Do No Harm (2002)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  David had little choice.

  Wedging the otoscope in the back of his pants, he stepped from cover, holding his hands out to his sides. Startled into a little leap, Clyde aimed the pistol at him. David made no sudden movements, and prayed Clyde's hands would stop jerking.

  "Don't you move," Clyde bleated. "You stay right there." He wiped his running nose with his sleeve. "I'm in control here. I know what I'm doing." Despite his agitated condition, Clyde was steady on his feet, and his slurring had stopped.

  "All right," David said. "You don't need to hurt him. I'm here now. You can scare . . . you can scare me directly. Just let me check on Peter first." Calmly, slowly, he pointed at the two inert legs. "Let me . . . " His throat dried up, and he lost the end of his sentence.

  Clyde's face trembled; he was still pulling himself back from the edge of sobbing. Raising the torn leg of his scrub bottoms, he rubbed a red patch on his calf. "He shocked me. Knocked us both down. I hit him on the head. He got still." He slapped his head, and the noise rang around the room. "He hurt me, and I've gotta . . . I've gotta take it out of him." He began mumbling incoherently.

  The current of electricity from the stun gun must have shorted out the digital transmitter. Which meant the shock had somehow run through Peter's left leg brace. "Can I step forward and look at his body?" David asked. He spoke slowly and clearly, as if to a child.

  The pistol snapped back up at his head. "It's a trick. You're here to trick me and--shit, shit . . . " Clyde began to rock his upper torso, his eyes pressing closed. "Three two one the door back from the . . . "

  David's head was humming. "Clyde. I'm going to take another step forward. And I'm going to look at Peter. I'm going to do this now." There was something comforting in the knowledge that all his words were being transmitted through the hidden wire to the police officers. It made him feel less alone. Even so, he wondered what was taking them so long to arrive.

  Clyde continued to rock, his lips moving silently, but his eyes were open again. David eased slowly forward, and Peter's body came into view behind the desk.

  Rage and sorrow mingled, rising from David's gut. He crouched over Peter and raised one eyelid, then the other. He was relieved to see both pupils dilate. Resting two fingers on Peter's neck, he counted his pulse for ten seconds, then multiplied by six. Slightly elevated, around seventy-five beats per minute. He walked his fingers along the back of Peter's head until he found a boggy spot near the base of his skull. A cursory feel revealed it to be a basic hematoma. Peter was going to be fine.

  Clyde's body odor hung in the room. The smell was cut with something else, something bitter and medicinal, though David could not place it.

  David's lips parted, trembling. He closed his eyes, not wanting to speak, afraid of what he might say. He needed hours to process the scene before him and find the correct words, but he had barely seconds.

  David caught a glimpse of guilt and anguish in Clyde's face. Clyde became aware of David's gaze, and anger intensified in the flat stones of his eyes, the change so sudden it was as if he'd donned a mask. "He hurt me, the cripple." He crouched over Peter's head, leering down at him. "You weakling. You got it good." He rubbed the swollen spot on his leg.

  David kept his body angled slightly away from Clyde, as if turning from a live bomb.

  Clyde looked up at David, his cheeks glistening with sweat. He was breathing hard. "I promised I'd teach you about fear," he said. "It's deep and dark, like a well. I'm gonna put you in it."

  David drew one hand slowly behind his back. He had just grasped the shaft of the otoscope when Clyde's eyes snapped back into focus.

  "What are you doing? What are you reaching for? Turn around. Turn around! "

  As David turned, Clyde shoved him against the window, his hand grazing the wound in David's side. David's forehead banged the glass, and his hands gripped the blinds, bending them. He stifled a cry of pain. Clyde ripped the otoscope from the band of David's pants, and David tensed, waiting for it to be brought down on his head.

  But instead, Clyde's voice came, low and amused. "You were gonna hit me with a doctor's toy."

