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  Darius, shocked, backed into the bench, fell over it and knocked his head against a locker, sending him into unconsciousness.

  Darius was found this way by a passing attendant. Medics were called and he was rushed to the hospital, his forehead bleeding.

  He woke up in a hospital bed with an IV unit strung over his head, trying to recall what had happened. Then he remembered the black holes staring at him from the head that had been placed in his locker. Or had it materialized out of delirium tremens? He had gone for several days without a drop of liquor and his nerves had been shot as a result of the double autopsy and the way he'd been pushing himself on the Claw case. Maybe he had just imagined Mrs. Hamner's eyeless, severed head there in his locker. Maybe he was going crazy with all the stress that had been placed on him. They couldn't leave him to die in peace? No, the mayor and the C.P. had to push him into this hideous case, likely the final hideous case of his career.

  When the doctors had told him about the cancer atop his heart condition, and how short the remainder of his life would be, he had taken to drinking heavily and secretly. So far, only a few need-to-knows had been informed and even these people only knew that half of it. But now all his secrets might surface.

  He lay gasping, wondering how he could get a drink. His every nerve felt like brittle paper about to snap. He didn't care about the Claw any longer; he just wanted to find a corner to crawl into with a bottle of J&B.

  His head pounded from where it had come into contact with the locker. He wanted the pounding to stop. He wanted life, his fevered brain with its obsessions, to end.

  He once again began to contemplate suicide. It would be a clean break, and perhaps that way, no one would ever have to know about his weakness and his transgressions. No one would have to know about his cowardly fears, his mental blackouts, his awful visions like the head in his locker.

  He swore to himself that no one would ever know the depths to which he had fallen.

  Her time with Alan off duty was precisely what she needed, Jessica decided. The kindly Dr. Darius had urged her to follow all passions, as he put it. Now Alan managed to take her mind off the demanding burdens she had been subjected to since arriving in New York, not only those of the baffling, frustrating Claw case but all of the painful memories she had brought with her. She was transported out of herself and her narrow self-interest, and now the stress she'd felt over the past few days had melted away.

  Dinner was a sumptuous meal at a wonderful harborfront restaurant high above the city. They'd gotten a window looking out over the glassy expanse of New York Harbor, the boat lights reflecting up at them. She could not recall a time when she'd been more relaxed, more herself, and she genuinely liked Alan, who apparently felt the same way about her.

  After dinner he took her for a ride to a place called Belmont Harbor on the Hudson River where they got out and walked along a wharf and past the boats. The rigging beat out a chorus of soft metal clinks, a lilting sound created by the same wind that swept through her hair. In a few moments they stood before a beautiful sailboat with the name MVP painted boldly at the stern. Rychman stepped aboard and said, “Coming?”

  “Is this yours?”

  “Still making payments, but I like to think it's mine, yes.”

  “Wow, do you ever get her out of her slip?”

  “Not often enough.” He held out his hand to her and she accepted it, stepping aboard with her cane, fearful of slipping. He held her firmly and she managed well.

  “You've got to come out with me sometime. You'd love it. We could take a whole day, make our way to Nantucket Island.”

  She had a fearful, flitting premonition of a time when, having allowed herself to love Botine, she suddenly and explosively lost him. Any relationship with a cop could end this way, she knew. She also knew she was projecting her feelings for Otto Boutine onto Alan, and these feelings felt right and sure, but they brought with them a great price. Finally she said, “I'd like that; it's a beautiful sailboat, Alan, just lovely.”

  “One of my larger and more expensive vices. Can't afford anything larger, or I'd have a Cobra XS-2100, believe me.”

  “Why didn't you tell me about it before?”

  “Showin's better'n tellin' in circumstances such as these, I've learned. Want to see the rest of her?” He unlocked the cabin door and held it open to her. “Careful of that First step.”

  She lay the cane aside and used the handrails, going down into the cabin after he clicked on the lights. It was a beautiful interior, almost entirely of teak, shining and warm. It felt like the coziest, safest place on the planet, she thought.

  “I love it.”

  “I hoped you would.”

  He went for the little refrigerator and an icy bottle of zin-fandel materialized in his hands. “I've got some nice glasses somewhere,” he continued as he searched. “Here they are.” He removed the cork as she glanced out through the portholes at the dark expanse of the big river, which looked as calm as peace itself.

  “I've got my scuba gear stowed below the bed,” he said as he poured the wine.

  “So how's the diving here?”

  “Not terrific, but it keeps me in shape. I mean it's not like Mexico or Florida. But we've got a few man-made reefs. Keeps me in practice.”

  She took the wine he offered and sipped at it. They then talked about diving and seriously planning a dive trip together once all this was over. He assured her that he would meet her anywhere, anytime. They talked about other concerns, and she told him about her father and how he had taught her to be independent and self-sufficient and strong. Alan spoke of his childhood, which was in no way so harmo-nious as hers, citing frequent battles with his father, who simply never understood him or his brother. He said he envied her relationship with her father.

