It always annoyed Steve when Laura used that brazen tone of voice. "You had them last Sat.u.r.day. Besides, we're going to the beach tomorrow for Dad's birthday."

"They see plenty of your family. I've made plans. It's only fair. You have them all week."

"You know our agreement. Alternate Sat.u.r.days and Sundays every other weekend. Right?'

"No, not 'right'. 'Our agreement' was your decision. Who are you to make 'our' decisions?"

"Please, Steve, don't give me a hard time. You know it's fair."

"Not seeing my kids is fair?" Steve knew his voice was rising, but where did she get off sounding so G.o.dd.a.m.ned sanctimonious. He was standing at the kitchen counter and he felt like slamming his fist, but the place was so cluttered with dirty gla.s.sware he'd have sliced his hand. So he raked one hand through his hair while gripping the phone with his other. "What I know is that they want to see me more."

"Of course they want to see you."

Laura was trying the "let's everybody be reasonable" move now. She was a pro at that one, trying to make him out to be a fool who couldn't do s.h.i.t.

"We have to give them some sense of structure, some kind of reliable schedule."

Steve couldn't help grimace at the thought of being excluded by his in-laws. He'd always had a good time with the Whelens. The old man was a sports fan, and Laura's mom had offered him unconditional love. Something his own mother never had. "Okay, you want 'structure'? So let's give them structure. Let's all go down to Sarasota together - as a family."

"That won't work. We all have to adjust to us living separately."

He didn't have to take this kind of s.h.i.t. "If you won't agree to have the kids ready, you give me no choice. I'll just call the boys separately. They'll come with me." Steve knew they would. They loved to fish off the bridges. Maybe he'd even rent a boat. "If you want to take the girls to your mother's, I don't care."

"Just this once."

Steve thought he was hearing things. Laura? Backing down?

"I'll switch my on-call schedule. And if you take the boys, you take the girls. They'd be heartbroken if they thought you didn't care. Aren't they going through enough already?"

"Aren't we all?" Steve countered, still congratulating himself on his victory. "You're the one who kicked me out. It's still not too late to do what's right."

"I am doing what's right. I have an appointment with a lawyer next week."

"No lawyer, Laura. I mean it." Steve could feel hot anger implode in his chest. How dare she threaten him? "We don't need a lawyer."

"I think we do. At least I do."

Steve looked around at the clutter, the overflowing trash can, the dirty dishes piled in the sink. h.e.l.l, he'd married Laura when he was only twenty-one. Before that he'd lived at home. How could he be expected to live by himself? Maybe for a few days, but forever? No, a divorce sounded so final. A divorce was out of the question. The best way to handle Laura was through the kids. She'd never give up those kids, even for an overnight. And they wouldn't give up him. That he knew, especially little Patrick. The kid was only eight years old and already he was complaining about Laura's treatment.

"And another thing," Steve said to move the conversation to territory he could manipulate. "You gotta stop being so strict with Patrick. He said you wouldn't let him watch Starsky and Hutch last week."

Laura sighed. "Let's not start using the kids as p.a.w.ns, okay? It'll only make things worse."

"Fine for you to say. You're the one making things worse." Steve slammed down the phone.

Rolling over to turn off Tammy Wynette's "Stand by Your Man" piping through the clock radio at seven the next morning, Laura was surprised to find herself alone in bed. Since Steve had left, she had usually awakened to find that Natalie or Patrick or both had crept in beside her. Pleased that the kids must be doing better, she lingered under the covers until seven forty-five before heading to Mike and Kevin's room. The kids would need a decent breakfast before Steve picked them up. Once she woke them all, she'd make waffles, a favorite weekend treat. The door to the boys' bedroom was open, the two twin beds empty and unmade. She sighed, knowing as usual that she'd have to send them back up to make their beds. Why even try to make them make their room look neat? She wondered what had gotten them up so early; on weekends those two never got up before nine.

Laura crossed the hall to the girls' frilly pink room. Pushing aside the pile of stuffed animals they so loved, she found both canopied beds empty. A few pieces of clothing were scattered about and she stopped to pick them up. It was odd; the girls usually made their beds first thing. Patrick's small cubbyhole room, decorated with Miami Dolphins paraphernalia, was also empty. That was strange. Funny, she couldn't hear the television on downstairs.

