Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

She had it down, now.

She rowed to the center of the lake. There she raised the oars, lay them in the boat, and sat back to drift. The sun had just dropped behind the trees, and she knew the sweat would soon feel like rime against her skin, but for these few moments, while she was still flushed from exertion, she enjoyed dusk without noticing its chill. The water rippled, black as oil. On the opposite shore, she saw the lights of houses where suppers were being prepared, where families came together in warm and complete universes. The way we three used to be when you were alive, Peter Not shattered, but whole.

She stared across at the glow of those houses, her longing for Peter suddenly so overwhelming it hurt her to breathe. On summer days, when they had gone rowing in their neighborhood pond, Peter had always been the one to wield the oars.

Claire would perch in the bow and admire his graceful rhythm, the way his muscles stood out and his smiling face glowed with perspiration. She’d been the pampered passenger, magically ferried across the water by her lover.

She listened to the ripples slap the hull, and could almost imagine Peter was sitting across from her now, his gaze focused sadly on hers. You have to learn to row alone, Claire. You must be the one to guide the boat.

How can I, Peter? I’m already foundering. Someone’s trying to drive me from this place. And Noah, our darling Noah, has grown so distant.

She felt tears chilling on her face. Felt his presence so clearly, she thought if she could just reach out, he’d be there. Warm and alive, flesh and blood But he wasn’t there, and she was alone in the boat.

She continued to drift, nudged toward land by the wind. Overhead the stars grew brilliant. Now the boat slowly rotated and she saw, in the distance, the northern shoreline, where seasonal cottages stood dark and boarded up for the winter.

A sudden splash made her sit up in surprise. Turning, she stared at the nearby shore, and made out a man’s silhouette. He was standing on the bank, his thin frame slightly bent, as though peering down at the water. He jerked and lunged sideways. There was another loud splash, and his silhouette dropped from sight.

It could be only one person.

Quickly Claire wiped the tears from her face and called out: “Dr. Tutwiler? Are you all right?”

The man’s head popped back up into view. “Who’s there?”

“Claire Elliot. I thought you’d fallen in the water.”

He finally seemed to locate her in the gloom and he gave a wave. She had met the wetlands biologist only a few weeks before, soon after he’d moved into the Alford cottage, which he was renting for the month. They’d both been rowing on the lake that morning, and as their boats drifted past each other through the mist, they had waved in greeting. Ever since, whenever she rowed past his cottage, they would say hello. Sometimes he’d bring out jars with the latest addition to his amphibian collection. The frog dweeb, Noah called him.

Her boat drifted closer to shore, and she saw Max’s glass jars lined up on the bank. “How is your frog collection coming?” she asked.

“It’s getting too cold now. They’re all heading for deep water.”

“Have you found any more six-legged specimens?”

“One this week. It really makes me worry about this lake.”

Now her rowboat had reached the shore and bumped up against the mud. Max stood above her, a spindly silhouette, moonlight reflecting off his glasses.

“It’s happening in all these northern lakes,” he said. “Amphibian deformities. A massive die-off.”

“How did the lake samples turn out? The ones you collected last week?”

“I’m still waiting for the results. It can take months.” He paused, glancing around at the sudden sound of chirping. “What’s that?”

Claire sighed. “My beeper.” She’d almost forgotten it was still clipped to her belt. She saw a local exchange on the luminous readout.

“It’s a long row back to your house,” he said. “Why don’t you use my telephone?”

She made the call from his kitchen, the whole time staring at the glass jars sitting on his countertop. These were not cucumbers floating in brine. She picked up a jar and saw an eye staring back at her. The frog was strangely pale, the color of human flesh, mottled with purplish blotches. Both hind legs branched into two, forming four separate flippers. She looked at the label:

“Locust Lake. November 10.” Shuddering, she put down the jar.

On the phone, a woman answered, her voice slurred, obviously drunk. “Hello?

Who’s this calling?”

“This is Dr. Elliot. Did you page me?” Claire winced as the receiver was slammed down. She heard footsteps, then recognized Lincoln Kelly’s voice, speaking to the woman.

“Doreen, can I have my phone?”

“Who are all these women calling you?”

“Give me the phone.”

“You’re not sick. Why’s the doctor calling?”

“Is that Claire Elliot?”

“Oh, it’s Claire now. First names!”

“Doreen, I’m going to drive you home in a minute. Now let me speak to her,"

At last he came on the line, sounding embarrassed. “Claire, are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Look, I’m sorry about what just happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, and thought: You have enough things in your life to worry about.

“Lucy Overlock suggested I give you a call. She’s finished the dig.”

“Any interesting conclusions?”

“I think you’ve already heard most of it. The burial’s at least a hundred years old. The remains were of two children. Both of them had obvious signs of trauma.”

“So it was an old homicide.”

“Apparently. She’s presenting the details tomorrow, to her undergraduate class.

It may be more than you care to hear, but she thought I should invite you. Since you’re the one who found the first bone.”

“Where’s the class held?”

“In the museum lab, at Orono. I’m driving there, if you’d care to ride with me.

I’ll leave around noon.”

In the background, Doreen whined, “But tomorrow’s Saturday! Since when do you work on Saturday?”

“Doreen, let me finish this call.”

“That’s how it always is! You’re always too busy. Never here for me-”

“Put on your coat, and get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

“Hell, I can drive myself.” A door slammed shut.

“Doreen!” said Lincoln. “Give me back those car keys! Doreen!” His voice came back on the line, hurried. Frantic. “I have to go. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Noon. I’ll be waiting.”

Doreen tries,” said Lincoln, his gaze fixed on the road. “She really does. But it’s not easy for her.”

“Or for you either, I imagine,” said Claire.

“No, it’s been hard all around. It has been for years.”

It had been raining when they left Tranquility. Now the rain was thickening to sleet, and they heard it tick-ticking against the windshield. The road had turned treacherous as the temperature dropped to that dangerous transition between freeze and thaw, the blacktop collecting a frosting of watery ice. She was glad Lincoln was behind the wheel, not her. A man who has lived forty-five winters in this climate knows enough to respect its perils.

He reached down to turn up the defroster and streaks of condensation began to clear from the glass.

“We’ve been separated two years,” he said. “The problem is, she just Can’t let go. And I don’t have the heart to force it.”

They both tensed as the car ahead suddenly braked and began to fishtail, sliding from one side of the road to the other. It barely pulled Out of its skid in time to avoid an oncoming truck.