• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Oh, she said she’s met you. Her name’s Beall. Christine Beall.”

At the mention of her name David felt another momentary surge. “Ben, that’s what I was trying to think of in your office. Remember? When something popped in and out of my head?”

“I remember.”

“Well it was something she said. Christine Beall. Right after I shot my mouth off to Charlotte’s husband. She whispered to me that she was proud of the way I stood up to Huttner, and … and then she said, ‘Don’t worry. Things have a way of working out.’ Then all of a sudden she was gone. Ben, do you think …?”

“Listen, pal, do us both a favor if you can. Try not to project. A few hours, then we’ll know. Okay?”

“Okay,” David said. “But you know I will anyway, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know,” Ben said. “Nine thirty.”

“Right.” David checked his watch. “Will you at least synchronize with me so I don’t go too nuts waiting for you?”

Ben laughed. “Five of five, pal. I have five of five.”

“Four fifty-five it is,” David sang. He set down the receiver.

His elation was brief. Over the past few days, conscious thoughts of Christine had been submerged in the nightmare. At that moment David realized they had never been far from the surface.

“It wasn’t you, was it?” he said softly. “You know who did it, but it wasn’t you.”

His concern for Christine faded quickly as the impact of Ben’s call settled in. He clenched his fists and pumped them up and down. A grin spread over his face, then a giggle, then a laugh. He rushed to his record collection. Seconds later he was bouncing through the living room, throwing jabs and uppercuts at the air. The music from Rocky filled the apartment.

Fanfare still in his ears, he walked down the hall and into the bathroom. He stood before the medicine cabinet and looked at himself. “You made it, buddy,” he said to his reflection. “Stronger than ever now. I’m proud of you. Really.”

Out of curiosity, not need, he reached up and pulled open the door.

The shelves were empty.

A shower and long-overdue letters to his brothers killed an hour and a half. Feasting on spaghetti with Ragu sauce did in another thirty minutes. The seven o’clock news made it two hours until Ben.

David paced impatiently for a while, then pulled his chess set from the closet along with his copy of Chess Openings Made Simple. Within a short time he gave up. Renewed thoughts of Christine made it impossible to concentrate. Somehow, in the short time they had talked, in their brief contacts, she had touched him deeply. There was a disarming, innocent intensity about her—an energy he had seldom seen survive the years in medical or nursing school. Then, too, there were her eyes—wide and warm, inviting and exploring one moment, flashing with anger the next. More and more, he found himself hoping, even praying, that she had no direct involvement in the death of Charlotte Thomas. By nine o’clock he had convinced himself that there was no way she could have.

For a time he entertained himself by measuring what he knew of the woman against Lauren. Quickly he realized that, as typically happened, he was attributing qualities to Christine that he wanted to be there. “When are you going to learn, Shelton?” He chastised himself loudly, then returned to the chessboard.

By nine fifteen he was pacing again. Once he heard the elevator gears engage and raced out into the hall. Then he remembered that he would have to buzz Ben through the downstairs foyer door. Still, he waited out there just in case. The elevator stopped one floor below.

He returned to the apartment and spent five minutes playing out a conversation with Wallace Huttner in which the surgical chief apologized for jumping to such misguided conclusions and suggested that they might explore the possibilities of a partnership. David practiced a refusal speech, then, in case Huttner was truly contrite, one of acceptance.

At precisely nine thirty the downstairs buzzer sounded. David leaped to the intercom.

“Yes?”

“David, it’s me.” The excitement in Ben’s voice