folding tactical knife.
Into a Campbell's Soup carton, David packed an evidence vacuum, a small crowbar and his pride and joy-a gift from Kathy-a Kevlar-lined raincoat that could stop a 9 mm. slug. He carried the carton to the garage and, placing it in the trunk of the Mercedes, nicked his finger on a snow shovel he kept there during winter months.
As he wrapped the finger in a handkerchief, he wondered whether he'd spent the past hour expending nervous energy. He looked at the carton. Who in hell's going to use this stuff? He felt like a man dressed to the gills with no place to go.
David ran through his list of suspects. Christ, it's longer everyday and that's another disadvantage, right there. All this gadgetry? Merely a symbolic remedy for someone in a pinch. Or, just plain stupidity. And David didn't suffer fools gladly, even himself. But he left the carton in the trunk and slammed the door shut.
At five-thirty, Musco Diller beamed as David approached him, the beam he remembered Musco having whether he was down-and-out or not. He leaned his head out the window of his cab which was parked near the back fence of the auxilliary doctors' parking lot.
'Dr. David, my boy,' he said. 'Diller at your service. Whatcha got this time?' He was David's vintage, yet usually greeted him that way.
'Hi, old buddy, glad you could make it.'
Musco was a wiry African-American who was never without his black cap with a rainbow band and shiny visor. Several tickets sprouted from the band. He seemed made out of pipe cleaners, all arms and legs, constantly in motion. David understood one of his eyes was glass but he could never guess which one. He had a small grizzled mustache and, growing in the center of his chin was a matching tuft of hair which appeared to have been overlooked in shaving.
David knew Musco's inquiry about the nature of a job was merely small talk. Way back, he had said, 'Just show me what you want and give me a minute by myself. You don't ask how and I don't ask why. I don't want to know nothin'.'
They took the hospital's freight elevator to the fourth floor, its highest destination beneath the administrative wing, and climbed the remaining two floors to Foster's office, encountering no one on the way. In the corridor, David put Friday down and pointed to the administrator's front door with the index finger of his left hand and in the direction of the back door with the same finger of his right hand. He preferred the back one and led Musco around to it and said, 'Here it is, do your open sesame thing,' snapping his finger against the large oak door before them. 'I'll go check out front for a minute.'
David peeked around corners as he examined the corridors surrounding Foster's suite. He returned to find Musco dusting off his hands and a door fully opened.
'What took you so long?' David asked with a wink. He added an offhand 'Thanks.' ' He had seen Musco in action many times before. What he had never seen was tools, and he had never inquired about any.
'Well, I'm off, ' Musco said, 'less you need more opening inside.' He turned to leave.
'No, I think we're all set.' David peeled the only hundred dollar bill from a wad of twenties and fives he took from his pocket. He folded it in two. 'Musco,' he said. The cabbie pivoted and David inserted the bill in the band of his cap.
'Thanks, my boy. You might need more opening-call-you hear?'
'I hear and I might. You can find your way out?' 'Of course,' Musco answered as he disappeared around the corner.
David took the flashlight out of Friday and entered the darkened office before turning it on. He felt calm but was certain his breathing bounced off the walls. The air smelled mustier than he expected for an office closed up for only half an hour. He remembered seeing Foster's single filing cabinet on many occasions, and, keeping the flashlight angled toward the floor, tiptoed straight to it, thinking he shouldn't have dismissed Musco without first determining whether the cabinet was locked. It wasn't.
He pulled out the top drawer and flipped through its folders until he came upon a thick one labeled, 'EMS Ambulance.' He tucked the flashlight under his arm, freeing both hands to sift through legal documents, invoices and schedules. A stack of 'Oversite Committee Minutes' was clipped to the back of the folder. The most recent set of minutes recorded the vote on Victor Spritz's renewal contract: Mr. Bugles and Drs. Coughlin and Tanarkle voted to terminate. Mr. Foster voted to renew.
Behind the stack, he found an unsealed envelope. In it was a medical discharge summary from a private psychiatric hospital in Cartagena, Colombia. David knew enough Spanish to understand the diagnosis listed: Paranoid Schizophrenia. Discharge medication: Haloperidol. The dates of hospitalization were February 1996 to November 1996. The patient named was Victor Spritz.
David gaped at the name and then at the diagnosis, feeling at once engulfed by sorrow and shaken by the dread of a psychotic on the loose. But neither engulfed nor shaken by surprise. So the shrink wasn't far off the mark. And that was the reason for Spritz's sabbatical.
He reread the one-page summary more slowly. It spelled out the pathogenesis of Spritz's illness, from early withdrawal signs, through impaired personal identity and bouts of severe agitation, to fantasies of the annihilation of the world. Several references were made to the patient's 'inclinacion.'
His what? Inclination? A drug habit? David was uncomfortable with his conclusion that Spritz had not been a drug addict or else the report would have specified it, not used the cryptic 'inclinacion.' But he wasn't quick to abandon the subject. If he were on drugs, it had to be coke. Hell, Colombia? Cocaine.
The last line of the summary read, in Spanish, 'Disposition: Suggest patient return for follow-up appointments whenever he visits Colombia.'
More cryptic writing. He visits the country often? David returned the folder to the cabinet, turned off the flashlight and sat at Foster's desk. Light from the corridor jaundiced the carpeting beneath the door.
Now isn't this something? They've got the goods on each other! Foster doesn't snitch on the psychiatric background, and Spritz doesn't snitch on the love affair-if he knows, and I assume he does. But why doesn't Mr. Schizo kill Mr. Lover Boy? Of course, he still could, but I suppose he's indebted to him for his support in the vote.
David fidgeted at the desk, clamping and unclamping his teeth. Minutes passed as he tried to make more sense of 'inclination' and 'whenever he visits Colombia.' Finally, he arose and walked out the door, running his finger around the inside of his collar. In a feeble attempt to lighten the weight of the moment, he joked that the moisture there originated from his throat-now chalk dry.
It didn't take long for the frog's eyes to appear in David's mirror. Two nights in a row. This time, he decided to make a move. Easing out the Minx with his right hand, he used his left to swerve the Mercedes onto a soft shoulder where he came to a compete stop. David counted three heads in the darkened cabin of a black tow truck as it barreled by.
Chapter 15
By the looks of Thursday morning's storm, David believed it had the potential of being the season's worst. There was nothing graceful about the snowfall-no fluff, no stillness, no feathery float of flakes so big one could distinguish their shapes. It was just straight-out sleet banging against the windows of his car, sticking there and in front, slowing the wipers and constricting their arcs. He heard the thump of an evening's accumulation bouncing off the wheels as he forged around a bend to begin the long descent to Hollings General, glancing twice at the tower clock to make out the time. He had the choice of passing a snowplow which had shot out from a side street or lagging behind, the truck providing his personal pathway. The price of the path was the gritty sound of sand pebbles ricocheting off the Mercedes. David chose to pass. He couldn't recall ever having to floor the accelerator down the hill for the rest of the way.
It was nine-forty-five. He had gotten a late start because he had slept late, his sleep an amalgam of tossing and dream shreds. The questions were piling up, the answers scarce, and David's decision scar was swollen. But he believed he had spent more than enough time in mental knots, and that perhaps there was little time to spare before more tragedy struck again. His enemy was not only a killer among a thousand suspects but also time itself.
