That same day, Tuesday, November 20, 1:15 P.M.

Hampton Junction

“I read your transcript today,” Mark said to Lucy, as they shared a late lunch of soup and salad at his kitchen table. “No wonder you handled yourself so well with my patients.”

She chuckled, with her mouth full of lettuce. “My past was no secret, if you’d read your mail lately. That’s quite a pile on your desk.”

“It’s a bad habit of mine, avoiding mail. All I seem to get is forms, bills, and professional questionnaires. I hate paper-maze stuff.”

“Join the paperless society and use e-mail.”

“I did. That gave me even more junk to deal with, so I canceled it.”

“I’m surprised. You being way out here yet not wired-”

“Oh, I’m on the net and have necessary passwords that let me access labs and X-ray departments to get test results.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he didn’t want this sophisticated, world-traveled lady to think he was a hick.

“It’s just that I never met anybody in America who doesn’t have e-mail,” she said.

He grinned and held out his arm. “Want to touch me to see if I’m real?”

She laughed, skewering what looked like half a head of Romaine with her fork and toasting him with it.

“Tell me about where you were stationed with Médecins du Globe,” he said, figuring he’d mangled the pronunciation.

Her smile vanished. “I’m afraid it was the grand misery tour, from Papua New Guinea tribal wars to refugee camps in Somalia, Rwanda, Bosnia, and Albania.”

There was hardness in her voice that told him she didn’t want to talk about it. “I can only imagine what you’ve seen,” he said, after casting about for something to say. It sounded lame.

She remained quiet for a few seconds, then asked, “You were never tempted to join? Obviously you have a taste for challenge, working out here.”

“No, never tempted.”

“Why? Most of the time we’re not getting shot at, if that’s what you mean. Much of the work is a lot like this morning. Sick people come in, tell you what’s the matter, and you treat them. Except we deal out of tents and the backs of trucks.”

He noticed how she talked about the work as if it were ongoing for her. As for her making it sound routine, “Yeah, right,” he said. “You guys are awesome. It sure explains how you seemed so comfortable handling my patients. This practice must seem like child’s play compared to what you’re used to.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upward like a pair of mischievous quotation marks. “Well, we did have distractions in the field that you don’t, like local warlords to keep happy, and creepy crawlies in our sleeping bags, which I can definitely say I do not miss.”

“Don’t sell the Adirondacks short in the creepy crawlies department.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was in medical school I did a rotation through an ER in Lake Placid. A hiker came in with puncture marks on his leg claiming a rattler bit him.”

“I thought there weren’t any poisonous snakes in upstate New York.”

“That’s exactly what they told the hiker in ER. Wouldn’t give him antivenom.”

“So what did he do?”

Mark’s grin widened. “Went back to the trail where the damn thing attacked him, found it, and killed it with a tire iron. He returned to the hospital and threw it on the desk of the triage nurse. He got the shot.”

Lucy started to laugh. “No!”

“Saw it with my own eyes. It was even in the journals. Apparently the rattler escaped from a reptile zoo nearby. Taught me to always believe the patient.” He glanced at his watch and pushed away from the table. “We’ve got to get moving. House calls.”

Lucy followed Mark’s directions along an unplowed back road. A brilliant sky provided the perfect blue to contrast with the fresh snow, the sun cast a glitter over everything, and the mountainous contours in the distance seductively beckoned him to ski their curves.

“You know what I love about the first winter storm?” Lucy said as she navigated the coiling road much faster than Mark would have liked.

“What?” He began to keep a wary eye on the ditch, as if that would protect them any.

“Overnight it smooths away all the boundaries, curbs, sidewalks, roads – the things that tell us where to go or what lines to stay between – and makes a place seem all so open, as if for once we can go any which way we want and ignore the rules.”

“Really.” Pressed against the passenger door as she slithered through yet another turn, he wondered if she meant it literally. “How come you dropped out from all the excitement of Médecins du Globe to take a residency in family medicine?” Perhaps if he got her talking, she’d slow down.

“There are only so many nights a person can sleep on the ground worried about bullets and bugs. I was due to come home.”

“Where’s that now?”

“New York. I can’t get enough of the city.”

Like all the other women he knew. “So how did you like McGill?”

“Ah, Montréal,” she said, leaving out the t and pronouncing the city’s name the French way. The ease with which she slipped into the accent suggested a facility with the language rather than affectation. “Wonderful.”

“I take it you speak French?”

They weaved through an S that should have qualified them for the Grand Prix circuit, and a smile created tiny creases around her eyes.

He had to admit she was a superb driver.

“Raised with it,” she said. “My mother was French.”

“But O’Connor is Irish.”

“That’s Dad. He worked for a petrochemical company when he met Mom during a posting in Montréal. Fire meeting fire, those two. For my brothers and me, it was like living between two opera stars – passion personified.”

“You grew up in Montreal?”

“First years of my life only. Dad led us all over the world, including the Middle East. I guess that’s where I inherited my wanderlust. But enough about me. Tell me your story, Dr. Mark Roper, starting with what the hell happened to you last night. I presume it’s got something to do with why you don’t have wheels today.”

Should he confide the events of the last few weeks to her? Part of the curriculum he promised residents included exposure to the world of a country coroner, so why not? After all, it would be no different than trusting her with medically confidential material in his files. “You read about the body of Chaz Braden’s wife being found near here?”

“Who at NYCH hasn’t? I also saw your name in the paper, and Dan’s too, come to think of it, in connection with the investigation.” Her eyes widened. “Does that case have to do with last night?”

“I’m afraid so.” He began to relate the events that had unfolded since he and Dan discovered the remains at the bottom of Trout Lake. As the story progressed and he recounted his childhood impressions of Kelly, Lucy’s expression grew somber. When he described what he’d found in his father’s medical files, quoting parts of the letter by memory, she shook her head.

“That ill-starred woman,” she said. “To sound so happy – yet be on the brink of her death. Do you have any idea who the man was?”

“No,” he answered, a little too quickly, and moved on to describe how Chaz Braden had been a suspect at the time of the disappearance, then cleared by the police. He also filled her in on the file Everett had given him. He left out a lot, too, said nothing about Chaz’s or anyone else’s behavior at the funeral, and, when recounting the previous night’s shooting, made no mention of who he suspected had been the man with the rifle. After all, she was a resident in the hospital where Braden worked. Whatever he thought of the creep, he had no right to share his suspicions. They could blight any future teacher-resident relationship she might be obliged to have with Chaz as part of her program.