Dean Koontz - From the Corner of His Eye

Could have used a bottle of that myself last November."

“You were poisoned?"

In that slow, flat delivery with which Junior was becoming increasingly impatient, Detective Vanadium said, “We all were, Doctor. It was another election year, remember? More than once during that campaign, I could've chugged ipecac. What else would work if I wanted to have a good vomit?"

“Well ... apomorphine hydrochloride."

“Harder to get than ipecac."

“Yes. Sodium chloride will work, too. Common salt. Mix enough of it with water, and it's generally effective."

“Harder to detect than ipecac or apomorphine hydrochloride."

“Detect?” Parkhurst asked.

“In the spew."

“In the vomitus, you mean?"

“Sorry. I forgot we're in polite company. Yes, I mean in the vomitus.

“Well, the lab could detect abnormally high salt levels, but that wouldn't matter in court. He could say he ate a lot of salty foods."

“Salt water would be too cumbersome anyway. He'd have to drink a lot of it shortly before he heaved, but he was surrounded by cops with good reason to keep an eye on him. Does ipecac come in capsule form?"

“I suppose anyone could fill some empty gelatin capsules with the syrup,” said Parkhurst. “But-"

” Roll your own, so to speak. Then he could palm a few of them, swallow 'em without water, and the reaction would be delayed maybe long enough, until the capsules dissolved in his stomach."

The affable physician sounded as though he was at last beginning to find the detective's unlikely theory and persistent questioning to be tedious. “I seriously doubt that a dose of ipecac would produce such a violent response as in this case-not pharyngeal hemorrhage, for God's sake. Ipecac is a safe product."

“If he took triple or quadruple the usual dose-"

“Wouldn't matter,” Parkhurst insisted. “A lot has pretty much the same effect as a little. You can't overdose, because what it does is make you throw up, and when you throw up, you purge yourself of the ipecac along with everything else."

“Then, whether a little or a lot, it'll be in his spew. Excuse me, his vomitus."

“If you're expecting the hospital to provide a sample of the ejecta, I'm afraid-"

“Ejecta?"

“The vomitus."

Vanadium said, “I'm an easily confused layman, Doctor. If we can't stick to one word for it, I'm just going to go back to spew."

“The paramedics will have disposed of the contents of the emesis basin if they used one. And if there were soiled towels or sheeting, they might already have been laundered."

“That's all right,” Vanadium said. “I bagged some at the scene."

“Bagged?"

“As evidence."

Junior felt unspeakably violated. This was outrageous: the inarguably personal, very private contents of his stomach, scooped into a plastic evidence bag, without his permission, without even his knowledge.

What next, a stool sample pried out of him while he was knocked unconscious by morphine? This barf gathering surely was in violation of the Constitution of the United States, a clear contravention of the guarantee against self-incrimination, a slap in the face of justice, a violation of the rights of man.

He had not, of course, taken ipecac or any other emetic, so they would find no evidence to use against him. He was angry, nonetheless, as a matter of principle.

Perhaps Dr. Parkhurst, too, was disturbed by this fascistic and fanatical spew sampling, because he became brusque. “I have a few appointments to keep. By the time I make evening rounds, I expect Mr. Cain to be conscious, but I'd rather you didn't disturb him until tomorrow."

Instead of responding to the physician's request, Vanadium said, “One more question, Doctor. If it was acute nervous emesis, as you suggest, wouldn't there have been another cause besides his anguish over the traumatic loss of his wife?"

“I can't imagine any more-obvious source of extreme anxiety."

“Guilt,” said the detective. “If he killed her, wouldn't an overwhelming sense of guilt be as likely as anguish to cause acute nervous emesis?"

“I couldn't say with any confidence. None of my degrees is in psychology."

“Humor me with an educated guess, Doctor."

“I'm a healer, not a prosecutor. I'm not in the habit of making accusations, especially not against my own patients."

“Wouldn't dream of asking you to make it a habit. Just this one time. If anguish, why not guilt?"

A Dr. Parkhurst considered the question, which he ought to have dismissed out of hand. “Well ... yes, I suppose so.” Spineless, unethical quack bastard, Junior thought bitterly.

“I believe I'll just wait here until Mr. Cain wakes,” Vanadium said. “I've nothing more pressing to do."

An authoritative note came into Parkhurst's voice, that emperor-of- tone that probably was taught in a special medical-school course on intimidation, though he was striking this attitude a little too late to be entirely effective. “My patient is in a fragile state. He mustn't be agitated, Detective. I really don't want you questioning him until tomorrow at the earliest."

“All right, of course. I won't question him. I'll just ... observe."

Judging by the sounds Vanadium made, Junior figured that the cop had settled once more into the armchair.

Junior hoped that Parkhurst was more skilled at the practice of medicine than he was at browbeating.

After a long hesitation, the physician said, “You could switch on that lamp."

“I'll be fine."

“It won't disturb the patient."

“I like the dark,” Vanadium replied.

“This is most irregular."

“Isn't it, though,” Vanadium agreed.

Finally wimping out completely, Parkhurst left the room. The heavy door sighed softly shut, silencing the squeak of rubber-soled shoes, the swish of starched uniforms, and other noises made by the busy nurses in the corridor.

Mrs. Cain's little boy felt small, weak, sorry for himself, and terribly alone. The detective was still here, but his presence only aggravated Junior's sense of isolation.

He missed Naomi. She'd always known exactly the right thing to say or do, improving his mood with a few words or with just her touch, when he was feeling down.

THUNDER RATTLED like hoofbeats, and dapple-gray clouds drove eastward in the slow-motion gallop of horses in a dream. Bright Beach was blurred and distorted by rain as full of tricks as funhouse mirrors.

While sliding toward twilight, the January afternoon seemed also to have slipped out of the familiar world and into a strange dimension.

With Joey dead beside her and the baby possibly dying in her womb, trapped in the Pontiac because the doors were torqued in their frames and wedged shut, racked by pain from the battering she had Agnes refused to indulge in either fear or tears. She gave herself to prayer instead, asking for the wisdom to understand why this was happening to her and for the strength to cope with her pain and with her loss.

Witnesses first to the scene, unable to open either door of the coupe, spoke encouragingly to her through the broken-out windows.

She knew some of them, not others. They were all well-meaning and concerned, some without rain gear and getting soaked, but their natural curiosity lent a special shine to their eyes that made Agnes feel as though she were an animal on exhibit, without dignity, her most private agony exposed for the entertainment of strangers.

When the first police arrived, followed closely by an ambulance, they discussed the possibility of taking Agnes out of the car through the Missing windshield. Considering that the space was pinched by the crumpled roof, however, and in light of Agnes's pregnancy and imminent second-stage labor, the severe contortions involved in this extraction would be too dangerous.