Lying with Strangers Read online

  There it was again, that fudge word. He’s dead, Peyton. Two days before his twelfth birthday. Seat belts couldn’t save everyone. Neither could she.

  The wiper blades squeaked across the windshield, pushing the slushy mess aside. Big wet flakes were falling in the darkness, perfect white crystals that splattered on the glass like nature’s little kamikazes. It was the first substantial snowfall of the year, and Peyton was one of the first to feel its icy grip on the streets. She was the lone motorist, a little unusual even for three A.M. Two hours of steadily falling snow and the threat of up to twelve inches more in the next twenty-four hours had left the streets more deserted than she’d ever seen them. Peyton wouldn’t have ventured outdoors either, if her parents hadn’t lived right there in Brookline. With her husband out of town on business, she decided to ride out the storm at her folks’ house. Talking to her dad would do her some good after an exhausting shift that had included her first…fatality.

  There, she’d said it. In her mind at least. Long ago she had come to terms with the fact that a career in pediatrics wasn’t all smiles and lollipops. She knew there would be dead children, some patients of her own. This one, however, had affected her deeply, and not just because it was her first. Medically speaking, she and her supervisory physician had done all they could for the boy. No mistakes. There was nothing they wished they had done differently. Dealing with the kid’s parents, however, was another story.

  She wished she hadn’t told them their son would be all right.

  She stopped at the traffic light, entranced by the wump-wump rhythm of the snow-laden wipers. There was little cross traffic on Avenue Pasteur. Drivers were clearly heeding the winter-storm advisory. Still, she had to stop at a red light that some idiot had programmed to turn red for no reason at all. It must have been a traffic engineer who’d conceived managed care.

  The unexpected stop was a chance to dial in for messages on her cell phone. She tried once and got “no service.” The storm, she figured. She tried again and reached her voice mail. The first three messages were unimportant. The fourth was from her husband, a quick reminder that he would be in Providence until the following afternoon, so she didn’t have to worry about him traveling home in the bad weather. The guilt set in. Yesterday morning, the last thing they’d talked about was how they used to make a real effort to spend time together before he went out of town on business. Now it was a bonus if she was even home to kiss him goodbye as he headed off to the airport.

  And tonight he’d gone to bed in some lonely hotel room without her even returning his phone call to say good night.

  She was debating whether it would be spontaneous or obnoxious to wake him at 3:00 A.M. to say I love you, but the next message killed the moment, hitting her like ice water. It was Felicia from the Haverhill clinic.

  “I just thought it would be fair to give you a heads-up. I’ve decided to file criminal charges against you. Reckless endangerment. If you have any questions, have your lawyer call mine.”

  The smugness galled her. Felicia obviously had herself one clever lawyer, someone who wouldn’t think twice about trampling a young doctor’s career to extort a larger settlement from the hospital Peyton worked for. She wished now that she had spoken to Dr. Simons. He was a man of reason. Perhaps he could have nipped this in the bud before Felicia had picked up the phone and dialed 1-800-LAWSUIT. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She would drive out to the clinic and talk to him personally, first thing in the morning. But that didn’t seem soon enough. Patience was not one of Peyton’s virtues. She needed to do something right now to atone for not having done enough earlier. About all she could think of was a call to Dr. Simons’s answering service to let him know she would be there when the clinic opened.

  The traffic light changed as the call went through. She accelerated slowly as she turned through the snowy intersection, holding the phone in one hand, steering with the other.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Peyton Shields.”

  “The clinic is closed now.”

  “Yes, I know. Could you connect me with Dr. Simons’s voice mail, please?”

  “One moment,” she said, then switched Peyton over.

  This is Dr. Hugh Simons…

  As Peyton listened to the recorded greeting, a large vehicle zipped past her at weather-defying speed, spewing a wave of road slush that covered her entire car. It had nearly sideswiped her. Just as the greeting ended and the tone sounded, she muttered, “Asshole.”

  She froze, realizing it was on tape.

  Peyton, you idiot!