  Through the bent blinds, David saw the carpet cleaning van in the alley across the street. Two flashlights dancing on the third floor of the building opposite them. David felt a sinking in his gut when he realized Jenkins, Bronner, and the other units had gone to Peter's old procedure suite--the one that was functional and directory listed. Like Peter's new suite, it was also on the corner of Westwood and Le Conte, so David's directions hadn't helped. If he could mention his true location, the mike would convey it to the cops in the field. Watching the flashlight beams play across the dark rooms across the street, David tried to figure out some way of mentioning his location that Clyde wouldn't find unusual. The cops would never spot his gesturing through the dark window. He only prayed Clyde wouldn't notice the flashlight beams in the other building.

  A clicking noise as Clyde played with the otoscope, and then a beam of light on the back of David's head.

  Clyde's voice was jumbled in his throat. "I'm talking to you."

  David turned his head to the side so the intense light shone across his profile, through the bent blinds, and out the window. He hoped Jenkins and Bronner would spot it. "Yes, Clyde?" He turned his head slightly so the edge of his cheek caught the beam, then moved his head again, creating a flickering light to better catch the cops' attention.

  Clyde clicked off the otoscope and tossed it aside. "Were you gonna hurt me with this?"

  In case no one had picked up the otoscope light issuing from the dark building, David had to try to convey their location, no matter how awkward it came out. "Why are we here at--?"

  "I asked you a question."

  David was aware with a sudden certainly that his life hung in the balance of the next few seconds. He knew Clyde was going to press the pistol to his forehead even before Clyde did it.

  Knowing his life could end with a one-inch movement of Clyde's finger sent a ripple of terror through David's body. Clyde studied him curiously. David's scrub top clung to his body with his sweat. He could feel the beats of his heart in the blood rushing through his face.

  Clyde's uneven voice drifted from behind the gun. "You didn't help me at all. Not like you promised. You took away everything from me. My room and my car and my lye. I can't . . . I can't get at people anymore. To ruin their faces." He twisted the pistol, digging the barrel into David's cheek. David fought not to withdraw, not to react.

  "I have no one left to scare." Clyde grumbled, a noise lost deep in his chest. "Except you."

  From the jumble in his head, David pulled a thought and shaped it like a weapon. "What did you think about," he asked, in a calm, smooth voice, "when the nurses locked you up in the dark? When no one would take your hand? What did you think about then?"

  Clyde drew back his head, as if he'd been slapped. The Beretta wavered slightly in his grasp, but remained against David's forehead. "I'm not . . . I don't . . . " He blinked hard, then pressed his eyes closed as David had known he would. "Three two one stand back--"

  David's hand curled into a fist and, jerking his head clear of the pistol, he swung it sideways into Clyde's ear. He struck Clyde's head with bone-jarring force, and Clyde gasped, the pistol kicking in his hand and blowing out the window where David's head had been a moment ago. Clyde sank to the floor, landing with a hard slap. David crouched over him, pinning his gun arm with a hand, his knee pressing hard into Clyde's trachea. Clyde grunted and struggled against him. David dug his fingers into Clyde's forearm, but still Clyde did not drop the pistol. His hand clutched the weapon, the barrel sweeping back and forth, aiming across the open door.

  "Stop fighting me!" David shouted through clenched teeth. "Stop--"

  Jenkins and Bronner crashed through the doorway, shouting, their Berettas finding Clyde like compasses pointing north.

  "Don't move!"

  "Back away from the--"

  A shot rang out, spinning Jenkins
around. He knocked against the door, a growing spot of blood darkening his sweatshirt at the shoulder, and sank to the ground. His legs stuck out before him like a doll's, his pistol hand rendered useless by the shoulder wound. He tried with his good hand to take the pistol from his limp hand, but could not reach.

  Bronner's pistol wavered; David was in his line of fire. Stutter-stepping forward with his pistol aimed, Bronner freed his cuffs from the case on his belt with an adept jerk of his hand.

  Clyde's hand felt up David's side beneath his shirt and found his wound. A fat finger pried through the stitches. David felt a hot flash of pain and then his skin giving way. He relaxed his grip on Clyde for a split second, and Clyde hurled him off his throat. Ablaze with pain, David rolled into the far wall and knocked his head. Through a drunken haze, his cheek pressed to the floor, he watched Clyde find his feet and start to stand.