"Where is everyone?" she called. But there was not a trace of sound. She called out again, louder. No response.

Had Steve said he was picking them up before eight? She remembered last night's conversation, decidedly unpleasant, but Steve had specified eight o'clock. And what would they do so early anyway? Laura was already antic.i.p.ating a tough day at the hospital. She'd called a colleague last night for a last minute switch of schedules and learned she'd be covering for four staff surgeons today on top of other duties. As she wandered downstairs, Laura reviewed her day: rounds on at least thirty post-op patients, admitting any surgical cases that came in through the ER, supervising all emergency operations. And, she recalled, she'd agreed to meet with that attorney, Sam somebody, at Roxanne's insistence, but against her own better judgment.

Laura walked through every room downstairs. No sign of breakfast in the kitchen, no blaring television, no scattered toys. She headed out the front door, scanning up and down the street for any sign of her children or for anything unusual. She did note that the front door was unlocked. Certainly she'd locked it last night, but, of course, Steve had a key.

"Call a locksmith," she mumbled to herself.

She went back in and checked the back door, which was still locked. Dressed only in her faded blue dressing gown, still wearing her gla.s.ses, she walked across the yard and headed toward Marcy's apartment over the garage.

"Good morning," Marcy called out over the flower boxes she kept under each window. She was an early riser and had already returned from 7:00 a.m. Ma.s.s. "Thought you'd be out of here already you've got such a full day."

"Well, I ..." Laura faltered. "I was looking for the kids."

"You're a few hours late. Guess you didn't wake up when Steve came?"

"What time did he pick them up?"

"Around five thirty. In a station wagon. They all left with their little tote bags."

"They're not staying overnight." Laura felt a p.r.i.c.k of panic as her heart picked up speed. A station wagon? Could it belong to the guy who's apartment Steve is staying in?

Marcy shrugged. "Maybe he's taking the kids swimming or something."

"Maybe. Steve said he had plans, but I didn't ask him what they were. Tell you what, I'll call you if I'm not going to be home by seven. Or you page me if the kids come back before then, and I'll see if I can get home earlier, okay?"

Though Marcy nodded in agreement, Laura worried all day. Something was not right.

By noon, Laura had made post-op rounds with the residents and med students. She felt nauseated and hadn't had a thing to eat - refusing even a Snickers bar, her favorite. Scattered throughout the morning there'd been three surgical admissions from the ER, but only one requiring immediate intervention, an appendectomy in a healthy young man, which she supervised. Counting her own patients and those of her four colleagues, she had five in the ICU to watch over. One - not hers - had gone into kidney failure following the repair of a dissecting aortic aneurysm that had required all day heroics just to keep him alive on a ventilator. The others were in critical condition following major surgery, but when all was said and done, they were doing well.

At four o'clock she headed reluctantly to the small alcove next to the chapel for the meeting with Mr. Sanders. Roxanne was already there sitting next to the tall, gangly attorney. Unexpectedly, Louis Ruiz, in a wheelchair, was seated on her other side. Both legs, still in casts, were elevated and protruding forward. Wearing a teal and black striped silk bathrobe with a gold sash, his jet black hair was combed neatly over his ears, his sad eyes seeming brighter. Laura looked from him to Roxanne as she hesitated at the threshold of the room and noted the tasteful decor in comforting muted patterns of beige and maroon. She made a mental note to use this room on those occasions when she had to deliver painful news. Focusing on the situation at hand, she felt irritated. Roxanne should have told her that Mr. Ruiz would be here too.

"Dr. Nelson," Roxanne began. "You remember Louis Ruiz?"

"Of course," said Laura. "I hope your recovery is going well."

"Thank you, doctor, it is. Allow me to apologize for being so rude the last time we met."

"Please," Laura said quickly, "I understand."

"And this is Mr. Sanders," Roxanne went on. "I know you've exchanged a few words, but let me introduce you properly."

"It's Sam, Dr. Nelson." The attorney rose and held out his hand to Laura. He held her gaze without a waver. "Appreciate your meeting with us. We know how busy you are."

