Mary Clark - We'll Meet Again

“Be prepared” was Cal ’s way of telling him to carry his gun. It had been seven years since he had fired it, but some skills never got rusty. Like riding a bike or swimming, Lou thought-you never forget how to do it. His most recent weapon of choice had been a good, sharp knife.

The farmhouse was in an isolated, wooded area, and although the explosion might be heard, Cal had assured him he would have enough time to be out of the immediate area and back on a main road before the police and fire departments appeared. Lou tried not to show his impatience at all the information Cal was throwing at him. He’d been to the farmhouse often enough to get the lay of the land, and he certainly knew how to take care of himself.

At five o’clock Lou left the apartment. It was unnecessarily early, but here again, Cal believed in being ahead of the game, and anticipating potential delays like traffic tie-ups was important if all was to go according to plan. “You ought to allow yourself more than enough time to park the car out of view of the farmhouse before Fran Simmons arrives,” Cal had cautioned.

As Lou got in the car, Cal came around the side of the garage. “Just want to see you off,” he said with a friendly smile. “Jenna is spending the evening with Molly Lasch. When you get back, come over to the house and have a drink with me.”

And after assignments like this, it’s okay if I call you Cal, Lou thought. Thanks a lot, old buddy. He started the car and headed to the Merritt Parkway north, on the first leg of his important trip to West Redding.

It seemed to Fran that Molly’s state had worsened overnight. There were dark crescents under her eyes; her pupils were enormous; her lips and skin, ashen. When she spoke, her voice was low and hesitant. Fran almost had to strain to hear her.

They sat in the study, and several times, Fran noticed Molly looking around the room as if she were surprised at what she was seeing.

She seems so damn alone, so forlorn, Fran thought; she seems so worried. If only her mother and father had been able to be with her. “Molly, I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask you,” she said. “Can’t your mother possibly leave your father and get up here? You need her to be with you.”

Molly shook her head, and for an instant the passivity left her voice. “Absolutely not, Fran. Had my father not had a stroke, both of them would have been here; I know that. I’m afraid that the stroke was a lot more serious than they admit. I’ve spoken to him, and he sounds pretty good, but with all the misery I’ve caused them, if something were to happen to him while she was up here, I would go absolutely mad.”

“How much misery will it cause them if they lose you?” Fran asked bluntly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m worried sick about you, and so is Philip, and so, I’m sure, is Jenna. Let’s say it straight-there’s a damn good chance you’ll be taken into custody again on Monday.”

“Ah, we finally say it straight,” Molly said with a sigh. “Thank you, Fran.”

“Hear me out. I believe there’s a very good chance that even if you do have to go back to Niantic, you’ll be out again very soon-and not on parole, but completely exonerated!”

“Once upon a time,” Molly murmured dreamily. “I didn’t know you believed in fairy tales.”

“Stop it!” Fran begged. “Molly, I hate to leave you here like this, but I can’t stay with you right now. I have an appointment that is desperately important to a lot of people, including you especially. Otherwise I wouldn’t leave your side. You know why? It’s because I think you’ve already given up; I think you’ve decided that you’re not even going to appear before that parole board.”

Molly raised her eyebrows quizzically, but did not contradict her.

“Trust me, Molly, please . We’re getting to the truth. I know we are. Believe in me. Believe in Philip. It may not even be important to you, but that guy loves you, and he won’t rest until he proves you’re the real victim in all this.”

“I loved that line in An American Tragedy,” Molly murmured. “I hope I’m remembering it properly: ‘Love me till I die and then forget me.’ ”

Fran got up. “Molly,” she said quietly, “if you really decide to end your life, you’ll find a way to do it whether you’re alone or with ‘the Pope’s standing army,’ as my grandmother used to say.

“I’m going to tell you something: I am angry at my father for committing suicide. No, I’m more than angry-I’m furious . He stole a lot of money, and he would have gone to prison. But he also would have come out of prison, and I would have been there with bells on to greet him.”

Molly sat silently, staring at her hands now.

Impatiently, Fran brushed tears from her eyes. “Worse comes to worst,” she said, “you serve out your term. I don’t think you will, but I’ll concede the point. You still would be young enough when you got out to enjoy-and I mean really enjoy-another forty years or so. You didn’t kill Annamarie Scalli. We all know that, and Philip will blow the case apart. So for God’s sake, girl, pull yourself together. You blue bloods are supposed to be classy. Prove it!”

Molly stood at the window and watched Fran as she drove away. Thanks for the cheery words, but it’s too late, Fran, she thought. There’s nothing left about me that’s classy.

The doctor had been anxiously waiting for Fran Simmons to appear for a full half hour before the headlights of her car signaled her arrival. It was virtually on the stroke of seven when she rang his bell, an attention to promptness that he found gratifying. He-a scientist-was punctual himself and expected it in others.

He opened the door, and with a courtly greeting expressed his delight at meeting her. “For nearly twenty years I have been known in this area as a retired ophthalmologist,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Logue. In fact, my real name, and the one which I now happily resume, is Adrian Lowe. As you already know.”

The pictures she had seen of Adrian Lowe in the magazines were almost twenty years old, and they depicted a decidedly more robust man than the one who was standing before her.

He was just under six feet tall, lean, a little stooped. His thinning hair was more white than gray. The expression in his pale blue eyes could only be described as kindly. His overall manner was deferential-even a little shy, as he invited her into the small living room.

Overall, Fran thought, he’s not at all the kind of person I’d expected him to be. But then, what did I expect? she asked herself as she chose a straight-backed chair rather than the rocker he offered. After reading all that stuff he wrote, and knowing what I do about him, I guess I thought he’d look like some kind of zealot, with wild eyes and flailing arms, or like some goose-stepping Nazi doctor.

She had been about to ask him if he would permit her to record him, when he said, “I do hope you brought a recorder with you, Miss Simmons. I do not want to be misquoted.”

“Indeed I did, Doctor.” Fran opened her shoulder bag, slipped out the recorder, and turned it on. Don’t let him guess how much you know already about what he’s been up to, she warned herself. Ask all the important questions. This tape should make valuable evidence later on.

“I will be taking you upstairs to my laboratory directly, and we’ll do most of our talking there. But first let me explain why you are here. No, in point of fact, let me explain why I am here.”

Dr. Lowe rested his head against the back of his chair with a sigh. “Ms. Simmons, you must have heard the old cliché, ‘For every positive there is a negative.’ That premise is especially true in the practice of medicine. Therefore choices-sometimes difficult choices-must be made.”