Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"Try to move this," he said. "Go ahead."

Yale tried to push it out of the way, but it didn't budge.

"Peter said he shoved the gurney at the officer, but if the gurney was left in the hall with a patient on it, it would've been locked," David said. "The foot levers on the new gurneys have to be kicked to the right to release the brakes-that's not common knowledge. You couldn't figure it out just now-imagine if you were running and someone was pointing a gun at you. Clyde already knew how the gurney operated. From working here."

"A helpful hypothesis. But it's time for you to leave."

"That's why he ran into the hospital interior-he knows these corridors and knows where to hide. Or what if it's not even a detour? Maybe he injured himself to get in here."

"We're on it. And this is our job. Now it's time for you to stay out of our way."

"I think we can-"

"If you continue to compromise this perimeter, I'll bust you for noncompliance." Yale pointed down the hall. His face showed he wasn't listening anymore.

David turned and headed for the lobby. A SWAT crew jogged by with two German shepherds straining at the leashes. Through the small windows atop the swinging doors, he could see Dalton interviewing Peter. From Peter's gestures, it appeared he was conveying details of the escape. Across the lobby, Jenkins alternated between shouting at Ralph and bellowing into his portable, contacting officers around the perimeter of the hospital. "Be advised suspect is considered to be in the possession of a police officer's nine-millimeter," David heard him say. "Let's take him down."

David glanced in Fifteen as he passed; Don was playing the hero, tending to the injured officers. Clyde's blow had inflicted some damage, the hasp on the restraint splitting the skin above one officer's ear. As he finished stitching, Don told a joke David couldn't overhear-probably something involving golf or heaven-and the officer's laughter carried to David as he pushed through the doors to the lobby.

Jenkins had disappeared, leaving Ralph to direct police traffic through the lobby. David moved up beside Ralph. "Is someone watching Nancy?" David asked.

"Yeah, Doc. We got her covered."

"What would Clyde want to do if he was loose in the hospital?"

Two more dogs walked by, sniffing, their nails scuttling over tile, pulling SWAT guys behind them.

"Get his ass out of here, I'd think," Ralph replied.

"Which way did he head?"

"Found smudges of fresh O-negative blood in the Three Corridor. Doors back there are Omnilocked, but we only change the combos once a year, so the codes are around. Plus, people sometimes leave the doors propped open."

David thought of the convoluted hospital interior, the endless white corridors, and realized how hopeless it would be to try to find Clyde's hiding place.

Ralph shook his head. "I'd say our bird's flown the coop."

Dalton finished with Peter and strode over. His tie was yanked to one side, and he'd missed a button on his shirt, the small gap revealing a threadbare undershirt. "Congratulations, Doc. You've turned the ER into a crime scene. Now I have jurisdiction. Get out."

David looked over his shoulder and saw Peter talking to a forensic artist. She shaded some element of the sketch with the side of her pencil, thanked Peter, and headed into Hallway One, probably to see the wounded cop.

"Go home," Dalton said. "You've done enough." His face, for once, was firm and intense. "I'm not asking this time."

David nodded once, slowly, and headed for the door, passing Peter. Peter embraced him across the shoulders with one arm.

"How are you doing?" David asked.

"Fine, fine." Peter ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to smooth it down. It did little good. His voice was a touch shaky. "You never think about it, but a hospital is full of weapons. Prongs and hooks and blades. It's grotesque, really. Tools of healing turned outward." He coughed into a fist. "The way he looked at me… "

"You didn't hurt your leg tripping him?"

Peter waved off the notion. "It's steel-enforced, remember?"

"All right," David said. "I have to leave. They're making me leave."

Dalton had finished scribbling something in his worn notepad. He flipped it closed with a flourish, rammed it into his back pocket, and looked up, sighting David. "I'm not fucking around, Doc. I'm gonna check on our artist, and if you're still here when I get back, I'll have you forcibly removed from the building. Don't think I won't." He banged through the swinging doors into the ER proper with the heels of his hands.

Peter trembled slightly, perhaps because the lobby was cool.

"Are you sure you're all right?" David asked.

"Yes," Peter said. "Always."

David was headed for the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting Peter but finding Jenkins.

Stress had gone to work on Jenkins's face over the last few days. The skin had reddened, as if pulled taut across the bones, and his cheekbones projected in almost skeletal fashion. His voice came low and vicious. "You treated him. You held him so he could escape. From here on out, every girl that winds up maimed and blind is your fault." He took a step back, as if not wanting to remain near David for fear of losing control.

David looked at him, unsure how to react, afraid to respond. An adrenaline rush left him light-headed, his ears humming.

When Jenkins spoke again, his voice was deathly calm. His finger stabbed the air, pointing at David's face. "It's on your head now," he said.

David returned to his car in the PCHS lot and slid behind the wheel. It was 5:12 A.M. There was little point in his going home; he'd be unable to sleep anyway. He rolled down the window to let in the chilly air.

The flurry of activity around the hospital didn't seem to be slowing. Two UCPD cops strode past David's car.

"— sleazeball reporter dressed as a doctor tried to sneak in a mini-camera. Cranked the cuffs extra tight for his ride to the station."

One of the cops saw David in his car. "Can I see some ID?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm the chief of the emergency room." David flashed his badge. He thought he detected a note of recognition in the cop's eyes. And disdain.

"The ER's shut down for at least a few more hours, sir, and we're keeping this area clear. You're gonna have to leave."

"What time do you think they'll open the ER again?"

"I don't know. At least a few hours."

David drove slowly down the concrete tiers to the exit. A few cars were queued at the police perimeter, and David gazed back at the hospital, taking it in. The ER, David now saw with renewed clarity, was the most accessible part of the institution. And the most vulnerable. As he'd discussed with Dash, the attacks on the ER were probably not specific to the division but symbolic attacks on the hospital itself. Even if Clyde did work at UCLA Med, that didn't necessarily mean his employment was the starting point of his relationship with the hospital. Clyde had been terrified of Dash in a way that seemed to indicate perceived abuse at the hands of doctors. Which could have been his interpretation of a childhood trip to the hospital or the NPI. If only David had a last name for Clyde, he could run him through the hospital files and see what came up.

David was puzzled by Clyde's claim that he wanted "them" to be sorry for locking him in the dark. Was this merely a hallucination, or was it grounded in reality? And if it was reality-based, what did it have to do with the hospital? David had considered that Clyde's comments might be cover smoke-crafty manipulations designed to mislead investigators-but his presentation had been authentic enough.

A cop waved David through at the perimeter. Not wanting to go home, David drove to a gas station two blocks away, leaned against his trunk, sipped a cup of coffee-scalding in taste and temperature-and tried to order his thoughts. He felt the night chill through his thin shirt and realized that, though it was past five in the morning, he wasn't even tired. Seventeen years in the emergency room provided excellent sleep-deprivation training.