Hush (22 page)

As she hurried down the street with them, trying not to stub her bare toes on the cobblestone, she constantly surveyed the area. There was no sign of the man anywhere. Ten feet away from the car, with the strangers trailing behind her, she hit the unlock button on her car key and nearly flung herself inside. Before slamming the door shut, she thanked the five strangers for their help. Somewhere in the backseat was her gym bag, where she kept a pair of athletic shoes, but she didn’t dare take the time now to find them. She fired up the engine and pulled away. In the rearview mirror she saw one of the guys shrug, as if asking, What the hell was
that
all about?

She could barely think straight as she drove. After making a right on a nearly deserted street, she sped out of Dumbo. When she finally reached a busier street, she pulled the car over and punched her address into the GPS so that she could find her way back to the Brooklyn Bridge.

But then she realized that she couldn’t risk going home. What if the man was waiting for her there? Plus, she couldn’t let the doorman see her this way. She could just imagine it turning up in a report in the custody case: “Doorman reports that mother once arrived home sopping wet and smelling of tanker oil and raw sewage.”

Still shivering, she flipped on the heater and tried to focus. Molly’s name flashed in her mind. She would go to her friend’s
apartment in Chelsea, she decided. Molly would take care of her and help her decide what to do. Maybe now she would even tell Molly the whole story. She clearly had to start getting some help.

Once over the Brooklyn Bridge, Lake took the FDR around the tip of Manhattan and then headed north. Every few seconds she checked the rearview mirror but it was impossible to tell if she was being followed—all she could see behind her were swirling globes of light. At a red light she rooted through her purse for her BlackBerry and called Molly. She got only voice mail.

“Molly,” she said plaintively. “I—I need to talk to you. Please call me back, okay? As soon as you can.” She tried Molly’s landline next, but when there was no answer she just hung up.

Where
is
she? Lake wondered. Though Molly had a busy social life, she’d often told Lake she liked to be in bed before midnight. Lake checked her watch: 11:34. Knowing that Molly should be home shortly, or at the very least return Lake’s call in a lather of curiosity, Lake decided to drive to Molly’s apartment building. She’d wait outside until she finally heard back—and then she’d crash on Molly’s couch for the night. She considered the small chance Molly was on a hot date and wouldn’t be coming home tonight. But Lake had no other options.

She proceeded to West Twenty-first Street, frequently checking her rearview mirror. For one whole block there wasn’t a single car behind, so she was pretty sure she wasn’t being followed. The man who’d attacked her had obviously given up and left. She saw his face again in her mind’s eye. Finally, with a start, she remembered where she’d seen him. He was the man in the bar at the Waldorf, the one who’d checked her out after Archer left. He’d been watching her for days, then. Had someone at the clinic hired him? Had he killed Keaton with that knife?

She was so distracted that she missed Molly’s block and had to go around again. Once she was finally there, she double-
parked just a few yards ahead of Molly’s apartment building so she’d be able to see her come in. She craned her neck, checking nervously behind her. A few cars came down the street but they all shot past her.

Lake had stopped shivering but she felt miserable in her wet clothes. Still watching the building, she fumbled in the backseat for the bag with her gym clothes and pulled out the shoes and a T-shirt. She scrunched down in the front seat, peeled off her jersey shell and bra and wriggled into the T-shirt. Then she put on the shoes.

Ten minutes passed. She tried Molly’s number again. Still no answer. As she eyed her incoming emails, she saw that Archer had sent her a message only a few minutes before. He’d returned from his trip sooner than he’d anticipated and wanted to catch up tomorrow.

Some movement on the block caused Lake’s eyes to shoot back up. A woman with long hair, her back toward Lake, was walking toward the building. Finally—Molly. But as the woman reached the doorway and stopped to speak to the doorman, Lake saw that it wasn’t Molly after all. What will I do if she doesn’t come home? Lake thought plaintively. Should she get a hotel room? She could imagine the face of the front-desk clerk when her stench blew into the lobby.

