She pulled herself up from the bath mat, felt her way to the toilet, and raised the lid. She forced her eyes open again, for an instant, and saw through the tears and excruciating pain that the water was clear. Lowering her head, she leaned heavily on the rim, splashing water up into her face continually with one hand and alternating prying her eyelids apart with her other, trying to get her breathing back under control. Though she felt no burning in her mouth or throat and could taste nothing unusual, she hocked and spit, a cord of drool dangling from her bottom lip. The pain in her face did not seem to be subsiding.
She flushed the toilet, saw that the fresh water spiraling in was also clear, and leaned farther down, scooping it up over her face. She tried desperately not to think of the alkali eating its way through her flesh, focusing instead on treating the injury as if it were someone else's.
She flushed and irrigated for about another four minutes, preparing herself to make the dash to the telephone. Her bedroom phone was the closest, but the one in the kitchen had a sink nearby. She should start filling the sink while she dialed-there was a wash rag draped over the faucet she could use to plug the drain. Once the water was running, she'd have to force her eyes open again to check that it was clear.
Continuing to splash herself with water from the toilet, she envisioned the route to the kitchen. Out the bathroom door, right down the hall, dodge the small table with the vase set against the left wall, six paces to the kitchen door, then around the central table to the countertop. The dial pad was on the inside of the telephone receiver; 9 was the second button up on the right side, 1 the top left.
The pain came in waves, like tiny fragments of shrapnel flying in her face from a series of explosions. Her harsh breaths, strengthened with groans, fired through her chest as though she were finishing a marathon. Grinding her teeth, tensing her entire body, she drew her legs up under her and prepared for the blind sprint.
Douglas DaVella's records popped up on-screen, and David scanned through them eagerly. DaVella had come into the ER for a standard physical after a fender bender in '87-no significant findings-and he'd seen a gastroenterologist in '91 for irritable bowel.
Clearly, they hadn't cross-referenced medical files with employee records when Clyde had worked at the hospital as Douglas DaVella. That made sense, given patient confidentiality and logistical considerations.
David jotted down DaVella's social security number, date of birth, and address-1711 Pearson Rd. He'd just noted that the address was in Venice when his pager went off, its text message alerting him to get down to the ER immediately.
Chapter 45
When Pat ignored David, he thought it was merely residual ill will from their confrontation earlier in the week, but the entire staff was stiff with him as he made his way to the Central Work Area. He couldn't find the attending on call, so he tapped a nurse on the shoulder as she passed. "Can you tell me what's going on?"
"You haven't heard?" She had a cruel, stupid face and wore too much eye shadow.
"I guess not," David said.
A medicine intern looked up from his paperwork. "There's been another attack, Dr. Spier."
David felt the air leave his lungs all at once. "On who? Who is it?"
The CWA was full, but no one answered. They stared with dull, implacable eyes, or turned back to their charts. "Who is it?" he said again.
The medicine intern angled his head toward the door to Hallway Two and David walked out at a fast clip. Bronner slumped in a chair near the door to Exam Eight. Jenkins stood over him, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
Jenkins looked at David with more concern than anger, which sent David's anxiety through the roof. He strode toward the door and shoved it open.
Diane lay on the bed inside, her forehead and right cheek blistered in streaks and patches. A series of raised white bubbles ringed her right eye.
David stepped forward, dazed, his hand swiping the air several times before finding the back of a chair. He leaned. A tingling warmth spread across his face, and he blinked hard several times to strike preemptively against tears.
Diane looked away. "That bad, huh?"
He knew his voice would be unsteady, so he waited a moment to speak. "No," he said. Fighting to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, he crossed to her bed, dragging the chair along with him. She still didn't meet his eyes. He wanted desperately to touch her, to caress her face, but could not. Her hair, still wet from saline irrigation, had darkened the pillow. He took her hand, and she let him.
He sat at the side of her bed.