  She debated whether to start over, but whenever she felt herself getting in too deep, she remembered what her father referred to as the first rule of holes: stop digging. She switched off the phone, tossed it on the passenger seat, and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  She was driving south on Jamaicaway, a winding two-lane road that hugged the eastern perimeter of Olmsted Park. The area was one of old wealth with parks created by the likes of Frederick Law Olmsted, famed designer of New York’s Central Park. Peyton’s parents lived just beyond the Country Club—literally, the country club, forerunner of hundreds of such establishments across the nation. This was not the neighborhood Peyton had grown up in, not with a cop for a father. But her mother was a savvy real estate agent who had traded up all her life. By the time Peyton was seventeen, the family had finally arrived, dragged by her mother. Peyton would have just as soon moved back to the South End, where neighbors weren’t afflicted with acute “Ima-itis,” as in “I’m a Clayborn” or “I’m a Walpole.” As if she cared.

  The street only darkened as she continued along the park’s tree-lined border. Jamaica Pond was somewhere beyond the blinding snowfall. Traffic was nonexistent, but ahead in the distance she noticed a pair of glowing fuzzy dots that soon revealed themselves as taillights. Perhaps the snow was playing tricks on her, but they seemed to be approaching at a high rate of speed in reverse—a dangerous move under any weather conditions on winding Jamaicaway, utter madness tonight. Peyton slowed her own car, though not too suddenly, fearing that she might send herself into a tail-spin. The wet snow fell even harder against the windshield. The wind was kicking up. She adjusted the wiper speed, and just as she did, the vehicle was gone. Strange. She hadn’t noticed it back into a driveway or a side street. She flipped her lights to high beam and spotted him just a hundred yards ahead, coming even faster. Her heart leapt to her throat. The headlamps were off.

  Peyton flashed her lights, fearing he was drunk. No response, but the car kept coming. Just a half block away, she flashed her lights again. A return of the high beams nearly blinded her. She averted her eyes, but it was impossible to escape. The lights hit her squarely in the face. Squarely.

  He’s in my lane!

  She laid on the horn as the car bore down at even greater speed, seemingly determined to strike her head-on. In a panic she hit the accelerator and swerved to the right, which instantly sent her car spinning in circles on the icy road, completely out of control. The car sped past her, steady on its course, seeming to retrace her tire tracks in the snow. Peyton’s car bounced off a guardrail. The air bag exploded in her face, then collapsed in her lap, but her car kept sliding to the opposite side of the street. It was as if she were peering out from the center of a spiraling tornado—spinning, swirling, the headlights cutting across the black night and blinding snow. The front end slammed into a concrete abutment, but momentum carried the whole car right over the top. It tipped and nearly rolled over, righted itself, then skidded down the snow-covered embankment.

  Peyton’s arms flailed, her whole body jerked, her head slammed forward and back against the headrest. Glass shattered all around her—the side windows, the windshield, an explosion of sharp pellets. Her face was suddenly tingling, wet and warm. She could see nothing, hear nothing, not even her own screams. The rolling and skidding stopped with an ominous thud, but the impact seemed cushioned, as if the battered vehicle had landed in a snowbank. Peyton couldn’t tell if s
he was right side up, wasn’t even sure she was conscious. It was as if she were drifting, still moving in slow motion. Her feet felt cold, then her ankles and shins too. It was that wet feeling again. Not the hot, wet feeling that had enveloped her face. This was cold, icy cold. Her car had landed in no snow bank. She was indeed floating. Water was everywhere.

  The pond!

  She splashed her face to clear away the blood and was suddenly wide awake. The frigid flood was already knee-deep, and still more was seeping in through the doors and floor. The water had a distinct reddish tint that she realized was her own blood. In a moment of panic she tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She released the seat belt but couldn’t move. Her leg was pinned beneath the wreckage somewhere below the steering wheel. She pulled hard, harder still. The dashboard lights flickered on and off, then out for good. Blood continued to seep into her eyes, effectively blinding her, but with the car lights dead it was too dark to see anyway. The water was rising, the car was sinking. Though her limbs were going numb she kept pulling, fighting with every ounce of strength to loosen her trapped foot. The water inched upward to the top of her thighs, the hips. She screamed for help, “Somebody, please!” But it was hardly a scream. With little strength left, she was shivering, minutes away from shock. She tried another cry for help, but her voice only cracked. She felt herself slipping away, then she rebounded once more as that cold, wet sensation rose to her waist. It chilled her belly, the slightly protruding tummy, unleashing tears and one final plea in a voice barely audible.

