Judy’s hand gripped the receiver impossibly tight as the first ring echoed into her ear.

“Hello?”

Judy’s vocal cords froze.

Laura repeated her greeting. “Hello? Hello?”

“Laura?”

“Aunt Judy?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?”

“Bad connection. Sorry.”

“Forget it. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

“Doing okay. Thanks for coming last night. It meant a lot to me.”

“No thanks necessary. You know how I loved David.”

Silence hung uncomfortably in the air. “This isn’t a social call, Aunt Judy, is it?”

What to say? How to say it? “Not exactly, Laura.” “Does it involve last night?”

“Yes.”

There was another lull. “I’m listening.”

Just dive in, Judy. There is no easy way. “It’s about David’s death.”

Judy’s words sliced through the phone line like a scythe. Laura’s face fell, her voice barely a whisper. “What?”

“It’s about David’s death. It’s probably nothing—”

“What about David’s death?”

“Laura, I know this is a shock for you. Just bear with me, okay?’

Judy could hear Laura’s breathing start to settle. “Go on.”

“There are things,” Judy began, “that you know nothing about. Things that happened many years ago.”

“Many years ago? But David drowned in June.”

“I know that,” Judy continued, trying like hell to keep an even tone, trying not to get too emotional and start screaming, screaming until she could not stop. “But sometimes the past can overlap with the present, Laura. That was what happened with David.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t, sweetheart.”

“Are you trying to say that David did something in the past that caused his death?”

“No, not David. He was an innocent victim.”

“Then why—?”

“Listen to me, Laura. I need to talk to you, to show you what I mean.”

“Show me?”

“David might be here....” She stopped herself. An idea had surged into her head, and her mouth had moved with too much speed. This was a dangerous game she was playing, putting the two of them together, but maybe it was the only way to find out if her theory was true. “I have some photographs and stuff, but we can’t go over this all on the telephone. Can you come here tomorrow evening? Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll fly up right now. I’ll be there in a couple of hours—”

“No,” Judy cut in. “I want you to be here tomorrow night at seven p.m. Don’t come any earlier.”

“Why seven p.m.?”

“Please, Laura, just trust me on this, okay?”

“But I want to know—”

“Tomorrow. Seven p.m. I love you, Laura.”

“I love you, too, Aunt Judy.”

Laura heard the phone click. She replaced the receiver and turned to her guest. Sitting in front of Laura was her mother. The color in Mary’s face had drained away in the last minute or two, leaving a skeletal death mask in its place.

23

FIRE. Satan’s soothing bathwater. Emblem of Hell. Instrument of mass destruction. Fire devoured everything in its path without concern for value or worth. Fire scorched the skin, fused the flesh to bones, choked the life out of lungs eventually leading to . . .

The killer drove past the Connecticut state line and into New York on the way to Colgate University.

... Death.

I often wonder about Death. What is it really? No one has any idea, do they? People have speculated since the beginning of time but each original concept of the hereafter has been as absurd as the one before. How did Hamlet put it before his own demise? Didn’t he describe death as “an undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns?” Is that what we fear, the unknown quantity of the Great Beyond? Is it a glorious heaven, a destructive hell, a great black nothingness, or all of the above?

Tears stood in the killer’s eyes—tears of regret and sadness.

I have sent people to the mysterious other world. I have handed two souls to the Grim Reaper, never to return. . . .

Three, if I include David.

The killer’s body trembled, rage pulsing through its veins and arteries. One simple word was shouted. “No!”

No! I will not take the blame for that. I did not kill him. People react to their situation. David Baskin did what he thought best. And that was a shame. Despite his father, I couldn’t help but admire David Baskin. And I am not a murderer. Not in my heart. I never meant to hurt anybody, not really. Yes, I killed Sinclair Baskin. I put a gun against his forehead and I pulled the trigger, but it was an act spawned from a thoughtless fury against a man who deserved to die. Like David Baskin, I reacted to a set of circumstances. And as far as my second murder is concerned—

The steering wheel spun in the killer’s hands, nearly driving the car off the road.

The second murder. What about the cruel butchery of my second, nameless victim? Can I dismiss that as easily as the death of Sinclair Baskin? No. Guilt will burn eternally inside me for slaying that unstained soul. Why did I have to do it? He was, after all, an innocent victim. My only solace comes from a Machiavellian concept: the ends justify the means. History would say that the decision was a clever one, and in the end, I have to agree. Just look at Laura if you don’t believe me.

The killer glanced at the map, spotting the exit leading to Hamilton, New York. Hamilton was the home of Colgate University.

Thirty years ago. All of that happened more than three decades ago. Kennedy was still alive. Incredible. So long ago and still not an hour goes by when I am not reminded of my days in Chicago. They haunt my every step, my every dream, though I do step and sleep with a clear conscience. But I thought, hoped, prayed that all of the secrets of the past had been laid to rest years ago. I assumed that the past was just that—the past. I never expected it to hurt me again.

Or did I?

In the back of my mind, didn’t I know that the past would survive and resurface one day? I guess I did. But all of a sudden, horrible secrets are coming at me, tidal-waving at me, laughing and taunting and threatening to destroy everything I cherish. Stan Baskin, a man frighteningly like his father, wants to blackmail me. I will deal with him tomorrow night. Deal with him brutally.