Do No Harm (2002) Page 12

  The thought of the assailant free, plotting and moving among others, made David's mouth tighten. "Not yet."

  "I heard he got Sandra too. Is she okay?" Nancy's voice was flat and droning, the words all blending together.

  "She'll have some scarring, but she should be all right."

  "Did she swallow any?"

  He shook his head, then remembered Nancy couldn't see him. "No," he said.

  "Where is she?"

  "Her mother took her up north. She's being treated at Stanford, closer to home. I'm not sure if she's coming back."

  They sat in silence. The overhead lights were giving him a headache.

  "I don't want to work anymore," Nancy said. "Don't want to be around people." A bit of drool ran from the corner of her mouth down her cheek, tracing the edge of a bolster.

  "You can see about that later. Work can help pull you through a tough time." He sounded platitudinous and foolish, even to himself.

  Her head looked like that of a mutant insect in a '50s fear film. "I don't want to help others," she said. "Not anymore."

  "Okay," David said. "Okay."

  "They said I can't have a corneal transplant."

  "No," David said. "I'm so sorry."

  "Why" --she paused, sucking air-- "why not? Why won't they let me?"

  "You lost over half of your cornea. I'm afraid there's not enough to sew into."

  "Either eye?"

  "I'm afraid not." I'm afraid, I'm afraid--he thought about the construct and how little it conveyed, how clinical it sounded. This woman was blind and terribly scarred. When she could finally eat solid foods again, she'd experience pain swallowing and she'd probably regurgitate her food with some regularity. Her esophagus would scar and tighten, causing strictures. I'm afraid didn't quite cover the bases.

  She was crying softly, her head weakly shaking. Her eyes could no longer produce tears. "I don't want to be blind," she sobbed. "I want to see things. Grass, people, movies. What did I do? What did I do?"

  He stood dumbly over her, both of them painted with lines of exquisite sunset. "Nothing. You did nothing to deserve this."

  "Is Sandra blind?"

  "No, she was fortunate. The alkali didn't go in her eyes." Fortunate. Another doctor's crutch.

  Hoarse, rasping sobs. "Why me and not her?"

  David took her hand quietly and sat with her as she drifted back into a drugged sleep. He did not have an answer.

  The Nintendo Gameboy made a woeful noise in Dalton's hands, and he cursed and banged it on his knee. "Game over," he said. "Wanna play?" He offered the unit to Yale, who regarded it disdainfully for a moment before snapping to attention at movement by the ER doors.

  An elderly woman emerged, limped across the ambulance bay, and climbed into a blue Volvo. Yale grimaced and settled back on his stool within the cramped confines of the ambulance.

  As the Volvo sputtered up the ramp and out of sight, Dalton strained to make out the license plate through the night air. "One Ocean Sam Charles three four seven," he recited.

  Yale remained statue-still, his eyes fixed on the ER doors.

  "Let's see," Dalton continued. "I'll take the four, which gives me three of a kind because of the red 'Vette and the Dodge Ram. What do you want? Hey--what do you want?"

  Yale's eyes flickered over to Dalton. "Whatever."

  "Not whatever. You have to pick something. Why don't you take the seven, which'll give you two pairs."

  "Fine," Yale said. "I'll take the seven."

  "Or you could take the four and go for a straight."

  "The four," Yale said. "Great."

  "Well, which one?"

  Yale studied Dalton for what seemed a very long time. "The four will be fine."

  Dalton started up on the Gameboy again. "These goddamn stakeouts can really try your patience."

  "Indeed," Yale said.

  Chapter 20

  A black-and-white slowed as it passed Clyde, and he propped his cheek casually on his fist to block his face. His hands, slick with sweat, slid on the steering wheel until he tightened them. He drove up and down Le Conte under the glare of the morning sun, but there were no parking spaces open, so he pulled into the lot by the deserted Macy's building and parked in the far corner behind a Dumpster. He sat, his mouth pressed against the plush top of the steering wheel, one hand hanging limply over the gearshift that protruded from the steering column.

