Do No Harm (2002)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris. They raped and tortured girls in the back of their van, and recorded their screaming and pleading."

  "But . . . where . . . ?"

  "You can get the tapes at any number of places. Like the Amok Bookstore, which I believe you're familiar with."

  "Certainly a good place to find tools to scare the shit out of people," David said.

  "Make sure you let the flatfoots in on the joke so they're not running circles all day. I'll be enjoying myself thinking about what it'll do to your ego to tell the police you recognized the recording after playing it a few more times. They'll think you have some pretty perverse interests." In the background, a computer monitor hummed. "When I come over to install security equipment, remind me to set a phone trap on your line so we can trace incoming calls."

  "You're installing security equipment for me?"

  "Don't make me repeat myself. I'm laconic and impatient."

  David thanked Ed and set down the phone. He was not looking forward to calling Yale and stumbling through a fabrication about how he came to identify Clyde's recording.

  He stared at the ceiling, trying to bring it back into focus.

  Chapter 59

  DIANE'S footsteps echoed in the parking structure, the dull yellow glow of the lampposts turning her legs to elongated shadows on the concrete floor. The hospital had changed the arrangements; now all female employees parked in the PCHS usually reserved for the attendings. Because it was outside, well lit, and nearer to the hospital, it was a safer choice than the distant, enclosed P1 lot.

  Even so, the pre-dawn quiet of the structure tinged the air gloomy and cool, as though the rising sun couldn't compete with the chill of silence. Diane heard the cars rumbling by on Le Conte, though a tall line of trees blocked them from view.

  As the top tier of the parking structure provided the only access to the hospital, it was crammed with cars. A physician pulling out in a dark green BMW mock-saluted her, and she returned the wave, feeling slightly self-conscious about the gauze wrapped around her face. Though the bandages she wore were soft, they felt harsh against her raw skin. She practiced a smile beneath the wrap, testing the pain.

  A few minutes ago, she'd finally been cleared by ophtho, and she was relieved to be out of the hospital room. Before this week, she'd never suspected that boredom could be such an intense affliction.

  A fresh-faced security officer passed her with a nod and an obligatory double take. "Ma'am, would you like me to see you to your car?" he asked. "There's been some trouble lately."

  Evidently he thought she was a patient. An ironic smile touched her lips beneath the gauze when she realized he was right. "I'm aware of that," she said. "Too aware, in fact."

  A glimmer of recognition moved through his eyes, which she noted even through the dusty gray dawn air.

  "Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

  Diane smiled again, a hidden, ineffective gesture. "I'll be fine. My car's the next level down." She raised an arm, pointing.

  He glanced down the narrow concrete stairs at the line of cars he'd just patrolled. "I'd really prefer to escort you down." He was standing rigidly, shoulders back, chest forward. The posture seemed to match the "ma'am."

  "You're right," Diane said. "You probably should."

  They headed toward the thin, open set of stairs that led down to the next tier. His cheeks were flushed in neat, almost prepubescent circles. "Ma'am?"

  She tilted her head slightly, a gesture she'd picked up to show she was listening. Now that she'd lost half of her face.

  "I just want you to know, we're doing everything in our power to nail the bastard," he said. "Don't you worry."

  When she felt the pain through her cheeks, she realized she'd flashed another useless, reflexive smile. "Thank you," she said. "Officer."

  They emerged from the stairs. A few cars spotted the spaces sporadically; it was the farthest tier from the hospital, and usually abandoned. Her hand rustled in her bag for her keys. She heard a thud behind her and the sound of a body striking asphalt.

  When she turned, she nearly collided with Clyde. She gasped once, a sharp, screeching intake of air, and then his meaty hand was pressed over her mouth, hard, the bandages grinding into her wounds. Something metal flashed in his hand--a twenty-gauge needle--then she felt the point against her throat.

  Shock and pain were one and the same--sudden, intense, all-enveloping. Clyde's face was inches from hers, wide and thick.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the guard lying on his back on the ground, unconscious, a contusion blossoming across his temple. Beside him lay a sock where Clyde had dropped it. Judging from the few stray rocks that had spilled out, the sock's end had been weighted with white gravel.

