Lightning

23

Carver stopped at PetPitStop, a sort of supermarket of pet supplies just outside Del Moray, and bought a twenty-five-pound sack of Bow-Wow-WOW! low-calorie dog food. After a recent diet of table scraps and premium frankfurters, Al needed something to keep his weight down. Carver was dismayed to find a wide selection of dog pedicure clippers to choose from. He stood before the display for a while and then chose an efficient-looking pair of nail clippers he thought he wouldn’t mind too much if he were a dog. Insomuch as he could imagine having paws instead of feet. Why he was willing to buy such expensive clippers he wasn’t sure. Maybe he felt guilty for buying the low-calorie dog food, which was the cheapest of an array of choices and probably not what he would have selected if he were a dog. Al would eat economy class but have a top-notch pedicure.

As he drove the rest of the way into Del Moray, it occurred to Carver he’d be passing within a few blocks of A. A. Aal Memorial Hospital. He decided to drop in and see if Dr. Galt was available. It might be a good idea to talk to him without Beth knowing about it, to see what he thought about Beth leaving the cottage so soon and coming in this evening to visit Linda Lapella.

After parking in the lot near the main entrance, he went into the spacious and cool lobby and asked a woman at the information desk if Dr. Galt was in the hospital. She told him the doctor wasn’t on duty but would be there to make his evening rounds at about seven o’clock. Carver thanked her and turned to go back outside to his car.

That was when he saw Dr. Benedict sitting on one of the low, soft sofas in the lobby, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. His shoulders were hunched and he looked weary.

Carver walked over to him.

“Dr. Benedict?”

Benedict nodded without looking up.

“Taking a break?” Carver asked.

“I’m not seeing patients today,” Benedict said. “I came here to see Delores Bravo.” Still not looking up at Carver.

“Something wrong?” Carver asked.

Benedict raised his head and stared up at him. His features were set in distress and anger. A vein was pounding like a pulsating blue worm in his temple. “The violent cretins have claimed another victim. Another senseless death for a cause already lost.”

“Delores Bravo?” Carver asked, feeling a thrust of rage himself at the thought of the spirited young woman’s death.

“Officer Lapella,” Benedict said.

Carver sat down beside him on the sofa. This wasn’t right. The doctors had diagnosed Lapella’s injuries and predicted recovery. “But the prognosis-”

“The prognosis was wrong,” Benedict said. “They are sometimes. It was the head injury. A kick to the head, who can tell what damage it causes? She’d had a CAT scan and an MRI, and the images hadn’t shown the kinds of injuries that would be fatal. But the images are difficult to interpret, even for experts. There was more damage than anticipated. There was unexpected hemorrhaging, pressure, cell degeneration in vital areas. She died a little over an hour ago.”

“Murder,” Carver muttered. “For nothing but trying to do her job.”

Benedict glanced over at him, more defeated now than angry. “Tell me about it,” he said bitterly.

Carver knew what he meant. In the past week, Benedict had lost his fellow physician and friend in an act of futile terrorism. Now the people who had perpetrated that act, killing an innocent patient in the process, had directly or indirectly caused another, periphery death. The circle of violence was expanding.

A flurry of motion caught Carver’s attention as the lobby doors burst open and McGregor, followed by several grim uniformed officers, stormed into the lobby and strode toward the elevators. McGregor’s lanky, coiled body was tense and his prognathous jaw was thrust even more forward than usual as he moved with loping strides across the tile floor. His demeanor, and the look in his tiny blue eyes, caused people to stare at him and step aside.

When he caught sight of Carver and Benedict, the procession suddenly stopped. McGregor motioned curtly for his men to continue without him, swiveled on the heel of one of his giant brown wing-tip shoes, and headed toward Carver.

Neither Carver nor Benedict stood up. Benedict, staring at the floor again, might not have noticed McGregor’s approach, although Carver could not imagine anyone failing to pick up the lieutenant’s scent of stale sweat and cheap deodorant.

McGregor, looming over them, moved to the side so Benedict was staring directly at the huge brown shoes.

“Dr. Benedict, funny finding you here,” he said as Benedict looked up.

“This is a hospital,” Benedict said in a somewhat puzzled voice. “I’m a physician.”

“Oh, yeah,” McGregor said. “What with your clinic blown all to hell, this is the place where you open the oven door and pop ’em out before they’re done.”

Benedict stood up, his face dark with anger. “I don’t like your sense of humor, Lieutenant.”

McGregor smiled, gratified. “You should go somewhere else then, Doctor, where maybe you can tune in a ‘Gilligan’s Island’ rerun.