  They talked so easily and so long that they'd both lost track of time and suddenly she realized it was past midnight. “Perhaps I should go now,” she suggested, putting aside the wine she held, getting to her feet and looking about for her cane.

  “You left it on deck,” he said. Then he approached her there in the cramped cabin and put his arms around her. She allowed him to hold her. In her ear, he said, “I can't remember a time when I was so comfortable with a woman, Jess. I want you to know that.”

  She looked into his eyes and read the depth of sincerity there. She lifted her mouth to his in an open invitation to him and he did not fail her. Their passionate kiss lingered and became a long, breathtaking one. When they parted, their eyes were fixed on one another. He wanted to say something but was afraid that words would fail him, and she sensed this.

  “Don't say anything,” she instructed him. “You've heard me go on and on about all the places I've been, all the things I've done.”

  “And I've enjoyed every word.”

  “I've never been here before, and I've never made love on a sailboat before.”

  He lowered her to the bed. “Neither have I.”

  Their lovemaking had them both believing that it would be endless as they fulfilled their desires. Each time they parted, exhausted and panting, a new wave of passion swept over them, erupting like a powerful tide neither wished to stem.

  Alan's body was powerful, his muscles like stone. He was strong, pinning her against the bed, driving into her with sure yet gentle strokes, surging and retreating and surging again.

  Alan somehow made her feel weightless and without care. She had become Jessica Coran again, someone she had long missed. With him, she realized, she did not have to put up any fronts. She was accepted as his equal yet he managed also to make her feel like a woman again. She hadn't been touched by a man this way since Otto.

  Sometime in the night they left the boat and returned to her hotel, where they showered and made love under the spray. When they finally shut off the water, they heard her phone ringing. It was like a death knell to their night. It was almost four in the morning.

  Lou Pierce was on the other end of the line, asking for Alan, sayin
g he'd tried him everywhere else he could think of, and that she was his last hope.

  “He's right here, Lou. Hold on,” she told the sergeant, unhappy that she and Rychman had been “found out.”

  Rychman came across the room in a towel and took the phone from her, barking into it, “What's the problem, Lou?”

  “It's bad news. Captain, having to do with Dr. Darius, sir.”

  “What is it, Lou? Spit it out.” To Jessica, he said, “Something's up with Luther Darius.”

  “I'm afraid, sir, he's... well, it looks like he's committed suicide, sir.”

  “Suicide?”

  Jessica's face went white as she repeated the horrible word. “Suicide?”

  “How did it happen, Lou?” Rychman asked.

  “Jumped from his hospital window, Captain.”

  “Hospital? What hospital? When I last saw him—”

  “He suffered some sort of seizure at the lab, was carried out sometime around seven last evening, after you'd gone. I tried to locate you, but—”

  “Who's handling it, Lou?”

  “O’Toole and Mannion were in the area, checking on some lead, something to do with a clinic in the medical complex; you know that strip of medical buildings along there, several city blocks long. We got Archer in on the cleanup and the E.T. work, sir.”

  “I'm on my way, Lou.”

  “He was a good man, Captain.”

  “Right... right you are, Lou.”

  Jessica hung on Alan's every word, trying to piece things together, tears welling up. Rychman got the name of the hospital, which he knew well, and after he hung up he tried to put the pathetic scenario into focus for her as best he could, finishing with, “That old man was working cases when I was a rookie. Got to know him very well. He was a friend, Jess, a close friend, I thought. But I guess you never really know what's going on inside another person's head. Guess the difficulties he'd been having, and now this latest bout, put him over the top...”

  “He didn't strike me as suicidal,” she countered. “I didn't know him long, but I got the impression that giving up wasn't in his nature. He loved his work and life.”

  “I've got to get down there.”

  “So do I.”

  “It's not necessary you go down, Jess. Archer's got it, Lou tells me.”

  “I'm going with you,” she said, turning from his touch and starting to dress.

  “Fine, you're coming.” He began to dress quickly as well, and when they'd finished and were halfway out the door, the phone rang again. They looked at each other.

  “Probably someone else calling with the dire news,” she said, going back for the phone. But when she answered, she heard J.T.'s voice from Quantico, apologizing about the hour.

  “You okay, Jess? You sound a little down,” said J.T., who surely expected a happier note since they hadn't spoken in a while.

  “Got some bad news this morning, J.T.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

  She briefly explained about Darius.

  “God, sad loss to everyone there and the profession,” he said.

  “So, J.T., what is it?”

  “What is it? I've finally got results for you, that's what. I tried reaching you all evening but obviously you were indisposed? Anyway, I left messages with the desk. Didn't you check your messages, Jess?”

  “ 'Fraid I failed to.”

  “Christ, Jess, O'Rourke's been trying to get you, too. Wants to know what's cooking with the case; wants an update. You'd better call her as soon as it's a decent hour.”

  “Thanks for the tip, J.T. Now, what'd you learn about our Claw?”

  “Well, it's not what you think, Jess. Sorry, but I've looked at the samples you sent six ways to Sunday and it all adds up to the same guy in every case, same bite impressions.”

  She let out a soft groan of disappointment but composed herself the moment she realized that Alan was staring. “No doubt in your mind?”

