Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"So how do we go about that?"

"We?" Ed shook his head. "Oh no. This is the stuff I can't get involved in. Grunt work. Door-to-door. It's too visible. I'd suggest you turn all this info over to Yale so he and his boys can start following up on it. You'll just have to trust him." He smiled playfully. "Time to unleash the hounds."

The full moon cast the palm fronds' shadows against the wall at the base of David's bed. He watched them dip and bow like distorted puppets. A horn blared up on Sunset, followed by the squeal of brakes. David listened for a crash, but there was none. Clearly, the earplugs weren't helping, so he removed them and set them by the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was 10:27 P.M.

He'd paged Yale over ten minutes ago.

He reached for the phone, dialed 411, and asked to be put through to the listing. He was surprised when he got an answer. "Healton's Drugs. Help you?"

"Yes, how late are you open?"

"Midnight."

"Can you-"

"And not a minute later. Got that? Doors lock the instant the second hand clicks."

"Yes," David said. "I understand. Can you give me your address please?"

After heaving a weighty sigh, she complied, and David jotted down the address on a notepad. A run-down part of Venice, close to the intersection of 5th and Broadway. And a few blocks away from the Pearson Home for the Developmentally Disabled.

A hefty coincidence.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. David slowed as he neared the drugstore, taking in his surroundings. He passed several weedy lots where buildings had been torn down. In one, a group of men huddled around a burning mattress. It became increasingly evident why the police's response time to this area was so slow.

David pulled into the Healton's parking lot. Though the front of the store was well lit, he had some misgivings about leaving his Mercedes unattended. He took his cell phone with him rather than leaving it in the car.

Fourth of July drawings still decorated the building's large windows-flags and firecrackers depicted with thick, messy paint. The window Clyde had broken was backed with plywood and covered with garbage bags that sucked in the wind. The inside smelled of Clorox and Band-Aids. The tabloids at the unmanned checkout counter screamed out in vivid colors: westwood acid thrower still on loose after dr. death aids his escape! Beside it loomed a photograph of David entering the hospital, taken at paparazzi distance.

Aside from a few food aisles to the right, the drugstore featured health, cleaning, and home improvement products. David happened on a pair of heavy-duty earplugs and grabbed them, figuring he'd give them a try. He walked up the aisles until he arrived at the row of lye products. Drano, Red Devil Drain Opener, Liquid Plumr, and, there at the bottom, DrainEze. Industrial strength, the label advertised.

The harsh female voice startled him. "We're closing up. If you're gonna buy something, bring it to the register."

David turned to find an elderly woman in a hand-knit sweater, her face wrinkled and smeared with makeup. She smelled distinctly of baby powder.

"Hello, ma'am. I was hoping you could-"

"Don't you 'hello ma'am' me. I'm trying to close up now. Buy what you're gonna buy or else get out."

Pulling a copy of the police composite from his pocket, David followed her surprisingly fast hobble up to the cash registers in the front. "I'd really appreciate it if you could take a look at-"

He halted. Through the front windows clouded with the smeared decorative paint, he made out movement around his car. A shadow seemed to orient itself toward David and freeze, as if aware of David's gaze. Then the figure flashed away into the night.

David stepped out through the doors, and the old woman was there instantly behind him, locking him out. A man, stocky like Clyde, was walking up the deserted street, hands shoved into the pockets of a torn jacket, loose shoelaces trailing. Fleeing, yet trying to remain inconspicuous. He did not look back. David jogged a few paces to keep him in sight.

He followed the man at a distance of about half a block, wondering if he was, in fact, Clyde, and if so, how he had spotted David. Had he been staking out the drugstore? The pair of earplugs grew sweaty in his hand, and David realized he had inadvertently stolen them. The man turned a corner into one of the deserted lots David had noted on his way to the drugstore, and David picked up his pace, trying unsuccessfully to keep him in view. He passed a dilapidated phone booth, the black receiver dangling from its cord inside the four shattered walls. When he turned the corner, he realized the man had entered the empty lot beside the Pearson Home.

Broken bottles, gravel, weeds, and a few chunks of concrete left over from the demolition. A scorched car sat up in blocks in the middle of the lot. Nobody in sight.

Cautiously, David stepped off the street and entered the dark, deserted lot. He noticed a slat missing in the fence at the periphery and headed toward it. An opening to another street. His Brooks Brothers loafers crunched gravel underfoot as he walked slowly forward. His mind raced with all the reasons it was foolish for him to be out here in this neighborhood in the middle of the night pursuing a dangerous fugitive, but something drew him forward, a deep-seated compulsion.

Clyde had been careful so far to attack only those who couldn't effectively fight back; David hoped he was too timid to go after an able-bodied man.

David stumbled over a beer bottle, and it shattered against a rock with a dry, popping sound. He paused, leaning on the hood of the torched car.

Through the myriad cracks of the windshield, he saw two eyes glinting in the darkness. His mouth went instantly dry, and his voice seemed to catch in his throat on the way up. "Clyde?"

The door creaked open. David stood frozen, one hand resting on the car hood, as a rustling figure got out and slowly took shape in the darkness. The door closed with a bang, then Clyde stood over him, his face dark and shadowed.

The two men faced each other, David looking up at Clyde. Excitement mingled with fear, kicking both up a notch.

Clyde calmly drew back a large, puffy fist and struck David in the face. David's head snapped down and to the side, a splattering of blood leaving his mouth and spraying across the car's hood. The punch made a dull thud, that of a dropped orange hitting asphalt. The action was oddly matter-of-fact; the men had observed it as it occurred, as if they were both somehow detached from it. Clyde made no move to strike David again.

Slowly, David raised a hand to his mouth and pressed it to his split lip. He had felt no pain, just a sudden pressure. His stomach churned.

He turned back to Clyde, careful to keep his head lowered so as not to make eye contact. The thought of Diane's soft whimpering the first time she kissed him in the hospital room brought on a sudden, intense rage, but he fought it away. Anger did him little good here, as it did little good on the ER floor.

Only Clyde's large stomach and chest were within his view. The sickening and frighteningly familiar combination of body odor and orange candy-coating hung in the air.

It occurred to David how surreal it was to be threatened physically and how ill equipped he was to handle it. He'd been in one fight in his life-Daniel Madison in third grade over a stolen Sandy Koufax baseball card. The ass-kicking Daniel administered had convinced David subsequently to pursue other avenues of conflict resolution. And to root for the Giants.

"You don't know," Clyde said, his words a slur. "You don't know how scary I can be."

"Yes, I do," David said. Clyde might strike him at any moment. He tried to figure out where he'd hit Clyde if he had to defend himself. Neck? Crotch? "But you're in danger. I can help. I can bring you in myself, and make sure you're taken care of."