24 Hours

He nodded in sympathy. “I’m scared, too.”

Abby’s mouth opened. “You are?”

He nodded again. His eyes were wet with tears.

Abby swallowed, then reached out and squeezed his little finger as if to reassure him.

Forty miles northeast of the cabin, on the outskirts of Jackson, Joe Hickey drove Karen’s Expedition southward on Interstate 55. Karen sat beside him, the small Igloo in her lap. Hickey reached into his pocket and pulled out a long silk scarf he’d taken from the Jenningses’ laundry room.

“Put this over your eyes.”

Karen tied the scarf around her head without argument. “Are we getting close?”

“Less than an hour. Don’t ask me anything else. I might change my mind about the insulin.”

“I won’t talk at all.”

“No, talk,” he said. “I like your voice. It’s got class, you know?”

Though blindfolded, Karen turned to him with amazement.

In the heart of Jackson, in the elite subdivision of Eastover, a white-columned mansion stood gleaming in the beams of spotlights fixed to stately oak trees. On the circular driveway before the house sat a yellow 1932 Duesenberg, the dazzling cornerstone of a vintage car collection of which its owner had spent the better part of the last year divesting himself.

Inside the mansion, Dr. James McDill, owner of both the Duesenberg and the mansion, sat across the dinner table from his wife, Margaret. He felt a deep apprehension when he looked at her. Over the past twelve months, she had lost twenty pounds, and she’d weighed only one hundred twenty-five to start with. McDill wasn’t in the best shape himself. But after weeks of personal struggle, he was about to speak his mind on a very sensitive matter. He knew the reaction that would follow, but he had no choice. The closer the convention got, the more convinced he became that he was right. Time and reflection had brought it all back to him, particularly the things they had said in passing.

He put down his fork. “Margaret, I know you don’t want me to bring this up again. But I’ve got to.”

His wife’s spoon clattered against her bone china plate. “Why?” she asked in a voice that could have shaved glass. “Why do you have to?”

McDill sighed. He was a cardiovascular surgeon of wide experience, but he had never approached any surgery with the trepidation with which he now faced his wife. “Maybe because it happened exactly a year ago. Maybe because of the things they told us. I couldn’t get it out of my mind in the OR this morning. How this thing has affected our lives. Poisoned them.”

“Not mine. Yours! Your life.”

“For God’s sake, Margaret. The convention started tonight on the coast. We’re not there, and for one reason. Because what happened last year is still controlling us.”

Her mouth opened in shock. “You wish you were there now? My God!”

“No. But we were wrong not to go to the police a year ago. And I have a very bad feeling now. That woman told me they’d done it before, and I believed her. She said they’d done it to other doctors. They took advantage of the convention … of our separation. Margaret, what if it’s happening again? Right now?”

“Stop it!” she said in a strangled whisper. “Don’t you remember what they said? They’ll kill Peter! You want to go to the police now? A year after the fact? Don’t you know what would happen? You’re so naive!”

McDill laid both hands on the dinner table. “We’ve got to face this. We simply cannot let what happened to us happen to another family.”

“To us? What happened to you, James? You sat in a hotel room with some slut for a night. Don’t you ever think for one minute of anyone but yourself? Peter was traumatized!”

“Of course I think about Peter! But I refuse to let another child go through what he did because of our cowardice.”

Margaret wrapped her arms tight around herself and began rocking back and forth in the chair, like schizophrenics McDill had seen in medical school. “If only you hadn’t left us here alone,” she murmured. “All alone … Margaret and Peter … alone and unprotected.”

McDill fought the stab of guilt this produced. “Margaret—”

“Medical convention, my foot,” she hissed, her eyes going narrow. “It was that goddamned car show.”

“Margaret, please—”

He fell silent as their eleven-year-old son appeared in the dining room door. Peter was a pale, thin boy, and his eyes never settled in one place long.

“What’s the matter?” he asked timidly. “Why are you guys yelling?”

“Just a misunderstanding, son. I had a tough surgery today, and we were discussing some tax problems. I lost my temper. Nothing for you to worry about. What time are you going over to Jimmy’s?”

“His dad is picking me up in a minute.”

Margaret took a gulp of wine and said, “Are you sure you want to spend the night over there tonight, darling?”

“Yeah. Unless … unless you don’t want me to.”

“I like having my baby under this roof,” Margaret cooed.

“Nonsense,” said McDill. “Go have some fun, son. You’ve been studying too hard this week.”

A car horn sounded outside.