Do No Harm (14 page)

"Hugh Dalton, you motherfucker. I was sure you'd never get promoted."

"Every mutt has his day. Did you check the sprinkler timers? We can't have you getting doused out there and looking like a rookie."

"Already taken care of. Hey, I was sorry to hear about Kathy."

Dalton's face shifted, the folds and wrinkles rearranging themselves but staying the same. "Thank you," he said.

"She was a good cop."

Dalton nodded, as though Garcia could see him. His voice was a bit raspy when he spoke again. "Also, you gotta lose the fanny pack up front. Too obvious, especially with the drawstring."

"I already got my portable beneath my shirt. If I move the gun to my waistband, I'll bulk up even more."

"It'll still be less conspicuous than a big black brick strapped to your dick."

"All right. Over."

Dalton sat staring through the tinted windows of the ambulance, not looking over at Yale. "You gonna ask me what happened to my wife?"

"No."

"She was killed on a routine traffic stop last year. Pulled someone over and was approaching the car when a semi swerved and clipped her. Guy wasn't drinking or anything. He just leaned over, reached for the radio." His hand flared, then clapped to his knee. "She was a good cop. Great lady. Twice my IQ and four times my looks." He smiled faintly. "Not that that's saying much."

Yale pulled his Revos down over his eyes, despite the fact they were in an underground garage. "Kids?"

"Two girls. Nine and twelve." Dalton reached for the picture in his wallet but stopped himself. "Forget it."

Yale didn't insist.

Dalton cleared his throat, a little too loud. "Tell your homeless guy to wear shittier shoes tomorrow. The spanking-white Reeboks are a no-brainer. The overhang to this entrance is a parking area. Have him patrol up there from time to time in case our psycho decides to drop an alkali balloon down on a pedestrian. And have a UCLA PD car come by and roust him every now and then to make him look legit. That's all I got. I hope you didn't put anyone up a tree--they might be stealing our guy's hideout."

"No trees. We got a black female working reception inside, and a white male orderly standing by near the other entry control point."

"Just one other ECP?"

"Yeah, there's one hall into the ER from the hospital proper, but I'm pretty sure our guy's looking to hit here again. More open, closer to the streets, easier."

"So he thinks."

Yale nodded. "So he thinks."

"Getting bolder, isn't he, the fucker? He hit Nance up on the sidewalk. Took the second girl just about where we're sitting." Dalton looked down, as though he could see through the ambulance floor. "Came down here, right near the ER doors." His head snapped up. "What do we got east of the hospital? Anyone in the Botanical Gardens?"

Yale shook his head. "There are a lot of good hiding places down there, but we figured someone coming in from the east would've been picked up by the CCTV on the kiosk." The only closed circuit television camera near the ambulance bay entrance was mounted on the front parking kiosk, angled down and eastward, catching cars as they pulled through and paid. It recorded a wide scope and would have caught any pedestrian traffic looping around into the ambulance bay entrance from that direction. Yale had spent more time than he cared to recall watching the footage. Aside from the occasional woman in a low-cut dress, he'd found very little of interest. "We couldn't pull more than six undercovers," he continued. "I figured they were best used elsewhere."

Yale and Dalton had decided on a stakeout after several other angles had led to dead ends. Though the consistency of the assault location pointed to the hospital as the primary connection between Nancy Jenkins and Sandra Yee, Dalton had also been investigating the possibility of it being secondary. If both victims stayed in the same hotel attending a medical conference, for instance, they might have been selected by the suspect off the hotel guest list. Unfortunately, they'd taken no trips at the same time and had not attended any similar conferences. According to the women's credit card bills and records, there had been no overlap between workers and servicemen they'd had through the house in the last six months. Dalton had been briefly excited when he'd discovered they'd both received FedExes on the same day, but a few phone calls had confirmed that the packages had been delivered on different routes. The hospital files had been difficult to get hold of, but conversations with other physicians and nurses revealed little regarding patients Nancy and Sandra had treated together. It was looking more and more as though they'd been targeted merely because of their association with the hospital.

