pressed between his hands.
A blaring horn on Wilshire brought David back from his thoughts. He put the car in drive and pulled away, but slammed on the brakes when he heard an awful metallic clunk. He got back out and picked up the broken gas handle from the ground; he'd pulled away with the handle still in the tank and torn it cleanly off.
He walked slowly back to the well-lit booth.
'I'll bill the usual account,' the attendant said.
David managed a weak nod. 'That'll be fine.'
Chapter 12
Clyde woke up a few minutes past three, though he'd been squirming in the sheets since two, his scrub bottoms twisting around his legs. The pillow, smudged with sweat, had claimed a few more strands of his hair. His wide feet pattered across the dirty floor to the bathroom. He pissed heavily for nearly a full minute, splattering the toilet seat, which he'd neglected to raise.
A rind of soap clogged the sink drain. He picked up a plastic McDonald's cup from the floor-filled and drank, filled and drank, filled and drank. He avoided his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror when he swung it open. A box of orange lozenges remained half-full. He popped two from the foil sheet and sucked them hungrily, working up saliva to swish around in his mouth.
Opening another can of cat food, Clyde added it to the slop overflowing the bowl, scaring up a swirl of flies. Pacing around the small apartment, bits of cheese and crumbs sticking to the bottoms of his feet, he smoked two cigarettes simultaneously, which seemed to quicken his step. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands, his breathing intensifying until his chest heaved up and down. Climbing into bed, he pulled the dirty sheets up to his chin. He ground the orange lozenges into a paste and swallowed it.
He lowered the sheets and sat up, staring at the footlocker at the base of the table. It lay open, rolls of gauze visible among the glistening medical equipment. A container of DrainEze sat out, casting a solitary shadow on the scarred tabletop. He struck his head with the flats of his hands. A few more strands of hair came out, stuck to his sweaty palms.
A frightened whine started in the back of his throat and rose to a deep bellow. He stood up and shuffled through the mound of dirty clothes to the far wall. He'd stolen a snapdragon from the retarded home, potted it badly in a soggy ice-cream carton, and set it in the corner. Now, he pushed the plant to one side, revealing a disused heating vent. He fumbled in his pockets and removed a money clip. A cheap Mexican design with two fake-turquoise horses rearing on a hammered brass nub, the money clip hid a thin penknife in its side. He dug the knife open with a dirty nail, then slid the blade behind the edge of the vent for leverage.
The surrounding wall crumbled a bit when he pulled the vent out, and Clyde stared reverently at the solitary bottle of pills before touching it. The bottle was unmarked, the pharmacist's label removed and the underlying gum scraped off with a fingernail. He tapped three pale yellow capsules into his palm and took them there on his knees, swallowing them without water. Before returning to bed, he replaced the vent and the plant.
Lying back, he closed his eyes. 'Three, two, one,' he murmured. 'Step back from the door. Three, two, one, step back from the door back from the door back from the-'
Tears pushed their way out under his eyelids, streaking down his temples to the pillow. His hands pushed and clawed at the sheets, fisted and loosened. Finally, he sat up, the key swaying from his ball-chain necklace like a pendant.
Throwing the sheets aside, he crossed quickly to the table, seized the container of DrainEze, and hurled it into the footlocker with such force it nearly bounced out. Slamming the lid shut, he fisted the key and yanked, his necklace breaking easily. His hands were shaking so severely, it took him several tries to slide the key into each of the smooth circular locks, but finally he had the footlocker secured.
Storming across the musty room, he slid the window open with a grunt, tore the screen from its pegs, and hurled the key outside. It bounced once on concrete and lost itself in the strip of thick weedy grass beside the sidewalk.
The beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead were starting to run, stinging his eyes. He dashed to the heat vent again, skinning his bare knees as he slid, and pulled aside the snapdragon, his fat fingers digging into the soft plaster around the vent. He dug two more capsules from the translucent orange bottle and swallowed them. He had the bottle back in its hiding place and the vent pushed into the wall when he tore it aside again, unscrewed the bottle, and swallowed two more pills.
He went to the bathroom and urinated again, then drank three more glasses of water and got back into bed. His fingers tapped his chest several times, lightly, where the key usually rested. His breathing quickened into an animal's whine. He got back up and stood at the window, forehead and hands pressed to the pane, eyes searching the weedy strip below.
Within the hour, he was out hunting on his hands and knees, the beam of his flashlight playing like a small beacon through the tall blades of grass.
Chapter 13
Clyde parked at a metered spot on Le Conte and walked up toward the Medical Plaza, turning so the construction workers across the street couldn't make out his face. He wore scrubs and a loose gray sweatshirt. His scrub bottoms, like most, had a hidden pocket inside the waist on the left side, a simple stitched flap of fabric designed to keep credit cards or prescription pads safe from grabbing hands and aortal spurts. Clyde had wedged his money clip inside.
One of his hands was hidden beneath the sweatshirt, causing it to bulge. He tugged on the bill of his blank navy-blue corduroy hat, pulling it low so it shadowed his features. The early-morning air was crisp, though there was little breeze.
Ducking behind some foliage near the PCHS lot, he watched the attendants in the kiosks about thirty yards away. For the most part, they kept their eyes on the cash registers and the incoming cars, paying little attention to the walkway that sloped down to the ambulance bay. Located at the rear of the small underground parking area, the actual entrance to the ER was not visible from street level.
A security guard emerged and headed up the walkway, whistling, his eyes on the bushes to his right. He reached the top of the slope and turned into the covered section of the PCHS lot, the section that led back into the hospital. There were no news vans in sight.
Clyde's latex-gloved hand emerged from beneath his sweatshirt, holding a Pyrex beaker, its gradations marked in white. It held a blue viscid liquid. Breathing heavily, he removed the foil covering, balled it up, and tossed it into the gutter. It rolled a few feet before falling down a sewer grate. Clyde withdrew back into the bushes, hidden by a cluster of palm fronds, and used his cheap digital watch to time the security guard's patrol.
It took the guard five minutes and twenty-four seconds to walk a full loop through the hospital and reappear. The guard emerged from the ambulance bay again, heading up the walkway, head swiveling like a dog tracking prey.
Pressing the beaker of alkali to his stomach, Clyde crouched in the bushes, waiting for the security guard to disappear once again into the larger lot. Then, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he stepped from the bushes. The rise and fall of his chest quickened.
He walked casually past the kiosk, keeping his eyes on the ground. A harried woman was loudly voicing her objections to the parking rates, pulled up so the black-and-white striped arm nearly rested across the hood of her Taurus. Neither of the parking attendants noticed Clyde.
One hand staying beneath his sweatshirt, Clyde shuffle-stepped down the walkway into the subterranean ambulance bay, careful not to sway too much. Three rivulets of sweat arced down his left cheek. At the bottom of the ramp, two ambulances had been left deserted along the curb. He slid between them and the wall.
A couple lingered by their car in the parking slots across the ambulance bay, and Clyde pressed his cheek
