Just then a big extended-cab pickup appeared from around the bend. Instead of slowing, as the sign warned, it picked up speed and headed straight for Katie.

Frank, still trying to calm Abe, could only scream a warning.

15.

TEN SECONDS OF CHAOS seemed to slow to an hour.

Earl lunged forward, grabbed Katie by the sleeve, and tumbled with her onto the shoulder. The truck careened past, just inches from their sprawled legs. The other protesters ran screaming in every direction, blocking Frank as he tried to reach Katie and Earl.

Earl sat up, rubbing his head, then pulled Katie to her feet. He waved Frank off. "We're all right."

Frank leaped into the patrol car and took off after the truck. It was already out of sight, but the road followed Stony Brook here for several miles, so there was no place to turn off to the right. And to the left rose the Verona Range, with only a few parking areas at the trailheads. With siren blaring and lights flashing, he pushed the car up to sixty, but as he tore around a blind curve, he knew it wasn't safe to him or anyone who might be coming in the opposite direction to be taking the road at that speed. He slowed a bit and continued toward Lake Placid, without seeing any sign of the truck. When he reached the intersection of Route 73, he had to accept that whoever had tried to run down Katie Petrucci had gotten away.

The fifteen people present at the protest came up with almost as many different impressions of the color, make, model, and license plate of the truck. Finally, relying most heavily on his own, Earl's, and Beth's recollections, Frank put a search through to Motor Vehicles to see what would turn up. If the truck was local, he was sure he'd recognize it when he saw it again.

The stunt struck him as the kind of thing Roy Fenstock would pull, but Roy must have been working inside Raging Rapids at the time, since his father had wanted to send him out to help manage the protest. Had Abe said that as a cover for Roy, knowing that Frank would never take him up on the offer? Surely Abe wouldn't go along with a scheme that might have gotten someone killed. Or had Roy lined up some yahoo friend of his to do the dirty work?

But maybe it was more serious than that. Maybe whoever had killed Nathan Golding was determined not to stop until he had destroyed the entire Green Tomorrow organization and scared off all its supporters. In that case, Beth Abercrombie and all those girls who had been swept up in Katie's fervor could be in for a lot more trouble than they ever bargained for.

The problem would be convincing them that he wanted to protect them, not shut them up. Especially since he wouldn't mind if shutting them up was a by-product of protecting them.

He stood up and stared out the office window, watching the wind drive little tornados of leaves across the green. Tomorrow might be a good day to try to have lunch with Beth. Maybe he could get her to tell him why she and Katie and Green Tomorrow were so determined to close down Raging Rapids. And then what? Convince her to give it up?

A cold front had moved in since this morning, replacing the blue skies with dark, lowering clouds. A few storms like the one that was brewing would bring all the leaves down, and mark the end of the best season of the year.

He shifted his gaze to the parking lot, where Mary Pat's Escort sat in a reserved s.p.a.ce. True to Frank's prediction, Joe had offered Mary Pat's car to Earl at a very reasonable price. He wondered how well the little car would do this winter, when Earl had to make the drive in from the outskirts of Trout Run.

He pivoted. "Earl, is your car unlocked?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I want to look inside."

"At what?" Earl trotted after Frank out to the parking lot.

"I never searched the car. It just struck me that if Mary Pat wanted to hide something from her parents, especially her mother, her car would be the best place. Ann doesn't drive anymore, so she'd never be in it without her daughter. But maybe it's too late now."

"It was still at Al's Sunoco when I picked it up, but it's clean as a whistle inside."

Frank opened the glove compartment: map, owner's manual, registration, and insurance. Under the seats: nothing. He popped the trunk: a spare tire and one of those roadside a.s.sistance kits. He opened the case, pulled out the jumper cables and flares-and there it was: a square white envelope.

Inside was a card with the standard-issue Hallmark drivel. On the cover a wildflower in a beam of sunlight; inside, the printed inscription, "Special people like you set the world alight." It was signed with a very ornate scribble.

"What does that look like to you?"

Earl studied the handwriting. "I'm not sure. That first letter could be an L or maybe an S. Then it looks like there's a y or a p-something with a lower loop-there in the middle."

How galling to have the lover's name right here in his hand and not be able to read it. "Could it say 'Doug'?" Frank asked.

"Nah-it looks longer than that. There's letters after the g."

"Douglas. Or maybe it's a pet name."