  “Help me,” she said as she slumped over the wheel.

  A pounding noise startled her. She could barely lift her head, but out of the corner of her eye she saw someone beside her. He was standing waist-deep in the frigid water, pulling hard at the twisted car door. She wanted to say something. She felt her mouth moving, but it was an uncontrolled movement, as if her body no longer would follow commands. She reached inside for strength and tried to focus, but her vision was still blurred by the blood that was now freezing to her face. The car door opened a few inches but wouldn’t budge any farther. The window was gone; the glass had been shattered in the crash. She suddenly felt a strong grip around her shoulders. Her body lifted from the seat, which made her cry out in pain. Her foot was still caught down below, somewhere beneath the cold, rising water. Her leg straightened. The pulling continued. The foot wouldn’t budge, but the pain was gone. The man was gone, too.

  Help me! she heard herself cry, though she doubted anyone heard it.

  The man was suddenly back, this time at the passenger side. Her sight seemed better on this side, the right eye less obscured by the blood. The door opened, but no water rushed in. The car was only half submerged, she realized, the rear end clinging to the snowy shoreline. Still, the water had risen above her waist. All sensation in her feet was gone. She felt as though she were floating, as though the vehicle no longer had a grip on her.

  With a sudden jerk the foot dislodged. She exploded from the seat, her whole body sailing across the front seat and out the open passenger door. She was moving, being carried, she knew, but she was limp in his arms. She felt the wind and snow on her face, but the sense of movement ceased. She lay on her back in a blanket of fresh snow. In the darkness she could discern the image of the man standing over her. Her vision was nearly gone. She strained to listen, as she sensed he would naturally say something. She could hear the wind rushing beneath the bridge behind her. But he said nothing, at least nothing she heard. He simply removed his coat and covered her with it. And then he walked away.

  Peyton propped herself up on one elbow, watching. She called to him, begged him, Don’t go! Please, come back! But he kept walking, never looking back.

  She leaned back, nearly fell into the snowbank. It was red, she noticed, where the white snow had conformed to the shape of her head. The sight of her own blood didn’t faze her. Her own injuries were of secondary concern. She stared into the night sky, into the swirling snow, and one fear consumed her.

  “Jamie,” she said weakly, then gave in to the darkness.

  4

  KEVIN STOKES WOKE AT 4:17 A.M. AND PEERED ACROSS THE HOTEL room. His eyes adjusted to the darkness to reveal the evidence before him. An assortment of empty liquor bottles stood on the nightstand, all from the minibar. His clothes lay beside the bed in a heap, right beside hers, right where they had hastily undressed one another some six hours ago. He prayed to God that he was dreaming, but he knew that he wasn’t. Too many regrets for one dream.

  Sandra had insisted on keeping the bedroom cool—“frisky,” she called it—but he was warm now beneath the fluffy down comforter, beside the slender naked body beside him. She slept on her left side, her back to him. His arm was pinned beneath the curve of her waist, and his fingers tingled with a thousand needles from the cutoff circulation. Gently, so as not to wake her, he slid his hand out from under her, his nearly numb fingers gliding across the firmness of her bottom. The contrast was remarkable, such soft skin in such a hard place. Hot, quite literally. It wasn’t the kind of body he’d expected to find beneath those boring gray lawyer suits she wore to the office. Nothing last night had been what he’d expected. Now that he was sober, one thought consumed him.

  I gotta get out of here.

  He pulled his hand free. Her elbow jerked like a catapult and caught him in the chin. His head snapped back and slammed against the headboard.

