Swimming in her gown and looking like a teenager from outer space, Emily inched forward and watched as Lou packed both Desmond’s nostrils and explained what he was searching for in each segment of his physical exam. He could see her eyes widen at the man’s scars.

“Desmond, are you sure about no police?” Lou asked.

“Next time, maybe. I got a caseworker. I’ll tell her.”

Sure.

“Barbara,” Lou said, turning to the nurse, “how about ordering a chest film and nasal bones? Maybe get a CBC as well. Then we’ll do whatever we have to, to fix that schnoz.”

“Okay. Then I’m going to stop in the back and see if Gordo and Roz are all right with that poor old man. I think they’re going to transfer him.”

“No problem,” Lou said.

Moments later, the receptionist appeared at the doorway.

“Dr. Welcome, there’s a Dr. Filstrup on the line for you—he says it’s urgent.”

Lou suppressed a smile.

An urgent call from Walter Filstrup. That had to be an absolute first. He probably wanted Lou to pick up some tuna on his way home and drop it off at the office.

Largely because of the documented strength of his recovery, and the way he related to clients, Lou was well regarded by the PWO board. But he was hardly ready to take over as director. And the truth was, there were few beside Filstrup who seemed interested in the job.

From day one, he and Filstrup were like a cobra and a mongoose—actually, more like a cobra and a baby goose. The wellness office was a small one as physician health programs went, leaving the opinionated, bombastic therapist with only a couple of minions to boss around … chief among them, Lou.

“Em,” Lou said, “Barbara will be right back. Linda, please patch Dr. Filstrup over to the doctors’ lounge. I’ll talk to him there.”

The phone was ringing as Lou entered the lounge.

“Welcome? It’s me.”

Lou cringed at the sound of his boss’s voice. “I’m a little busy right—”

“Welcome, listen. You’ve really blown it this time.”

“I left the seat up in the office men’s room?”

“You’re not funny. In fact, you’re never funny.”

“Walter, what is this all about?”

“It’s about your darling client, John Meacham, the man whose license you single-handedly got restored.”

“He’s a terrific guy and a terrific doc. I had coffee with him the day before yesterday. He’s doing fine.”

“Well, today he shot seven people to death in his office and then turned the gun on himself.”

Lou sank onto the arm of the worn leather sofa, unable to take in a breath. “If you’re messing with me, Walter,” he managed finally, “I swear, I’m going to hang you by your thumbs.”

“Turn on the news. Any news.”

“You sure it’s our client?”

“Your client. In case you forget, I never thought he was too tightly wrapped, and I told you that on more than one occasion. I kept pushing to get rid of that touchy-feely social worker therapist you were using, and to get him to a psychiatrist. But no.”