Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

A few drops of condensation resolved on the foggy glass and trickled to the sill. He'd been watching for some time.

He spotted the white coat first, then recognized David walking tenderly up the concrete stairs to the top level, Diane Trace slightly in front of him. At either side of them were men in suits-one standing tall and lean, the other wide and slumped. The detectives.

After discussing something animatedly, they helped David into his car. Then they headed down to the lower tier, escorting Diane to her Explorer.

The Mercedes pulled out of the parking structure, Diane's car just behind it. When they passed the parking kiosks, a van pulled out from the curb and followed them both, about a block back.

Clyde pressed both palms against the glass on either side of his face, like a mime, and watched David's car until it disappeared from view.

Don strode up to Sandy's door, white coat flaring. He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, Sandy's voice issued through the solid door. "Come in."

A Bic pen behind her ear, Sandy worked at the conference table under the glow of the green banker's lamp. She flipped through a contract, sighed, tossed it to the side, and glanced at the next document in the pile before her.

"Dr. Evans, I'd like to thank you for your support in this matter, regarding Dr. Spier." Sandy did not look up. Don waited for a response, but finding none, continued. "It was, uh, a wise decision, I believe, for the division."

Still looking down at her paperwork, Sandy mumbled something under her breath.

"I'm sorry?" Don said.

Sandy finally looked up. "I said, 'Go fuck yourself,' Dr. Lambert." She pulled the pen from behind her ear and attacked the next file in her stack.

Don watched her work for a few moments, his mouth slightly ajar. He made sure to close the door quietly behind him when he left.

David was vaguely aware of the carpet cleaning van following him and Diane a few blocks back; Yale had selected it as the undercover vehicle, as it wouldn't be out of place in upscale Brentwood. It parked across the street when David pulled into his garage. Diane left her Explorer at the curb, near the mailbox. She helped David inside, and in a confusion of beeps and codes, he disarmed the security alarms.

She walked him down the long hall to his bedroom, one arm looped across his back, and deposited him on his bed. He lay back on the stark white pillows with a groan, holding her hand. His eyes were swollen, underscored by bags so dark they resembled contusions.

He held her hand and looked up at her. She was scanning the plain, empty room, the white walls, the lonely chair in the corner, and David felt a sudden, intense vulnerability-a concern that his bedroom revealed more of his life than he himself wished to grasp and convey.

"You should go," he said. "The cops will escort you home and keep an eye on you."

"Are you sure you want to be alone?"

He nodded. She backed up to go, but he didn't relinquish her hand. Despite the codeine, his wound was throbbing with his heartbeat, regular intervals of pain. The shock of almost being killed had caught up to him all at once, rushing him like a bad dream recalled. And though he'd been anticipating it, the news from the board didn't lessen the sensation that he was badly navigating rocky waters.

"I could stay," she offered again quietly.

He shook his head, but still held her hand, held it tighter.

"It's okay," she said. "You can need me." She looked at him and gave him the silence for as long as he needed it.

"Five minutes," he finally managed.

She let her hand slide from his, then, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders, she lifted off her top. Her hair spilled down across her shoulders, a golden fan spreading.

She slid into bed beside him, her back propped up against the headboard, and then he was lying in blissful silence, clutching her, his face pressed to her bare chest, her flesh moist with the faintest recollection of sweat and scented like lilac and summer.

When the dull ache in his side awakened David the next morning, he was groggy from the morphine and codeine, and profoundly fatigued. Diane had left last night after a few minutes more than his requested five. The carpet cleaning van remained curbside up the street, visible through his bedroom window.

He cracked the window, letting the breeze float into the room, and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and wincing in time to the pulses of pain. A bottle of Tylenol with codeine sat on his nightstand, but he didn't want to take any. Not yet. He wanted to feel the sting of the wound, perhaps in a self-flagellating way; though he could discern no conscious reason why he'd punish himself, the instinctual motives were many and complex. More likely, he found the pain reassuring because the beating wound matched the movement of his heart and reminded him, continuously, sharply, that he was alive.

The insistent ringing of the phone pulled him from his thoughts. The woman's voice on the other end was exuberant to the point of being hysterical. "Hello, Dr. Spier. Kate Mantera from Time magazine. We've received word that you suffered a direct attack from the Westwood Acid Thrower. We're thinking of-"

"Alkali," David said.

"Excuse me?"

"He throws alkali." David hung up the telephone and it immediately rang again.

A man's voice, deep and rich. "Dr. David Spier, this is John Cacciotti from KBNE-your ride in the morning-and you're on the air. What we'd like to know is-"

David hung up and unplugged the telephone. After unscrewing and examining the showerhead, he took a long, steamy shower. When he got out, he used his cell phone to call Diane at home.

When she didn't answer, he felt a flutter of panic. He called the ER and asked the clerk if anyone had heard from Diane.

"Yeah," the clerk said. "She's right here."

Diane picked up. "Don't worry. I have two University police officers in here watching over me. Right, guys?" Mumbled background accord.

"But your injuries. You shouldn't be working already."

"Oh please, David. What am I gonna do, sit around and heal?"

"I really don't think you should be up and on your feet yet. At least not for a couple of days."

"That's what he'd want," she said. "To shut us down. I'll be damned if I'm going to be emotionally blackmailed into not doing my job. And besides, you should be on bed rest for several days minimum. Are you going to follow doctor's orders?"

David wandered down the hall to the living room, his side giving off a dull ache.

"I didn't think so," she said. "Look, we're on overload this morning. Why did you call?"

Switching emotional tracks, he felt suddenly sluggish. "I wanted to say… well, last night… I guess it was… "

"I know, David. Me too." He heard someone shout in the background on her end of the line. "I have to run," she said. "Let's talk later."

He heard himself agree, then hung up. Whatever he'd wanted to convey remained a nervous ball in his chest. He'd been realizing with increasing conviction that he didn't have the world figured out nearly as well as he'd once assumed.

He opened the front door to get the newspaper, and the crowd of reporters stationed at his curb sprang to life, scurrying up the walk at him. Startled, he snatched the paper and slammed the door. The doorbell rang behind him, three times in rapid succession.

After allowing himself a moment for his heartbeat to slow, David glanced down at the paper in his hand. The headline read WESTWOOD ACID THROWER ATTACKS SO-CALLED DR. DEATH He considered his new moniker. Dr. Death. He could adjust to that. It had a nice alliterative ring to it. Now that he was no longer division chief, he supposed the new title would have to suffice.