She lets go and steps back, breathing hard, and the venetian blind at the top of his window gives an abrupt, bonelike rattle. The sound makes her jump and look around. When she turns back to him, Hartsfield is no longer looking at the parking garage. He’s looking at her. His eyes are clear and aware. Scapelli feels a bright spark of fear and takes a step back.

“I could report Babineau,” she says, “but doctors have a way of wiggling out of things, especially when it’s their word against a nurse’s, even a head nurse’s. And why would I? Let him experiment on you all he wants. Even Waynesville is too good for you, Mr. Hartsfield. Maybe he’ll give you something that will kill you. That’s what you deserve.”

A food trolley rumbles by in the corridor; someone is getting a late lunch. Ruth Scapelli jerks like a woman awaking from a dream and backs toward the door, looking from Hartsfield to the now silent venetian blind and then back to Hartsfield again.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but I want to tell you one more thing before I go. If you ever show me your middle finger again, it will be your testicles.”

Brady’s hand rises from his lap to his chest. It trembles, but that’s a motor control issue; thanks to ten sessions a week downstairs in Physical Therapy, he’s gotten at least some muscle tone back.

Scapelli stares, unbelieving, as the middle finger rises and tilts toward her.

With it comes that obscene grin.

“You’re a freak,” she says in a low voice. “An aberration.”

But she doesn’t approach him again. She’s suddenly, irrationally afraid of what might happen if she did.

11

Tom Saubers is more than willing to do the favor Hodges has asked of him, even though it means rescheduling a couple of afternoon appointments. He owes Bill Hodges a lot more than a tour through an empty house up in Ridgedale; after all, the ex-cop—with the help of his friends Holly and Jerome—saved the lives of his son and daughter. Possibly his wife’s, as well.

He punches off the alarm in the foyer, reading the numbers from a slip of paper clipped to the folder he carries. As he leads Hodges through the downstairs rooms, their footfalls echoing, Tom can’t help going into his spiel. Yes, it’s quite a long way out from the city center, can’t argue the point, but what that means is you get all the city services—water, plowing, garbage removal, school buses, municipal buses—without all the city noise. “The place is cable-ready, and way above code,” he says.

“Great, but I don’t want to buy it.”

Tom looks at him curiously. “What do you want?”

Hodges sees no reason not to tell him. “To know if anyone has been using it to keep an eye on that house across the street. There was a murder-suicide there this past weekend.”

“In 1601? Jesus, Bill, that’s awful.”

It is, Hodges thinks, and I believe you’re already wondering who you should talk to about becoming the selling agent on that one.