FIRST CHAPTER

Prologue:
Westport, Connecticut
Wednesday, October 10


Edith Howell didn't recognize the return address on the ivory-colored envelope she found in her post office box. She was tempted to just throw it out; so much junk mail these days was disguised as personal letters. But it might be something important, a nagging voice said. So she sighed and put it at the bottom of her stack of mail, after the AARP bulletin. She would go through all of it when she got to the park.

She was slightly tired by the time she reached her favorite stone bench overlooking the Saugatuck River, in the small park borderin the Westport Library. But the quarter-mile walk had been worth it, both for the view and her sense of accomplishment.

Putting down the cappuccino and biscotti she had brought, Edith went through her mail while she sat in the sun. The first few envelopes she decided were clearly junk mail, and she put them aside without opening them. The next two were bills, which she quickly checked and then put in the pocket of her windbreaker.

There was a letter from her daughter! Edith felt the thick envelope and smiled. It must contain pictures of her new grandson. She put it next to her on the bench. She would save the letter and the pictures for last.

She took the lid off the cappuccino and tasted it: sweet, just the way she liked it. She nibbled on the biscotti and drank the coffee as she went through the rest of the mail.

When she finally reached the ivory envelope again she frowned. She opened it and slid out the folded letter. It seemed to be stuck, so she moistened her thumb and forefinger with her tongue and pulled the letter open.

Edith began reading, and halfway down the page realized she didn't know what she had just read. I must not be paying attention, she thought; I'm so eager to see the baby's pictures. Maybe I can afford to fly out to visit them next month. She licked some biscotti crumbs from her fingers and started the letter again. Again she couldn't remember what she had just read. Absently, she noticed that her damp fingertips stuck to the letter and left impressions.

Edith began to feel funny. First she felt a slight pain in her stomach. She assumed it was because of the walk, and she unzipped her windbreaker a little. That didn't help. Then the pain got worse and she became alarmed. She looked around to see if there were anyone else nearby, but she was alone. Suddenly Edith started to choke. She coughed until her eyes watered. When her vision cleared, she saw droplets of bright red blood on her yellow slacks.

"Oh my God!" she whispered, terrified.

As she struggled to stand, she knocked her mail off the bench. The last thing she did was to bend down to take her daughter's letter from the grass at her feet. Then Edith dropped into blackness, and her body tumbled down the short incline into the river, her hand clutching the pictures of the new grandson she would never see.

•     •     •

Across town Joel Thomas kissed his wife and dropped her off at the train station. Then he went through his usual routine before he drove to work in Greenwich. He parked, got a cup of coffee and a sweet roll, and walked to the Saugatuck Post Office to pick up their mail. As he slild into his BMW, he gulped down half the sweet black coffee and took a big bite of the roll; he always needed a caffeine and sugar kick to get him going. And this morning he had a big presentation.

Joel went through the mail as he sat in his car. He put the catalogs and junk mail aside, to be thrown out; he tucked the bills in his briefcase. He smiled when he saw Highlights magazine; it was his daughter Jenna's first mail as a big girl.

When he got to the ivory envelope, he paused, He didn't recognize the return address. Wondering who had sent it, he tore open the envelope and took out the letter. His fingers were sticky with icing and stuck to the letter, so he licked them as he read. He was puzzled by the letter and turned it over, trying to figure out why the person had sent it. Finally he gave up and put it with the junk mail.

He backed out of his spot and headed toward the turnoff to I-95. Almost at once he got a sharp pain in his stomach. He berated himself for taking caffeine when his doctor had told him to cut back. He dumped the rest of the sweet roll in the bag and put the coffee in the cup holder.

Joel began to choke on something and started coughing. Liquid splattered his steering wheel, and he was horrified to see that the tiny droplets were red. All thoughts of his presentation went out of his head. He had to get to Norwalk Hospital.

He was about to turn the wheel to the left when an excruciating pain in his gut hit him.

Reflexively, he shut his eyes against the pain. His foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor and the car lunged straight ahead. Joel's eyes were still closed when the BMW slammed into one of the concrete supports of I-95, accordioned into it and exploded into flames.

•     •     •

"Hon, can you reach in my pocket for my keys?"

Both of Herb Rickman's arms were full; in one arm he had a week's worth of mail he had just picked up from the neighbor, and in the other arm he had his baby son.

While Cindy unlocked the door, Herb leaned over and nuzzled her neck.

"Herb!" she said, blushing. "The neighbors could be watching."