"Of course. I should warn you that I am on call." She took a seat in the chair nearest the door and placed her beeper on her lap.

"Then I'll save time and be perfectly blunt," Sam Sanders began. "Mr. Ruiz was the victim of a horrendous accident. He lost his wife and two daughters. He's left with three sons to bring up on his own and two are still in this hospital. His medical insurance is inadequate. The driver who hit him was legally intoxicated. He's had prior DUIs. He'll go to jail, but that won't help Mr. Ruiz. The guy has no insurance and has no a.s.sets to attach. The only way we can help Mr. Ruiz cope is by suing this hospital for negligence in treating his oldest daughter, Wendy."

Laura stiffened. She could still see the small form, could hear the clink as her forceps. .h.i.t the shard of gla.s.s in the aorta so near to the heart. She could hear the dying blip of the cardiac monitor as they lost Wendy. The same frustration engulfed her as it had that night. The ER should have called her in earlier. The excuse of the fracture in the cervical spine and the chaos in the ER that night was just that, an excuse. There had been too much blood in those chest tubes, and she'd told that doctor from the ER that. When Laura had looked at the electrocardiograms afterwards, there'd been evident signs of cardiac tamponade, signs that should have triggered immediate chest surgery.

"The point is, Dr. Nelson, we know what you told the ER resident about the delay in calling you in for surgery that night."

"Still, I'm not certain -" Laura couldn't continue. How would she feel if the medical system had failed her ten-year-old daughters? She looked directly at Louis Ruiz and couldn't ignore the tears he was attempting to hide. She watched Roxanne reach over and gently caress his hand. Taking a breath, she turned to Sam Sanders.

"Listen, I wasn't in the ER that night, and I will stand by my statement that I should've been called in for Wendy earlier. I'm not certain whether that would have made a difference. There was a hole in her aorta -" She forced herself to keep looking at the attorney, not at Mr. Ruiz, "-she had a broken neck, and no matter what, she would have been paraplegic had she lived."

"But she might now be alive," Sam quickly concluded. Turning to his client, who was now weeping openly, he added, "I think that's enough."

Exhausted by six thirty, Laura called Marcy for the second time from a corner in the hospital records room. Because the kids weren't home yet, she decided to stay to sign discharge notes and deal with the endless paperwork that plagues all physicians. She had two remaining charts in front of her.

"Still quiet here," Marcy said, "too quiet. Why don't you just stay and finish what you're doing?"

"Okay. But call me the minute they get home, okay? And one more favor. If Steve brings them home before I get there, would you mind going over so he can leave before I get home? I really don't feel like fighting with him tonight. I have all day with the kids tomorrow. I just want to relax with them, take them to the beach on Anna Maria Island with my parents. Anyway, I'll only be here another forty-five minutes or so."

Home long before midnight, Laura's concern escalated from annoyance to a mix of panic and rage as the night wore on. She called Steve's number three times, each time reaching the answering machine Steve still had, compliments of Channel Eight so that he wouldn't miss any news-related calls. The first message she left on his machine was polite; the second, irate; the third, anxious.

She lay fitfully on the living room sofa. The family room furniture was a lot more comfortable, but after what Steve and Kim had done there, she just couldn't relax in the room. She couldn't focus on the old Elvis movie on the TV either - Viva Las Vegas. She clicked off the TV set. She tried to read the new novel her mother had left for her, The Thorn Birds, the kind of sweeping saga that usually stole her attention completely, but she couldn't concentrate. She could not eat; had not eaten all day. Anger grew as she realized that Steve had simply defied her by keeping the kids overnight in his small apartment. Marcy said they left with bags, right? They must be sleeping on the floor. You'd think he would have at least called. She could not wait to see that lawyer next week; things with Steve were getting out of control. Eventually she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Her stomach growled and she rummaged through the refrigerator for that last slice of cherry cheesecake. But what if they'd had some kind of horrible accident - like the Ruiz family? While the water heated, she paced, saying one Hail Mary after another. One more look up and down the street, then she settled on the sofa to wait and, finally, she dozed.