"You just missed plastics. Can't do anything acutely. Probably have some scarring, but no disfiguring contractions. Neosporin and Silvadene, blah blah blah. Wait and see. Should be fine." Head still turned, she laughed to herself, a nasty little laugh. "Wait and see."
"Ophthalmology?" David asked, still not trusting his voice to form longer sentences.
"Hourly Pred Forte, Cipro four times a day. Mild corneal epithelial erosion, faint anterior stromal haziness, no ischemic necrosis of perilimbal conjunctiva or sclera." She shook her head. "Words. Lots of words."
"Prognosis?"
"I should have little or no corneal scarring." She raised an index finger and twirled it lazily. "Whoopee."
David exhaled, relieved. "You're very lucky."
"Lucky. God, do we sound that stupid to people who come in here? I don't feel lucky, David."
He weathered her burst of anger quietly. She was entitled to it. After a moment, he asked, "Where did he…?"
"Emptied out medicine gelcaps, filled them with alkali crystals. Then, he broke into my place, unscrewed my showerhead, and stuck them behind there. Hot water melts the capsules. Presto. Liquid alkali."
"Who thinks of that?" David asked in disbelief.
"I hate to confess I find it somewhat ingenious. If he'd just packed the showerhead with straight crystals, it would've clogged up, or I would've noted the immediate change in water color. Of course, it was slightly diluted, which is why I can see you right now."
He picked at the skin of his cuticle, drawing blood. "That bastard. That sadistic bastard." He stood up and paced around the room. "This is my fault."
"This isn't your fault, David." Her face remained turned away. "Pardon my manners, but I don't really feel like being comforting right now." Her voice softened, though she still didn't turn to him. "It's a fucked situation. Let's use it for what it's worth. You told me he sensed you and I were close when I burst in on you in his room in the ER. He probably did this to piss you off or get back at you for something. I'd guess that I'm actually irrelevant."
David stared at the back of her head, admiring her, still waiting for the heat to leave his face.
"It's a more elaborate setup," Diane continued. "Not to mention a tedious, time-consuming one." Her voice colored with acrimony. "Our little boy's growing up."
David tried to think, but couldn't find his way through the jumble of his emotions. He walked over and stood beside her bed. "Look at me."
"No." Her shoulders began to shake.
"Diane. Look at me."
Her voice, tiny like a child's, was wrenched high. "I can't."
Crouching, he reached out and touched her unmarred chin, ever so gently, and turned her face to his. The blisters were slick and shiny with cream, and they leaked a pale yellow fluid.
She tried to turn her face away, but he didn't let her. Her lips were trembling so hard she could barely speak. "I look repulsive. I must look repulsive to you."
"We're beyond that, Diane." His voice was hard, reprimanding. She wavered on the verge of tears, her face fighting itself. "I've scraped out bedsores," he said. "I've packed infected abdominal wounds. I've cut into gallbladders that spilled green bile. I've seen enough of the human body for six lifetimes-seen enough to know not to take it literally." He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. She met his stare, her eyes green and smooth. "You are as beautiful as you have ever been," he said.
She reache
d up with trembling fingers, took his hand, and pressed it to her chest.
The gray sky had given way to showers. After ducking the press outside the hospital, David drove home carefully; the anomalous bursts of rain of the past few days had brought the oils to the surface of the roads. He watched the windshield wipers beating double time, trying to let them clear his mind. Puddles spotted the dark streets like pools of oil. The roads were deserted; the rain had even driven the dogged Tibet picketers from the sidewalk outside the Federal Building.
He had wanted to stay with Diane through the night, but found he couldn't. He held a reservoir of strength for such things-pain steeped in personal emotion-and for the past two years, his wife's memory had drawn steadily from it. Thoughts of Diane worked on him from the inside, guilt and fury searing him.
