“I’m a widower.”
“Children?”
“All grown and gone.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’ve made a lifetime habit of not lying,” he said. “It’s gotten me in trouble a few times, but telling the truth generally makes life simpler. Look, it’s chilly, and this robe’s thin. You can intimidate me as well if you come inside.”
She stepped across the threshold, keeping the gun in his belly and pushing him backward with it. Chris followed her. “Honey,” she whispered, “go check out the house. Quietly. Start upstairs, and don’t miss a room. If there’s anyone here, tell them the doctor has an emergency patient and needs their help.”
Chris headed for the stairs, and Laura kept Carter Brenkshaw in the foyer at gunpoint. Nearby a grandfather clock was ticking softly.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been a lifelong reader of thrillers.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve often read a scene in which a gorgeous villainess held the hero against his will. As often as not, when he finally turned the tables on her, she surrendered to the inevitability of masculine triumph, and they made wild, passionate love. So when it happens to me, why do I have to be too old to enjoy the prospect of the second half of this little showdown?”
Laura held back a smile because she could not continue to pretend to be dangerous once she allowed herself to smile. “Shut up.”
“Surely you can do better than that.”
“Just shut up, all right? Shut up.”
He did not go pale or begin to tremble. He smiled.
Chris returned from upstairs. “Nobody, Mom.”
Brenkshaw said, “I wonder how many dangerous thugs have pint-size accomplices who call them Mom?”
“Don’t misjudge me, Doctor. I’m desperate.”
Chris disappeared into the downstairs rooms, turning on lights as he went.
To Brenkshaw, Laura said, “I’ve got a wounded man in the car—”
“Of course, a gunshot.”
“— I Want you to treat him and keep your mouth shut about it, ’cause if you don’t, we’ll come back some night and blow you away.”
“This,” he said almost merrily, “is perfectly delicious.”
As Chris returned, he switched off the lights he had switched on
moments ago. “Nobody, Mom.”
“You have a stretcher?” Laura asked the physician. Brenkshaw stared at her. “You really do have a wounded man?” “What the hell else would I be doing here?” “How peculiar. Well, all right, how badly is he bleeding?” “A lot earlier, not so much now. But he’s unconscious.” “If he’s not bleeding badly now, we can roll him in. I’ve got a
collapsible wheelchair in my office. Can I get an overcoat,” he said, pointing to the foyer closet, “or do tough molls like you get a thrill out of making old men shiver in their peejays?”
“Get your coat, Doctor, but damn it, don’t underestimate me.” “Yeah,” Chris said. “She shot two guys already tonight.” He imitated the sound of an Uzi. “She just cut ’em down, and they never had a chance to lay a hand on her.” The boy sounded so sincere that Brenkshaw looked at Laura with new concern. “There’s nothing but coats in the closet. Umbrellas. A pair of galoshes. I don’t keep a gun in there.”
“Just be careful, Doctor. No fast moves.”
“No fast moves—yes, I knew you’d say that.” Though he still seemed to find the situation to some degree amusing, he was not quite as lighthearted about it as he had been.
When he had pulled on his overcoat, they went with him through a door to the left of the foyer. Without snapping on a light, relying on the glow from the foyer and on his familiarity with the place, Dr. Brenkshaw led them through a patients’ waiting room that contained straight-backed chairs and a couple of end tables. Another door led into his office—a desk, three chairs, medical books— where he did turn on a light, and a door from the office led farther back in the house to his examination room.
Laura had expected to see an examination table and equipment that had been in use and well maintained for thirty-odd years, a homely den of medicine straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but everything looked new. There was even an EKG machine, and at the far end of the room was a door with a sign that warned X-RAY: KEEP CLOSED IN USE.