Ben cursed silently. He struggled for words, struggled for air. “Look, I don’t know how to do this or say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. You wanted to know about Perkins?”
Dr. Kincaid lifted an eyebrow.
“An Andrew Perkins. You wanted to know whether the prosecution knew about some guy named Andrew Perkins? Well, they do. He’s going to testify, probably as their last witness, about”—Ben averted his eyes—“that report he wrote on the EKCV before it was implemented. Apparently he feels he made it clear to, um, those concerned, that the device was not safe.” Ben cleared his throat awkwardly. “Report shows your name on the distribution list.”
Dr. Kincaid’s lips thinned. “Are you actually trying to help me?”
“Well, I just heard something in the hallway and I thought—”
“You’re trying to help me. You finally decided maybe it would be all right to do something for your dear old dad, right?”
Ben’s eyes searched unsuccessfully for his father’s. “Yes, I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, it’s too goddamn late!” His hand came around so fast, Ben barely had a chance to register it, much less prevent it. He slapped him hard with the full power of his considerable weight, with such force that it left an immediately visible mark.
“You stupid lazy little toad. Don’t you think I know that already? Do you think I’ve spent these weeks idly twiddling my thumbs while your prosecutor friends tried to crucify me? Do you think I just sat on my hands while you wrestled with your dainty little conscience? I needed to know about Perkins weeks ago, for the grand jury hearing. That’s when you could have helped me. We could’ve undercut his credibility early, when it counted for something. Now the secret is out. Hell, Perkins is on their witness list.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. His jaw ached when he moved it. “I didn’t know. I just … wanted to help.”
“Well, you fucked it up, Ben. Like always. You’re a stupid, stupid fuck-up. You always have been and you always will be.”
“I know you don’t mean that. You’re just upset, worried—”
“Worried? Damn straight I’m worried. Do you know what they want to do to me? They want to lock me up and throw away the key. They want to tell people that I’m a murderer. Do you understand that? I’m a doctor. I save people’s lives! Can you imagine how it feels to have people saying that you’re a murderer!”
“I’m sure it must be difficult—”
His teeth were clenched so tightly he could barely speak. “No, it isn’t just difficult, you stupid pansy prick. It’s impossible! It’s more than I—than anyone—” His whole body began to tremble, energy radiating from every inch of his person. “It isn’t fair!”
It was as if the previous Dr. Edward Kincaid had disappeared, had been replaced by some entirely new version, like a snake that had shed his skin. He crossed the tiny cell with such speed, such ferocious anger, that Ben had no chance to respond, much less protect himself. His father struck him again, this time with a clenched fist, dead center on his face. Ben fell forward, losing his balance and his legs all at once.
“My nose,” he gasped. He wrapped his arms around his father, trying to prevent his fall.
“Let … go of me!”
His father tried to push him away, but Ben held tight. “Stop it. You’re not in control!”
“You’re … damn … right!” Dr. Kincaid raised his knee into Ben’s stomach, breaking his armlock. Ben teetered back and forth, trying to stay on his feet.
Ben swung his arm around, trying to protect himself, but his father easily avoided it. Dr. Kincaid raised his fist and delivered another blow to the pulpy part of Ben’s face.
This one knocked Ben to his knees. “Stop,” he murmured breathlessly. “Don’t …” The room was swimming around him. “I think my nose is broken.”
“Good.” The rage boiled up and out of his father’s face, his eyes. He was shaking violently and tight as a drum. “Stupid … pansy … prick.” His father reared back his foot and kicked Ben dead in the gut. Ben fell flat on the floor of the cell.
“Wrestle with your conscience. I’ll give you something to wrestle!” His foot reared back again. Ben was beyond speaking, beyond any reaction other than feeling the rending deep inside him, the excruciating pain being delivered again and again and again.
“Please … stop.” Ben barely managed to get the words out. His head lay limply on the cell floor.
And then it passed. Almost as suddenly and violently as the rage had arisen, it passed. Dr. Kincaid collapsed on the cot in the corner of the cell, his head pressed against the pillow, staring at the gray stone wall.
With great effort, feeling the agony caused by each movement of his muscles, Ben pushed himself up on his hands and knees. “Dad?”
To his astonishment, he realized that his father was crying.
“Get … out,” his father said, not looking at him.
Ben wiped the blood from his face and slowly crawled to the cell door. By the time the guard arrived, he had managed to pull himself to his feet, although it was painfully obvious what had occurred. Ben didn’t say a word.
Sometime after Ben’s departure and before the next time the guards checked on their prisoner, Dr. Edward Kincaid suffered a massive heart failure. According to the surgeons who treated him, stress-related hormones had saturated his blood, causing enormous damage to the arterial walls. Obstructed arteries hampered the heart’s ability to pump, choking off the flow of blood to his heart. They emphasized that this was the fourth heart attack the man had suffered, that uncontrolled anger had plagued his entire life, that Ben shouldn’t blame himself.
But of course he did.
The next day Ben resigned from the district attorney’s office. Six weeks later, two weeks after his father died and the day after the doctors removed the bandage from Ben’s nose, he moved to Tulsa to take a job with a large law firm. He was starting fresh, putting all that unhappiness and failure behind him.
Or so he thought.
Ben pressed his hands against his forehead. Tears spattered into his hands. My God, Ben, he told himself. You’d think you’d be over it by now. It’s been years. Years. Your father is dead. There’s nothing you can do for him now. It’s over.
But it wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t over, and it seemed it never would be over, no matter how much time passed.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
Time kept marching on. Instead of leaving his baggage behind, Ben kept piling it up, stacking it on top of his head like some demented Sherpa. Years of unhappiness, years of guilt. All the I wish’s, all the if only’s. If only I had tried to get to know him better. If only I had told him how I felt. I wish …
Damn.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
He thought he was leaving it all behind when he ran down the turnpike and set himself up in Tulsa. What a joke. He ran to a big law firm. When that didn’t work out, he ran to a big corporation. Took him years before he believed he could make it on his own. If he believed it. Took him years before he realized he couldn’t run away far enough or fast enough because the one he was really trying to run away from was himself.
You loser.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
You killed your father.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
It was all your fault. He hated you.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
And another thing, Ben thought to himself. I hate that goddamn clock.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
Except … Ben shook his head and tried to clear away the bitter cobwebs. Except, he repeated to himself. Except for one teensy-weensy problem.