“Frank Knox.”

Suddenly Tom thought he understood. It was Knox and two Klan buddies who had assaulted Jimmy and Luther seven weeks earlier. It was only natural for Viola to hate the man. But refusing to treat him was unacceptable.

“Viola, you have to get in there.”

Her eyes flashed fury. “Anna Mae can do it.”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“Bad enough. Head injury. Cracked ribs, maybe a pneumothorax.”

“Anna Mae can’t handle that! I need you.”

Viola closed her eyes, and he saw then that she’d probably slept as little as he—maybe less.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you don’t have a choice. I don’t, either. Get back there.”

She averted her eyes and muttered something that sounded like curses in French. Then she set her jaw and looked him dead in the eye. “I won’t work with his friends in there,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Kick them out, then! Hell, I’ll do it.”

After another moment, Viola turned and hurried back toward the surgery. Tom was starting after her when Anna Mae tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a manila file labeled BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KNOX. The label had a blue border, indicating the patient was an employee of the Triton Battery Corporation. Tom flipped open the file and walked slowly back toward the surgery.

As he passed through the little waiting room near the lab, he saw Sonny Thornfield and Glenn Morehouse, the two other men involved in the assault on Jimmy and Luther, pacing the room like expectant fathers. Thornfield was still limping from the bullet wound Luther Davis had given him two months earlier.

“Hey, Doc!” Thornfield called. “Is Frank gonna be okay?”

“I haven’t seen him yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”

“He’s tore up bad,” Morehouse said. “Half a pallet of batteries hit him.”

“That colored nurse kicked us out,” Thornfield griped.

“That’s what she’s supposed to do. You guys were in the service. You know to stay out of the way. There’s an ambulance coming now, and we’ll be moving him to the hospital right away.”

“Okay, sorry,” Thornfield said. “Do whatever you can, Doc. You can’t let Frank die.”

Tom waved them off and went on to the surgery.

When he opened the door, he froze, stunned by a scene so unexpected that it paralyzed him for a few critical moments. Frank Knox lay on the floor, half propped against a cabinet, his mouth gaping, his face blue. Viola stood five feet away, staring down at Knox like a vengeful goddess watching the death of a mortal who had offended her. In her hand was a 60 cc syringe, one of the big ones Tom used to drain swollen knees, far too large to be of any use in Knox’s situation.