Waking at dawn, still slumped over the arm of the sofa, Laura felt groggy and disoriented. As she ma.s.saged a vague pain on the left side of her neck, she noticed that the hall light was still on. Could Steve have dropped off the kids while she slept? Rushing upstairs with false hope, she faced the empty bedrooms. d.a.m.n Steve. d.a.m.n him.

She picked up the phone in the hallway, dialed Steve's number and got the same recording. She left a fourth message: "Get the kids home now. I'm taking them to Ma.s.s at Sacred Heart before we leave for Mom and Dad's."

When the phone rang at nine, Laura leapt to answer it. It was only Marcy, calling to say that she was going to visit her sister-in-law in St. Petersburg and would Laura be okay. Laura tried to sound rea.s.suring.

At noon, Laura called Steve's apartment again - a furnished one bedroom in the lower floor of a house on Oregon, between Horatio and DeLeon in Tampa's Old Hyde Park section. Again, no answer, and this time she left no message. She then called her mother and postponed the day's trip to Sarasota, asking her to make apologies to her dad. They'd planned a beach picnic to celebrate his sixty-sixth birthday.

The Whalens were a close-knit family. After finishing med school in Detroit, Laura had chosen Tampa for her internship and residency so she could be close to her mom and dad. With her marriage breaking up, she now needed their rea.s.surance, to hear from them that she'd be okay. That she wasn't a failure. That somehow this wasn't all her fault. That she was doing the right thing. If only Janet, her sister, could be there too. Janet was two years younger than Laura and as kids they'd been inseparable. Even through med school with Laura living so far away in Detroit, they'd remained close, but since Jan married a French professor five years ago and moved to Paris, they'd drifted apart. Laura hadn't seen Jan for two years, and she hesitated to burden her with her problems.

Then there was Ted, her younger brother. Her problems, Laura was sure, paled against those he experienced in the poor, remote village in Uganda where he'd been stationed - there was a cholera epidemic there. If Ted were here, would he disapprove of her walking out on a marriage? She'd have to try to explain what happened between her and Steve and hope that he'd understand. As a Catholic priest, he'd have to support the sanct.i.ty of the marriage vows, but as her kid brother, he'd always trusted her. Deep down, she knew he'd take her side. If only he were here, he'd be such a positive influence on the boys, especially now. The girls needed some TLC too, but they'd always been closer to her than to Steve.

Lately Laura spent more and more time thinking about the twins. Steve had a problem with them and it was getting worse. She'd never faced it head-on. Always making excuses, hoping that as the girls grew older the shadows of the past would recede, but the truth was that Steve was finding it more and more difficult to mask his ambivalence toward the little girls. An ambivalence that to an outsider may appear barely perceptible. Everyone always declared that the Nelson twins were images of their mother with their blonde, wavy hair worn shoulder length and faces the same heart shape as Laura's. Everyone also claimed that they couldn't tell the girls apart, and wherever they went Natalie and Nicole attracted attention. When they were toddlers Laura had started to part their hair on opposite sides as a helpful clue to babysitters, but whoever got to know the Nelson twins quickly appreciated that their personalities differentiated them. Natalie, sweet and compliant. Nicole, aggressive, the ringleader. Laura usually dressed them identically, which they'd always loved. Hardly a day went by that a stranger wouldn't stop them on the street just to gaze in fascination or say a few admiring words.

Laura realized that most men would dote on such charming young daughters, but Steve remained aloof and only she and Steve's father knew why. Steve, too, had been an identical twin and his daughters were a constant reminder of a horrible childhood scar. At the age of ten - the girls' age - Steve had uncharacteristically shoved his brother, Philip, during a fight in their tree house.

Philip had tumbled to the ground, his neck snapping on impact, dying instantly. For months Steve's mother had been hospitalized with major depression, never resuming a nurturing relationship with Steve, her remaining only child. Her life became recurrent panic attacks, leaving her socially debilitated. It did not matter that the tragedy had been an accident.

Laura and Steve had been married almost five years before she learned the truth. After this revelation, which came not from Steve but from his Aunt Hazel, Steve refused to discuss the accident. Since the birth of Natalie and Nicole, Laura had repeatedly tried to get Steve to confront the impact of the accident on his feelings toward his daughters, but to no avail. Even after his mother died when the girls were five, Steve would not face it. If only he'd gotten psychological help, things would be so different. Not that Laura had that much confidence in therapists; she'd seen her share of incompetents; but Steve's mind was locked in concrete and there was no key.

