by McBain, Ed
“How is he?” Cindy asked.
“The arm is bad,” the doctor said. “I gave him a shot of penicillin, and an antirabies shot for the bites, but I’m still not sure they’ll do the trick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we may have to amputate.”
“Amputate? What’s he going to do without his right arm? How can he possibly do anything without his arm? You don’t really mean …”
“We’ll have to watch it and see. It’s a little early to tell now.” The doctor paused. “His hand is bitten, too. The same kind of bite that’s all along his arm. Maybe a dog …” He shook his head.
“But will he be all right?”
“Will he live, do you mean? Yes, he’ll live. He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s suffering from shock and exposure, but he’ll live. He may be a little delirious during the night. He was mumbling something about bugs and rats and boats. I imagine he had a rough time.”
Cindy nodded and bit her lip.
“I’ve given him something to make him sleep, and I want you to fill this prescription in the morning, and give him two capsules if he has any trouble sleeping any time tomorrow. I’ll drop around again sometime in the afternoon to see how he’s doing.”
“All right,” Cindy said dully.
“The important thing now is rest.”
“The arm …”
“If it has to be amputated, we’ll take him to a hospital. You don’t have to … Well, what I mean to say, there are a lot of men who are useful citizens of our community, men without arms or legs, men with even more severe handicaps. It isn’t the worst—”
“Black men?” Molly said softly.
The doctor eyed her levelly. “Black men,” he said. He put the cap back on his fountain pen and rose.
“How much is that, Doctor?” Cindy asked.
“You can pay me at the end of treatment,” the doctor said. “I suggest you all get some sleep now. If the arm is infected … Well, we’ll see.”
He put on his overcoat, whispered, “Good night,” and then left the apartment.
He awoke at five-twenty. He sat upright in his bed, and he clenched his fists and screamed, bringing Cindy and Molly to his bedside. He stared at them blankly, and then he sank back against the pillows and said, “Why do I have to keep running? Why? Why? Why?”
And because Cindy thought he was referring to Luis’ death, she stroked his forehead and said, “The police found the killer, Johnny. It’s all right now. It’s all right.”
And only Johnny Lane knew that it wasn’t all right, and that maybe it would never be.
About the Author
Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1954 by Ed McBain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3933-8
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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