  "You move," Clyde growled, "you'll be eating through your throat."

  Their closeness and position couldn't help but recall intimacy. His face was richly textured--the fat curl of his nostrils, the deep, pitted acne scars, the sparse patches of stubble and random, curling hairs. His loose belly pressed into her, filling the hollow of her back-drawn torso. A rich smell emanated from his pores, the smell of clogged sweat and sliced, low-grade meat gone slightly bad. He wore a pair of dirty green scrubs, and she felt the soft roll of his penis against her thigh.

  She was sucking air through her nose, moistening his index finger. Her face was hot with pain and fear.

  "Close your eyes," he growled through clenched teeth. "Didn't you learn your lesson?" The force of his words sent a soft spray across her face.

  She closed her eyes, her chest pounding, her breath coming so hard she thought she might hyperventilate. The smell of him choked out the air. She felt him growing hard through the thin fabric of the scrub bottoms.

  When he spoke again, his voice was different. Harder, more confirmed. "You can open your eyes now," he said. "I don't give a shit. I'm not scared of you. Or the guard they put here to protect people from me."

  It took her a few moments to force her eyes open. He was even closer, the tip of his nose brushing the bandage of her cheek beneath her eye.

  "You scream, I'll carve you up even worse. My little jack-o'-lantern." A smile spread his thick lips into a grin. "You tell him," he said. "You tell him I did this to you."

  Slowly, he released the hand over her mouth. Diane's eyes flickered to the security guard, but he still lay perfectly still. Any other guards would be at least several tiers away, and even if one of them could hear an interrupted cry over the noise of the cars on Le Conte, the needle's tip remained, pushing into her larynx.

  Clyde's laugh came as a shudder, a grunt that blew back her bangs. His breath was sour and rotten. "I'm gonna show you just how unafraid I am," he said.

  His hand disappeared from view, down to his waist. He pulled at the drawstring of his scrubs. She opened her mouth to scream, but his eyes flared wider, dead and cold, and the needle pushed deeper into her neck, threatening to break the skin.

  She tried to bring into focus a rape prevention class she'd taken in college, but its calm setting seemed distant and oddly irrelevant. A stream of maxims cascaded through her brain, and she tried to focus. What were the three steps she'd been taught? Something facile and probably defunct. Her scrambling mind grabbed on to the catchphrase: Fight, Personalize, Intimidate. She was too overpowered to fight.

  "Listen," she whispered, her voice trembling. "My name is Diane Allison Trace. I was born in Los Gatos, California. I swam in high school."

  His nostrils flared and his eyes seemed to withdraw into their deep cavities. "Don't," he said. "Don't. Shut up." The slur had returned, blurring his words together.

  "My mother died of breast cancer when I was eight, and I lived alone with my father." Diane fought off the panic sobbing that threatened to interrupt her speech, but her voice still wavered, filling with fear. "He sold insurance. Now he's--"

  Clyde slammed his hand over her mouth, gripping it hard, drawing her lips and cheeks forward in a half fist. She felt skin s
liding, wounds breaking open, hot razor blades of pain lashing across her face. His other hand gripped the back of her neck, hard. His hands seemed to encompass her whole head.

  His eyes were clouded, his forehead wrinkled under a fresh sheen of sweat. His mouth fought itself away from a frown. "I don't care," he said. He released the back of her neck and ripped his scrub bottoms down roughly. His forearm flexed against her stomach as he worked himself up. She sobbed against his hand, mucus leaking down onto his fingers.

  She prayed for a car to drive by, but it was the bottom tier of the lot and mostly deserted. Any scream would be terminated by the needle.

  He turned her around, bending her roughly over the trunk of her car. He yanked her scrubs down, pressing up against her. She started to scream finally, not caring anymore, but his other hand quickly blocked the cry before she could put anything into it.

