take me five minutes to finish up a meeting. Would you like coffee, tea, anything?"

"No, thank you."

Christine stepped into the hall. Emma overheard her telling the receptionist that she had to leave by 3:00 p.m. that day for a meeting in Pasadena. Christine's office was orderly, just as it had been when Emma was here with Joe. Christine had been so sensitive, so patient. Emma never forgot her compa.s.sion and sincerity in answering all of their questions, including the one Joe had about Christine's car.

"Is that a '68 Beetle?"

Emma almost smiled because it was still there in the same framed photo on her desk, a restored blue VW. Christine and her husband were leaning on it at the beach. "It is a '68. What can I say? I'm a child of hippie parents."

A faint chime of bracelets announced Christine's return. She closed the door and hugged Emma again before sitting on the sofa next to her.

"I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do, Emma?"

"I need your help."

"I'll do whatever I can."

"I'm not sure how much you know about what happened."

"There was a terrible accident back home in Wyoming and your husband and baby were--" Christine couldn't say killed.

"Yes," Emma swallowed and squeezed the tissue in her hand. "I was thrown from the car and before it caught fire I saw someone rescue Tyler from the wreckage."

A question began to take shape on Christine's face.

"But you told police? They looked into it, right?"

"They don't believe me. No one does. But it's true. I was there."

Christine hesitated. "I know."

"Besides, they never found any evidence of Tyler's re--" Emma paused. "They found no trace of him in the crash. They say he was incinerated."

"Oh, Emma."

"I don't believe it. I know what I saw that day." She stared into a crumpled tissue. "And not long ago, after I got Dr. Durbin's letter saying that he'd notified the clinic here about Tyler's death, I got a phone call in the middle of the night from a stranger, a woman. She said, 'Your baby is not dead. Your baby is alive. That's all I can tell you.' The call came from the Los Angeles area. The police looked into it, but they don't know who made it. They told me it was a wrong number and that I'd imagined the conversation, but I know what I heard and in my heart I think it has something to do with the clinic."

Emma searched Christine's eyes.

"Can you help me find out who made that call?"

"Emma, I'm sorry, I don't think I can."

"You don't know anything about it?"

Christine didn't say anything, but in her silence Emma saw unease and a flicker of knowledge, as Christine took Emma's hands and held them.

"Emma, you've been through so much. You're being forced to bear the unbearable. It's possible that the call happened the way police have suggested, that it was a wrong number and--"

Emma pulled away. "You know more than you're telling me."

Christine cleared her throat. "I'm aware that police talked to people here about the call. We told them it couldn't have had anything to do with our business. That it did not come from the clinic. We would have no reason to make such a call."

Emma turned away, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.

"You've been under so much strain from this horrible accident that it's likely the call was a wrong number, and you thought you heard something that was never said."

Emma shook her head and bit back on her tears.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" Christine asked.

"No." Emma found her composure, straightened her shoulders. "I just thought you could help me. I'm sorry to have taken up your time."

"Emma."

She left the building and walked, block after block without a destination, struggling not to think as her sense of defeat grew, until it was nearly crus.h.i.+ng her. Somewhere near the Staples Center she waved down a cab.

"Just drive me to a beach, please. Any beach."

What was she going to do now?

Dark clouds were gathering.

As she sat on the beach for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, watching waves roll over the sand, she realized there was no turning back. She had to see this through. Trust your gut feelings, she told herself, as she kept returning to that telling moment when Christine's eyes had betrayed her deception.

She knows, dammit. She knows more about the call.

Maybe she knows where my baby is?

Thunder grumbled in the distance as Emma left the beach, walking to a strip mall where she got another taxi and headed back to West Olympic and the clinic. It was 2:40 p.m. Christine had said she needed to leave by three today. Emma didn't enter the building. Instead, she walked to the rear and inventoried the parking lot for a blue VW bug just as thunder crashed and the sky released a downpour.

As she ran to the side of the building, she glimpsed Christine das.h.i.+ng to her car with her briefcase over her head. Emma ran after her through the lot. She was drenched when she tapped on the driver's side window.

Christine lowered it, concerned.

"You scared me!"

"I know you lied to me today."

"Come on, get in out of the rain."

She hurried to the pa.s.senger door and climbed inside. The motor idled and the wipers snapped back and forth.

"You, of all people, should tell me the truth. I deserve to know."

"I understand your pain. You're suffering post-traumatic--"

Emma slammed her palms on the dash.

"Stop it!"

Christine flinched.

"I just want the truth!"

Christine stared at the rain bleeding on her winds.h.i.+eld for a full minute then killed the motor. She gripped the wheel, inhaled and turned to Emma.

"I've worked at this clinic for ten years. I believe we do good work. You know we do."

"Chris, I'm begging you!"

"For a long time, one of our lab workers had been overwhelmed with personal problems. Recently she became unstable. We had to let her go."

"Did she make the call?"

"I don't know. She's called a few people late at night, crying, making no sense. But I doubt she called clients. We have no proof whatsoever--that's why we didn't tell police. Because she's not employed by the lab anymore, we didn't want it to reflect on the lab, and it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with our clinic."

"I want to talk to her."

"I don't think that will help you. You need to go home to Wyoming."

"I need to talk to her."

"Emma, she's going through all kinds of trouble."

"Did she have access to all the client files?"

Christine said nothing.

"Chris! Did she have access to all the files when she worked here?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to start a civil action against the clinic?"

"Emma."

"Chris, I'm begging you to help me! I need to hear her voice to decide if she made the call."

Christine bit her bottom lip and stared through her winds.h.i.+eld.

"Chris, my husband died beside me! I saw someone take our son! For Christ's sake, will you help me?"

"Her name is Polly Larenski. She lives in Santa Ana."

37.

London, England.

Gannon gazed out upon the silver wing against blue sky as his jetliner sailed over the Atlantic, bound for London at 550 miles an hour.

It felt as if his life was moving at the same speed.