He wanted to scream — to lash out and hitsomething, anything. But his sanity was already in doubt in too many quarters.
'I'm going to find you, you bastard,' hemurmured as he continued straining to see anything out of the ordinary.'Whatever it takes, I'm going to find you.'
He returned to lock up the office. Onimpulse, he tried calling his apartment again. Maura answered on the firstring. It wasn't until he heard her voice that he fully realized how worried hehad been about her.
'Maura, hi, it's Harry,' he said.
'How're you doing, Mr. Doctor?'
Her speech was too fluid, too singsong.His spirits, already low, sunk even further.
'Maura, are you drinking?' he said.
The ensuing pause was answer enough.
'Not enough to matter,' she said flatly.
'Maura, please,' he said, battling to keepboth his fear for her and his anger in check. 'Please stop. Stop now. I needyou. Evie's killer thinks I paid to have someone follow us last night. Hethinks I'm responsible for the death of his man. To pay me back, a few hoursago he killed one of my patients — a thirty-three-year-old guy. He just waltzedinto his room and killed him. Then he called here to boast about it. He …'Harry had to stop speaking to compose himself. Maura said nothing. 'Listen,' hefinally managed. 'You're. . you're the only friend I have right now. I don'teven know what to do. The bastard said he wasn't going to stop hurting me or mypatients until I … until I kill myself
For another ten seconds the line wasquiet.
'Harry, why don't you come on home,' shesaid.
'What are you going to do?'
'Well, for starters, I'm going to take ashower.'
Harry gave a silent prayer of thanks.
'Heavy on the cold,' he said.
Chapter22
Harry had dealt with enough activelydrinking alcoholics to know that no promise — especially the one not to drinkanymore — meant much. He took a cab across town expecting the worst. As far ashe was concerned, Maura had to bear some responsibility for starting up again.But he also believed that she had been discharged prematurely following heroperation at MMC — not necessarily prematurely for her surgery, or even for theDTs, but certainly for her alcoholism. She needed more time in the hospital — someone to develop a workable treatment plan. She would have benefited fromsocial services intervention, some psychotherapy, perhaps a visit or two frompeople from AA, and quite possibly an inpatient stay at an alcoholism unit aswell. Once upon a time, that was the way it had been done. But now, even if herphysician knew this approach would give her the best shot at recovery, herinsurance carrier dictated otherwise.
There were codes in the company's databasefor each and every disease, injury, and condition that anyone might be likelyto have, everything from leprosy to blackwater fever. There were codes that setlimits for hospital stays, procedures, and allowable payments. But there was nocode that took into account the complexity of any individual or his or herreaction to illness — no code named 'Maura Hughes,' or 'Harry Corbett.' Bravenew medical world.
Harry paid off the cabby, thought aboutpicking up another box of candy — she might crave the sugar — then simplyshrugged and crossed the street to his building. He felt beaten and sore. Whatfight remained within him was fueled by rage and frustration. Andy Barlowhadn't wanted to die. In the time he had left he had wanted to design buildingsand go to concerts and be with his friends. If Maura Hughes wanted toself-destruct, to drink until her liver or her stomach or her brain gave out,there really wasn't a damn thing Harry Corbett — or anyone else, for thatmatter — could do about it. No candy.
Maura was waiting just inside the door tothe apartment. There was an overnight bag at her feet.
'I've decided to go home,' she said.
Harry felt a spark of anger.
'Why?' he asked. 'Because you drank? Orbecause you want to drink some more?'
'Both, probably. Harry, let's not debateit, okay? I'm just not any good to either of us, and I don't see where a fewmore drinks is going to make a bit of difference.'
'Well, it will.'
Harry wanted to shout at her. To remindher in the harshest terms that she had control of things. Andy Barlow did not.Instead, he took a calming breath and held her by the arms. Her eyes were stillclear and focused. She had almost certainly not had any more to drink sincethey spoke on the phone. There was still a slim chance to stop it right there.
'Let's go in and talk,' he said. 'Just fora while.'
'Harry, please. I'm not playing any headgames with you. I'm not wallowing in self-pity, and I'm not trying to get youto beg me not to drink.'
'I didn't think you were. Listen, we'rejust having a lousy time of it — both of us. I know you feel bad about notremembering what that bastard looked like. I wish you could remember, too. Butif you can't, you can't. It really isn't that important. What is important isthat you're the only one who absolutely knows the truth about me and Evie. I'mcounting on you to help keep me from coming unglued. And I think I can do thesame for you. Now please, just come on back inside.'
For a few silent seconds, she stared up athim.
'Anybody ever tell you that you look likeGene Hackman?' she said finally.
Harry was shaken. Then he noticed themischief in her eyes.
'Well,' he said, 'now that you mention it. .'
They sat on the sofa in the den, drinkingcoffee and trying to make sense of the events that were battering their lives.They had made very little when, an hour later, Harry's pager summoned him tocall his answering service. Maura had agreed that she was not handling heralcoholism very effectively, but did not agree that she needed a couple ofweeks or more as an inpatient at a rehab — especially not with Harry footingthe bill, as he had offered to do.
'Anything else,' she said. 'Anything butthe lockup.'
Harry suggested she might speak withMurphy Oates, the piano player in the house band at C.C.'s Cellar. Oates, oncea serious drunk and heroin addict, had been clean and sober for over a decade,though he rarely spoke about it.
'I'll be happy to speak with your friend,'Maura bargained. 'And whatever he tells me to do, I'll do … except get putaway in some nut ward.'
'He's probably at the club,' Harry said.
'Now?'
'It doesn't open for another couple ofhours, but there'll be some musicians there, playing or just hanging out. Thisis actually the time I like it there the most. It's dark and quiet and. .well, sort of like a womb. You know, I just remembered that Andy Barlow oncecame in there to hear me play. .'
Harry's thoughts again entered thedarkened hospital room on Alexander 5 and locked on the thin face staringlifelessly at the ceiling. From the moment he had heard Maura's thick speech onthe phone, he had been holding on by the thinnest of threads. Now, he felt thatthread snap, and himself begin to slide down a sheer glass wall.
'. . The lunatic admitted it, Maura,' hesaid, pacing across the room and back. 'He just called up and admitted killingAndy like. . like he was admitting he stole the morning paper off my frontstoop. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Not one goddamnthing. What am I supposed to do? I'm like a toy for him. Jump, Harry. Rollover. Play dead. How am I ever going to stop this? Who's next?'
'Harry, let's go,' Maura said suddenly,taking his hand. 'Let's get out of here right now. The club might do you somegood, too.'
'I don't know,' he said. 'Listen, let mefind out what this page is all about. Then we can decide what we want to do.'