“You have X-ray equipment here?” she asked.
“Sure. It’s not as expensive as it once was. Every clinic has X-ray equipment these days.”
“Every clinic, yes, but this is just a one-man—”
“I may look like Barry Fitzgerald playing at being a doctor in an old movie, and I may prefer the old-fashioned convenience of an office in my home, but I don’t give patients outdated care just to be quaint. I dare say, I’m a more serious physician than you are a desperado.”
“Don’t bet on that,” she said harshly, though she was getting tired of pretending to be cold-blooded.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll play along. Seems like it’ll be more fun if I do.” To Chris, he said, “When we came through my office, did you notice a big, red-ceramic jar on the desk? It’s full of orange-slice candies and Tootsie Pops if you want some.”
“Wow, thanks!” Chris said. “Uh . . . can I have a piece, Mom?”
“A piece or two,” she said, “but don’t make yourself sick.”
Brenkshaw said, “When it comes to giving sweet treats to young patients, I’m old-fashioned, I guess. No sugar-free gum here. What the hell fun is that stuff? Tastes like plastic. If their teeth rot out after they visit me, that’s their dentists’ problem.”
While he talked, he got a folding wheelchair from the corner, unfolded it, and rolled it to the middle of the room.
Laura said, “Honey, you stay here while we go out to the
Jeep.”
“Okay,” Chris said from the next room, where he was peering into the red-ceramic jar, selecting his treat.
“Your Jeep in the driveway?” Brenkshaw asked. “Then let’s go out the back. Less conspicuous, I think.”
Pointing the revolver at the physician but feeling foolish, Laura followed him out of a side door in the examination room, which opened onto a ramp, so there was no need to descend stairs.
“Handicapped entrance,” Brenkshaw said quietly over his shoulder as he pushed the wheelchair along a walk toward the back of the house. His bedroom slippers made a crisp sound on the
concrete.
The physician had a large property, so the neighboring house did not loom over them. Instead of being planted with alders as was the front lawn, the side yard was graced with ficus and pines, which were green all year. In spite of the screening branches and the darkness, however, Laura could see the blank windows of the neighboring place, so she supposed that she could be seen, as well, if anyone looked.
The world had the hushed quality that it possessed only between midnight and dawn. Even if she had not known it was going on two in the morning, she would have been able to guess the time within half an hour. Though faint city noises echoed in the distance, there was a cemeterial stillness that would have made her feel like a woman on a secret mission even if she had only been taking out the garbage.
The walk led around the house, crossing another walk that extended to the back of the property. They went past the rear porch, through an areaway between house and garage, into the driveway.
Brenkshaw halted at the back of the Jeep and chuckled. “Mud on the license plates,” he whispered. “Convincing touch.”
After she put the tailgate down, he got into the back of the Jeep to have a look at the wounded man.
She looked out toward the street. All was silent. Still.
But if a San Bernardino Police cruiser happened to drive by now on a routine patrol, the officer would surely stop to see what was up at kindly old Doc Brenkshaw’s place. . . .
Brenkshaw was already crawling out of the Jeep. “By God, you do have a wounded man in there.”
“Why the hell do you keep being surprised? Would I pull this kind of stunt for laughs?”
“Let’s get him inside. Quickly,” Brenkshaw said.
He could not handle her guardian by himself. In order to help him, Laura had to stick the .38 in the waistband of her jeans.
Brenkshaw made no attempt to run or to knock her down and get the weapon away from her. Instead, as soon as he had the wounded man in the wheelchair, he rolled him out of the drive, through the areaway, and around the house to the handicapped entrance at the far side.