The doorman nodded a goodnight to the woman and she proceeded into the building. Two men walked past the building but didn’t stop. And then a cab lurched to a stop in front. Please let this be Molly, Lake prayed. She could see the passenger leaning forward in the backseat to pay, and after a few seconds Lake could tell that it was a man. He flung open the door and thrust his body out with assurance. The light of the streetlamp caught his face as he paused to stuff the change into his pants pocket.

Lake stared in disbelief. It was Jack.

HE’S AFTER ME
. The thought exploded in her mind before she’d even fully processed Jack’s presence. He’d arranged the bungled attack on her tonight, just as he was behind what had happened to Smokey and the bag of catnip. And since Jack knew she’d probably turn to Molly for help tonight, he’d come looking for her here.

But as Lake slunk down in her seat, some other part of her brain kicked those thoughts away. Jack had a sweater tied nattily around his shoulders, and the expression on his face was smug and expectant. No, he wasn’t searching for her. That was the look of a man who had
plans
for the evening. Jack was here to see Molly.

Her stomach churned at the idea. She hoisted herself up just enough to peer over the steering wheel. Jack was now in the foyer, and the doorman was speaking into the phone. He hung up and nodded to Jack with a smile that suggested familiarity. Then Jack strode past him and into the building.

Lake’s mind raced. How long had this been going on? Was Molly the reason for the breakup of her marriage? The thought of the two of them together, making love, sickened her. At the same time she felt that bizarre rush that comes with clarity.
This
explained Jack’s prison-break departure from her life. It also explained Molly’s endless questions about the divorce and about whether Jack was interested in reconciling—questions that had begun to go beyond a friend’s concern. Obviously Molly had continued their friendship in order to keep tabs, to learn details about the divorce that Jack might not be sharing. How
evil
, Lake thought.

But the affair might be just the tip of the iceberg. She wondered if Molly and Jack were plotting together to get the kids. Molly’s former marriage had been childless and she had admitted wistfully to Lake on several occasions that she regretted not having children. Now, with Jack’s help, she could have her own instant family.

Thank God, Lake had never confessed to Molly what had happened with Keaton. It would all be over for her then. Quickly she ran through what she
had
discussed with Molly—that she thought Jack might be snooping, that she had engaged in minor flirting with someone at work, that she’d been interviewed by the police along with the other clinic staff. Nothing that could incriminate her.

She needed to get out of here. More than likely Molly and Jack were “in” for the night, but what if they decided to head out for a late drink or supper? She fired up the engine, and after driving several blocks, double-parked on a side street so she could plan her next move. Since she’d avoided her closest friends following her split with Jack, there was no way she could phone them now, out of the blue. She glanced down at the screen of her BlackBerry. Archer’s email stared back at her. It seemed crazy to call him, but
it was the only thing that made sense now. At the very least he’d be interested in what had happened to her tonight and what it possibly revealed about the clinic.

He answered on the third ring. In the background she could hear the drone of a TV so she assumed he must be home.

“I hope I’m not calling too late,” Lake said. “It’s Lake Warren.”

“Oh, hey. I was going to touch base tomorrow. What’s up?”

“I was attacked tonight. And I think it had to do with the clinic. I—I was just hoping I could talk to you. To be honest, I’m scared out of my mind.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked, sounding alarmed. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m okay. Just shaken. And I ended up in the East River, so I’m sopping wet.”

“The
river
? My God. Where are you?”

“I’m in my car—in Chelsea. I don’t really know what to do.”

“I’m in the Village on Jane Street, so I’m not far. Will you be able to drive down here? Or should I come and get you?”

She could feel the relief wash over her. He was going to help her.

“No, I’ll be okay driving down there.”

He suggested a garage near his building, since street parking was next to impossible in his neighborhood.

“Why don’t you call me when you get to the garage and I’ll come meet you,” he added.

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “Just give me your address and I’ll see you in a few minutes. And…thank you.”

To her surprise he was waiting in the garage when she arrived, dressed in khakis and a rumpled blue-and-white striped dress shirt. As soon as she stepped out of the car, he shook his head in distress at the sight of her.