Herb followed her into the foyer, grinning, and dumped the mail on a nearby table. He took the baby into the living room and started to toss him up in the air over his head.

"Honey, put him down," Cindy said. "You've been tossing him too much and he is going to return the favor. He is going to spit up all over you and then you're going to be sorry."

"You're a tough little guy, aren't you, Justin?" Herb said, kissing him. But he sat the baby on the floor. "I'll get the rest of the luggage out of the car."

Cindy went through the mail as she kept an eye on Justin. He was teething and seemed a little out of sorts. The poor little guy's gums must hurt, she thought. She got a big cookie out of her bag and put it in his lap. Justin sat looking at it.

"Here's something for you to chew on, muffin."

The mail included the usual bills, which she put in a pile, and junk mail that she threw out without opening. An ivory envelope caught her attention. It was addressed to her, but she didn't recognize the return address.

She had just torn open the envelope and pulled out the letter, when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and listened. "What? You had to do what?" She dropped the letter and ran to the window, motioning Herb to hurry in.

Justin had the cookie in his hands and was lifting it to his open mouth. But when he saw the letter flutter to the floor, he dropped the cookie and crawled over to investigate.

Herb came through the door, arms full of luggage, panting. "What is it?"

"They just put mother in the hospital," she said.

"But she was fine when we left."

"Well, something happened. Dad can't tell me all the details, but they called the ambulance."

Justin reached the letter and stretched out his chubby little fingers.

"Where did they take her?" Herb asked.

"City Hospital."

"Not there! That's the worst place. She'll get no care, and they have the highest rate of nosocomial infection in the city."

"You're a doctor," Cindy pleaded. "Get her transferred somewhere good."

While Herb made a call and Cindy watched and listened nervously, Justin tried to pick up the letter. But he didn't have the dexterity. So he got on his tummy and held it down while he chewed off a corner.

Justin was chewing happily and watching his parents when he started to choke quietly. Herb and Cindy didn't notice.

His choking got louder and Herb finally caught sight of him. He turned with terror in his face and ran toward Justin.

The baby was staring at him and turning blue. As Herb reached him, his eyes began to close. Herb leaned over and grabbed him, snatching him up.

For a moment he lost it. He gave the baby a shake. "Justin, Justin!" Herb said, as if trying to awaken him.

"No!" Cindy screamed. "What are you doing?"

As Herb held the baby, he suddenly threw up all over Herb's front, and started crying.

That snapped Herb out of it. He carefully checked the little boy, his mouth, his eyes, his breathing. Cindy stood beside him, her face white, looking from Justin to Herb. Finally Herb decided the baby was unharmed.

"Oh God, baby," Herb said, tears falling as he clutched the baby to his chest. Out of the corner of his eye Herb saw the chewed letter on the floor; he crumpled it angrily and threw it away. <>BR>
•     •     •

Late that evening she sat in her living room, bent over a beautiful rare wood coffee table, listening to Connecticut's local station on her television. She was folding letters and stuffing them into ivory envelopes. It was slow work because she was wearing rubber gloves. Even though the gloves were thin, they tended to grab the paper and wrinkle it or even tear it. But she couldn't take a chance of getting what the letters contained on her hands.

She lifted her head when the announcer gave the lead story: two deaths, a woman sho had drowned in the Saugatuck River, and a man who had lost control of his car and crashed into the I-95 overpass suports.

"Damn," she said quietly, as she made a check next to Howell and Thomas on her list. Then she put a question mark next to Rickman.

Her mouth became a thin line as she looked at another name on her list. I am so close, she thought. So close. She began circling the name with her pencil.

"We'll take everything from you, and you won't even know why," she whispered, pressing the pencil harder and harder with each narrowing spiral. "Your precious drug will go next, and then..." She pressed the lead into the paper until it obliterated the name: Grant Fraser.

SYNOPSIS of
One Of My Own

A childhood tragedy haunts Cy Wood: A fire swept through the house of his adoptive family, killing the father and leaving no trace of the mother or of Clea -- the tiny girl Cy loved and promised to protect.

Cy's life was saved that night by Dr. Wyatt--the partner of his late parents--who took Cy in and raised him. Whether because of Dr. Wyatt's charismatic influence or his own sense of guilt for not saving Clea, Cy became a fertility doctor and joined Dr. Wyatt's clinic. Though their styles clash, the two men are fiercely committed doctors whose patients love them.

