Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

For the first time in several months, he turned on the television, but news updates of the manhunt cut into the programming every fifteen minutes and he finally turned it off and gazed at the blank space where his mother's de Kooning used to hang. His exhaustion was too charged to give way to sleep.

He sat quietly, snipping and removing the stitches from his healed knuckle. When the phone rang, it nearly startled him off the chair. He dashed back to his bedroom so he could record the call if necessary. After taking an instant to catch his breath, he picked up the phone with a trembling hand. It was only the dry cleaner calling to remind him he'd had clothes ready for pickup since last Monday.

He hung up, gazing at the light swirl of fingerprint powder on the plastic receiver. After trying to sleep, then disconsolately flipping through the latest New England Journal of Medicine, David called the ER. Carson still had not come in.

David couldn't rest. He was well on his way to his first glaring professional setback, and Clyde was still on the loose. At least there was one thing David could fix. People stared at him from their cars as he drove up to Carson's building; he wondered why until he saw his car's reflection in a store window, ashole lettered across the side in red. He couldn't help but laugh at the expressions of pedestrians and other drivers.

The newsman on the car radio cheerily announced, "Dr. David Spier's position as UCLA ER division chief has become tenuous. Apparently, the board convened this morning over allegations that he attacked a fellow physician. The hospital has not issued a statement. Spier has been at the controversial center of… " David's lack of irritation and unease about the report surprised him pleasantly.

He managed to find Carson's apartment easily this time. Wearing boxers and a ripped T-shirt, Carson opened the door. His face, unshaven and darkened with exhaustion, showed little reaction. David followed him inside wordlessly, and they sat on the floor of the living room again, facing each other. Near the window stood a large bong, which through some tacit agreement, he and Carson pretended not to notice.

"When are you coming back?" David asked.

"I don't know that I am," Carson said softly. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this." He looked away, his face striped with the shadows of the cheap venetian blinds. "Who's gonna want me to work on them now? If they knew, if patients knew, they'd never want to be in my hands. Under my care." His fingers slid up into his mop of blond hair, disappearing. He held his head and studied the light filtering through the window.

"Forgive me for being harsh," David finally said, breaking the silence. He brought his hands together and laced them into a temple. "But you need to pull your head out of your ass."

Carson blinked several times in rapid succession.

"This self-indulgent wallowing is for lovesick schoolboys. You're a physician. Your job is and will be to make difficult calls in the face of life and death and to live with them. I've seen hundreds, maybe even thousands of young doctors, and I know who's cut out for this and who isn't. If you walk away, you'll grow to hate yourself by small, vicious increments."

Carson's lips quivered, ever so slightly.

David continued, "When we spoke the other day, you expressed ambivalence about your return. I've decided I'm not going to leave that decision to you. You need to come back. It's your responsibility to the division and to yourself. Recent events have forced me to learn anew that the world can be a miserable, difficult place. We can't afford to lose a good physician. Not ever, but especially not this week."

Carson looked at him, his eyes moist.

"I'm taking a few days off, starting now," David continued. "I want to know that you're in the ER in my absence." He stood up and dusted his hands. "I'm not leaving until you get dressed, get in your car, and start your drive to the hospital."

Carson stared at him for a very long time. Then he rose and headed back to his bedroom to change into scrubs.

David sat in the still of his bedroom, back against the headboard, files and papers scattered across his lap. He watched the palm frond shadows wave across the newly scoured blood-tinged wall at the base of his bed, and knew with a sudden and vehement certainty that the telephone was about to ring. He watched the bobbing shadows of the plants and waited, breathing softly, as the clock ticked on.

The phone rang and he set aside Connolly's abstract, which he'd been rereading. His voice was surprisingly calm when he answered. "Yes, Clyde?"

The voice, low and sloppy, rattled with phlegm. "You saw. You saw what I left you?"

David's voice was entirely calm. "I did. And?"

A confused pause.

"If you think sneaking into my house and killing a canary are gonna get me upset, you have another think coming. You're gonna have to do a lot more to scare me, Clyde."

Some murmuring: "Back from the door. Three, two, three, two. From the door." Clyde fell quiet. The silence stretched itself out and out, and just as David was certain Clyde had hung up, he spoke. His voice came low and growling. "I'll make you quiver," he said. "I'll make you beg."

"Try it," David said.

The sound of Clyde spitting came through loud and clear. When he spoke again, his voice was eerily calm. "It's gonna get worse. A lot worse."

A chill ran through David's body from his scalp to the soles of his feet. Good, he thought. Then let's play.

The line had gone dead.

His heart was pounding-good competitive bursts of adrenaline.

When Ed returned David's page seconds later, David simply said, "Bingo." Ed called back three minutes later and said, "Pay phone at the Chevron at Venice and Lincoln. Clyde's old stamping grounds."

"What? He hasn't left the area? I've got to head over. I'll call Yale now."

"And say what? Based on an illegal phone trace, you have reason to believe that an escaped felon placed a phone call from a gas station? Don't bite the hand that's dealing you, Spier. That's our deal."

"So what do we do?"

"First, we slow down. We figure out what new information we've gleaned from the phone call."

David started to protest but held his tongue, remembering the last time Ed walked him through this exercise and the helpful information it yielded. "Okay… He's probably hiding in an area near the pay phone."

"Why?"

"His face has been on the cover of the LA Times six times in the past week, plus there's an APB out on his car. It's daytime, so there's no way he'd risk a big trip. The farther he travels from his hiding place, the higher risk he runs of being spotted."

"Unless he knew the call was being traced and is purposefully misdirecting the investigation."

"You're right," David said. "That's an option."

"What else?"

"He was no longer slurring when he spoke. That means he probably hasn't been taking lithium, just as we hypothesized, so his blood level is dropping. That makes him more menacing physically, because his balance problems will disappear. He'll be able to run and drive more effectively, as we already surmised. Plus, it makes him more menacing psychologically, because whatever benefit the lithium was providing in reducing his violent tendencies-if it did at all-is now gone."

"And perhaps he filled up his tank," Ed added, "which would explain why he was at the gas station. We're assuming he doesn't have any money, but if he does, you might look at new apartment rentals in the area."

"He's an addicted smoker. If he'd risk going out for gas, he'd probably also risk heading out for cigarettes. I'll go down there with his newspaper photo and ask around at 7-Elevens and Quickie-Marts. And the gas station too, obviously. First thing that yields, I'll call Yale. Then I'll have a concrete reason for red-flagging the area for the cops."