Читаем Do No Harm полностью

DAVID pulled into the garage and made his way back through the house to his bedroom, removing his clothes as he walked. He stood at the foot of the bed in his boxers, watching through the bare window as the rain came down in sheets.

Bed felt soft and divine, even more comfortable for the storm brewing outside. He put in his earplugs and burrowed beneath the covers. A roll of thunder rattled the windowpane above his head, but not loudly enough to wake him.

As he slept, rain drummed softly on the roof.

A lick of lightning lit the sky, throwing the outline of David's window, a skewed, yellow rectangle broken at the bottom by the waving tips of fronds, against the far wall. A few moments later, another low rumble vibrated through the air.

When lightning lit David's window again, the outline cast against the wall was broken by a man's silhouette. Wide and distorted, it remained perfectly still above the frenzied waving of foliage shadows. The lines of the silhouette were so distinct that even the water dripping from the man's oversize head was visible. The black form seemed to float on the far wall, hovering over David's sleeping body.

It flickered on the wall for only a moment before the room fell back into darkness.

His slick loafers skidded on the kitchen linoleum, and Peter felt his balance go. He let himself topple over stiffly, so as to keep his legs straight and out of the way, and broke his fall evenly with his arms and chest. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to fall well.

Getting up, however, was usually a bit more difficult. He took stock of his limbs. His right kneecap, exposed between the two strips of metal that ran down the length of his leg, throbbed a bit. Lying on his side on the cold kitchen floor, he tugged at his pant leg and it hiked up over his calf before catching on his brace. A few more tugs and his knee came into sight. It would swell nicely, but the skin was not broken. Even so, he'd probably have to dig his ortho cane out of the closet and use it for the next few days. Which he hated.

Peter turned back onto his stomach, his breath stirring a few toast crumbs near the base of the counter, and pushed himself up and back onto his stiff legs. A nearby stool gave him the grip he needed, and he walked his hands slowly up its metal back, careful not to let it skate out, his legs sliding to vertical beneath him.

His pant leg remained stuck up over his knee, the fabric tangled in a bolt at the joint. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a cupped hand and began the slow waddle back to his bedroom, trying not to think about what would happen when he was seventy. Or eighty.

His hands found their familiar places, places where the wallpaper had been worn thin, the counters polished to a shine. Leaning against the bathroom counter, he brushed his teeth. When he turned to his bed, he noticed the thin water stain left across his pant thighs from the counter.

He removed his shirt and belt, then unbuttoned his pants, and let them fall. The tangle over his right knee remained, and he worked the pant leg out from where it had wedged in his brace. Shuffling a few steps to the bed, he turned and sat, then released the catches near his knees that permitted his braces to bend. Breathing hard, he removed his shoes and tossed them toward the closet, where they landed in a pile of stretched, distorted footwear. He lifted his feet from the puddle of his pants and then, finally, removed the leg braces. Red indentations lay in bands across his thighs and along the outsides of his heels. Near these indentations, the skin was dry and cracked, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he rubbed them.

He lifted his legs into bed, assisting with his hands, and wiggled to get himself under the covers. He noticed he'd forgotten to close the blinds, and he stared at his own reflection in the dark window, confronting an inexplicable sense of unease that took a few moments to dissipate. Given the steps he'd have to go through to get back up, the window was a good ten minutes away.

The nightstand lamp, on the other hand, was only an inch out of reach. He had to roll over to get to the switch. A soft click and the room was bathed in darkness.

He fell into a deep and immediate sleep.

Dalton swung open the front door, wearing a threadbare red-and-white striped bathrobe. He saw Jenkins standing out in the pouring rain, and lowered his hand so his gun rested against his thigh.

Water pasted Jenkins's hair to his head. He blinked twice to clear it from his eyes, but made no move to enter. "You look like a fucking candy cane," he said.

"You drove over here at two in the morning in the rain to tell me that?" One of the girls called from down the hall, and Dalton leaned away from the door. "It's okay. Go back to sleep!" He reached out, fisted Jenkins's shirt, and pulled him inside. Jenkins followed him into the kitchen.