“I’m just half a block up the street,” he said. He put his arm
lightly on her back and guided her along the sidewalk. The street was dark, the streetlamps partly obscured by rows of leafy plane trees, and the whole way there she could sense how alert he was, cocking his head back and forth as he checked around them. He had his keys out before they were even at his brownstone. After letting her into his ground-floor apartment, he glanced up and down the street before he shut the door.

“So tell me what happened,” he said as soon as he’d ushered her into his living room. It was a large, comfortable space with a big red sofa and books and newspapers strewn all over its surfaces.

“A man attacked me in one of the river parks in Dumbo,” Lake said. “He knocked me down and then he pulled out a knife. I know it sounds crazy, but the only way I could escape was to jump in the river. I swam over to an area beneath a park and hid there until I was pretty sure he was gone.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes—but it was pretty hairy for a while,” she said, her voice catching. “I’m a good swimmer but I don’t know how long I could have lasted out there. I was afraid I’d get tired and the tide would sweep me away.”

Then without warning, she began to cry. Her shoulders shook, and she let out a weird strangled sound. It was partly from relief, she knew—and partly from despair, because though she’d escaped, she wasn’t safe at all.

“Hey,” Archer said gently and put his arm around her, pulling her toward him. Her right cheek pressed against his soft rumpled shirt. “Everything’s okay now.”

“I don’t think so,” Lake said, brushing her tears away. “I think someone from the clinic is after me. They want to shut me up.”

“Tell me why you think that,” he said.

“Look,” she said, “I hope you won’t be mad, but I tracked down Alexis Hunt myself. I wanted to find out what she thought was
happening there. I figured if I was going to wade through the files, it would help to know what I was looking for.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. He’d turned his head and was looking at her sideways, his eyes skeptical.

“What she told me was pretty staggering,” Lake said. “She’s convinced that the clinic transferred her embryos to someone else—a woman named Melanie Turnbull. Sometimes couples give permission for this but Alexis definitely didn’t. She says it resulted in this woman having a baby—and that she probably didn’t realize it was from a donor embryo. Needless to say, Alexis is beside herself.”

Archer opened his mouth in surprise.

“Wow, there was a case like that years ago in California. But could this have been a mistake? Embryos accidentally switched in the lab?”

“No, it all just seems too suspicious. The clinic likes to boast about how successful they are with older women. I think they’re doing this to improve their numbers with women over forty. Plus, there are two instances I know of—Alexis is one—where the patient has fewer frozen embryos than she thought.”

Archer placed a hand on his cheek and let out a long breath.

“I clearly hit a nerve with them,” Lake continued. “The reason I was in Brooklyn was that I tracked Melanie Turnbull down, too. At first she didn’t want anything to do with me, but then she agreed to meet me in a restaurant in her neighborhood. I waited an hour and she never showed. As I was walking back to my car, this man started following me—and then chasing me. And guess what else? He was also in the bar at the Waldorf the night I met you. He must have followed me there, too.”

“So you think this woman reported back to the clinic that you’d called her and they arranged for this guy to try to kill you—a guy they’d already hired to keep you in his sights?”

“Yes, it seems that way. Levin obviously had him start watching
me after he discovered I was getting snoopy. Then the assignment escalated.” Suddenly she felt her whole body sag from exhaustion. “There’s so much I’ve got to tell you. But I’d love to wash up first. After being in that river, I’m worried I’m on the verge of coming down with
cholera
.” She managed a smile.

“Of course. How about a shower? I think that would be better than just washing up.”

“Yes, great,” she said.

“Come on, then. The main bathroom’s upstairs.” As he started to get up, he caught himself. “Wait, what about the police. What have you told them so far?”

“Nothing,” she said quietly.

“Nothing? What do you mean?”

“I haven’t called them. Not yet.”

“But you need to.”

“Th-there’s a reason I haven’t. I can explain later, okay?”

He eyed her curiously.

“All right,” was all he said. He led her back out into the hallway and up a set of stairs to his bedroom.

“Give me a second to find you a clean towel,” he said.

