Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"We have thirty units sweeping the area, but he seems to have disappeared on us again," Yale said. "The Tibet protests had our traffic units tied up at the Federal Building, so it took over ten minutes to get a unit to the scene. The Captain's apoplectic, the Mayor's foaming at the mouth, and Clyde is gone, baby, gone."

Dalton hitched his pants, his grimace indicating that the gesture took considerable effort. "My guess is, he's still in Westwood, holed up somewhere. We've locked down the Village pretty well and are beating the bushes. Some of the boys are starting to go door-to-door. Oh, and we found your painting in his trunk. The mangled naked lady. Looks like she got a bit more mangled in transit."

"That's fine." David tried to grin. "It was my mother's. I've grown less trusting of her taste."

Carson continued to work on David's side industriously.

"You want to fill us in here, Evel Knievel?" Dalton said.

"I went out to Venice to show Clyde's photograph around some other places I thought he might have gone. Gas stations, 7-Elevens." David's head was reeling from the morphine, but he fought his thoughts back into focus. "I stopped by to take another look at the Pearson Home. I discovered he's been back there, hanging out in that scorched car in the lot. I found what I think are recently smoked cigarettes in the glove box, mashed together in twos like Clyde smokes them."

"The fucker was right there," Dalton said. "I don't believe it."

"You should be able to determine how old they are, right? The cigarette butts?"

"I'd imagine." Yale nodded at Dalton. "We'll get some SID guys over there."

"I think he was watching me there," David continued. "He sent me an emergency page-Diane's number-from the phone booth right around the corner from the Pearson Home. Then he followed me and tried to run me over the minute I got out of my car."

"From the looks of his vehicle, he's been hiding out in it the past few days," Yale said. "We're not sure where, but we found an unusual white gravel stuck in the tires' tread. Same type of rock he used to weight the sock he hit the guard with when he attacked Dr. Trace. Looks to be fake quartz."

Hurwitz, Gregg

Do No Harm (2002)

With the morphine, David's face felt loose. "There's a storage facility called Poppy's at Lincoln and Venice. It's got a white gravel lot. Look around there." Carson looked up at David reverently, but David gestured at his wound with his head. "Get back to work."

Dalton removed his notepad from a back pocket and, with a self-conscious glance at Yale, jotted down some notes.

Yale touched the end of his nose with a knuckle. "Are we gonna keep pretending you're gathering all this information yourself?"

"Yes."

Dalton broke the resultant pause. "You were wrong about him leaving all the DrainEze behind at the apartment. He kept a spare in the trunk."

"Well, he doesn't have it anymore," David said. "And at least no one got hurt."

Dalton's eyes traced over the gash in David's side. "Right."

"Clyde's been slowly deprived of his necessities," Yale said. "Pushed out of his apartment, forced to leave behind his car. He has no drugs, no alkali. That makes him more desperate. He's out of resources, so he'll have to steal or surface. A car, meds, some food, something, and we'll nab him then."

"Do you have men on those people I red-flagged?" David asked.

"We have a unit at Mrs. Connolly's around the clock, and one at the chief of staff's house nights. Mrs. Trace is being covered too-"

"Dr. Trace," David said faintly.

"— but your buddy Peter Alexander is being a stubborn pain in the ass. He says he doesn't need protection, that he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

"Infuriating," David said. "But not entirely surprising. We have to keep him covered. Clyde's seen him on two occasions-during his escape, and just now when he tried to run me over. Both times were antagonistic. Is there anything we can do?"

Dalton shrugged his familiar shrug. "The guy refuses, the guy refuses."

"I'll see if I can talk some sense into him."

"Good luck."

"We need a more extreme plan," David said, "so I picked his next victim."

Dalton scratched his cheek with the end of his pen. "Who?"

"Me."

"I don't know," Yale said. "Your theories haven't exactly been airtight. I thought you said he wanted to scare you, not kill you. Trying to run you over in a car would qualify as the latter, I believe."

"That's because by going to that lot and poking around-near the house that is his sanctified ground-I committed a violation so great I probably pushed him over the edge. That was the first time I've seen him close to that enraged, including when he was dragged into the ER by a wire noose. He came at me with blind wrath. I want to find a way to make him that angry again. So angry that he'll no longer want to scare me. He'll want to kill me."

Yale and Dalton regarded David silently, as though taking in a new person. Carson continued to stitch and pretend he was not listening.

"He's grown more and more aggressive," David said. "You want to intercept that trajectory we talked about? Let's push him to the limit."

"Your getting him enraged did make him more prone to fuck up," Dalton conceded. "He followed you in broad daylight in a vehicle he knows we're on the lookout for. And he attacked you in front of witnesses-that's a first too."

Yale asked, "How do you get him in that state again?"

David guided Carson's hand to help him get a better angle at the wound. "I'm a hot target. The Pearson Home is a hot location. The combination today did the trick. I say we combine the two again. I think it'll be too much for him to resist."

Yale studied the gash in David's side. "I'd rather use undercover cops. Dress some females up as nurses like we talked about, then have them exit the Pearson Home and walk through the deserted streets."

"In that neighborhood? They'll be more likely to get propositioned than attacked. I'm more believable. He knows I'm familiar with the neighborhood. He knows I've gone poking around after him. I'm your perfect lure. If I go near that house, he'll sniff me out."

The only sound was of Carson working on David-the pickups pinching flesh, the needles pushing through skin.

"He's stranded in Westwood without a car," Yale said. "What's to say he'll head back to Venice?"

"He's been persistently drawn back near that house for much of his adult life. He'll find a way. Unless he comes after me at home, someone at the hospital, or the people we red-flagged, in which case we'll catch him anyway."

Yale brushed something off the sleeve of his suit jacket. "We won't hesitate to use necessary force."

"Will you kill him?"

"If we have to," Yale said. He held up his hand when both David and Dalton started to speak, stopping them. "You'll just have to trust me on this one."

David chewed his lip, trying to bring his thoughts back into focus. Out in the hall, an orderly pushed an empty gurney. "I guess we don't have a choice," he said.

For the first time, David couldn't read Dalton's eyes. David stared at the detectives positioned at the foot of his gurney. The room seemed charged, a triangle of intensity moving between the three men.

"Well?" David said. "What do you say?"

Dalton looked over at Yale, clearly waiting for him to make the call. Carson finished the last suture, pulling the excess through until the last segment of the wound was brought to a close.

"All right," Yale said. "I'll run it by the Captain, and we'll flesh out a plan once you're… intact."

David offered a weak hand and, at last, Yale stepped forward and took it.

Lying on the gurney in the empty room, floating on a post-morphine mist, David surveyed the tools and equipment around him. A wall suction unit, lead aprons, otoscope and ophthalmoscope hanging on the walls. Casting his mind back over the past seventeen years, he tried to think about how many accident victims he'd seen wheeled in this very room, how many family members he'd consoled, how many he'd reassured. People left in wheelchairs and gurneys, they left walking and limping. Sometimes they left in bags.