  “Ow, shit!”

  Suddenly awake, she was half-sitting up, propped up on that wicked elbow. “What’s wrong?” she asked with alarm.

  The confused look told him she wasn’t even aware she’d whacked him. He stretched his jaw, popping it back into place. “You sleep like a Navy SEAL on the ready.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  She shook her head as if he were insane, but she was too drowsy to debate it. Her cheek sank deep into the pillow as she almost instantly returned to sleep.

  Kevin sat up against the headboard, eyes wide open. Cold air poured in from the window. It was open just a crack, enough to cool down the room the way Sandra liked it. But it was too cold. The weather had been horrendous all day, and from the sounds of the wind whistling outside, it must have only gotten worse.

  I hate Boston.

  He suddenly remembered that he wasn’t in Boston. He was in Providence, Rhode Island, but to Kevin it was all the same icebox. Cold was something he couldn’t get used to. Kevin was a native of the Conch Republic, better known as Key West, Florida. He had grown up in T-shirts and shorts on a balmy island, lived his first eighteen years in a veritable paradise, where it was front-page news if either the air or surf dipped below seventy-two degrees. Winter had been unbearable for him even in Tallahassee, where he’d gone to college and then law school at Florida State University. It was during his second year of law school that he’d fallen for a beautiful and downright brilliant undergraduate whose heart was set more on a career than marriage. She’d married him only on the condition that they move to Boston after graduation so she could attend Harvard Medical School. At the time he would have taken an igloo on the Yukon to complete the nuptials. He was top-ten percent and law review at FSU, credentials good enough to have landed him with the finest law firms in Miami or Atlanta. He sent résumés to all the blue-chip firms in Boston but soon discovered that the big northeastern firms weren’t overly impressed by southern law schools, at least not the ones that didn’t count Thomas Jefferson among their alumni. Not a single job offer. He could have lowered his sights and landed with some fine smaller firms, but with Peyton’s success that would have seemed like failure.

  It was autumn, five years ago, when he and his new wife had first come up to look for an apartment, Kevin still without a job. For kicks, they attended a Harvard football game, some pathetic matchup between two Ivy League teams that would have lost to the FSU Seminoles’ second-string cheerleaders. Harvard got pounded 42–0, a score he remembered for reaso
ns that any right-minded sports fan might think ridiculous. Forty-two points meant six touchdowns and six extra points. A dozen scores by the opposing team, and with each one the Harvard student section responded in unison with the same loud cheer, an arrogant celebration that, for Kevin, summed up his job-hunting difficulties.

  That’s all right, that’s okay,

  you’re gonna work for US someday!

  It hadn’t helped matters that, by the fifth touchdown, his own wife was caught up in the excitement and joining in the chant.

  With the help of one of his Harvard-educated law professors, he did finally land an interview with a prestigious two-hundred-lawyer firm, Marston & Wheeler. He impressed them enough to earn the chance to bill more than 3,000 hours a year in pursuit of the elusive brass ring, though he realized that making partner without the Ivy League pedigree would be an uphill battle. Kevin figured that if he worked hard and showed them what he could do, he’d get a fair shot. But the last five years had only proven that the firm’s caste system was based almost entirely on sheepskin. Clients hired Marston & Wheeler and paid the big bucks to be represented by Ivy League lawyers—end of story. It didn’t matter how good he was; Kevin was not on partnership track.

  God, I hate Boston.

  The bedroom chill was getting unbearable. The one-inch crack Sandra had raised the window at bedtime was now an Arctic pipeline. He slid from beneath the covers, taking care not to disturb the kick boxer beside him. The tile floor beneath his feet felt like a hockey rink. He tiptoed quickly toward the open window and, in the darkness, promptly smashed his toes into a chair leg. He grunted but didn’t shout, hopping on one foot, doing his best not to wake Sandra. The phone rang. Not the phone on the nightstand. It was a higher-pitched ring, barely audible, seemingly muffled. It was coming from the pocket of his suit coat, the coat that was draped over that chair—that damn chair.