  His car, a '92 Ford Crown Victoria, was brown, though the paint had chipped on the hood and trunk, revealing the dull, oxidizing metal beneath. Rust had eaten through the wheel wells, and the tires were worn nearly smooth in the middles. Carl's Jr. Superstar wrappers, Barq's root beer cans, and other pieces of trash littered the backseat and rear shelf. The beige upholstered interior reeked of smoke and ketchup. Cigarette burns had left holes in the seat cushions, the fringes black and hard.

  Clyde pulled a packet of Noblemen's Zinc Lozenges from the glove box. The orange suckers were individually sealed into a foil sheet in rows of three. He dug with his nail a few times to catch and lift the corner of the foil backside from the thin plastic covering, then peeled back the foil and popped a lozenge in his mouth. Then he tore free a square containing another lozenge, careful to bend the sheet first along the perforations, and held it in a sweaty hand.

  He pulled his navy corduroy hat low over his eyes, then removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. Beneath his sweatshirt, his scrub top, moist with sweat, clung to his body. He hid his ball-chain necklace with its dangling key in the dirty ashtray on the passenger door.

  After a moment, he pulled the gearshift down into DRIVE and sat perfectly still, his foot on the brake. His lips, fleshy and moist, moved slightly. He murmured to himself as if debating whether he should drive away.

  He shoved the shift lever back up to P and got out. Leaving his keys hidden atop the left rear tire, he headed for the hospital.

  The second morning of the stakeout had been nearly as uneventful as the first. Dalton leaned against the tint-windowed doors of the ambulance, gazing longingly up the ramp to the rectangle of blue sky. About every twenty minutes, Yale flicked a bit of lint from his pants or shirt; aside from that, he was still.

  Garcia and the other gardener had been back on their shift since five in the morning. Dalton and Yale had remained holed up in the ambulance overnight. Neither noticed the medicinal scent of the vehicle's interior anymore. It smelled of sweat, a browning apple core from Yale's lunch the previous day, mothballs from Dalton's shirt.

  "If nothing happens by noon, I'm gonna take a break," Dalton said. "Go home and check up on the kids and the sitter."

  "If nothing happens by noon, we're up a creek," Yale said.

  Day Three since the last attack. Assuming their guy, like most violent offenders who select random victims, was working on some kind of internal clock, their window was closing. There had only been a two-day gap between the first victims.

  "Maybe he retired," Dalton joked.

  Yale had a habit of sitting still when he spoke, keeping his hands at rest on his knees or the seat. "He's got a taste of it now. The power, the control." He moistened his lips with his tongue. "I'm worried he wised up and moved on. Switched locations on us. Two attacks establishes a pattern, maybe he knows we're waiting."

  "We can't wait much longer," Dalton said. "Only have overtime clearance for the weekend." He muttered something under his breath. "I wish we had the manpower to stake out the other ERs in the area."

  "They're on alert. That'll have to be good enough."

  Dalton gripped the stool and leaned back. "It's never good enough. Every one of these attacks we miss, it's a lifetime of--"

  Yale held up his hand and reached for his portable. "Yale, Yale, Garcia," crackled through. "Eyes up. Eyes up. Suspicious guy on the PCHS lot periphery, southeast corner. Keeping one hand under his sweatshirt. Looks like he's wearing scrub bottoms."

  "What's going on?"

  There was a full minute of silenc
e, which neither Yale nor Dalton interrupted.

  Blake finally cut in, announcing himself over the radio. "He's sort of lurking in the bushes over there. Got one eye on Garcia."

  "Did he make him?"

  "Don't think so, but I'm not sure he's gonna risk an assault with two gardeners right there. Guy looks fifty-one, fifty. Eyes all bugged out, talking to himself. If he is our guy, we got a real Kooky Lucy on our hands."

  Dalton had one hand on the door handle, but Yale tapped it and waved a slender finger. "Don't jump him. Could be a diversionary tactic. Grover, are you there?"

  They heard the rattle of the shopping cart when Grover broke in. "In the lot right above your heads. I'm on my way. Hard to move fast in these old motherfucking shoes."

  "Don't move too fast," Dalton growled.

  "Suspect is moving in, taking a closer look," Blake said.

  A vein throbbed in Yale's temple when he spoke. "Can you see what he has beneath his sweatshirt?"

  Dalton turned to Yale with pleading eyes. "Let's go, let's go," he hissed.