  He bent her head back, and she saw his reflection in the rear window of her car, hunkered down behind her, sweaty face colored red with fear and excitement. He kicked her legs wide and reached with the hand holding the needle to pull down her underwear, but she thrashed on the trunk, preventing him.

  Thoughts streamed through her head, and she clamped her concentration around one, holding it. Step three: Intimidate. She felt a sudden, cold lucidity.

  She made herself go dead still and tried to say something calmly, though it was muffled by his hand. He stopped laboring behind her, confused by her abrupt shift in demeanor. "Huh?"

  She repeated herself, her voice calm and quiet beneath his hand.

  He released his hard grip on her mouth but kept his hand hovering over it, in case she tried to scream again.

  "All right," she said. "You win."

  He stared at the back of her head, nonplussed.

  She continued in the same low, assured voice. "You can fuck me."

  He withdrew from her, ever so slightly.

  "In fact, I want you to fuck me. But let me tell you something." She squirmed in his grip, twisting to face him. "You'd better fuck me long and hard." She glared at him, trying to pierce his eyes with her own. His face loosened, anger giving way to fear. She felt him going soft against her. His hand hovered, then withdrew.

  She knew her words--aggressive and sexual--would strike at the heart of his vulnerability. An incisive psychological attack was her last chance, so she continued. "I need a man with endurance," she said, spitting out the words. "I hope you're up for that. I hope you're man enough to fuck me how I need to be fucked."

  He released his other hand, baffled, and leaned back, pulling his weight off her. She reached back, yanking up her scrubs, not yet daring to scream. A crescent of sweat darkened his shirt at the collar. His face had turned pasty, almost totally devoid of color. He was mumbling to himself nervously, "Three, two, one. Step back from the door."

  His putty-fat cheeks quivered, then drew tight. He tried to say something to her, but the words came out a jumbled mess, an animal's low-throated bellow. Reduced again to the pathetic creature he was.

  He slapped her once, hard, across the face, and scampered across the lot, struggling up and over the concrete wall, the posts of his legs kicking in the air.

  Pain ringing through her slapped cheek, Diane waited until he dropped to the other side, then cried out as loud as she could manage.

  She sank down to the ground, bumper digging into her back, and tried to hold her throbbing face in her hands as she wept with relief.

  Chapter 60

  DAVID and Diane sat in perfect silence at their ends of the telephone. Listening to the quiet hum of the line, David watched the minute hand of the bronze clock in his study make a full rotation, then another. He was running late for his morning shift.

  Diane had just relayed the news of her near-rape, leaving him stunned. For the first time, the thought of Clyde elicited in David a cold, vengeful rage. The perfect dark outside his bedroom window mirrored his mood.

  "I'm leaving now for the hospital," he finally said. "Can I come see you?"

  "No. I don't want to see anyone right now." A long pause before she spoke again, her tone more recognizable. "You've got the night shift tomorrow, right? You can come upstairs and see me then. I'm the new permanent addition to the ninth floor. Me and a bad Monet print they hung across from the elevators."

  "And the wounds?"

  "Reopened. It set me back a few days, that's for sure. Won't help with the scarring either."

  "No. No, it won't."

  "He told me to be sure to tell you about his attacking me. He's using me to threaten you. To hurt you. To get you to back off."

  "I wish more than anything he'd come after me."

  "That probably would have been less effective."

  He considered this.

  "Hey, David? I know that what you found out about the study has replenished your store of empathy, but don't expect that from me. The first time, with the shower, well that was awful. But this. This was so much more personal. His smell, his dead eyes. There was nothing there behind those eyes. Nothing. He's already dead. Death masked in flesh and bones." He heard her breathing for a moment on the other end of the line. "I think if the police found him first and shot him, well that might be all right with me."

  "Right now," he said, "I'd have to agree."

  "You don't mean that."

  He wasn't sure if objecting would have been specious, so he didn't.

  "With all my involvement since his escape, I don't know how much good I've done," he said. "It seems like I've only made things worse."

  "I guess it's better to make a mistake than do nothing. Isn't it? Isn't it?"

