The discovery of a man shot to death inCentral Park made the late-night news and the morning papers. Police locatedthe body at ten P.M. following an anonymous phone tip from a male caller. The victimcarried no wallet and as yet had not been identified. Preliminary impressionwas robbery, but police were not ruling out the possibility that the shootingwas an execution.
Harry entered the hospital for morningrounds, his thoughts in their now-usual state of disarray. The mysterysurrounding Evie's death remained as murky as ever. And now other unansweredquestions had darkened the picture even more. Who had been down there on thepath in Central Park, silenced revolver in hand, ready and quite able to kill?Could the arrival of their savior have possibly been a coincidence? Was he someanticrime vigilante? No explanation made much sense.
A few things, very few, seemed apparent.Harry remained convinced that his life was not in jeopardy — he was being keptaround to deflect responsibility for Evie's murder. Maura's continued survivalwas not nearly so assured, though. Maybe Albert Dickinson gave her eyewitnessaccount no credence whatsoever, but clearly the murderer did.
Throughout the night she had said littleof her ordeal. But Harry shuddered at the thought of what it must have beenlike for her, a killer's hands tightening around her throat, her spine bowednear the breaking point.
After leaving the park, the two of themhad gone to Harry's apartment. Maura's place, they decided, was simply toovulnerable. And although Rocky, the night doorman, was hardly the sort ofprotection that would put one's mind at ease, he was better than nothing. Maurawas certain that by filing a formal report supporting her story, her brotherhad already put his future in the department in jeopardy. This time around sheinsisted that he not be involved — at least not in any official capacity. Harrydid not completely agree, but with all she had endured, there was no way he wasgoing to try and change her mind. He reported the Central Park body to 911 froma pay phone. For the time being, Tom Hughes would be left out of it.
Once in the apartment they settled on tothe sofa in the small, oak-paneled den and turned on the television. Maura,physically drained, said little. She sipped herbal tea, nibbled some shortbreadcookies, and stared at the screen. In just over an hour, the first news reportappeared on Channel 2, announcing the homicide near the reservoir in Central Park.
'Okay, Harry,' she said when the briefreport was complete, 'I think I'm ready. Could you please tell me what's goingon?'
'I wish I knew,' he responded.
He told her about the bewildering,depressing discoveries he had made in Evie's Greenwich Village apartment. Hetold her what he remembered of the doctor with the cultured accent, and of thetwo men with him who had then assaulted them in the park. Maura listenedwithout interruption.
'So, it's all about sex,' she said when hehad finished.
'In a way, I guess you could say that,yes. Somewhere in her — what would you call it? research? — Evie apparentlycrossed the wrong person. Whoever it was murdered her — or more likely
'And to eliminating the only eyewitness aswell,' Maura added. 'Harry. . Evie sounds like such a sad, mixed-up soul.'
'Believe me when I tell you she didn'tcome across that way.'
'What about children? Didn't you want themwhen you got married?'
'Oh, very much.'
'But she didn't?'
'She used to say she did, but — notreally. Look, I know it sounds like I should have gotten out of the marriageyears ago, or never gotten into it in the first place. But believe it or not,taken on a day-to-day basis, it really wasn't that bad. We were like a lot ofcouples. We got up, went to work, had a reasonable amount of money, hadfriends, went on an occasional vacation, bought some nice things, made love — at least in the beginning. I took care of my patients, played my music, did myworkouts, jogged through the park. I guess I just didn't look at it all tooclosely.'
'I understand. I think everyone who's in abad marriage is guilty of wearing blinders — sometimes for a long while.' Sheleaned back and closed her eyes. 'There's still plenty of time, Harry.'
'For what?'
She yawned and stretched. 'For whatever…'
Hours later, damp with sweat, Harry awokefrom a dream he had experienced many times before. It was a Nha-trang dream,viewed along the barrel of Harry's gun. Beyond the end of the barrel, a youngVietcong soldier is raising his weapon. His face and expression are indeliblein Harry's mind. Eyes widening in fear, he tries to level his semiautomatic.Harry's gun discharges. The youth's chest burst open like a ripe melon. He ishurled backward into oblivion. Moments later another soldier, even younger thanthe first, steps into view at the end of the barrel. He spots Harry and thewounded man on the ground beside him. He raises his weapon. Harry's gundischarges once again. .
The television flickered across thedarkened room, its volume barely audible. Maura Hughes, covered with a woolenthrow, lay sleeping beside him, her head resting on his lap. Harry clicked offthe set and sat in the near blackness, gently stroking her face and herdownlike new hair. Not once during the entire evening had she made excuses forherself or her life, or tried to rationalize her drinking. Not once had shewhined about the deadly situation into which she had been thrust. She might nothave medals as proof, but in her own way, Maura Hughes was pretty damn heroic.And Harry felt drawn to her in a most powerful way. He shifted his legs. Shemoaned softly, then rolled onto her back and looked up at him.
'Mmmm. Am I keeping you up?' she askeddreamily.
'No. Lately I've spent more nights on thissofa than in bed. Why don't you go on into the guest room and get some realsleep?'
'Is staying out here like this analternative?'
'If you want.'
Heavy-lidded, she smiled up at him, thenrolled back on to her side.
'I want,' she murmured. .
Harry had three patients in the hospital.The first, a four-year-old girl with asthma, was ready for discharge. Harrywrote out detailed instructions for the mother, who was scarcely more than achild herself. But no amount of information or reassurance seemed to be enoughto calm her. Finally, Harry took a business card from his wallet.
'Here, Naomi,' he said, writing on theback of the card. 'This is my home phone number. If there's any problem withKeesha, you don't even have to call the answering service unless I'm not home.But she's going to do fine.'
The teen slipped the card into the pocketof her jeans, then finally accepted the discharge and Harry's efforts by givinghim a hug.
The second patient, an elderly man, had beentransferred back to Harry from a cardiologist following an uneventful three-daystay in the CCU. He was a toothless old gent who had been pleasantly confusedfor as long as Harry had been his doctor, now fifteen or so years. With socialservices and the visiting nurses teaming up on his case, there was a goodchance he'd be back in his own place within the week. He patted Harry on theback, called him Dr. Carson, and told him to keep trying and he would be a verygood doctor some day.
Harry smiled sadly at the thought of howtypical, how utterly humdrum normal, rounds like today's once were. Now, as hemoved through the hospital, he was aware of the stares, and the pointedfingers, and the whispers.
He took the elevator to the fifth floor ofthe Alexander Building. The car was the very same one in which he had riddendown with Mel Wetstone. That time, Evie's killer had been one of the crowdpacked in with them. This time, he was alone.
The final patient he had to see was inAlexander 505 — a thirty-three-year-old architect named Andy Barlow. Barlow hadbeen HIV-positive for two years and was now battling
