Free Self-Defense by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

you.”
    “Did she take any drugs or alcohol?”
    “According to the chart, she denies any
drug use, but we’ll see when the blood work gets back. Does she have a drug
history?”
    “Not that I know of, but she has been through some rough times recently.”
    “Uh-huh—hold on. What? Tell them just
to wait!... Anyway, I have to go now.”
    “I’d like to come over and see her now.”
    “Sure,” he said. “She’s not going
anywhere.”
    After I hung up, I realized I had no idea
where Woodbridge Hospital was. Obtaining the number from Information, I connected
with a bored receptionist, who said, “They call it Woodland Hills, but it’s
really Canoga Park. Topanga just north of Victory.”
    I got dressed and drove south on PCH,
taking Kanan Dume Road to the 101 Freeway, where I got stuck in a jam.
Squeezing out at the next exit, I drove north till I found Victory and followed
it ten miles to Topanga Boulevard. The hospital was a three-story brown-brick
column that resembled a giant chocolate bar. Small smoked windows, small brass
letters, and an illuminated emergency entrance sign bright enough to pierce the
morning light.
    Parking was free, in a giant lot. The
guard at the door barely glanced up as I passed. I gave the clerk my name and
she buzzed me in.
    The place was brimming over with misery,
injured and sick people propped up in plastic chairs. Periodic moans soloed
above efficient medical chatter. A colostomy reek hung in the air.
    As I passed, someone said, “Doctor?” in a
weak, hopeful voice.
    Shapoor was outside a room marked
Observation 2, reading a chart. A tall, elegant Indian around thirty, he had
wavy black hair, humid eyes, and nicotine breath. His badge said he was a
second-year resident. His necktie was hand-painted, and the disks of his
stethoscope were gold-plated. I introduced myself. He kept reading.
    “Lucy Lowell,” I said.
    “Yes, yes, I know.” Pointing to the door.
    “How’s she doing?” I said.
    “We patched her up.”
    “There were wounds?”
    “I was speaking figuratively.” He snapped
the chart shut. “She’s fine. We saved her. For the time being.”
    “Has her blood work come back yet?”
    “No narcotics that we pick up.”
    “What are the side effects of the gas?”
    “A very unpleasant headache for the next
few days, some general weakness, maybe disorientation, congestion, shortness of
breath—it all depends on how much she actually took in. We cleaned her out
thoroughly.”
    “Was she conscious when she came in?”
    “Semi. But she keeps going in and out.
Typical.”
    “Is the person who brought her in still
here?”
    “Don’t know. The psychiatrist on call can
fill you in. She won’t be in till later today, but she feels an involuntary
hold is definitely called for.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Dr. Embrey. You can leave your card with
the front desk or the triage nurse and ask them to give it to her.” Pulling his
stethoscope off, he walked to the next door. I pushed Lucy’s open.
    She was in bed, eyes closed, breathing
through her mouth, hands flat on her thighs. Her hair had been top knotted with
a rubber band. A plastic bag of something clear dripped into her veins; oxygen
hissed into her nose from a thin tube that ran from a pressurized tank. A bank
of monitors behind the bed beeped and flashed and gurgled, trying to quantify
the quality of her life.
    Her vital signs looked good, the blood
pressure a little low. Her face was sweaty but her lips were dry.
    I stared down at her, replaying our
sessions, wondering if there had been warning signs.
    Of course there’d been, genius. All that shame and rage.
    Confession gone very sour.
    Nothing to indicate she’d go this far, but
what the hell did I know about her?
    Out of my hands now. She was in the
system, locked up for three days. More, if the psychiatrist convinced a judge
she remained a danger to herself.
    A woman psychiatrist. Maybe it was what
she needed. God knows I wasn’t her savior.
    She