stocking feet, and well-built. Not many men could make her feel small. Gavin Ramsay could, and she resented it.
'I wish you'd given me some warning before you barged into the room.'
'Sorry. The door was ajar.'
'Well… no harm done, I suppose.'
'I'm relieved to hear that.'
'You must understand it's part of my job to keep my patient from being disturbed.'
'Fair enough,' Ramsay said, 'but you've got your job and I've got mine.'
'I'm not sure I understand.'
'I've got a couple of hunters missing and a dead man downstairs in the pathology lab.'
'What has that to do with this boy?'
'I don't know that there's any connection, but I want to find out. From the looks of the kid when they brought him in, he was out in the woods for at least three days. That's about how long our man downstairs has been a corpse.'
'You're not suggesting that this boy has anything to do with it?'
Ramsay's eyes flashed blue fire. 'Why not? Because he's a minor? Last week a twelve-year-old in East Los Angeles set his mother on fire because she found his heroin stash. A seven-year-old girl in Beverly Hills drowned her baby brother in the swimming pool because he got too much attention. Two boys in Glendale hung a baby girl from a swing set. The boys were six. Want to hear more?'
'No thank you. I'll concede that there is no age limit on criminal behaviour, but I won't jump to the conclusion that this boy is guilty of anything.'
'Holly… Dr Lang… all I want to do is talk to him.' Gavin raised his arms. 'See, I didn't even bring any handcuffs.'
'Well, he isn't talking yet. He's had a frightening experience, and it may take a while. Shouldn't you be trying to find out who he is?'
'I should and I am. I've put his description out on the wire. So far he doesn't fit any missing-boy report.' Gavin looked back over her shoulder into the room. 'You will let me know if he says anything?'
'Certainly, Sheriff.'
He started to go, then turned back. 'Is there any chance we can get back to using first names?'
She held a stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxed. 'What the hell… See you, Gavin.'
'See you, Holly.'
The boy's eyes followed her as she came back and sat in the chair next to the bed. She smiled at him, studying his face. The two deputies who brought him in had said there was something 'weird' in the way he looked. Probably a trick of the twilight and their imaginations. Holly saw only a frightened boy of perhaps fourteen. High forehead, straight nose and firm mouth. The eyes were a deep lustrous green. Certainly nothing there that could be considered 'weird'. 'Getting sleepy?' she said.
The boy's head rolled from side to side on the pillow.
A response. The first sign he had given that he understood. Holly kept her voice gentle. 'I'll just sit here for a while then. If you feel like talking, fine. If not, that's fine too.'
The boy's eyes never left her. Holly thought she could see his body relax, just a little, under hospital sheet and blanket. She picked up a magazine from the bedside table and pretended to read. She did not leave until she was sure the boy was asleep.
Chapter Three
During the next three days Holly spent many hours at the boy's bedside. She could not coax him to speak, but his face brightened when she came into the room, and she was cheered by the small sign of recognition. They watched television together and listened to music. Holly talked about whatever came into her mind, and read to the boy from the books and magazines in the hospital library.
On the morning of the third day the administrative chief of staff met her outside the boy's room. Dr Dennis Qualen was a soft-faced man with steely grey hair. He was always careful about his diction, as though he were being recorded.
'So, Dr Lang, how is it going?'
'We're making progress.'
'Really?'
'That sounds like you have doubts.'
'No, no, perhaps our definitions of progress differ. I've read the reports, and can find no indication that there is anything wrong with the boy.'
'Nothing physical.'
'Exactly. Which leaves us with mental illness.'
'Let's say psychological trauma.'
'Terminology aside, have you considered turning the boy's case over to someone better equipped to handle him than we are?'
'Who did you have in mind?'
'The State Youth Authority, for instance.'
'That's for juvenile criminals.'
'I understand from Sheriff Ramsay that there is a very good chance this boy might fit into that category.'
'There is no evidence of that.'
'Perhaps not, but I must consider the best course for the hospital.'
'And I have to consider the patient. Listen, Doctor, I've seen cases like this before, loss of the power of speech due to some psychic trauma. If you give me another week, I'm sure I can show you marked improvement.'
'A week is out of the question.'
'Doctor, believe me. I can help this boy if I'm just given the time.'
Dr Qualen fingered the medical-school emblem on his tie clasp. 'You may have two days.'
'I could do much more in a week.'
'Two days. After that the boy will be turned over to the Youth Authority. I cannot take the chance of him becoming violent.'
Without waiting for further discussion, Dr Qualen spun round and marched away down the hallway. Holly suppressed an urge to give him the finger. She went into the boy's room.
He was sitting up waiting for her.
'Hi,' she said. 'Sleep well?' She looked over at the vertical window. It was cranked open three inches to the tough mesh screen outside. 'Fresh air always helps me sleep. But then, I guess you've had all the fresh air you want for a while.'
Holly pulled her chair over to the bed and sat down. 'I want you to do something for me today. I want you to think about the time you spent out there. No, don't turn away from me. It's important now that you think about it. Then maybe we can talk.'
Before she could go any further, Dr Wayne Pastory sailed into the room. He wore his white jacket over a pale yellow Izod LaCoste shirt. He touched the glossy black hair he was so proud of, and which he wore combed straight back in a style of the past.
'Well, well, well, so this is the wild boy I've been hearing about. How are we doing, fella?'
Holly glared at him. She did not like anything about Wayne Pastory. With his sharp features and bright little eyes, and the quick way he moved, he reminded her of a weasel. She didn't like his reputation either. He had been kicked out of a genetic research project at Stanford for faking the results of an experiment. No charges were made, but Pastory's name went on an informal medical blacklist.
He walked over to the bed and reached down. The boy shied away from his hand.