Yale had been slogging through pending lawsuits against the hospital and had yet to uncover any solid suspects. No reports on disgruntled ex-employees. No alkali- or even acid-throwing incidents had come back from PACMIS or CCAB. A car accident victim who felt he had received poor ER treatment last year had sent hostile letters to the hospital board, but he now lived in Massachusetts. Yale had run him through the Automatic Wants and Warrants System anyway and had found no red flags.

When Yale stretched, his hands touched both sides of the ambulance interior. Dalton shifted on the small stool and groaned, then checked his watch. The first two assaults had occurred in the early morning, two days apart. The last attack had been Tuesday, and it was now Thursday morning.

Someone was due to be attacked.

The stools inside the ambulance became increasingly uncomfortable as morning dragged into afternoon. Yale and Dalton received the occasional alert from Garcia and gave a few heads-ups to the officer working reception inside, but the majority of the patients and workers coming in were not suspicious. Blake had an argument with a news van that tried to pull past the parking kiosk down toward the ambulance bay and succeeded in fending it off without blowing his cover.

Despite the fact that Yale kept the front windows cracked, the ambulance remained stuffy; they couldn't run the air-conditioning without starting the vehicle and giving away their location. They ate lunch around one--sandwiches from Jerry's--then sat some more.

The officer disguised as an orderly called in laughing when a woman dressed as Barbie was admitted to the ER with bad flu symptoms. Evidently, the same Mattel executives who had purchased the UCLA Children's Hospital had hired and costumed a Barbie to tour the pediatrics ward, bringing good cheer and product placement to the sick children.

With the exception of Explosive Diarrhea Barbie, the rest of the afternoon passed without incident.

Nancy barely stirred when David stepped through the curtains surrounding her bed, though he made an effort to rattle them to alert her of his arrival. Her torso was slightly elevated, and she'd pulled her hospital gown up high to hide the scarring from her esophageal resection, a small act of modesty that David found at once pathetic and moving given the massive distortion of her face. A bandage pushed out her gown where they'd lifted skin for grafting from above her clavicle.

The ICU stood mostly empty--just an elderly man intubated across the way on a monitored bed, multiple IVs stringing around his arms. The sunset, diffused through the LA smog, glowed orange through the venetian blinds, lighting the room in bands of color.

David became aware of the intensity of his heartbeat and realized it was probably due to the ICU's similitude to the MICU, where Elisabeth had been removed from life support. He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing the thought.

"Nancy," he said softly. "It's me. David."

Her head rolled slowly to face him. Her response was relaxed and listless, as though she were moving underwater. "Dr. Spier." Speaking around a tongue sluggish with morphine.

He took in the shock of her face. Her eyes, milky white, shrunken and sightless, were those of a Macbeth witch. Bolsters covered her face from forehead to chin. Xeroform--yellow antibiotic-impregnated sheets--had been sutured into her face over the skin grafts and packed with cotton soaked in mineral water. Then the Xeroform's edges had been folded back over and tied like a package, molding the new skin into the wound so it would take. If the grafts hadn't been laid, the wounds would have contracted as they closed over, pulling her features out of proportion. Disfiguring contractions came in all shapes and sizes--smeared nostrils, drooping eyes, lips stretched wide and thin. Polysporin antibiotic ointment stood out in globs over the bolsters. Infection--the next fight.

David found he was talking. "--in four to five days, we'll get those bolsters off and see if the grafts took. The sutures are sheep gut, so they'll dissolve. I insisted the plastics guys get in right away. They found a pretty good color match with the skin from your supraclavicular and postauricular areas, and they pulled a bit more from your lateral thigh--"

She was shaking her head back and forth. "No more," she said thickly. "No more." Her voice was hoarse--when she was in the ER, he should've seen about revising her crich to a trach earlier.

David crouched, resting his forearms flat on her bed. "I'm sorry," he said. "Just know you're being taken care of."

"Scary," she said. "So scary. A man coming at me . . . " She made a noise like a sigh. "Did they catch him?"

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.