“Don’t let him bait you,” Carver advised Benedict.

“I’ll take no shit at all from you,” McGregor told Carver. “We got a cop killing now. One of my men’s been killed by these crazies because that asshole Wicker and his feebs can’t do their job.”

“She was a woman,” Carver pointed out.

“A cop’s sex don’t matter,” McGregor said in a sudden burst of political correctness. “She was a uniform under my command. Her death reflects on me.”

“On you?” Benedict said in disbelief. “Is that what you’re so upset about?”

“He’s partly responsible,” Carver said. “He assigned her to a shit job and then forgot about her.”

McGregor’s face flushed and his tiny piglike eyes widened until they were almost square. Then he breathed out so hard that spittle flew. “You won’t get under my skin, dickhead. To me you’re nothing but a mosquito-you can cause an itch every now and then, but that’s all.”

“Mosquitoes carry yellow fever,” Dr. Benedict said, as if calmly informing an intern or curious patient. “They can cause misery and death.”

McGregor stared at him, pointing the pink tip of his tongue at him from between his front teeth. Then he laughed. “Well, well, a medical insult.” He motioned with a quick jerk of his thumb. “Leave us, now, Doctor. I wanna talk alone to the rat that carries the plague.”

Benedict looked over at Carver.

“Never pass up an opportunity to avoid this man,” Carver said.

It took Benedict a few seconds to make up his mind, then he gave McGregor a look of disgusted incredulity and walked quickly toward the lobby exit.

McGregor stared after him, grinning. “Probably on his way to play a few rounds of golf. Or maybe drive the Mercedes someplace and have a few martinis. That’s what doctors do, drink and play golf. When they’re not fucking the nurses.”

“Hardly leaves time for billing,” Carver said.

“They find time. This murder’s in my jurisdiction, and the victim’s one of my people. That means it’s my case alone, without FBI interference. So I expect complete cooperation from you.”

“My guess is that you’re trying out your twisted legal theory on me to see if I agree with you. I don’t. I would think Lapella’s death is legally linked to the clinic bombing. That means FBI involvement in the investigation.”

McGregor gave him a level stare. “Was Lapella pregnant? No. Was she at the clinic when it went bang? No. Is her alleged killer connected to the bombing? We don’t know that he is. This isn’t FBI territory, it’s mine. Now that we got that settled, what do you know about Lapella’s death?”

“Only what Dr. Benedict just told me.”

“Which was?”

“What he would have told you, if you’d asked him nice.”

“Or officially. Like I’m asking you.”

“Complications set in,” Carver said. “It was her head injury; the doctors can’t always tell for sure about them, and they were wrong this time. Lapella’s brain started to bleed, there was pressure, damage. She died.”

“Because that bastard kicked her when she was lying on the floor.”

“We agree on that,” Carver said.

“What do you know about him?”

“Probably less than you do. His description, not much else. Other than that he quotes scripture while he’s breaking fingers and committing murder.”

McGregor ran a plate-size hand down his stained tie, as if smoothing it in preparation for a photograph. “The goddamn media’s gonna be all over my ass because of this.”

“Send them to Wicker.”

“I told you, this is my case, and when I solve it, the same media dorks’ll be knocking on my door and calling me and throwing themselves in front of me with their recorders and cameras. Meantime, I’ll just have to put up with ’em and tell plenty of lies.”

“They’ll probably want to talk to me, too,” Carver said. “Certainly they’ll want to interview Beth.”

McGregor’s eyes flared for a moment in sudden alarm. Here was a vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated. “I’m gonna be out to your place to talk to your dark-meat friend, Carver. Get her official statement. And whatever she says either to me or to the media jerk-offs better fit with the facts. She witnessed this murder, and she’s got a legal responsibility.”

“And ethics.”

“Don’t be so sure. Ethics are for naive assholes like you. Only reason she’s sleeping with you is so she can take advantage of you some way. You just haven’t figured it out yet. Probably won’t until it’s too late.”

Carver simply stared at McGregor, refusing to be provoked.

“I can tell you ethics aren’t gonna stop me from setting this thing right,” McGregor said. “Neither are dumb fucks like you and Wicker. Nobody makes a media patsy outa me. This religious nut that killed my officer, he just thinks he knows about being crucified! I’m gonna nail him to the cross like he never dreamed of, in or out of church!”

“I hope you’re right,” Carver said. “If anybody can make the biblical Romans seem like nice guys, it’s you.”

McGregor ignored the compliment as he stalked away toward the elevators.

Humble, maybe.