  “None whatever, Jess. If it is two guys, one of them's not a meat-eater.”

  She thanked J.T. for his troubles, disappointed by this news, but it was the weight of Darius' death that she felt most strongly as she said goodbye and hung up.

  “Jess,” said Alan, “you really don't have to go down to the scene.”

  “I'm going,” she insisted, grabbing her cane and pushing past him for the door. He stopped her, taking her in his arms and feeling her fight for her freedom until finally she gave in to her sobs.

  Seventeen

  Suicides were treated as homicides until murder was completely ruled out, and that was how the NYPD was working the death of Dr. Luther Darius. The story of one of the foremost authorities in forensic science who, facing cancer and despair, took his own life would be splashed across newspa-pers all over America.

  And yet it didn't fit him, didn't stand to reason. The man Jessica had breakfasted with the previous morning hadn't appeared in the least suicidal. But appearances were often a masquerade.

  Stories about Dr. Darius began to circulate, about his problem with drink, about his growing morbidity. People who worked in close association with him had known for some time now of his despair over his inability to perform at peak performance.

  Dr. Simon Archer was on hand at the hospital to tell Rychman word for word the dire and prophetic last conversation he had had with Dr. Darius only hours before in the autopsy room.

  “Then you have it on tape?” asked Jessica.

  “Matter of fact,” Archer replied thoughtfully, “I do believe the tape was still on at that time. I'll... I'll fetch it for your investigation, Captain.”

  “Good, good... If it's as bleak as you say, then I guess we can assume the worst here.”

  Darius' body had been scooped from the pavement, eleven stories down. Blood still pooled about the spot where the police chalk outlined the man's small form.

  “I'd like to know if there was anything in his system to indicate—” began Rychman. “I'd like to assist in the autopsy. Dr. Archer,” Jessica interrupted.

  “You sure that's wise, Jess... ah, Dr. Coran?” asked Rychman.

  “Dr. Archer?”

  Archer nodded like a grieving pallbearer. “Certainly, certainly.”

  Rychman took her aside. “Don't you think you'd be better served by concentrating on the case you were sent here to work on?”

  “Dr. Darius was a friend of my father's, Alan. I owe him this much.”

  “To what end? And at what emotional cost to yourself? Do you think Darius or your father—”

  “I've got a room upstairs to investigate,” she said, storming away from him.

  He shook his head and watched her as she went, the cane lightly tapping out her anthem.

  Archer said to him, “She's quite a strong-willed woman.”

  “You could say so.”

  “An exceptional woman, I think.”

  Rychman stared at Archer. “So I've noticed.” Archer, too, was watching her disappear into the hospital as the siren blared its warning, the ambulance pulling off with Darius' body, taking him to what had been his morgue for the last forty-two years.

  “What sent him here, to the hospital?” Jessica asked Archer, who had followed her to the room Darius had leapt from.

  “He apparently had some sort of fall. He was working himself extremely hard... going back over the Hamner cadaver and all our earlier findings... all for you, Dr. Coran.” Archer supplied her with what few details he knew, ending with, “And he suffered a concussion where his head had struck the locker.”

  “All that about his drinking and his despair... all true?”

  Archer frowned. “Life gets the best of the best of us. I'm sorry.” She went to the IV bottle, the loose tubing dangling, the contents spilled across the floor. Other tubing, connected to a heart regulator, lay on the soiled bedclothes. The window had been smashed, presumably with the chair that had lain alongside the body downstairs.

  “It must've happened all in a matter
of seconds after he pulled the plug on his heart regulator,” she said. “The nurse told me that the buzz was loud enough to wake the dead when he snatched the electrodes off his chest.”

  “That's how I pictured it,” agreed Archer.

  “Then you've already examined the room?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Everything points to suicide, but I just didn't figure Darius for the kind of man who—”

  “The kind of man... There is no suicide type, Dr. Coran. Suicide comes when there is a breakdown in brain stimulants and proper judgment is impaired when connections and cause and effect cannot be put together by the struggling, desperate mind. No, I'm afraid our dear friend simply felt he must end his despair.”

  She swallowed hard, watching the dark shadow cast against the wall. It was part her shadow, part Dr. Archer's. “I suppose he gave in to his shadow” she mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  She took a deep, long breath and said, “Nothing... nothing.” With this she rushed from the room where Darius had spent his last hours in desperation and loneliness while she was making love to Alan Rychman and had, for the first time since Boutine's death, felt whole again.

  Jessica Coran had to get away. She needed time alone to mull over the situation and the emotions the death of Dr. Darius had sent surging up to the surface. She was angry with Darius for committing suicide, especially after all that he had said to her about wishing to end his career with a solution to the grandest and most gruesome case he had ever witnessed firsthand, the case of the Claw.

  She had returned to the place on the harbor where she and Darius had breakfasted together, where they'd watched the ships in the channel. Alone now, she watched the sea gulls overhead. She recalled Darius' inner strength, his vibrant and tenacious will—which could not be overcome, she had thought, and yet he had given in.