Ed grumbled, tossed the asp back into the cardboard box, and continued to sort through its contents. His face lit up. With a Vanna White gesture, he exhibited a large frying pan. 'Old Faithful.'
David merely looked at him, and he threw it back.
'I think we have a winner,' Ed exclaimed. He removed a stun gun, about the size of a flashlight, complete with finger grooves. The black rectangular stock extended into two prongs. He thumbed a switch forward, and a burst of visible voltage shot between the prongs.
'Can it work through clothes?'
'Again, nothing too thick. But a T-shirt or something, you might as well not be wearing anything at all.'
'I'll take it,' David said.
Ed tossed him the stun gun. 'Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a fifty-thousand volt, hair- standing, cattle-prod special.'
'How should I get the… bug-transmitter thing on Peter?'
'I could install it in a watch. Could you give it to him as an early birthday gift?'
'No. That would be suspicious.'
'Does he have a special pen or something? I could slip it in there.'
'I don't know. Nothing I could be sure he'd always have on him.'
'So the question is: What sort of pet object does he keep with him at all times?'
An idea hit David with a sudden, bright clarity. He raised his head with a smile. 'I think I've got it,' he said.
Chapter 72
Peter's office building, a modern four-story structure of dark glass and concrete, sat near the junction of Westwood and Le Conte, a few blocks from the hospital. David parked at a meter. The construction work next door had left a light fall of dust on the sidewalk before the front doors.
When David arrived at Peter's second-floor office, his side was aching and itching, and he couldn't decide which sensation was worse. Peter's office manager was leaving and putting out the lights. David took a quick step back as she locked the door and turned to him, nearly striking him in the gut with a jumbo purse that swung from her shoulder like a pendulum.
'I'm looking for Dr. Alexander,' David said.
She continued down the hall, not bothering to make eye contact. 'He might be in the procedure suite,' she said.
'Across the street?'
'No, in the new one. It's on the third floor. The move's been a royal pain in the rear end. That's why some of us are still here when we should be home with our husband and two daughters.'
'Have a lovely evening,' David said.
He found Peter in the suite upstairs, skimming through a folder, standing between two procedure tables amid a scattering of moving boxes and file crates. Peter looked up with a smile and took a few heavy steps toward David, assisting himself with his ortho cane. 'David. To what do I owe…?'
David thought about pulling himself up to sit on one of the procedure tables, but didn't want to risk tearing the stitching in his side. 'I wanted to see you in person, to convince you to let the cops keep an eye on you. Just for a few days.'
'I appreciate the thought, David, but this is ridiculous. First of all, Clyde Slade has no reason to come after me.'
David fondled the digital transmitter in his pocket. He'd had Ed adhere a small, powerful magnet to its back. Plan B. Getting police protection was still preferable, so he took a deep breath, preparing himself for his next words. He saw no alternative but to attack the issue head-on, despite Peter's repressive preferences. 'To be frank, as a disabled man you make an appealing target.'
Indignation cast its pallor across Peter's face, mitigated only by a devilish glint in his eyes. He flipped his ortho cane, caught the end, and let the long rubber-coated handle fall between David's feet. With a sharp tug, he yanked David's feet out from under him. David landed on his back, an explosion of pain screeching through his side.
'I can protect myself better than you might think,' Peter said.
A groan escaped David as he reached for his side.
'Oh, Jesus,' Peter said. 'I forgot about your injury. I'm so thick-headed.' He attempted to help David rise. Ignoring the pain, David pulled the minuscule transmitter from his pocket and placed it on the inside of Peter's left leg brace, just where it tapered above the ankle. The deceit helped undercut his anger at Peter.
He let Peter help him back to his feet. 'Let me see the cut,' Peter said. David raised his shirt obediently. The stitches were all intact. 'You're fine.' He looked up at David, his gray face tired and drawn. True regret. 'I'm terribly sorry.'
David did not hesitate. 'Then promise me something.'
Peter cocked a bushy eyebrow.
From his other pocket, David pulled the stun gun. He offered it to Peter, who regarded it like a used handkerchief.
Peter raised his ortho cane and let it thump to the floor. 'You can't be serious.'
Chapter 73
Last night, David had sneaked into his house through the back door like a teenager come home from a night drinking. He hoped none of the press had snapped a photograph of him pulling himself gingerly over the rear fence.
He slept unevenly and awakened early when Ed called him to let him know the repeater was in place atop Peter's building. David slipped the earpiece into place and fiddled with the Motorola until he heard Peter's snoring.
Making his way through the house, he closed all the blinds so the tabloid photographers couldn't shoot him with telephoto lenses. He listened to Peter awaken, eat breakfast, and spend an unreasonable amount of time gargling. Before David showered, he hung a bedsheet over his bedroom window, as it didn't have a curtain. The perimeter alarm Ed had installed beeped at least once every five minutes. David felt paradoxically jumpy and exhausted. Captive in his own home.
By the time Yale and Dalton arrived in the late afternoon, David had long given up pretending he was patient. He'd dressed his wound twice, cleaned the house top to bottom, showered several times, refolded all his clothing, and spent nearly half an hour eating lunch-an eternity for him. He'd heard Peter drive for a while, greet his office manager, and begin seeing patients. Whenever guilt encroached on David for his eavesdropping, he pushed it away, granting himself a twenty-four-hour reprieve. He didn't have time for guilt until after the stakeout.
He was dressed in a pair of scrubs, the Motorola strapped to his waistband. Wearing his work clothes, he hoped, would strengthen his appearance in Clyde's mind as a representative of the hospital. Every bit might help.
Yale folded his arms across his chest, smiled an implacable smile, and said to David, 'You have to wear a baggier scrub top if we're gonna hide all this hardware on you.'
Dalton self-consciously touched his tie-a brown-striped JCPenney clip-on-and it tilted revealingly from the knot. His eyes found David's earpiece. 'What's the other radio for?' he asked.
'We don't know anything about another radio,' Yale said.
Dalton pulled the loose skin of his jowls down into a turkey wattle, nodding solemnly. Yale rested an assuring hand on David's shoulder and steered him back to the bedroom. David indicated his side with a tilt of his hand. 'I'm pretty stiff. Do you think you could help me out of this?'