The clinic is a cat's cradle of tensions created by individuals intent on their goals: Aggie, the head nurse idolizes Dr. Wyatt and keeps tabs on every person and event for him. Ham, the young and brilliant but overweight computer programmer, seems to be systematizing the clinic's information so she can search for something. Dr. Betty Winter, Cy's beautiful, black colleague is skilled and polished but cannot hide the fact she carries a heartbreaking secret. Mrs. Greene, an imperious and ultra-rich matron is the patron of the clinic. She has Dr. Wyatt in her clutches, and he is wild to shake her off.

Several sudden events combine to incite the clinic to implode. Dr. Winter accidently opens an envelope that contains finds a blank cashier's check in a strange place The office manager is found murdered in Bermuda. Cy--who for twenty years has searched for Clea in vain--sees a little girl whom he could swear is Clea's daughter. He even manages to get a sample of her DNA, intending to compare it to Clea's. What these events lead to explodes the secrets of everyone at the clinic, and exposes a world-shocking world-class game.

*******

FIRST CHAPTER

"Boo boo," she whispered.

A small hand stretched over the crib railing and touched the bloody disk on his forearm.

Cy glanced at her face, indistinct in the darkened room. Tears shimmered in her eyes. She felt sorry for him. Though Cy meant to be strong, that made his breath catch in his throat and he coughed to cover it up.

Although he wanted to pull his arm back and hide it, Cy let her look at it. He kept on brushing her wispy hair, gold even in the faint glow of the night light.

"It's all right, Clea," he whispered. "He didn't mean it. It was an accident."

But it wasn't all right, he thought. His father did mean it and he did it all the time. His eyes began to burn at the thought that he was so bad that someone wanted to hurt him. Cy knew tears were close, so he bit his lip hard.

He didn't want to upset Clea. His parents were fighting again tonight. Even through the thick walls, he could hear loud voices, heavy footsteps, crashing sounds. Clea had awakened and Cy had known, even though his room was at the other end of the long hall and Clea hadn't made a sound.

Cy always knew when Clea was frightened, and what he should do to calm her. She stood patiently now, leaning her head slightly forward as Cy drew a pink brush through her hair. The rhythm calmed her. It calmed him, too.

Now and then Clea lightly touched his arm or his face. She loved him. Somehow that made everything else bearable. If Clea loved him, he couldn't be as bad as they said he was. Cy would do anything for her.

"You go to him," she said.

Cy was startled by her comment. At night they didn't talk about these things. Somehow in the dark it was more upsetting. He couldn't look at Clea.

Cy wanted his father to love him. "I want to be close," he said. It was embarrassing to admit.

"But he hurts you."

Now his cheeks were hot. "I know." Shame made him grateful for the low lights.

From the beginning, Cy had known he was adopted. If there was something so terrible about him, why did they take him? And if they didn't want him, why did they keep him? He pushed that thought away. It brought up other thoughts--about why his real parents had given him up. About what he had done to make them not want him. Sometimes thinking about it made him curl up on the floor, hugging his knees.

"Is that dumb?" she asked. Her voice was fainter than before.

Now Cy's cheeks were flaming. "Love isn't smart, Clea," he said defensively. "It's" But he couldn't find the words.

Cy continued brushing. Small sparks of static electricity crackled in her hair. He must have pulled too hard; she winced.

"I like to be close, too," she said.

"Not when it gets me this," Cy said with vehemence, poking at his arm. "Not when it's as hot as a cigarette!"

He was shaking his head, and suddenly he saw something on his sleeve that took his breath away.

He was wearing his good luck pajamas, the ones with space ships all over them. With trembling fingers he probed the sleeve of his top. His index finger came through a hole burned in the fabric, right through the middle of a space ship. Somehow that hole was worse than burning his arm. His throat tightened and his eyes pinched.

A loud crash startled him. He turned toward the door and waited, dreading the approach of footsteps.

But there were no footsteps, just low voices. Though he didn't want to hear what they were saying, he always strained to listen. Cy didn't understand all of what he heard; just enough to know his father was hurting his mother.

Cy began brushing Clea's hair again, trying to focus only on her hair and not on what was happening down the hall in his parents' bedroom.

Cy heard a door slam and his heart began to beat so hard he could hear it in his ears. He brushed Clea's hair harder. A faint buttery smell drifted to his nose, and some part of his brain identified it as ozone. By brushing her hair, he made static electricity that changed the oxygen. The air smells like before a big storm, he thought. Cy's nose quivered, and he shuddered.

When Clea made a small snuffling sound, Cy suddenly realized how hard he was brushing. "I'm sorry, Clea," he said, hugging her. He was amazed when she pushed him away with a cry, and tottered and stumbled backward. Cy looked down at the sheet on the bottom of her crib where she had been standing. The light was faint, but he knew exactly what he saw in front of her pink-socked feet.