As he rustled through a linen closet in the hallway, her eyes scanned the room. Though the space, with its big oak bed and bedside table stacked with books, bore no resemblance to Keaton’s sleek, spare room, she felt momentarily unsettled. The last time she had been in a strange man’s bedroom, he’d been brutally murdered. And her world had fallen apart.

Archer returned to the room and pointed to the attached bathroom. He said he’d meet her downstairs when she was done.

“Tea or brandy?” he asked before he closed the bedroom door behind him.

“I could use both, if you don’t mind,” she said, smiling.

Within a minute she was in the shower, with the water as hot
as she could stand. She felt off kilter being naked in a strange bathroom, and yet it was good to get the river stench off her. As she shampooed her hair, her eyes ran along the sides of the tub. There was nothing to suggest that a woman currently spent time on Archer’s premises. Suddenly her thoughts rushed back to Jack and Molly. She’d been so preoccupied talking to Archer that she’d lost track of that part of the night’s horror show. All those months she’d obsessed over what had happened to her marriage and why she’d been abandoned. Had the answer been literally right in front of her?

When she emerged from the steamy bathroom fifteen minutes later, she discovered a sundress lying across the bed. So, she thought, there
is
someone in his life and he’s loaning me her clothes. She slipped the sundress over her head, put her sneakers back on, and carried her wet skirt and underwear downstairs in a bundle. Archer was reading in an armchair. On the coffee table was a tray with a pot of tea, an empty mug, and a glass of brandy.

“Better?” he asked, looking up.

“Yes, much. I can’t believe how I’ve imposed on you—without even knowing you. Thanks for the dress, by the way.”

“One of my stepson’s girlfriends left it here—I believe she’s gone off to Finland, so I’m sure it won’t be missed.”

Tucking her wet hair behind her ears, she settled onto the couch.

“I hope you’re not an Earl Grey kind of girl,” Archer said, raising his chin in the direction of the teapot. “All I had was English Breakfast.”

“That’s perfect,” she said, pouring.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Archer said. “I want to hear everything.”

He wasn’t going to let her just sit there and decompress. He was a reporter, after all. But she’d known that when she came here.

She started with her call to Alexis and then took him through everything else, including her presentation and the way Levin had shut her down.

“I was being dismissed, obviously,” Lake said. “And this whole meeting with Melanie—it was clearly a setup, a way to lure me over to some dark street in Brooklyn.”

“Are you sure? What if she had good intentions but simply got cold feet? I even wonder if something might have happened to
her
.”

Lake hadn’t considered that. But after a moment she shook her head.

“It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t think so. Though someone could have followed me to the Waldorf, I’m almost sure no one followed me to Brooklyn tonight. I remember that when I parked on the street, there weren’t any cars behind me. Melanie must have alerted someone at the clinic when she’d heard from me and they told her to set up the meeting. Though I doubt she knew they planned to kill me.”

Archer tapped his fist lightly against his lips, a gesture she’d seen him use before.

“But what in hell do they think you’ve got on them?” he asked. “All you actually know is what Alexis told you, and there’s probably nothing the police could do with that info anyway.”

Lake massaged her damp head as her mind tossed everything around. What
could
they think she knew? Did it go back to Keaton? Was Levin aware she’d been with him that night and assumed he’d told her why he was pulling out of his deal with the clinic?

“Speaking of the police,” Archer said, tugging her from her thoughts, “tell me why you haven’t called them.”

She took a long, slow breath. She needed an explanation that Archer would buy—one that wouldn’t arouse his suspicions.

“The night Mark Keaton was killed a group of us had dinner
with him,” she said. “The police came on strong during the interview with me the next day. Keaton had a reputation as a player and they may have wondered if I’d been having an affair with him—and then murdered him. I just don’t want to direct their attention toward me. I’m in a bad custody battle and my ex is clearly looking for anything he can use against me.”

Archer didn’t say a word, just stared at her. Though his face was expressionless, she could see the question in his eyes:
Did
she have an affair with Keaton? The next question would be: Did
she
murder him? She took a sip of tea to break the eye contact.

“But if you don’t involve the police,” he said after a minute, “this guy won’t be apprehended. And he may try to hurt you again. Look what happened to Keaton—this all might be connected.”