  "Blake, call Jenkins and Bronner, tell them to move into position behind him on Le Conte in case he bolts," Yale said into the radio. He swung open the back door and stepped out into the fresh air, inhaling deeply. "Let's go take a look."

  The two gardeners continued to work the ditch, removing a pipe of some kind, and Clyde waited in the shade of the trees, his cheeks puckering as he sucked on a lozenge. One of them glanced up briefly in his direction, then bent back down and adjusted something with a wrench.

  Clyde gazed back toward Le Conte and took a few steps in that direction before a woman pushing a stroller came into view on the sidewalk ahead. Backing up until his shoulders pressed against the concrete wall of the PCHS structure, he watched her. His gloved hand fondled the Pyrex beaker, making masturbatory bulges beneath his sweatshirt, until she disappeared from view. He turned back to the hospital, his wide jaw set, and took a few tentative steps toward the ambulance bay, his hands shaking.

  When he stepped from the cover of the bushes, he froze, his eyes tracking the homeless man pushing a shopping cart along the far edge of the drive-through. The man crossed behind the kiosks, heading his way. One of the gardeners spoke down into his chest, and then two men in shirts and ties broke from the shadows of the ambulance bay, one of them wearing dark sunglasses.

  Emitting a stifled yelp, Clyde scurried back toward Le Conte just as a patrol car pulled up to the curb. A tall, lean officer jumped out, one hand reaching for his pistol.

  When Clyde turned back to the hospital, the men in ties and the homeless man were heading for him in a dead sprint, and he shrieked and stumbled through the bushes along the side of the parking structure, losing his hat.

  Shouts filled the air and a police badge caught the sun and gleamed, and he ran, leaves whipping against his face, heading for the car ramp that led up onto one of the exposed lots. His jarring footsteps caused the alkali to lap up the sides of the Pyrex beaker, and then his sweatshirt spotted in the front and he screamed, his foot catching a tree root. He pitched forward and couldn't get his hand untangled from his sweatshirt to break his fall, so he struck the ground forcefully with his chest and cheek, the Pyrex beaker shattering beneath him.

  Wailing, hands scrabbling over his sweatshirt, he curled and writhed on the dirt at the base of a pine tree, and then they were there, tall discordant figures blocking out the sun and pointing guns--men in suits, a parking attendant, police officers, a homeless man. The sweatshirt pulled tight across his fat stomach, and every time it shifted, shards of Pyrex dug into his flesh, the alkali eating into healthy skin and open wounds alike.

  Hands reached out at him, but he fought them, clawing, and then a policeman's boot came hard in his side and he was screaming and jerking on the ground, yanking in vain at the sweatshirt.

  Loud, stabbing voices.

  "Don't touch him!"

  "He's got lye all over himself!"

  "Gloves! Gloves!"

  "Frisk him."

  "Grab that arm. Somebody grab that arm!"

  "I don't want to get the shit on me."

  "Call HazMat. Call Animal Control."

  He was flipped over onto his stomach and he bellowed, his mouth bent wide, dry lips cracking. A thread of saliva connected the corner of his mouth to a pine cone near his cheek. Cuffs clamped down hard around his wrists. A knee pinned his shoulder to the ground on either side and hands fluttered all around him--up the lengths of his legs, under his arms, in his crotch. Glass crunched beneath him, against his gut and chest.

  A cluster of onlookers gathered on the sidewalk at Le Conte.

  "Check the scrub top--there's a hidden pocket inside the breast."

  A hand scrabbling over his breast, darting into his inside pocket. Empty. "Ow, shit!" The man jumped back, wiping blue liquid off his hand.

  "Stand back! Stand back! Grab his arms. Stay clear of the sweatshirt. It's doused."

  One of the uniformed cops pressed a pistol to the back of Clyde's head and Clyde closed his eyes, but someone grabbed the barrel, pulling it away. "Are you fucking crazy? You can't do that."

  "Watch me."

  A scuffle. Someone fell. Searing pain.

  "You can't do it. It's too obvious."

  "There's press around."

  "Do we haul him in?"

  "There are civilians watching."

  The air smelled of rankled flesh. Clyde screamed as loud as he could, a high-pitched, girllike warble, his open mouth pressing into dirt and pine needles. The spasms in his throat distorted his words. "It hurts oh God it hurts."

