At the top of the stairs the path leveled and angled to the left. Up ahead Angela could see the light of the upper parking lot. There was only another fifty feet to go.
Angela had just about calmed herself when a man leaped out of the shadows. He came up on her so suddenly she didn't have a chance to flee. He was brandishing a club over his head; his face was covered by a dark ski mask.
Staggering back, Angela tripped on an exposed root and fell. The man flung himself at her. Angela screamed and rolled to the side. She could hear the thump of the club as it sliced into the soft ground where she had been only seconds before.
Angela scrambled to her feet. The man grabbed her with a gloved hand as he began to raise his club again. Angela swung her briefcase up into the man's crotch with all the strength she could muster. The man's grip on her arm released as he cried out in pain.
With the route back to the hospital blocked by the wheezing man, Angela ran for the upper lot. Empowered by terror Angela ran as she'd never run before, her flying feet crunching on the asphalt. She could hear the man behind her, but she didn't dare to look. She ran up to the Volvo with one thought in mind: the shotgun.
Dropping the briefcase to the pavement, Angela fumbled with her keys. Once she got the trunk open, she yanked the manila paper from the shotgun. Snatching up the bag of shells she hastily dumped them into the trunk. Picking up a single shell, she jammed it into the gun and pumped it into the firing chamber.
Angela whirled about, holding the gun at waist level, but no one was there. The lot was completely deserted. The man hadn't given chase. What she heard had been the echo of her own footfalls.
"Can't you do a little better than that?" Robertson asked. " 'Sorta tall.' Is that it? That's hardly a description. How are we supposed to find this guy if you women can't describe him better than that?"
"It was dark," Angela said. She was having a hard time keeping her emotions even. "And it happened so quickly. Besides, he was wearing a ski mask."
"What the hell were you doing out there in the trees after midnight anyway? Hell, all you nurses were warned."
"I'm not a nurse," Angela said. "I'm a doctor."
"Oh, boy!" Robertson said haughtily. "You think this rapist cared whether you were a nurse or a doctor?"
"The point I'm making is that I wasn't warned. The nurses may have been warned, but no one warned us doctors."
"Well, you should have known better," Robertson said.
"Are you trying to imply that this attack was somehow my fault?"
Robertson ignored her question. "What kind of club was he holding?" he asked.
"I have no idea," Angela said. "I told you it was dark."
Robertson shook his head and looked at his deputy. "You said Bill had just been up there in his cruiser?"
"That's right," the deputy said. "Not ten minutes before the incident he'd made a routine sweep of both parking lots."
"Christ, I don't know what to do," Robertson said. He looked down at Angela and shrugged his shoulders. "If you women would just be a little more cooperative, we wouldn't have this problem."
"May I use the phone?" Angela said.
Angela called David. When he answered she could tell he'd been asleep. She told him she'd be home in ten minutes.
"What time is it?" David asked. Then after a glance at the clock, he answered his own question. "Holy jeez, it's after one. What are you doing?"
"I'll tell you when I get home," Angela said.
After she'd hung up, Angela turned to Robertson. "May I leave now?" she asked testily.
"Of course," Robertson said. "But if you think of anything else, let us know. Would you like my deputy to drive you home?"
"I think I can manage," Angela said.
Ten minutes later, Angela was hugging David at their door. David had been alarmed not just by the late hour, but the sight of his wife coming from the car with a briefcase in one hand and a shotgun in the other. But he didn't ask about the gun. For the moment, he just hugged Angela. She was holding him tightly and wouldn't let go.
Angela finally released David, removed her soiled coat, and carried the briefcase and the shotgun into the family room. David followed, eyeing the shotgun. Angela sat on the couch, embraced her knees, and looked up at David.
"I'd like to stay calm," she said evenly. "Would you mind getting me a glass of wine?"
David complied immediately. As he handed her the glass he asked if she'd like something to eat. Angela shook her head before sipping the wine. She held the glass with both hands.
In a controlled voice Angela began to tell David about the attempted assault. But she didn't get far. Her emotions boiled over into tears. For five minutes she couldn't speak. David put his arms around her, telling her that it was his fault: he never should have let her work at the hospital so late at night.
Eventually, Angela regained her composure. She continued the story, choking back tears. When she got to the part about Robertson coming in to talk to her, her anger kicked in.
"I cannot believe that man," Angela sputtered. "He makes me so mad. He acted as if it were my fault."
"He's a jerk," David agreed.
Angela reached for the briefcase and handed it to David. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "All this effort and the slides didn't show much at all," she said. "There was no tumor in the brain. There was some perivascular inflammation, but it was nonspecific. A few neurons appeared damaged but it could have been a postmortem change."
"No sign of a systemic infectious disease?" David asked.
Angela shook her head. "I brought the slides home in case you wanted to look at them yourself," she said.
"I see you got a shotgun," David commented.
"It's loaded, too," Angela warned, "so be careful. And don't worry. I'll go over it with Nikki tomorrow."
A crash and the sound of breaking glass made them both sit bolt upright. Rusty started barking from Nikki's room, then he came bounding down the stairs. David picked up the shotgun.
"The safety is just above the trigger," Angela said.
With David leading, they made their way through to the darkened living room. David flipped on the light. Four panes of the bay window were smashed, along with their muntins. On the floor a few feet away from where they were standing was a brick. Attached to it was a copy of the note they'd received the night before.
"I'm calling the police," Angela said. "This is too much."
While they waited for the police to arrive, David sat Angela down.
"Did you do anything today related to the Hodges affair?" David asked.
"No," Angela said defensively. "Well, I did get a call from the medical examiner."
"Did you talk about Hodges with anyone?" David asked.
"His name came up when I talked with Robertson," Angela said.
"Tonight?" David asked with surprise.
"This afternoon," Angela said. "I stopped in to the police station to talk with Robertson on my way back from buying the shotgun."
"Why?" David asked with dismay. "After what happened in front of the church yesterday, I'm surprised you had the nerve to see the man."
"I wanted to apologize," Angela said. "But it was a mistake. Robertson is not about to do anything concerning Hodges' murderer."
"Angela," David pleaded, "we have to stop messing with this Hodges stuff. It's not worth it. A note on the door is one thing; a brick through the window is something else entirely."
Headlight beams played against the wall as a police cruiser pulled up the driveway.
"At least it's not Robertson," Angela said when they could see the approaching officer.
The policeman introduced himself as Bill Morrison. From the outset, it was clear he wasn't terribly interested in investigating this latest incident at the Wilsons' home. He was only asking enough questions to fill out the requisite form.