Dean Koontz: Lightning

"Yes."

When the gunman spoke more than a few words, he revealed a vague accent, so mild that Markwell could not place it. He clipped the ends of some words, and occasionally his pronunciation had a guttural note that was barely perceptible.

The stranger sat on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the telephone. "What's the number of the county hospital?" Markwell blinked. "Why?"

' 'Damn it, I asked you the number. If you won't give it to me, I'd rather beat it out of you than look it up in the directory." Chastened, Markwell gave him the number. "Who's on duty there tonight?" "Dr. Carlson. Herb Carlson." "Is he a good man?" "What do you mean?"

"Is he a better doctor than you — or is he a lush too?" "I'm not a lush. I have—"

"You're an irresponsible, self-pitying, alcoholic wreck, and you know it. Answer my question, Doctor. Is Carlson reliable?"

Markwell's sudden nausea resulted only partly from overindulgence in Scotch; the other cause was revulsion at the truth of what the intruder had said. "Yeah, Herb Carlson's good. A very good doctor.”

''Who's the supervising nurse tonight?"

Markwell had to ponder that for a moment. "Ella Hanlow, I think. I'm not sure. If it isn't Ella, it's Virginia Keene."

The stranger called the county hospital and said he was speaking n behalf of Dr. Paul Markwell. He asked for Ella Hanlow.

A blast of wind slammed into the house, rattling a loose window, whistling in the eaves, and Markwell was reminded of the storm. As he watched the fast-falling snow at the window, he felt another gust of disorientation blow through him. The night was so eventful — the lightning, the inexplicable intruder — that suddenly it did not seem real. He pulled at the ropes that bound him to the chair, certain that they were fragments of a whiskey dream and would dissolve like gossamer, but they held him fast, and the effort made him dizzy again.

At the phone the stranger said, "Nurse Hanlow? Dr. Markwell won't be able to come to the hospital tonight. One of his patients here, Janet Shane, is having a difficult labor. Hmmmm? Yes, of course. He wants Dr. Carlson to handle the delivery. No, no, I'm afraid he can't possibly make it. No, not the weather. He's drunk. That's right. He'd be a danger to the patient. No… he's so drunk, there's no point putting him on the line. Sorry. He's been drinking a lot lately, trying to cover it, but tonight he's worse than usual. Hmmmm? I'm a neighbor. Okay. Thank you, Nurse Hanlow. Goodbye."

Markwell was angry but also surprisingly relieved to have his secret revealed. "You bastard, you've ruined me."

"No, Doctor. You've ruined yourself. Self-hatred is destroying your career. And it drove your wife away from you. The marriage was already troubled, sure, but it might've been saved if Lenny had lived, and it might even have been saved after he died if you hadn't withdrawn into yourself so completely."

Markwell was astonished. "How the hell do you know what it was like with me and Anna? And how do you know about Lenny? I've never met you before. How can you know anything about me?"

Ignoring the questions, the stranger piled two pillows against the padded headboard of the bed. He swung his wet, dirty, booted feet onto the covers and stretched out. "No matter how you feel about «, losing your son wasn't your fault. You're just a physician, not a miracle worker. But losing Anna was your fault. And what you've become — an extreme danger to your patients — that's your fault too."

Markwell started to object, then sighed and let his head drop forward until his chin was on his chest.

"You know what your trouble is, Doctor?"

"I suppose you'll tell me."

"Your trouble is you never had to struggle for anything, never knew adversity. Your father was well-to-do, so you got everything you wanted, went to the finest schools. And though you were successful in your practice, you never needed the money — you had your inheritance. So when Lenny got polio, you didn't know how to deal with adversity because you'd never had any practice. You hadn't been inoculated, so you had no resistance, and you got a bad case of despair."

Lifting his head, blinking until his vision cleared, Markwell said, "I can't figure this."

"Through all this suffering, you've learned something, Markwell, and if you'll sober up long enough to think straight, you might get back on track. You've still got a slim chance to redeem yourself."

"Maybe I don't want to redeem myself."

"I'm afraid that could be true. I think you're scared to die, but I don't know if you have the guts to go on living."

The doctor's breath was sour with stale peppermint and whiskey. His mouth was dry, and his tongue swollen. He longed for a drink.

He halfheartedly tested the ropes that bound his hands to the chair. Finally, disgusted by the self-pitying whine in his own voice but unable to regain his dignity, he said, "What do you want from me?"

"I want to prevent you from going to the hospital tonight. I want to be damn sure you don't deliver Janet Shane's baby. You've become a butcher, a potential killer, and you have to be stopped this time."

Markwell licked his dry lips. "I still don't know who you are."

"And you never will, Doctor. You never will."

Bob Shane had never been so scared. He repressed his tears, for he had the superstitious feeling that revealing his fear so openly would tempt the fates and insure Janet's and the baby's deaths.

He leaned forward in the waiting-room chair, bowed his head, and prayed silently: Lord, Janet could've done better than me. She's so pretty, and I'm as homely as a rag rug. I'm just a grocer, and my corner store isn't ever going to turn big profits, but she loves me. Lord, she's good, honest, humble. she doesn't deserve to die. Maybe You want to take her 'cause she's already good enough for heaven. But I'm not good enough yet, and I need her to help me be a better man.

One of the lounge doors opened.

Bob looked up.

Doctors Carlson and Yamatta entered in their hospital greens.

The sight of them frightened Bob, and he rose slowly from his chair.

Yamatta's eyes were sadder than ever.

Dr. Carlson was a tall, portly man who managed to look dignified even in his baggy hospital uniform. "Mr. Shane. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but your wife died in childbirth."

Bob stood rock-still, as if the dreadful news had transformed his flesh to stone. He heard only part of what Carlson said:

"… major uterine obstruction. one of those women not really designed to have children. She should never have gotten pregnant. I'm sorry… so sorry. everything we could. massive hemorrhaging. but the baby…"

The word "baby" broke Bob's paralysis. He took a halting step toward Carlson. "What did you say about the baby?"

"It's a girl," Carlson said. "A healthy little girl."

Bob had thought everything was lost. Now he stared at Carlson, cautiously hopeful that a part of Janet had not died and that he was not, after all, entirely alone in the world. "Really? A girl?"

"Yes," Carlson said. "She's an exceptionally beautiful baby. Born with a full head of dark brown hair."

Looking at Yamatta, Bob said, "My baby lived."

"Yes," Yamatta said. His poignant smile flickered briefly. "And you've got Dr. Carlson to thank. I'm afraid Mrs. Shane never had a chance. In less experienced hands the baby might've been lost too."

Bob turned to Carlson, still afraid to believe. "The… the baby lived, and that's something to be thankful for, anyway, isn't it?"

The physicians stood in awkward silence. Then Yamatta put one hand on Bob Shane's shoulder, perhaps sensing that the contact would comfort him.

Though Bob was five inches taller and forty pounds heavier than the diminutive doctor, he leaned against Yamatta. Overcome with grief he wept, and Yamatta held him.