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By Root 333 0

—her home number and even the hotels in Washington where she usually stayed. She’ll be here soon, he told himself. If not today then tomorrow. Their only contact after she had left had been a brief conversation just before the hideous session with Dockerty in the Amphi. Lauren had called to explain that she would be on the move, covering reaction to the death of Senator Cormier. In fact, she confessed, her main reason for calling (other than“just to say hi,” she said) was to see if David could talk to people at his hospital and get some inside information on the sudden tragedy. At the time he’d felt certain he could learn something. Of course, there had been no way of knowing that within a few hours he would become a pariah at Boston Doctors.

David went to the kitchen for some water, then to the bathroom for some more.

She’d said she’d be in Springfield today covering the funeral. Possibly for a day or two after that. Perhaps she would call and they could meet in Springfield. Maybe they could even drive to New York or … or maybe up to Montreal.

Random movements, random thoughts.

He reopened the mystery novel, read for a time, then discovered that the last ten pages of the tattered paperback were missing. He barely reacted—just shrugged—and shuffled off to take a shower—his second of the day. As he turned on the water, the telephone rang.

David skidded into the hallway and raced to the bedroom. “Hey, where have you been?” he panted. “I’ve been worried. I didn’t even know for sure what city you were in.”

“David, it’s Dr. Armstrong. Are you all right?”

“Huh?” Oh, damn. “I’m sorry, Dr. Armstrong. No, I’m fine. I was expecting a call from Lauren and … uh … she’s a woman that I …”

“David? Take a minute and relax. Do you want me to call back?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Really.” He stretched the phone cord to reach his bureau and pulled on a pair of scrub pants. Then he sighed and sank to the bed. “Actually, I’m not fine. I’ve been sitting around here all day. Half the time I wait, and the other half I try to figure out what I’m waiting for.”

“But you haven’t …?” She let the question drift.

“No, not even close,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Not a pill or a drop of anything. I told you the other night that nothing was going to get me back there.” Actually, the urge had been there several times—fleeting, but unmistakable. It never lasted long enough to pose a major threat, but after so many years, any sense of it at all was frightening.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Armstrong said. “I’m truly sorry to have taken so long to get back to you.”

“I understand.” He cut in, hoping to spare her any uncomfortable explanations of the turmoil he knew was surrounding him—and her—at the hospital. “Any news?”

“Not really. Our friend the lieutenant has been present on and off since Sunday. He checks in with me or Ed Lipton to let us know he’s around, but that’s about it.”

“Well, I bumped into Miss Dalrymple yesterday and asked for her copy of Charlotte Thomas’s chart. I thought perhaps I could get some brainstorm from studying it.”

“And did Miss Dalrymple give it to you?”

David missed the chord of heightened interest in her voice. “No. I think she would have, but she didn’t have it anymore.” Briefly, he reviewed the conversation with Dotty Dalrymple and his subsequent call to Huttner.

“So,” she said after a moment’s pause, “the buzzards circle.”

David smiled ruefully at the image. “Circle and wait,” he said. “I feel so damn helpless. I want to do something to show them all I’m still alive and fighting, but I can’t even find a stick to wave.”

“I understand,” she said. “If I were you, I would just sit tight and see what develops.”

“You’re probably right, Dr. Armstrong, but unfortunately passivity has never been one of my strong suits. If I don’t do something to sort this whole mess out, who will?”

“I will, David.”

“What?”

“I told you the other night I would do what I could.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I have a friend in personnel who’s checking the hospital computer for any former mental patients or drug problems or prison records. That sort