Earl squinted at the card. "Really, it doesn't look like a guy's handwriting at all. It's too...too fancy, or something."

Earl had a point. It was unusual-looking script-cramped, yet with flourishes. "But it has to be from a man," Frank said. "Why else would she have it hidden in this road kit?"

Earl shrugged. "Have it dusted for prints. Maybe you'll get lucky again."

Frank scowled. He didn't relish another battle with Meyerson over resources.

He looked back at the open box in the trunk. There was a little first-aid kit in there, and he opened it. He dug through the Band-Aids and cold pack, and then found an orange prescription bottle half full of big white pills.

"Look at this, Earl. Bactrim-that's an antibiotic, I'm pretty sure. Filled at a pharmacy in Lake Placid on September nineteenth, two days after the birth. She did go to a doctor. She knew she was seriously sick."

"But wouldn't a doctor have made her go to the hospital?" Earl asked.

"He would if he knew what he was up against. Hibbert says any doctor would know a retained placenta can be life-threatening."

"So maybe this guy didn't know what was really wrong with Mary Pat, because she didn't tell him about the birth."

Frank studied the prescription label, which referenced Dr. Stephen Galloway, Cascade Clinic. "Either that, or whoever gave her these pills also wanted to keep the birth secret, and intentionally kept her away from the hospital. If they really knew how sick she was, that's depraved indifference, and it's a felony."

He put the bottle in his pocket. "I'm going over to the Cascade Clinic to talk to this Dr. Galloway."

16.

THE CASCADE CLINIC, a good twenty-five minutes away, on the far side of Verona, was the only doctor's office between Trout Run and Lake Placid. The parking lot surrounding the small, cedar-shake building was full, and Frank walked into a waiting room packed with crying babies, sniffling toddlers, and sighing adults. He didn't want to think about all the germs he was breathing in.

"Sign the log, fill out the yellow form, and have your insurance card ready when you're called," the woman behind the check-in counter said without glancing up.

"I'm Chief Bennett of the Trout Run police. I need to speak to Dr. Galloway when he's done with his current patient."

The woman looked up, exasperated. "We're terribly busy-can't it wait?"

"No."

"All right-go into his office."

Galloway's office was a cubbyhole barely big enough for a desk and a bookcase. Frank just had time to check out the diploma on the wall-Georgetown University Medical School-when Galloway entered.

"Yes, what is it?" he demanded, without introduction.

Frank sized him up: early thirties, short, and a little pudgy, with s.h.a.ggy dark hair and a complexion that hadn't fully recovered from adolescent acne. The brown eyes that met his were intelligent, but wary.

"Frank Bennett, Trout Run police. I'm here about a patient of yours-Mary Pat Sheehan."

Galloway shrugged. "I see scores of patients every day. You'll have to give me a little more identification than that."

"Well, this one's dead." That caught the doctor's attention. Frank pulled out the prescription medicine bottle. "She died of septicemia after giving birth. You wrote her this prescription. What kind of medication is this?"

Galloway s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle. "Sheehan? Sheehan? September nineteenth? The only postpartum patient I've seen in September was Fogelson. She was in yesterday for her follow-up appointment, and she's okay." A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. He punched the intercom b.u.t.ton on his phone. "Stacey, get me the chart on Mary Pat Sheehan. Right away."

Galloway turned back to Frank. "Did you check with the hospital to see who delivered this baby? I don't deliver babies-I just help out with prenatal and postpartum care if they can't make it to Saranac Lake to see an obstetrician regularly."

"She didn't have the baby in the hospital. She kept the pregnancy a secret from her family and friends. I want to know if you treated her for this infection after the baby was born." Frank shook the pill bottle. "What is this?"

"Bactrim is a broad-spectrum antibiotic."

"So that's what you'd give for a postpartum infection, isn't it?"

"It depends on what was causing it." The doctor turned and stuck his head into the hall. "Stacey, where's that chart?"

"I'm looking. I can't find any Mary Pat Sheehan. The only woman sh is Mary Sherman."

"You see-we don't have a chart on her. Besides, if a teenager had presented with a postpartum infection recently, I would remember that." Galloway clicked his pen and eyed the door.

"She wasn't a teenager; she was twenty-eight. And what if she just came in telling you she was feverish and achy, never mentioning the pregnancy. Would you give her that antibiotic?"

