Clyde. Wrapped in layers of clothes, Blake shifted, a formless mass slumped against the base of the fence.
David walked slowly to the middle of the lot, glass popping beneath his shoes. He opened the door to the scorched car and sat down, resting his hands on the steering wheel.
The loop had been unsuccessful.
David tilted his head down and murmured into his mike, 'Nothing.' He raised his shirt and checked his bandage. It had blotted up some fluid from the wound, but was still firmly in place. In his right ear, he heard the clink of equipment. Peter rattling the surgery clamps? Testing the cauterizer? David stared through the cracked windshield at the Pearson Home. Layla's skewed silhouette moved against the curtains of the second-floor window. The same room where Clyde had once dangled boys by their necks to watch them gasp and tremble.
David looked at the apartment buildings rimming the empty lot-crumbling brick, rain-beaten wood, the occasional shattered window. So many places for Clyde to hide, to spy. From the house, David heard the wavering, uneven voices of some of the residents singing 'Happy Birthday.'
Blake rolled over uneasily when David got out of the car and slammed the door. David walked boldly to the front of the Pearson Home. He spoke down into his mike with minimal movement of his lips. 'I'm going to the porch.'
He knew that somewhere, hidden within the surrounding few blocks, Yale was growing enraged-he had specifically told David to stay off the Pearson Home grounds, in line with Rhonda Decker's directive. But David's walk hadn't yielded anything, and he wanted to take a position that Clyde, if he was in fact watching, would find more provocative and galling. Sitting on the porch of Clyde's sacred, coveted childhood sanctuary, in a position of power and smug presumption, was the most taunting action David had at his current disposal. It was like throwing darts at Clyde's most vulnerable spot.
A rickety wooden chair with a coarsely woven straw seat stood crooked by the front door. David pulled it across the porch and sat, his white coat hanging to his sides like the hem of a skirt. His Mercedes, toplit like a showcase car in the otherwise empty Healton's lot, was visible for blocks. David's new post was also clearly discernible.
Aware that somewhere the cops were complaining and scrambling and reassessing, David leaned back, rested his feet on the railing, and waited for Clyde to appear.
Chapter 74
The fluorescent lights illuminating the new procedure suite were giving Peter a headache, so he turned them off and worked by the light of a desk lamp. It cast a glow on the desktop and around his hands, a small ball of light in the darkness, which he liked, for it made him feel like a medieval craftsman. The blinds remained closed on the window behind him. The desk itself faced the two procedure tables, and beyond them, the door; Peter sometimes had to sit between lengthy procedures to take the weight off his legs. A firmly anchored metal knob, about the size of a fist, protruded from the desktop to aid Peter in sitting and rising. The stun gun lay next to it, where Peter had tossed it after David had left the room yesterday.
Peter lined the cystoscopes side by side, a series of thin stainless steel snakes trailing across the desk and dangling from the edge. They were expensive tools, running about $18,000 apiece with lenses, and he cared for them as though they were museum artifacts. Each one of the scopes had been used countless times to peer into countless bladders; gazing down at them, Peter was filled with a vague sense of wonder at all they had accomplished in their brief material lives. He jotted a note to his technician that they were to be sterilized again.
His left brace had been digging into his ankle all day, and he paused to pull up his pant leg, remove his shoe, and rub the reddish indentation the metal had left in his skin. A rustle at the door caught his attention, and he squinted up into the darkness.
'Yes, can I help you? Hello? Can I help you?'
The form shifted, breathing heavily. The sound of a large person advancing.
Panic stirred and began to sharpen its claws inside Peter. Given his braces, it would take him nearly a minute to rise and shuffle to the light switch on the wall.
Clyde's sallow face pulled into the small ring of light, seeming to float as his body remained lost in shadows. He drew closer, resolving from the darkness. Held limply at his side was a pistol.
Peter's mouth went dry.
The arm holding the gun raised stiffly and mechanically, like a railroad crossing gate, and Peter was looking directly down the length of the Beretta. 'We're gonna have some fun, you and me,' Clyde said.
Moths clustered around the porch light, making a soft, leathery sound. David scanned the street, his eyes picking over the windows in the apartments facing him.
He expected Clyde to charge the porch.
He expected Yale to pull up and call off the stakeout.
He expected Rhonda Decker to appear on the porch and reprimand him.
The only thing he did not expect was Clyde's voice to cut in over the hum of the unit in his right ear.
He stood, forgetting to favor his wounded side, and leapt over the porch stairs, wincing when his feet struck ground. 'He's got Peter Alexander!' David yelled down into his mike. 'They're at Peter's procedure suite. Corner of Westwood and Le Conte.'
Blake rolled over onto his feet, looking ineffective and Falstaffian in his bundle of grimy clothes. David passed him in a sprint, straining to make out what was being transmitted in his right ear. Jenkins spilled out of an alley behind him, shouting something David could not make out.
David reached his car, slid behind the wheel, and peeled out.
Peter struggled to keep his voice even. 'I'm going to-'
Saliva flew from Clyde's lips as he spoke. 'Don't you talk! Don't you talk to me. You're weak. You're what weakness is. I'm in charge here. I'm in charge of you.'
Clyde took a step forward and swept the desk with his arm. Scopes, pens, and papers fell to the floor. The lamp dangled off the side of the desk from its cord, throwing light erratically around the room as it spun.
Peter felt along the desktop for something to grab-a pen, a letter opener-but there was nothing within reach. His eyes flicked across the desktop. The stun gun had caught beside the metal knob. Peter couldn't reach for it; it would be too obvious.
'What do you want?' Peter asked.
Clyde pulled a phone from the wall-mounted unit and punched in a number. Peter took advantage of Clyde's distraction to rest his hand over the stun gun and slide it slowly off the desktop into his lap.
The cord uncoiling across his chest, Clyde pushed the phone at Peter. 'Here. You tell David Spier I'm gonna kill you right now. You tell him I know he's in with the cops to get me, so he better come down here alone if he wants to stop me.'
Peter took the phone with his left hand, holding the stun gun in his lap with his right. Clyde leaned in close, pistol pointed at Peter's head. If Peter raised the stun gun from its hiding place, Clyde could shoot him instantly. Peter wouldn't even have a chance to aim.
Peter offered the phone back to Clyde. 'It's the answering machine.'
'We're gonna leave him a special message, then,' Clyde said, pushing the phone back in Peter's face.
Peter felt the cold barrel pressed hard against his forehead.
'Make some noise,' Clyde said. 'Into the phone.'
Peter's lips started to tremble, but he pressed them together, not wanting to show Clyde his fright.
Clyde cocked the pistol.
'All right,' Peter said. His tone was hard, colored with more anger than fear. 'Let me stand up. I'm not going to die sitting down.'
'I'm gonna hurt you hard. And David Spier's gonna hear it all when he gets home.'
Peter held the phone away from his head. 'I'll leave your… noises in a minute.' He turned his head and looked up past the pistol into Clyde's dead eyes, tightening his grip on the stun gun. He spoke slowly and adamantly. 'But you let me stand up first.'