He thought of Clyde's dull, flat head, the odd, decaying odor of his body, like rotting wood, the fat fingers that rubbed and slid among themselves like rodents clustering for warmth. David imagined him holed up in a dark room, lurking and plotting and healing, wrapped in a blanket of unutterable sorrow. Clyde's wiring was off. He was broken.
David's medical ethics seemed distant right now, stolid and brittle like shelf things. He recalled Yale's aspersion-you don't know much about how things work on the street-and it stung like a virgin blow. David had been a child playing with a loaded gun. The most painful thing of all was that he'd suffered none of the consequences himself. Diane had.
The Mercedes's tires whipped through puddles, sending water hammering up on the undercarriage of his car. Through the bleary windshield, he saw flashing red lights ahead on San Vicente. An ambulance had pulled over near the lawned median, beside a car that had skidded off course and smashed into one of the gnarled coral trees.
Digging in the pocket of his white coat for his stethoscope, David pulled over behind the ambulance. A woman lay on her back in the grass, two EMTs kneeling over her with a backboard.
David sprang out, his shoes pooling with water as he splashed through a puddle to his trunk, where he kept his father's old-fashioned leather doctor's bag for emergencies. "Do you need any help?" he called out.
One of the EMTs delicately wrapped a C-spine collar around the woman's neck and secured it with a strap across her forehead. "We got it covered," he said.
"Did you check her airway?"
"We got it under control, buddy."
David pulled to a halt, his stethoscope dangling from his hand. "I'm an ER doctor."
On a three-count, the two EMTs raised the backboard and headed back to the open doors of the ambulance. A moment later, the vehicle was off, siren screaming.
Behind him, David heard the pinging open door alert from his car. The ambulance faded slowly from view. He stood in the rain, the crashed car steaming before him, water dripping from his hair and running over his lips.
He didn't feel much like going home.
Chapter 46
David pulled into the garage and made his way back through the house to his bedroom, removing his clothes as he walked. He stood at the foot of the bed in his boxers, watching through the bare window as the rain came down in sheets.
Bed felt soft and divine, even more comfortable for the storm brewing outside. He put in his earplugs and burrowed beneath the covers. A roll of thunder rattled the windowpane above his head, but not loudly enough to wake him.
As he slept, rain drummed softly on the roof.
A lick of lightning lit the sky, throwing the outline of David's window, a skewed, yellow rectangle broken at the bottom by the waving tips of fronds, against the far wall. A few moments later, another low rumble vibrated through the air.
When lightning lit David's window again, the outline cast against the wall was broken by a man's silhouette. Wide and distorted, it remained perfectly still above the frenzied waving of foliage shadows. The lines of the silhouette were so distinct that even the water dripping from the man's oversize head was visible. The black form seemed to float on the far wall, hovering over David's sleeping body.
It flickered on the wall for only a moment before the room fell back into darkness.
His slick loafers skidded on the kitchen linoleum, and Peter felt his balance go. He let himself topple over stiffly, so as to keep his legs straight and out of the way, and broke his fall evenly with his arms and chest. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to fall well.
Getting up, however, was usually a bit more difficult. He took stock of his limbs. His right kneecap, exposed between the two strips of metal that ran down the length of his leg, throbbed a bit. Lying on his side on the cold kitchen floor, he tugged at his pant leg and it hiked up over his calf before catching on his brace. A few more tugs and his knee came into sight. It would swell nicely, but the skin was not broken. Even so, he'd probably have to dig his ortho cane out of the closet and use it for the next few days. Which he hated.
Peter turned back onto his stomach, his breath stirring a few toast crumbs near the base of the counter, and pushed himself up and back onto his stiff legs. A nearby stool gave him the grip he needed, and he walked his hands slowly up its metal back, careful not to let it skate out, his legs sliding to vertical beneath him.
His pant leg remained stuck up over his knee, the fabric tangled in a bolt at the joint. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a cupped hand and began the slow waddle back to his bedroom, trying not to think about what would happen when he was seventy. Or eighty.
