Bob Shane felt claustrophobic in the cramped maternity-ward lounge provided for expectant fathers. The room had a low acoustic-tile ceiling, drab green walls, and a single window rimed with frost. The air was too warm. The six chairs and two end tables were too much furniture for the narrow space. He had an urge to push through the double swinging doors into the corridor, race to the other end of the hospital, cross the main public lounge, and break out into the cold night, where there was no stink of antiseptics or illness.
He remained in the maternity lounge, however, to be near to Janet if she needed him. Something was wrong. Labor was supposed to be painful but not as agonizing as the brutal, extended contractions that Janet had endured for so long. The physicians would not admit that serious complications had arisen, but their concern was apparent.
Bob understood the source of his claustrophobia. He was not actually afraid that the walls were closing in. What was closing in was death, perhaps that of his wife or of his unborn child — or both.
The swinging doors opened inward, and Dr. Yamatta entered.
As he rose from his chair, Bob bumped the end table, scattering half a dozen magazines across the floor. 'How is she, Doc?'
'No worse.' Yamatta was a short, slender man with a kind face and large, sad eyes. 'Dr. Markwell will be here shortly.'
'You're not delaying her treatment until he arrives, are you?'
'No, no, of course not. She's getting good care. I just thought you'd be relieved to know that your own doctor is on his way.'
'Oh. Well, yeah… thank you. Listen, can I see her, Doc?'
'Not yet,' Yamatta said.
'When?'
'When she's… in less distress.'
'What kind of answer's that? When will she
'I know. I know.'
An inside door connected Markwell's garage to the house. They crossed the kitchen and followed the first- floor hallway, switching on lights as they went. Clumps of melting snow fell off their boots.
The gunman looked into the dining room, living room, study, medical office, and the patients' waiting room, then said, 'Upstairs.'
In the master bedroom the stranger snapped on one of the lamps. He moved a straight-backed, needlepoint chair away from the vanity and stood it in the middle of the room.
'Doctor, please take off your gloves, coat, and scarf.'
Markwell obeyed, dropping the garments on the floor, and at the gunman's direction he sat in the chair.
The stranger put the pistol on the dresser and produced a coiled length of sturdy rope from one pocket. He reached beneath his coat and withdrew a short, wide-bladed knife that was evidently kept in a sheath attached to his belt. He cut the rope into pieces with which, no doubt, to bind Markwell to the chair.
The doctor stared at the pistol on the dresser, calculating his chances of reaching the weapon before the gunman could get it. Then he met the stranger's winter-blue eyes and realized that his scheming was as transparent to his adversary as a child's simple cunning was apparent to an adult.
The blond man smiled as if to say, Go ahead, go for it.
Paul Markwell wanted to live. He remained docile and compliant, as the intruder tied him, hand and foot, to the needlepoint chair.
Making the knots tight but not painfully so, the stranger seemed oddly concerned about his captive. 'I don't want to have to gag you. You're drunk, and with a rag jammed in your mouth, you might vomit, choke to death. So to some extent I'm going to trust you. But if you cry out for help at any time, I'll kill you on the spot. Understand?'
'Yes.'
When the gunman spoke more than a few words, he revealed a vague accent, so mild that Markwell could not place it. He clipped the ends of some words, and occasionally his pronunciation had a guttural note that was barely perceptible.
The stranger sat on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the telephone. 'What's the number of the county hospital?'
Markwell blinked. 'Why?'
'Damn it, I asked you the number. If you won't give it to me, I'd rather beat it out of you than look it up in the directory.'
Chastened, Markwell gave him the number.
'Who's on duty there tonight?'
'Dr. Carlson. Herb Carlson.'
'Is he a good man?'
'What do you mean?'
'Is he a better doctor than you — or is he a lush too?'
'I'm not a lush. I have—'
'You're an irresponsible, self-pitying, alcoholic wreck, and you know it. Answer my question, Doctor. Is Carlson reliable?'
Markwell's sudden nausea resulted only partly from overindulgence in Scotch; the other cause was revulsion at the truth of what the intruder had said. 'Yeah, Herb Carlson's good. A very good doctor.'
'Who's the supervising nurse tonight?'
Markwell had to ponder that for a moment. 'Ella Hanlow, I think. I'm not sure. If it isn't Ella, it's Virginia Keene.'
The stranger called the county hospital and said he was speaking on behalf of Dr. Paul Markwell. He asked for Ella Hanlow.
A blast of wind slammed into the house, rattling a loose window, whistling in the eaves, and Markwell was reminded of the storm. As he watched the fast-falling snow at the window, he felt another gust of disorientation blow through him. The night was so eventful — the lightning, the inexplicable intruder — that suddenly it did not seem real. He pulled at the ropes that bound him to the chair, certain that they were fragments of a whiskey dream and would dissolve like gossamer, but they held him fast, and the effort made him dizzy again.
At the phone the stranger said, 'Nurse Hanlow? Dr. Markwell won't be able to come to the hospital tonight. One of his patients there, Janet Shane, is having a difficult labor. Hmmmm? Yes, of course. He wants Dr. Carlson to handle the delivery. No, no, I'm afraid he can't possibly make it. No, not the weather. He's drunk. That's right. He'd be a danger to the patient. No… he's so drunk, there's no point putting him on the line. Sorry. He's been drinking a lot lately, trying to cover it, but tonight he's worse than usual. Hmmmm? I'm a neighbor. Okay. Thank you, Nurse Hanlow. Goodbye.'
Markwell was angry but also surprisingly relieved to have his secret revealed. 'You bastard, you've ruined me.'
'No, Doctor. You've ruined yourself. Self-hatred is destroying your career. And it drove your wife away from you. The marriage was already troubled, sure, but it might've been saved if Lenny had lived, and it might even have been saved after he died if you hadn't withdrawn into yourself so completely.'
Markwell was astonished. 'How the hell do you know what it was like with me and Anna? And how do you know about Lenny? I've never met you before. How can you know anything about me?'
Ignoring the questions, the stranger piled two pillows against the padded headboard of the bed. He swung his wet, dirty, booted feet onto the covers and stretched out. 'No matter how you feel about it, losing your son wasn't your fault. You're just a physician, not a miracle worker. But losing Anna
Markwell started to object, then sighed and let his head drop forward until his chin was on his chest.
'You know what your trouble is, Doctor?'
'I suppose you'll tell me.'
'Your trouble is you never had to struggle for anything, never knew adversity. Your father was well-to-do, so
