Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

"Meaning Mark."

Wearily, Abby rubbed her face. "Especially Mark."

"You look awful, Abby."

"I haven't been sleeping very well. I've got so many things to think about. Not just Mark. But also that business with Mary Allen. I keep waiting for Detective Katzka to show up on my doorstep with his handcuffs."

"You think he suspects you?"

"I think he's too bright nor to."

"You haven't heard anything from him. Maybe he'll let it slide. Maybe you're giving him too much credit."

Abby thought of Bernard Katzka's calm grey eyes. And she said, "He's a hard man to read. But I think Katzka's not only smart, he's persistent. I'm scared of him. And weirdly enough, fascinated by him too."

Vivian sat back. "Interesting. The prey intrigued by her hunter?" "Sometimes I just want to call Katzka and blurt out everything. Get it all over with." Abby dropped her head in her hands. "I'm so tired. I wish I could run away somewhere. Sleep for a whole week."

"Maybe you should move out of Mark's house. I've got an extra bedroom. And my grandmother's leaving."

"I thought she was a permanent house guest."

"She makes the rounds of all her grandkids. Right now I've got a cousin in Concord who's bracing herself for the visit."

Abby shook her head. "I don't know what to do. The thing is, I love Mark. I don't trust him any more, but I love him. At the same time, I know that what we're doing could ruin him."

"It could also save his life."

Abby looked miserably atVivian. "I save his life. But I destroy his career. He may not thank me much for that."

"Aaron would have thanked you. Kunstler would have. Certainly Hennessy's wife and baby would have thanked you."

Abby said nothing.

"How certain are you that Mark's involved?"

"I'm not certain. That's what makes this so hard. Wanting to believe in him. And not having any evidence to tell me one way or the other." She touched her notes. "I've looked at twenty-five files so far. Some of the transplants go back to two years ago. Mark's name is on every one of them."

"So is Archer's. And Aaron's. That doesn't tell us anything. What else have you learned?"

"All the records look pretty much the same. Nothing to distinguish one from any other."

"OK, what about the donors?"

"That's where things get a little interesting."Abby glanced around the restaurant. Then she leaned towards Vivian. "Not all of the charts mention which city the donor organ comes from. But a number of them do. And there seems to be a cluster. Four of them came from Burlington, Vermont."

"Wilcox Memorial?"

"I don't know. The hospital was never specified in the nurses' notes. But I find it interesting that a relatively small town like Burlington ends up with so many brain-dead people."

Vivian's gaze met hers in a stunned look. "There's something really wrong here. We were hypothesizing nothing more than a shadow referral network. Donors who are simply kept out of the registry system. But that doesn't explain a cluster of donors in one town. Unless…"

"Unless donors are being generated."

They fell silent.

Burlington is a university town, thoughtAbby. Full of young, healthy college students. With young, healthy hearts.

"Can I have the dates on those four Buffington harvests?" said Vivian.

"I have them right here. Why?"

"I'm going to check them against the Burlington obituaries. Find out who died on those dates. Maybe we can identify the names of the four donors. And find out how they ended up brain dead."

"Not all obits list the cause of death."

"Then we may have to go to the death certificates. Which means a trip to Burlington for one of us. A place I've been dying to visit. Not."Vivian's tone of voice was almost breezy. That warrior woman bravado again; she had the act down pat. But this time it wasn't enough to hide the note of apprehension.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" said Abby.

"If we don't, then Victor Voss wins. And the losers are going to be

HARVEST

people like Josh O" Day." She paused. And asked, quietly: "Is this what you want to do, Abby?"

Abby dropped her head in her hands. "I don't think I have a choice any longer."

Mark's car was in the driveway.

Abby pulled up behind it and turned off her engine. For a long time she simply sat there, scraping up the energy to get out of the car, to walk into the house. To face him.

At last she stepped out of the car and walked in the front door.

He was in the living room, watching the late night news. As soon as she came in, he clicked off the TV. "How is Vivian doing these days?" he asked.

"She's fine. Landed right back on her feet. She's buying into a practice in Wakefield." Abby hung up her coat in the closet. "And how was your day?"

"We got a dissecting aorta. He bled out sixteen units just like that. I didn't get out till seven."

"Did he make it?"

"No. We ended up losing him."

"That's too bad. I'm sorry." She shut the closet door. "I'm kind of tired.! think I'll go up and take a bath."

"Abby?"

She paused and looked at him. They were separated by the width of the living room. But the gulf between them seemed miles wider. "What's happened to you?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong. I'm worried about my job."

"I'm talking about us. Something's wrong with us." She didn't say anything.

"I hardly see you any more. You're atVivian's more than you are here. When you are home, you act like you're somewhere else."

"I'm preoccupied, that's all. Can't you understand why?"

He sank back, suddenly looking very tired. "I have to know, Abby. Are you seeing someone else?"

She stared at him. Of all the things Mark might say to her, this was the last thing she'd expected. She almost felt like laughing at the trivial nature of his suspicions. If only it were that simple. If only our problems were the same as every other couple's. "There's no one else," she said. "Believe me."

"Then why aren't you talking to me any more?"

"I'm talking to you now."

"This isn't talking! This is me trying to get the old Abby back. Somewhere along the way I've lost her. I've lost you." He shook his head and looked away. "I just want you back again."

She went to the couch and sat down beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel connected, if only distantly.

"Talk to me, Abby. Please." He looked at her, and suddenly it was the old Mark she saw. The same face that had smiled at her across the operating table. The face she loved. "Please," he repeated, softly. He took her hand and she didn't pull away. She let him take her into his arms. But even there, where she'd once felt safe, she could not relax. She lay stiff and uneasy against his chest.

"Tell me," he said. "What's wrong between us?"

She closed her eyes against the sting of fresh tears. "Nothing's wrong," she said.

She felt his arms go very still around her. Without even looking at his face, she knew that he could tell she was, once again, lying.

At seven-thirty the next morning, Abby pulled into her parking stall at Bayside Hospital.

She sat in her car for a moment, eyeing the wet pavement, the steady drizzle. Only mid-October, she thought, and already this dreary foretaste of winter. She had not slept well last night. In fact, she could not remember the last good night's sleep she'd had. How long could a person hold up without sleep? How long before fatigue led to psychosis? Glancing in the rearview mirror, she scarcely recognized the haggard stranger staring back at her. In two weeks it seemed she had aged ten years. At this rate she'd be hitting menopause by November.

A flash of maroon in the mirror caught her eye.

She snapped her head around just in time to see a van retreating behind the next aisle of cars. She waited for another glimpse of it. It didn't reappear.