Before and After

When the chief of police comes to question Jacob Reiser about the brutal murder of his teenage girlfriend, it throws the entire family into a feud laced with guilt and questions of loyalty. 40,000 first printing. $50,000 ad/promo. Movie tie-in.

Before and After



PART I



CAROLYN

She wasn't on ER, never was during the day when she had patients, but they called her in on it. She was feeling around Jennifer Foyle's neck and groin for tenderness, talking over the girl's curly head, speaking for some reason about smallpox, Jennifer's mother insisting that one of these days they'd all pay for discontinuing vaccinations--the mother rolled up her blue flowered blouse sleeve and showed off a large mark, very badly done. She speculated that AIDS might be the result of this generation's having missed their vaccinations. Maybe, Carolyn thought, she just wanted everyone else to have a crack at a scar like that, which was as large as the gold locket she wore around her neck, and pebbled.

Then Karen poked her head in without knocking and told her she was needed downstairs. "Really right away," she added with mock sternness, because she knew Carolyn's propensity for thoroughness, the fetish she made of finishing consultations neatly and carefully so that everything was understood, every question answered.

Grudgingly, Carolyn wrapped things up. "Okay, kid," she said direct to Jennifer, who giggled. "Nothing wrong that a little preventive antibiotic won't take care of." She wrote the prescription, smiled at the child and touched her sweet bare shoulder reassuringly, and hurried out the back way because the waiting room was full and the mothers there would, when they saw her heading out, either stop her for one quick question or simply be offended, in spite of reason, thatshe was running out on them. The only departure a group of mothers would countenance without muttering was that of an OB-GYN on the way to a delivery. "Make my apologies," she called to Karen as she went. "See if you can push everything back an hour."

She had listened so often to her own squishy footsteps along the corridors--the professional building was attached to the hospital, and all of it was paved with the same dark brown composition flooring--that sometimes she thought the sound of hurrying feet was the doctor's real heartbeat. There was snow outside, it had been falling all morning, so it was going to be a car wreck, some kid wrapped around a pole or plowed into, at the bottom of a long slide down a hill. She had a faint pang of anxiety about Jacob, out there after school, at large like all the others. (Judith would have been home by now, off the bus and straight into the warm kitchen.) But she had mostly learned to quash those: there's no way for a pediatrician to try out every catastrophe on her own children. Anyway, the statistics were with them, for what they were worth--were with anybody, one by one.

Teenagers in car wrecks, she thought, pushing through swinging doors. They were bad enough for anybody, of course--the unexpectedness, the terrible instant consequences--but they were worse for teenagers. Worst case, there'd be a death or a maiming so heartlessly premature. But even if no one is hurt, even if it's just angry parents and a draw on the deductible, she had seen so much still-fresh confidence shattered that way, had seen such nasty psychological fallout. You might think it would be chastening, maybe get the boys especially to learn a little care and self-control. But an accident rarely seemed to yield more good than bad.

She thought this as she made the last turn to the emergency room, and already she could feel the anxiety rolling toward her in waves. She had passed two nurses and an orderly rushing the other way, and their nods had something in them of a familiar tension reserved for the awful days, the shocking injuries. This was a small town, a small hospital--everyone saw everything, or heard about it in a minute and a half. Not good, she thought. Distinctly not good.

 


The curtains were pulled around the far bed but she could see an unholy number of pants legs showing out underneath. Actually, thecurtains weren't entirely closed--too late to bother protecting anyone's privacy; if anything, there was anger in the parting of the protective drapes, the sloppiness of a furious assertion: Look! See what we're dealing with in here! She saw an elbow, gesturing, protrude from the opening as she approached--Trygve Hanson's, it looked like, the oldest doctor on the staff, the one who had delivered and doctored three-quarters of the town before the OB-GYN newcomers and the cardiac and thoracic men and she and the other pediatricians moved in to split things between them.

Carolyn ducked in without disturbing the curtains. It was steamy inside the little tent and all of them were sweaty. But when she focused in, she understood that it wasn't the heat that was making them uncomfortable. Still on the gurney on which she'd been wheeled in was a girl with her skull stove in. It was bashed, collapsed like a beer can, one of the younger doctors indelicately put it. Her hair was almost entirely bloody, one side of her face yellow to purple to brown--she was the kind of sight that renders a doctor an amateur, innocent of every hope of therapy or repair. She wished she could simply swoon and be carried out like any ordinary witness.

Carolyn took a deep disciplined breath. "Rape?" she asked, though the preferred phrase, borrowed from the law, would have been less loaded, softened by terror and anger to "sexual assault."

"Unlikely," said Tom McAnally. "She was fully dressed, just as you see her. In Tuttle's field--you know, over there where they keep the horses, behind that split-rail fence on Poor Farm Road?"

"No coat, no hat?"

"Looks like not." He cleared his throat like a reluctant boy asked to recite. "She was lying in the snow. Melted the snow down to the ground, they said."

Carolyn saw it obediently, a large pink circle, as if someone had spilled punch on ice. "You think this--happened--somewhere else."

Tom McAnally was looking at the girl's ankles. Her socks were drenched; he peeled them down delicately. "Clearly, somebody dumped her," he said sullenly to her feet. "But she died en route. Had a little pulse when they found her." The girl's jeans were bloody. It was only her head that had been mauled, though, and incidentally her neck, and her ear torn, but that was more than enough. A few suggestionswere made of where to probe, what to look at. Tom said, standing, "Well, the coroner will have to go over her with a fine-toothed comb. We can't poke around under her fingernails to see if she scratched the bastard or anything." He glanced away as if the whole thing made him ashamed to look straight at them. He was a very large man with an impassive face; clearly his emotions caused him trouble he didn't like to talk about.

"Do we know who this is?" Carolyn asked, her voice almost gone.

"Martha Taverner," Tom said furiously, as if he might be challenged.

"Martha Taverner! I know--you know her, don't you?"

"Me, you mean?" Trygve asked, and cleared his throat. "I did a section on her mother for this one. Early, I remember, maybe thirty-five weeks. Don't remember why, but we had to. She was big as a full-term." He stared at a pleat in the no-color curtain. "God, was there cheering. They only had boys, generations of boys, the Taverners. They finally got their girl." He pulled in one long, shuddering breath. "Hell of a sight for me to see just before I retire." He said that softly. "Nobody ever taught us how to deal with barbarians, and forty years of medicine sure as hell never brought me any closer." He turned and pushed out into the room, as if he'd had enough of all of them.

Carolyn stood staring at the mess of the girl's head--here and there you could almost see, though you'd be guessing, that she was blond, that she was maybe sixteen or seventeen. She knew that because the girl had been in Jacob's class all the way along. When he gave a...