  Bronner was already mid-dive across the room. He caught Clyde with a staggering right and fell on top of him. He was fighting to angle the pistol barrel at Clyde's chest, but Clyde bit his gun hand, tearing a mouthful of flesh from the fat muscle at the base of his thumb and spitting the pink plug on the floor. Bronner cried out, dropping his pistol. David tried to crawl to it, but was paralyzed with pain.

  Clyde and Bronner struggled and rolled, and Clyde's pistol fired, blowing out a chunk of wall. Bronner managed to land on Clyde's back. Clyde's gun hand was pinned beneath his body, and Bronner grabbed his other arm and twisted it back, snapping a handcuff around the free wrist.

  Clyde bucked and spun, whipping the loose handcuff around his wrist. The sharp edge bit into Bronner's temple, splitting the skin. Clyde wormed his other arm free. Tightening his fingers around the pistol, Clyde punched Bronner in the mouth with it, knocking him off. Bronner fell to the floor, unconscious, and Clyde scrambled to his feet and flashed past Jenkins.

  Though his wounded arm did not move, Jenkins's hand contracted around the pistol, angling it up at Clyde and firing. By the time the report echoed through the empty room, Clyde was out the door into the hall. There was the sound of a door splintering--maybe being smashed in--and then silence.

  David and Jenkins regarded each other from their respective slumped positions. Jenkins's head was tilted forward so his chin rested on his chest, his breath fluttering the tattered fabric at the edge of the gunshot hole in his shoulder. His arm lay limp--the shot to the shoulder must have compromised the brachial plexus.

  The floor was icy cold against David's cheek. He willed his lips to move. "Do you have an exit wound?" he asked.

  His face stretched in a grimace, Jenkins reached behind his shoulder and patted his back. "Not that I can reach," he said. "How's Bronner? Peter?"

  "Peter will be fine." David pushed himself up onto all fours. The pain in his side spread quickly through his abdomen, but he started to crawl toward Bronner anyway. Though it was bleeding heavily, the gash above Bronner's temple was superficial. David grabbed the otoscope off the floor, raised Bronner's eyelids, and shone the beam of light into his pupils. They constricted nicely. "Equal and reactive," he said. The wound on Bronner's hand was fairly deep and would need to be treated for infection, but it was not bleeding badly.

  Still slumped against the door, Jenkins grimaced again and spoke. "We responded to the wrong location. Six units across the street. Me and Bronner saw the light and came to check it out."

  "It was my fault," David said. "I should've thought to clarify which building." He was just about to speak into his mike when he saw Jenkins fumbling for his portable with his good hand. Jenkins held it close to his lips. "Eight Adam Thirty-two. Officer down. Officer down. Officer down. Shots fired. Ten eight hundred block Le Conte. Third floor. Where the fuck am I?"

  David looked up from Bronner's hand. "Ten eight seventy-five Le Conte."

  "Be advised it's Ten eight seventy-five Le Conte." Jenkins's words were slowing down. When he spoke again, it was little more than a mumble. "Roll an RA. Suspect possibly still in the building . . . considered armed." He released the button on his portable, and his good hand slapped to the floor. His breath came in jerks.

  David pulled himself to his feet. A sticky band of blood ran down his side, pooling at the top line of his pants. For a moment, he thought he might faint, but then his adrenaline kicked in, granting him clarity and a momentary relief from the pain.

  He trudged over to Jenkins. Jenkins's eyes flickered to the door. "Go get him," he said.

  David crouched over Jenkins and pulled him slightly forward off the door, causing him to cry out. There was no exit wound. David pulled the stethoscope from his jacket pocket, balled up the jacket, and handed it to Jenkins. "Apply pressure," he said. Using the stethoscope, he checked Jenkins's lung beneath the wound. Good breathing sounds.

  David strung his stethoscope across his shoulders and stood. His wound was running. "You're going to be fine," he said. "I'm going to leave you here."

  Jenkins nodded. In the distance, the pleasing sound of approaching sirens.

  David dropped the otoscope, pried the Beretta from Jenkins's inert fingers, and stepped into the hall. The pistol felt weighty and awkward in his hand. One of the doors across the hall had been kicked in, and he trudged over to it, leaving a thin trail of blood drops on the carpet.

  He looked down and noticed another trail of dripping blood preceding his own. Clyde had been hit.