As these thoughts flooded her mind, Laura wandered through the house, straining to hear a car pull up in the driveway. She tried calling Steve's apartment several times, but there was no answer, just the answering machine. Where could they be? How horrible, how unforgivable, not to call. Certainly there could be nothing wrong or she would have heard. Repeatedly, Laura tried to tackle the stack of acc.u.mulating medical journals on her desk, but she couldn't focus. Where could they be? Where could they possibly be?

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Frank Santiago adjusted the incline of the pa.s.senger seat to accommodate his lanky frame. "So, Ritchie, what do you tell your kids when they ask you what kind of business you're in?"

Ritchie Noval drove the forest green Lincoln Town Car across Alligator Alley heading for Tampa. They'd just come from a meeting with the big boss, Carlos Tosca, in Miami. Despite the deeply tinted windows, both wore dark wraparound gla.s.ses. Ritchie was in his early thirties, a clean-cut Hispanic with ma.s.sive shoulders, a cherubic face, and jet black hair worn in a neat crew cut. In preparation for the job ahead, he wore dark blue khakis, a short sleeve Polo shirt also in dark blue, and black Rockports.

Frank, ten years his senior, looked ready for Madison Avenue in a charcoal gray Armani suit - the jacket precisely folded atop the backseat - a baby blue shirt stiffly starched, a silk patterned tie of cobalt blues, and gleaming Bruno Magli dress shoes. His coal black hair worn slicked back off his forehead and the debonair style aptly camouflaged the taut, tough muscles that lay underneath the expensive veneer.

"They're too young. Haven't asked yet," said Ritchie with a grin. "Whaddaya think I'm gonna say? Your old man's a soldier in the Mafia?"

"'Organization,' got a cla.s.sier ring to it," Frank stated. "Can't wait for the day I have boys big enough to follow in the old man's footsteps."

"So you're plannin' your own family, eh, boss?"

"Sons, to take over the business some day."

"Right. I got two and one little girl."

"Girls, you gotta take care of em. Four boys, that's what I want. The more the better. I got three sisters I took care of till they finally landed their hombres. s.h.i.t, thought it would take forever. Boys, they take care of themselves. Once they know what they're doin, that is.

"I can see it," Ritchie nodded. "You're just the guy to show 'em, Frankie."

"d.a.m.n straight."

"That mean you're gettin' married soon or what?"

"Me and Kimmie." He paused. "Soon, real soon."

Ritchie laughed. "She's one sweet piece."

"Yeah, that's right," Frank grumbled, "and you keep your f.u.c.kin' eyes to yourself. Noticed you couldn't keep 'em off those twins last night."

"Hey, we're in Miami, there's not one but two sets of amazing knockers for the taking. Whaddaya expect me to do?" Ritchie accelerated to pa.s.s a lumbering eighteen-wheeler.

"Business comes first, that's all."

"Frankie, man, I am all business." He stifled a yawn. "So let's talk business. Like, whaddabout your clothes?"

"What about my clothes?" Frank asked, reaching down to his trousers to pick off a trace of lint.

"Those pretty shoes of yours are goin' to get all f.u.c.ked up on this job. And the million dollar suit ain't gonna look too cla.s.sy splashed with blood and who knows what."

"Nice to know you're so worried about my threads. I got coveralls in the trunk, we'll stop at Kimmie's and I'll change." Frank checked his Patek Phillippe. "It's four now and we're only fifty miles from Temple Terrace. Plenty of time to make it to the docks by six fifteen."

"Carlos ain't gonna like it," Ritchie said. "He said to change cars once we got to Tampa and don' let n.o.body see us."

"Carlos don't need to know," Frank said with finality.

"I hear that, boss. Besides, the point is the f.u.c.king Mexicans, right? We're not taking no s.h.i.t from those f.a.ggots. Show them who's who, them movin' in on us. We own South Florida. Once we get our hands on that blow, Tampa'll be ripe for months."

Frank smiled. "That's the idea. Now lay it out for me again."