“What’re these?” Laura asked when he returned to the examination table, where she stood, and gave her the two small plastic
“More penicillin in this one. Three a day, with meals — if he can take meals. I think he’ll come around soon. If he doesn’t he’ll begin to dehydrate, and he’ll need intravenous fluid. Can’t give him liquid by mouth when he’s in a coma — he’d choke. This other is a painkiller. Only when needed, and no more than two a day.”
“Give me more of these. In fact give me your whole supply.” She pointed to two quart jars that contained hundreds of both capsules.
“He won’t need that much of either one. He — ”
“No, I’m sure he won’t,” she said, “but I don’t know what the hell other problems we’re going to have. We may need both penicillin and painkillers for me — or my boy.”
Brenkshaw stared at her for a long moment. “What in the name of God have you gotten into? It’s like something in one of your books.”
“Just give me — ” Laura stopped, stunned by what he had said. “Like something in one of my books? In one of my books! Oh, my God, you know who I am.”
“Of course. I’ve known almost from the moment I saw you on the porch. I read thrillers, as I said, and although your books aren’t strictly in that genre, they’re very suspenseful, so I read them, too, and your photograph’s on the back of the jacket. Believe me, Ms. Shane, no man would forget your face once he’d seen it, even if he’d seen it only in pictures and even if he was an old crock like me.”
“But why didn’t you say — ”
“At first I thought it was a joke. After all, the melodramatic way you appeared on my doorstep in the dead of night, the gun, the corny, hard-boiled dialogue … it all seemed like a gag. Believe me, I have certain friends who might think of such an elaborate hoax and, if they knew you, might be able to persuade you to join in the fun.”
Pointing to her guardian, she said, “But when you saw him—”
“Then I knew it was no joke,” the physician said.
Hurrying to his mother’s side, Chris pulled the Tootsie Pop from his mouth. “Mom, if he tells on us . . .”
Laura had drawn the .38 from her waistband. She began to raise it, then lowered her hand as she realized the gun no longer had any power to intimidate Brenkshaw; in fact it had never frightened him. For one thing she now realized he was not the kind of man who could be intimidated, and for another thing she could not convincingly portray a lawless, dangerous woman when he knew who she really was.
On the examination table her guardian groaned and tried to shift in his unnatural sleep, but Brenkshaw put a hand upon his chest and stilled him.
“Listen, Doctor, if you tell anyone what happened here tonight, if you can’t keep my visit a secret for the rest of your life, it’ll be the death of me and my boy.”
“Of course the law requires a physician to report any gunshot wounds he treats.”
“But this is a special case,” Laura said urgently. “I’m not on the run from the law, Doctor.”
“Who are you running from?”
“In a sense . . . from the same men who killed my husband, Chris’s father.”
He looked surprised and pained. “Your husband was killed?”
“You must’ve read about it in the papers,” she said bitterly. “It made a sensational story there for a while, the kind of thing the press loves.”
“I’m afraid I don’t read newspapers or watch television news,” Brenkshaw said. “It’s all fires, accidents, and crazed terrorists. They don’t report real news, just blood and tragedy and politics. I’m sorry about your husband. And if these people who killed him, whoever they are, want to kill you now, you should go straight to the police.”
Laura liked this man and thought they shared more views and sympathies than not. He seemed reasonable, kind. Yet she had little hope of persuading Brenkshaw to keep his mouth shut. “The police can’t protect me, Doctor. No one can protect me except me—and maybe the man whose wounds you just sewed up. These people who’re after us … they’re relentless, implacable, and they’re