Galloway puffed out his chest and tried to look stern. "I don't pa.s.s out antibiotics indiscriminately. Symptoms like that would usually indicate a viral infection, not bacterial."

"So how do you explain these pills?"

Galloway threw up his hands. "I don't know. What's the big deal? It's only an antibiotic, not morphine or oxycontin."

"I'll tell you what's the big deal." Frank dropped his voice and took a step toward Galloway. "Someone knew this girl was seriously ill, and instead of taking her to the hospital, they wrote her a prescription for an antibiotic to try to patch her up. She died. And I want to know who that person was, all right?"

Galloway squinted his left eye. "Someone could have stolen a sheet off my prescription pad."

Frank looked at the doctor's white lab coat. "Taking it right out of your pocket, there?"

"Oh, please!" Galloway looked at his watch. "You see how overworked I am. Maybe I took it out to write a prescription, got distracted, and left it in an examining room. Anything's possible."

Galloway's frazzled irritation was fairly convincing. At any rate, it would be easy enough to check. The pharmacy would still have the original prescription slip on file, and the handwriting could be compared to a legitimate prescription Galloway had written. "What about the nurses?" Frank asked.

Galloway flexed his fingers. Frank noticed he wore no rings. "Elaine's incompetent, but trustworthy. Connie's only here three mornings a week, unfortunately. She's the only one I can count on to do things right."

Galloway didn't seem very happy in his work here at the clinic. "You're not from around here, are you, Doc?"

"I'm from New Jersey. I agreed to practice in an underserved area for three years to pay for medical school. I have one more year to go."

That explained the att.i.tude; you couldn't expect an indentured servant to act like Marcus Welby. "Are you married?"

Galloway frowned. "Engaged. Leah's in graduate school at UCLA. We try to fly back and forth as often as we can, but it's tough."

So, Galloway was broke and lonely. He'd been in the area long enough to have known Mary Pat. Under normal circ.u.mstances, the young doctor wouldn't have looked twice at a woman who clerked in a convenience store. But he had the grad student fiancee for long-distance, intellectual chats; Mary Pat could have supplied what was missing close to home.

Frank regarded Galloway with more interest. "You said you don't deliver babies, but you must know how to, right? Doesn't everyone learn that in medical school?"

"Everyone does a rotation in obstetrics, and I've been in the ER when women have delivered. What are you getting at?"

Frank ignored the question and pressed on. "Do you shop at the Stop'N'Buy on Route Twelve?"

Galloway edged toward the door. "I've bought gas there occasionally, or a quart of milk. Why?"

"Mary Pat Sheehan worked there nights. But maybe you know that."

Galloway blinked his eyes rapidly. "Why would I know? I never noticed who waited on me."

"She was kind of a lonely young woman. You're up here all by yourself. One thing leads to another. Next thing you know, she's pregnant with a baby she doesn't want, and you're delivering it. Only you didn't do such a good job."

Galloway's mouth fell open. "That's insane!" The words came out broken and squeaky. "You have no evidence of that."

Frank shrugged. "Give me time. Maybe I'll find some."

17.

THE NEXT MORNING Frank sat at his desk studying several photocopies. He'd gone to the pharmacy in Lake Placid and got a copy of the original prescription for Mary Pat's Bactrim. After some haggling, he'd convinced the pharmacist to find some other prescriptions written by Dr. Galloway and to photocopy them with the patients' names blocked out so he could compare the handwriting. The results were intriguing.

In each instance, the name of the prescribed drug had been printed in block letters, some neater than others. And each prescription had been signed with an illegible cramped signature. It was hard to tell if the signature on all the prescriptions was exactly the same-he was no handwriting expert-but Mary Pat's prescription wasn't an obvious fake. What really interested him was comparing the doctor's signature with the name signed on the card he'd found in Mary Pat's car. Of course, the card had only a first name, whereas the prescriptions had what appeared to be Galloway's first initial, "S," and his last name. Was the first letter on the card an S, and was the letter that dipped down in the middle the p in Stephen? It seemed more plausible than "Doug."

Doris buzzed him. "It's your daughter on line one."

"Hi, sweetheart! Happy birthday!" Frank said. "You're calling me before I got a chance to call you."

"I wanted to thank you for the bowl. I love it! Is it from that little shop that was closed the last time I visited?"

"Yeah, I remembered you seemed to like the stuff there."

"You are so sweet. It's just beautiful-so original, so different. Did you pick it out yourself?"