His hands found their familiar places, places where the wallpaper had been worn thin, the counters polished to a shine. Leaning against the bathroom counter, he brushed his teeth. When he turned to his bed, he noticed the thin water stain left across his pant thighs from the counter.
He removed his shirt and belt, then unbuttoned his pants, and let them fall. The tangle over his right knee remained, and he worked the pant leg out from where it had wedged in his brace. Shuffling a few steps to the bed, he turned and sat, then released the catches near his knees that permitted his braces to bend. Breathing hard, he removed his shoes and tossed them toward the closet, where they landed in a pile of stretched, distorted footwear. He lifted his feet from the puddle of his pants and then, finally, removed the leg braces. Red indentations lay in bands across his thighs and along the outsides of his heels. Near these indentations, the skin was dry and cracked, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he rubbed them.
He lifted his legs into bed, assisting with his hands, and wiggled to get himself under the covers. He noticed he'd forgotten to close the blinds, and he stared at his own reflection in the dark window, confronting an inexplicable sense of unease that took a few moments to dissipate. Given the steps he'd have to go through to get back up, the window was a good ten minutes away.
The nightstand lamp, on the other hand, was only an inch out of reach. He had to roll over to get to the switch. A soft click and the room was bathed in darkness.
He fell into a deep and immediate sleep.
Dalton swung open the front door, wearing a threadbare red-and-white striped bathrobe. He saw Jenkins standing out in the pouring rain, and lowered his hand so his gun rested against his thigh.
Water pasted Jenkins's hair to his head. He blinked twice to clear it from his eyes, but made no move to enter. "You look like a fucking candy cane," he said.
"You drove over here at two in the morning in the rain to tell me that?" One of the girls called from down the hall, and Dalton leaned away from the door. "It's okay. Go back to sleep!" He reached out, fisted Jenkins's shirt, and pulled him inside. Jenkins followed him into the kitchen.
Dalton turned on the light and a mouse scurried under a cabinet. He removed two Old Milwaukees from the refrigerator and sat at the table. "Don't knock the robe," he said. "It was Kathy's. I like sl- " He slid one can across the table at Jenkins and opened the other. "It was Kathy's."
Jenkins had pulled his chair out from the table so he faced the wall. He slouched in the chair, his posture unusually lax. Dalton waited patiently.
After a while, he finished his beer and reached across the table for Jenkins's, which sat full. He was halfway through that one before Jenkins spoke. "I can't see her," he said.
"Nance?"
He nodded. "I can't go in there anymore. I tried yesterday, but I got to the curtain and couldn't pull it aside. She called out, asked who was there, and I turned and left."
Dalton sipped his beer. He cleared his throat but didn't speak.
"My little sister," Jenkins said. "She meant more to me than anything in the world."
The only noise was the quiet ticking of the cracked plastic clock above the sink.
"I wish she was dead," Jenkins said. After a moment, Dalton realized he was crying. He was an inexperienced crier, all gasps and jerks. Dalton walked slowly to the light switch and flicked it back off, then returned to his seat.
"Thanks," Jenkins said.
They sat quietly in the darkness, Dalton occasionally sipping his beer.
David awakened at three in the morning, and it was as though he'd never fallen asleep. The same images had followed him from exhaustion into sleep, and then back out again. Diane dabbing ceaselessly at the weeping wounds on her face. Their kiss at the park. Tame as it had been, his kiss with Diane had been wonderful. It had also been unsettling, and he suddenly realized why. He had grown accustomed to feeling other people's flesh only when examining them. He asked himself whether some part of him was as fearful of human contact as Clyde was.
After forty minutes of lying in darkness, David rose from his bed. He sat in the living room and tried to read a medical journal but could not concentrate. Changing into workout clothes, he went into the garage and ran on the treadmill for a half hour. After his shower, he lay in bed again, studying the ceiling, the plants scraping softly at the dark window overhead.
Do No Harm Page 27