  "Yes," he said slowly and with little conviction.

  They breathed together for a few moments.

  "I'm thinking maybe I should leave things in the hands of the cops," he said. "They're used to this game, these stakes. I have an ER to run. If I'd just focused on that from the beginning, neither of us would be in this mess."

  "Well, you do what you have to do." Diane sounded disappointed, though he couldn't tell if that had to do with him or the miserable position in which she'd found herself. Again. "I have to change my wrappings. I'll talk to you later."

  He hung up the phone and felt the bitter, distinct sensation of defeat settle over him like a noxious rainfall.

  The cockatoo immediately became animated when David withdrew the drape from the bronze cage, preening itself and gnawing at its black claw. Dressed in his white coat, ready for work, David regarded the bird with weary irritation.

  "M&M's," it squawked. "M&M's. Where's Elisabeth?"

  "Resurrecting the Russian economy."

  David angled the seed carefully into the cup, but some fell anyway. Grumbling to himself, he crouched and tried to pinch it up off the floor.

  "Where's Elisabeth?"

  David brushed his hands off above the small metal trash can in the corner. "Leading a nudist hike on the Appalachian Trail."

  "M&M's," the cockatoo squawked. David headed from the room as the bird continued to hop about the cage. "Where's Elisabeth? Where's Elisabeth?"

  David paused by the door, hand on the frame. "She's dead," he said.

  Chapter 61

  THE ER was a madhouse. Broken arms. Unusual rashes. A few flu cases. Three patients asked David about the cut on his lip. Carson still hadn't returned--when David called, he got his machine. "I wanted to check in on you and remind you we're a med student short," David said, after the beep. "We need you here. I hope we'll see you soon."

  David's alienation was high-school apparent. His colleagues only spoke to him in brief, informational exchanges, and the nurses and interns had taken to not meeting his eyes when they spoke with him. He'd always been a popular attending, so he'd found his rapid estrangement from his own staff over the past five days to be unsettling. With both Carson and Diane missing from the ER, he felt suddenly without allies. And the press had ensured that his plight in the division was mirrored elsewhere. Alienated. Vilified. His reputation
shattered.

  David barely had time to update the board before a family of five came in on stretchers after their van overturned. Don was supposed to be providing double coverage, but David had to dispatch a nurse to find him in the cafeteria. By the time Don showed up, David and the two residents had everyone stable. Without apologizing, Don retreated to the CWA, where he lounged at the back counter, checking his stocks in a twice-folded section of the LA Times. Knowing that his general stress level had stretched his own patience to the point of snapping, David elected not to confront him.

  Despite his vigorous efforts, he had trouble finding his way back into his routine. He continued seeing patients, somewhat distracted, thinking of Clyde's flat eyes sunk in his doughy face, the way he'd stood in the abandoned lot and calmly watched David drive away. He was relieved that Ed planned to install security devices in his house.

  The sleeplessness caught up with him eventually, making him irritable and more intolerant than usual. A wailing toddler came in with a pro wrestling action figure's head wedged up his nose. An overwrought Beverly Hills mom with tonsillitis droned on at adenoid pitch. David found himself taking less time with patients than he ordinarily did.

  Jill caught up to him washing his hands in Trauma Twelve. "That urine came back for McKenzie in Six, you've got a--"

  "Slow down, Jill."

  "--food poisoning in Two, and there's a football player with a ruptured spleen in Four."

  "I have my hands full, Jill. Where's Dr. Lambert?"

  "We haven't seen him for about fifteen minutes."

  "Fifteen minutes? Again? Are you kidding?"

  Throwing his stethoscope across his shoulders, David stormed toward the doctors' lounge, drawing several stares from workers and patients. He flung the door open, and it struck the wall with a bang. Black marker in hand, Don was standing by the far wall near the composite of Clyde. Target rings were drawn around Clyde's face, beneath which was written: wanted dead or maimed--$1000 reward.

  Don's deep blush grew visible even beneath his five o'clock stubble. He cleared his throat, lowering the marker. "Look, Dave--"