  David peered past the splintered door, ready to draw back at the first sign of Clyde. He flipped the switch with a trembling hand and blinked against the light. The window across the empty room had been opened. The pistol lay beneath the sill where Clyde had dropped it.

  Heavy footfalls thundered in the stairwells--cops on the way to Peter, Jenkins, and Bronner. David limped across the room to the window. The fire escape outside wound down into the construction site of the building that fronted on Le Conte. The building was a confusion of Sheetrock planes and crisscrossing boards. The crooked scaffolding up front had been repaired.

  A wide smudge of blood darkened the painted rail in three distinct lines--finger marks. "Clyde's been hit," David said into the mike. "He dropped his gun. And I think he exited the east side of the building." He ducked through the window, biting his lip against the pain in his side, and stood on the metal structure. The wind blew through the skeletal boards and beams, rattling the plastic wrapping covering the wheelbarrows.

  David began the slow, painful climb down the metal ladder, stethoscope swinging from his neck, pistol heavy in his hand. He walked through the dark, hollowed interior of the building. The wheelbarrows and slanted boards threw shadows thick and fearful. The hiding places were countless. He lifted the plastic covering on one of the wheelbarrows, but there was only gravel beneath.

  One piece of Sheetrock hung off a 4-by-4 beam from a single nail, swaying slightly in the breeze like a weighty pendulum. Tucking his elbow to his wound and taking in air erratically, David walked to it, trudging through sawdust and nails.

  As he drew near, the Sheetrock smashed toward him, going to pieces and scattering at his feet. Behind it, three flashlight beams shot out at his face. The planks and boards around him rustled and creaked, then the whole interior of the building suddenly was alive with loud, booming voices and beams of light.

  "Put down the fucking--"

  "--hands on your--"

  "Drop it! Drop it!"

  David dropped the pistol immediately. The chopping approach of a helicopter reached a deafening decibel, then a spotlight laid down over David. He raised his arms, even though it sent a screeching pain through his side.

  One of the figures stepped forward from behind the Sheetrock, waving his arms, a pistol in one hand. He entered the spotlight, his face glowing in the wan yellow light. Yale.

  Behind him, the other men relaxed. Dalton turned his back, barking orders into a portable.

  Yale popped out his earpiece. "Are you injured?" he asked.

  David shook his head weakly. "Peter, Bronner, and Jenkins are upstairs. They
're all injured, but no one's critical. Jenkins sustained a GSW, but he'll be all right."

  "The building's already secured. Medics upstairs. What the fuck are you doing with a weapon?"

  "It's Jenkins's."

  "Oh," Yale said. "Even better."

  The officers who'd been hidden in the building around David cleared the area in groups, their loud, forceful footsteps and jangling equipment belts reminding him of platoons deploying.

  The helicopter flew away, spotlight sweeping the street. Police cars were suddenly everywhere, herding people off the sidewalks, setting up sawhorses.

  Yale glanced down at David's bloodstained shirt. "How bad?"

  David shrugged.

  "We need to get you to the hospital."

  "So you didn't get him?"

  Yale's jaw tightened. "We'll get him. He couldn't have gotten far."

  "How long ago did you secure the area?"

  "Just as you stepped out onto the fire escape."

  "He got out the window at least four minutes before that. Look for blood."

  "You said he was hit?"

  "I believe so. Jenkins got off a shot. There was blood and Clyde dropped his gun, so I think he might be wounded pretty badly."

  "Maybe he went somewhere to curl up and die." Yale slid his pistol into his shoulder holster with a quick, practiced movement. Shaking his head, he crouched and picked up the Beretta that David had flung to the ground. "Stepping into bad lighting and a tense situation with a loaded weapon. Good thinking."

  Yale's portable squawked and emitted an indecipherable burst of staticky voice that Yale seemed to understand. "We've got some drunk frat boys messing with the perimeter at Weyburn and Broxton," he said, starting to jog off. "I assume you can find your way to the ER?"

  David nodded. Dalton trudged after Yale, face downturned into his own portable. He patted David on the hip as he passed, ballplayer style.

  The building was suddenly deserted again. In the space where the dangling piece of Sheetrock had been loomed the sturdy outline of the hospital against the night sky.