  "I hope so, you motherfucker."

  "Now you know. Now you know."

  They stood back, framing his writhing body like trees fringing a pond. Faces smug with satisfaction. One of them crossed his arms.

  Clyde rocked and lurched like a trussed calf, his entire body shuddering, his arms pinned behind him. His sobs came as pained wet grunts. "Oh God it hurts. It hurts so bad. Three, two, one, stand back from back from oh my God no."

  "Should we bring him into the ER? We're gonna have to bring him in."

  "Fuck that." A wad of spit landed on his cheek. "Let him burn."

  Chapter 21

  DAVID heard them coming before he saw them--the loud bellow of a wounded animal and a crescendo of shuffling boots. The doors slammed open as the officers shoved the man through, and David lowered his chart and closed the door to the exam room he'd just left.

  Jenkins held an animal control come-along pole, the wire noose at the end of the shaft cinched around the wailing man's neck.

  "Oh God. Help me. Make it stop help me make it-- " Another loud, wavering cry.

  Jenkins released the spring catch and pulled the noose free. The man instantly collapsed. He lay facedown on the floor, his arms bent back behind him, wrists cuffed. Still gloved in white latex, his hands stuck up like some sort of plume.

  The officers stood in a half circle behind him.

  Jenkins flashed a cold grin at David. David looked from the gardeners to the homeless man to Yale and Dalton, realization dawning.

  David ran forward and crouched over the man. "What happened? What happened to him?"

  "Alkali," Yale said. "During our pursuit, he tripped and spilled on himself."

  "His sweatshirt is soaked. Bring me trauma shears. Someone bring trauma shears! How long ago did this happen?" David pulled a pair of gloves from a box on a nearby cart and pulled them on. "Get a stretcher!"

  Patients and staff had spilled out of the exam rooms and the Central Work Area into Hallway One, gawking. Leaving her post at the triage desk, Pat strode through the swinging doors behind the officers. Don stood in the middle of the hall behind David, hands stuffed into his physician's coat.

  "Clear the hall of patients," Dalton barked. "Now!" Doors slammed shut and patients scurried.

  The man's cheek pressed flat against the floor. Saliva sprayed the tile when he whimpered. David checked his pulse, which was racin
g. At first, he thought the man's face had been burnt, but then he realized the redness was severe acne. Wisps of hair wreathed his scalp, which was shiny with sweat.

  David would need to get the patient out of the cuffs to treat him. Right now, the man seemed more scared than dangerous. Posture limp and slumped. In case he became agitated, someone should be standing by with a high-potency neuroleptic for IM rapid tranquilization. However, the sight of someone waiting with a needle might alarm and anger him. If it came down to it, David would try to talk the patient into taking sedatives orally--it would be less violating and would make the man feel as though he were an active participant in his treatment. For now, he needed to be calmed and reassured.

  "You're in a safe place," David told him. "I'm here to take care of you. I need to ask you some questions. Are you taking any drugs?"

  A long drawn-out groan. Could mean yes, no, or nothing.

  "Is this alkali? I need to know if this is alkali."

  The man's head rocked up and down against the floor in a nod.

  David looked up at the officers. "How long ago did this happen?"

  "I don't know," Yale said. "Five minutes maybe."

  "Uncuff him. We have to get him out of this sweatshirt."

  Dalton shook his head. "No way, Doc. Ain't gonna happen."

  "Saline bottles!" David tried tearing the moist sweatshirt with his hands, but it didn't give. His gloves came away blue and he shot them off onto the floor and pulled on another pair. "Trauma shears--where are the trauma shears? And someone call psych--preferably Dr. Nwankwa. Give him a heads-up."

  The staff members stood still. Their stares, hardened with hatred for Clyde, were nearly tangible. The hall took on an eerie dream silence.

  David turned the man on his side; he rolled willingly. The entire front of his sweatshirt was doused in alkali. A few jagged edges of Pyrex protruded. The fabric smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. "They walked so slow," the man sputtered.

  "We'll give you something for the pain," David said. "Some morphine."

  The man shrieked and bucked. "No shots," he cried. "No needles."