Show of Evil

'Stenner's still on the table in three. It may be a while before we know anything. He has a deep stab wound, entered here -' he pointed to his side just under his rib cage - 'angled up towards his heart. It's a rough one.'

'Is he going to make it?'

'It's a toss-up. He's on the edge.'

'How about Jane?'

'She's going to live, but she took a terrible blow to the right cheek. The bones in her face are crushed and we pulled a bone splinter from her right eye. She may lose it. She also has a concussion. She's in for the long haul, constructive surgery, cosmetic work. What happened to her?'

'The same madman that stabbed Stenner hit her with something,' said Johnson. 'We're not sure yet, probably a brass lamp.'

'Christ, what're people coming to?' he said, as much to himself as to Vail and Johnson. 'I've got to go outside, we're not supposed to smoke in here.'

'Can I see her?'

'Wait until they take her out of Recovery, okay? It's a madhouse in there right now. Probably an hour or so.'

'Thanks.'

'Sure.'

Eve Wilonski, the night supervisor, came striding down the hall, her face looking like an angry bulldog's.

'Well, Mr Vail, you're becoming a fixture around here,' she growled.

'I hardly have any choice,' Vail answered, and there was anger in his tone.

'Is all this related in some way to your earlier visit?' she asked, her voice softening.

'Unfortunately. I'm afraid we're going to be around here for a while,' Vail said. 'Sorry if we're screwing things up.'

'It's the press, sir,' she said. 'They're making a nuisance of themselves.'

Vail looked at Shock Johnson.

'I guess it's time to make an official statement,' he said, then turned to Mrs Wilonski. 'Is there someplace we can hold a quick press conference without turning the hospital inside out?'

'We have a press room on the first floor,' she said. 'It's all yours.'

Five miles away Stampler guided the stolen BMW onto Interstate 80. It was fairly crowded with people returning from dinner and the theatre. He manoeuvred into the fast-moving outside lane. It was eleven-thirty-five. With a self-satisfied smile, he headed east.

Thirty-Seven

The driving was going well, a breeze, in fact. Stampler had figured out the cruise control and set it on 70, a safe speed according to Rebecca. Hold it to 70, be sure to use your turn indicator when you pass, do not drive erratically, she had told him. It's like swimming, she had told him. You never forget how. Don't worry.

Worry? He never worried. Worry was destructive. He remembered a quote from Emerson. 'What fears you endured, from evils that never arrived.' Worry sapped his strength, fear drained his energy. Together they were destructive forces, distractions he could never afford.

He turned his thoughts to Daisyland, to Max and Woodward, patronizing him, telling him how 'well' he was doing. Panderers. Treating him like a child. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles almost glowed in the dark. God, would he like to see their faces now.

The news was coming on and he turned up the radio.

'Good morning, this is Jerry Quinn with the two A.M. edition of the news. Updating the hottest story of the hour, in a bizarre murder case that is still unfolding, Supreme Court Judge Harry Shoat was brutally murdered in his Lakeshore condominium earlier tonight and his killer, a deranged woman, was shot and killed while resisting arrest less than an hour later. During a hastily called press conference at midnight, Lt. Shock Johnson of the Chicago Police Homicide Division told reporters Shoat was brutally murdered about 9 P.M.

'According to Johnson, Shoat's body was mutilated and he was beheaded. His head was found an hour later in the apartment of Rebecca Hutchinson at 3215 Grace Avenue. Ms Hutchinson was killed when she