Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

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."

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?"

As Yale briefed him about the procedures for the sting in a calm, even voice, he eased David out of his scrub top and wired him up, taping the mike at his fifth intercostal space. After selecting a bigger top from the closet, Yale helped David pull it over his head.

David would drive to Healton's in his Mercedes behind Yale and Dalton's car, being tailed by Jenkins and Bronner in the carpet cleaning van. A sweep car would check the route ahead of Yale and Dalton. Once there, David would walk from the parking lot seemingly unescorted, make his way along a highly visible designated route through the neighborhood, and wind up in the scorched car in the abandoned lot. In reality, undercover police officers and SWAT team members would be watching him every minute. Not surprisingly, Rhonda Decker had refused to grant permission for any part of the stakeout to occur on Pearson Home property. David was disappointed; his presence in the house itself would have been a tempting draw for Clyde.

At all times, an ambulance would be standing by a few blocks away. David did not ask who it was for.

Someone knocked in code on the back door, and Yale swung it open to reveal Jenkins and Bronner. Jenkins walked across the living room, boots creaking, equipment jingling on his belt, and leaned against the far wall. Bronner held a plastic cup. He chewed and spat. "We have the van in position," he said.

Yale rubbed his hands together. "All right, crew," he said. "Stay on point. If we fuck this up, the Captain'll put his foot so far up my ass I'll be able to taste shoe polish."

"A lovely image," David said.

"But an apt one. Let's do our jobs, and hope Clyde's drawn in for the… " Yale shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a rare display of discomfort.

David took a deep, halting breath. Jenkins watched the emotions working on David's face. "Our guys are in place," he said, in a tone David imagined was as close to comforting as he could manage. "The area's tighter than the Dodgers infield."

David smiled. "This season?"

Some nervous grins. A cough. Dalton fiddling with his wedding ring. Nerves working.

"I'll meet you in the van," Bronner said. He nodded once, gravely, and backed toward the door cautiously, as though leaving a lion's den.

Yale leveled his stare at David. "Ready to roll?"

The three men faced David, and he detected respect in their faces. He had coiled his stethoscope inside his jacket pocket for good luck, and he patted it through the fabric to feel its weight. He took a deep breath, and held it before exhaling. "As ready as I'm gonna get."

David stood in the dark of his garage, enjoying his last moment alone. The clamor of the press outside seemed amplified through the garage door. A stream of light fought its way through the crack beneath the door, lending the room a dreamlike cast. David had no choice but to forge through the media outside; his Mercedes was a key prop in the stakeout.

In a touching gesture, Dalton had spray-painted over the lettering so the tabloids would have one less thing to screech about. David got into the car and sat with his hands on the wheel for a minute, then he hit the garage door opener and pulled out.

The press flooded toward him. Mikes tapping the car, hands pressed to the windows, faces and makeup and lenses. Cameras flashed. Film rolled.

His first instinct was to stop, so as not to run anyone over, but he continued to back out slowly, carefully, doing his best to fight off claustrophobia. He finally hit the street and accelerated up the block. A few neighbors were standing out on their porches, watching. An old couple up the street wore matching expressions of confusion. The van pulled out immediately behind him, and just before he reached Sunset, Yale and Dalton's car swung in ahead of him. The media brigade followed a few blocks back, but Jenkins did a good job driving poorly to slow them up. As David's eyes darted to the rearview mirror, he realized he was sweating profusely.

Turning right on Veteran, he headed for the police checkpoint. As planned, the two officers pulled aside the sawhorses, letting him through but blocking the following media traffic. One of them offered David a wink as he passed through, and David took note of the clear plastic tube hooked over his ear.

He followed Yale and Dalton south to Wilshire, completing the loop, and the carpet cleaning van was miraculously waiting at the curb after he made the turn. David was amazed at how well Jenkins tailed him to Venice. The van disappeared several times, and David thought for sure Jenkins had lost him for good, but then traffic would thin and there it was again, behind him.

David thought about turning on the radio to relax himself, but not wanting to be distracted by news updates, he hummed instead. He stopped abruptly when he remembered that the wire conveyed his every noise to countless police officers, and it occurred to him with amusement that they'd overhear if he had to take a leak later. In his right ear, he'd been receiving a good transmission of Peter undertaking a procedure-a prostatectomy, from what David could piece together from Peter's concise commands to the nurse.