with my eyes closed. I was spent, and on the ropes. If Hancock went through with her threat to report me to the Board of Medicine, they might suspend my license. Then the house would be as good as gone, and probably the Rover, too — all at a time when my relationship with Kathy was falling apart. But I couldn't let any of that stop me. I was the only chance Westmoreland had, and I cannot stomach a helpless man under attack. There was no telling what horrors his mind would spin in captivity. To him the bars of a cell might be razors primed to shred him. The police could be aliens using him in bizarre experiments. I had seen a psychotic prisoner split his own skull by diving into the corner of a cell, convinced maggots had infested his brain. And Westmoreland's confinement was only half of the problem; if he was wrongly imprisoned, then the real killer was free to kill again.
I ripped open the second packet of coke and inhaled about a quarter gram. My wrist was throbbing, and blood was trickling down my hand. I grabbed a chamois cloth out of the back seat and put some pressure on the wound. The shallow part stopped oozing after about a minute, but the point where I had sunk the knife deeper kept flowing. Cocaine is a potent anesthetic and a decent vasoconstrictor, so I blotted my wrist clean and sprinkled some along the laceration. That took care of the burning and slowed the bleeding, but only for a few seconds. I needed a few stitches. I started the car and headed over to the Stonehill Hospital ER.
Nels Clarke, a family practitioner who could pass for a lumberjack, was on duty when I got there. I found him checking lab results on a computer terminal. He looked up and saw the bloody cloth I was carrying.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.
"It's nothing. Just a little cut. I don't think it's gonna close up on its own, though."
"Did you register out front?"
"Did I..."
"Register. You just expect me to drop everything and take care of a little scratch on your arm?"
I didn't even have the energy to get angry at him. "I'll take care of it. Where can I find a needle and some 5.0 nylon?"
"Frank."
"I'll find it myself." I started to walk away.
" Frank. "
"What?"
"I was kidding." His brow furrowed. "You OK?"
"Long day."
"Long day? It's eight-fifteen."
" A.M. or P.M. ?"
He winked. "Follow me." He brought me into one of the curtained cubicles, sat me down and grabbed a surgical tray. "Let's get a look." He covered the table between us with green draping and laid my wrist across it. "I think I can save the hand," he joked. He doused my skin with Betadine, then alcohol.
I winced.
"It burns," he smiled.
"Thanks for the warning."
He repositioned my arm. "You want a little lidocaine before I start?"
"No."
"Ah, an ascetic."
I had to chuckle. "I don't want a little. I want a lot of it. Unless I'm mistaken, you trained in family practice, not surgery."
He laughed with real pleasure, and I realized again why his patients adored him. Still in his thirties, he exuded the warmth of an old country doctor. He filled a syringe and deftly injected the margins of the wound. The skin tented up, then flattened as the anesthetic was absorbed. By the time he placed the first stitch, all I felt was a little tugging.
"So what happened?" he asked. "Some pretty thing tie you up too tight?"
"I wouldn't say pretty ."
He took another bite with the needle. "Naming parties?"
"Sure. General William Westmoreland."
"I didn’t know you swung both ways. And you landed a military man. Good for you."
"Actually, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. I was evaluating him down at the jail, and we got into a little tug of war over sharp objects."
"All in a day's work, I guess. Your work, anyhow." He tied the second knot. "He's not the one who killed Sarah Johnston..."
"Word's out, huh?"
"Front page of the Item last night. I didn't know her,
I ripped open the second packet of coke and inhaled about a quarter gram. My wrist was throbbing, and blood was trickling down my hand. I grabbed a chamois cloth out of the back seat and put some pressure on the wound. The shallow part stopped oozing after about a minute, but the point where I had sunk the knife deeper kept flowing. Cocaine is a potent anesthetic and a decent vasoconstrictor, so I blotted my wrist clean and sprinkled some along the laceration. That took care of the burning and slowed the bleeding, but only for a few seconds. I needed a few stitches. I started the car and headed over to the Stonehill Hospital ER.
Nels Clarke, a family practitioner who could pass for a lumberjack, was on duty when I got there. I found him checking lab results on a computer terminal. He looked up and saw the bloody cloth I was carrying.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.
"It's nothing. Just a little cut. I don't think it's gonna close up on its own, though."
"Did you register out front?"
"Did I..."
"Register. You just expect me to drop everything and take care of a little scratch on your arm?"
I didn't even have the energy to get angry at him. "I'll take care of it. Where can I find a needle and some 5.0 nylon?"
"Frank."
"I'll find it myself." I started to walk away.
" Frank. "
"What?"
"I was kidding." His brow furrowed. "You OK?"
"Long day."
"Long day? It's eight-fifteen."
" A.M. or P.M. ?"
He winked. "Follow me." He brought me into one of the curtained cubicles, sat me down and grabbed a surgical tray. "Let's get a look." He covered the table between us with green draping and laid my wrist across it. "I think I can save the hand," he joked. He doused my skin with Betadine, then alcohol.
I winced.
"It burns," he smiled.
"Thanks for the warning."
He repositioned my arm. "You want a little lidocaine before I start?"
"No."
"Ah, an ascetic."
I had to chuckle. "I don't want a little. I want a lot of it. Unless I'm mistaken, you trained in family practice, not surgery."
He laughed with real pleasure, and I realized again why his patients adored him. Still in his thirties, he exuded the warmth of an old country doctor. He filled a syringe and deftly injected the margins of the wound. The skin tented up, then flattened as the anesthetic was absorbed. By the time he placed the first stitch, all I felt was a little tugging.
"So what happened?" he asked. "Some pretty thing tie you up too tight?"
"I wouldn't say pretty ."
He took another bite with the needle. "Naming parties?"
"Sure. General William Westmoreland."
"I didn’t know you swung both ways. And you landed a military man. Good for you."
"Actually, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. I was evaluating him down at the jail, and we got into a little tug of war over sharp objects."
"All in a day's work, I guess. Your work, anyhow." He tied the second knot. "He's not the one who killed Sarah Johnston..."
"Word's out, huh?"
"Front page of the Item last night. I didn't know her,
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