Free Better in the Dark by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

keep track of things, but you’re pushing him. He’s a busy man,” he added hastily. “Hard to tell about Peter sometimes. Noticed how he likes having the records straight. Damned strange fellow when he’s crossed.”
    “Am I being taken off the case?” Harry asked, as calmly as he could. He studied the residue in the bottom of his cup. Some people used to tell the future with coffee grounds, he remembered. But with fake coffee, there would be a fake future.
    “Taken off?” Jim Braemoore said, horrified. “What for? You know the field. Just a little advice, that’s all. Help you keep your perspective. This overconcern, preoccupation—that can happen to anybody. Happened to me once, oh, long time ago. Took quite a while to set myself straight again. What I wanted to do was let you see how it is, help you to understand.” He pushed back from the table. “Sorry to leave you so soon, but must scrub for a CA. You’d think people would remember to get their immunizations, wouldn’t you?” He sighed a ponderous sigh. “Mastectomy. Pity. One inoculation every five years and there’s nothing to worry about. But they forget, and then we have them up on thirteen.” He broke off, beaming at Harry. “Delighted to have seen you, Smith. Don’t have nearly enough time to talk these days. Just remember—one child, even half a dozen—doesn’t make that much difference. Not worth the bother, Harry.” With that as a parting remark, he strode to the door and bellied through it.
     
    “Brian shows three broken ribs and an improperly healed fracture of the left wrist, as well as bruises and blisters on the ankles,” the new intern reported. She was long, lanky and the color of caramel apples. “We found nylon fibers in the infected areas.”
    “Okay. So they kept him tied up. What else?”
    “Bruises on the side of the face, recent. Burn scars on the left and right forearm. He is suffering from exposure and psychological shock, but will probably pull through.”
    “And Stephanie?” Harry found it more and more difficult to keep the detached professional attitude that was required of him. Yet he dared not show greater interest in this woman, obviously a plant from Justin or Braemoore. Or both. He wanted to chide himself for paranoia, to reassure himself that he was borrowing trouble; he found he could not do it. He sensed he was being watched and he looked up at the woman, challenging her eyes.
    “The girl,” the intern went on, smiling blindingly at him, “is in somewhat better condition, at least outwardly. She does have a fever complaint and general stiffness in the body. Her head is particularly sore and she is moderately disoriented.”
    The first sensation of alarm began to nag at Harry. “She probably tried to keep her brother warm and has had more exposure,” he suggested, covering his dread, which was turning into a cold fist in his guts. What if Natalie Lebbreau were right? She claimed she had had a patient with polio, and these symptoms, the aches, fever, muscle stiffness...
    “I’ve taken photos of her back for the police records. Ian Parkenson had a look at her earlier. He said that the scars were probably caused by lashings with an old-fashioned electric cord. So many are. Electric cords are easy to come by.”
    “I see,” said Harry. “Why did you call Dr. Parkenson in on the case? Is there anything wrong with the way I’ve handled it?”
    “Dr. Justin sent him over. He said that he was checking up on virus admits in pediatric cases. I understand that was your idea, Dr. Smith,” she went on. “But as you see, neither of these children have serious bronchial inflammation.”
    Justin is checking on me, Harry realized. What for? Was Justin just gathering figures for his blessed charts, or was this more sinister? He told himself to stop it, to put his mind on his patient. Aloud, he said, “He must be watching pediatric admits pretty carefully, then.”
    “Oh, yes,” said the intern. Then