Small, smudged dark circles.

Cy felt his breath sucked out of him, leaving a mixture of fear, anger, and nausea. His father had hurt Clea. He had burned her feet, just like he burned Cy's arm. Clea.

She stared at him with wide eyes. When he reached for her, she made a low threatening moan. Her legs were trembling.

The look on Clea's face sickened Cy. It reminded him of a hurt dog he had once seen. He was frightened to see her like this and he felt terrible and selfish. Why didn't I notice she was hurt? Why did I think her tears were for me?

Holding her legs stiff, Clea bent over and stretched one hand toward the mattress in her crib, groping the area around her. What was she doing? Cy wondered. And then he knew. She was reaching for a worn, flat shape of terry cloth, her comfort puppy. It was always in her crib, but it wasn't there tonight.

Cy dropped to the floor and crawled on his stomach, searching for the stuffed toy. But he couldn't find it.

Cy got back to his feet, leaned on the crib railing and miserably watched her. She didn'twant him to brush her hair, and there was nothing else he could do for her. He was no longer able to hold it back. Hot tears dropped freely from his eyes, which hurt as if someone were pinching them from inside. Clea's face swam in front of him.

Through his sobs Cy heard something downstairs. He stopped crying to listen and heard it again. Was it the TV? What had his parents left on this time? he worried. He always had to go around checking the house, for burners left on, lit cigarettes, unlocked doors. Though he didn't want to take the chance that they would find him out of bed, he couldn't sleep until he knew.

"Clea, I hear something," he whispered, sniffling. "I'm going to check downstairs and then I'll come back to you."

"No. Don't go." she said. She stood stiffly, reaching one hand toward him and curling her fingers, beckoning him back.

"It's all right," he told her. "I'll be right back."

He padded quickly along the polished wood floors of the hallway to the head of the stairs. The front door was directly across from the bottom of the stairs. His bare feet flapped down the wood treads, his hands slid along the banister.

But before he reached the bottom step, the door exploded in a shower of wooden splinters and axe blades. Cy slipped in surprise and horror and fell back hard, sliding down the steps. Two bundled figures with masks and axes burst through and ran for him. Heavily gloved hands grabbed him by his arms and dragged him back toward the hole that had been the front door.

Cy's arms and legs had lost their bones with the first shock. His head fell back as he gaped up at them.

As they crossed the threshold, and Cy looked up under the windows of the house, a greater fear flamed through him and made his hands and fingers ache.

He flailed in the mens' grip, his legs doing a crazy dance, and he screamed. "No! I have to get Clea. No!"

The gloved hands didn't slow down until they dumped Cy in the yard, where other people were standing.

"Don't shush me!" a voice said angrily. "Nothing goes up like that. Not without help."

Cy lifted his chin in time to get scalding hot air blown in his face. His eyes blinked shut against the pain, but that made them burn more. A watery squint showed him nothing but orange-red. Then the orange-red took shape and he saw it was a house.

His eyes still streaming, Cy clawed and wriggled his way on his belly toward the front stairs. Hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him back.

Someone's long legs were suddenly in front of Cy, blocking his view. Cy struggled to get around him. The legs collapsed next to him and a hand grabbed his shoulder hard and shook him.

"Where is Clea?" An angry face with glasses was inches from his, but his eyes weren't focusing.

Cy couldn't breathe, let alone speak.

"Is she in there? Did you leave her in there?" Cy felt the fingers digging into his collarbone and he moaned.

A loud crash followed a creaking, tearing sound as something large inside the house gave way. Cy's head snapped up. He tore away the man's hand and scrambled to his feet.

"No!" he shrieked, running toward the fire.

A beam crashed with flames and sparks, showering Cy. His pajama top caught fire and he tore at his chest, screaming. In the pain he forgot Clea.

The man who had grabbed him, yanked him into his arms and threw him to the ground. He rolled Cy over and over until Cy thought he would throw up from the pain or the rolling. Faintly he heard sirens wailing. The last thing he remembered was hands lifting him into that wailing sound.

Cy awakened alone in the dark. The smell of smoke still filled his nose. Though burns on his chest and arms throbbed, what tortured him was the certainty that Clea was dead because he had left her behind. His last images of her, hand reaching out for him, pink-socked foot making bloodprints in her crib, were the worst. Sobs wracked his stomach. Pushing his fists into his eyes to rub away the sight, he found her small pink hairbrush clutched in his hand.