Licking his pink lips, he held an empty yellow gelcap half so its tiny open mouth was level with the table. Using the width of the blade now, he swept one of the alkali lines off the table, catching most of it in the capsule half. He repeated the process, filling a red capsule top. Careful not to spill, he fitted the red top over the yellow bottom and screwed it a half turn into place. Closing one eye and raising the perfect capsule between his thumb and forefinger, he appraised his work like a jeweler. He bent over the table, picked up the razor blade and another empty capsule half, and went back to his painstaking work.

There was still much to be done before sunrise.

Chapter 39

AT dawn, David pulled a pillow over his head and attempted to prolong his few hours of sleep, but the stresses of the past week pulled him from any thoughts of slumber. It was his first full day off since the attacks had begun, and he wasn't about to waste it in bed. Reaching for the phone on the nightstand, he paged Ed immediately.

He trudged into the study and removed the drape from the large brass birdcage. Two glassy black eyes stared out at him from beneath the fan of the bright salmon crest. The cockatoo's beak disappeared into its breast feathers, preening.

David sighed. "Hello, Stanley."

"Where's Elisabeth?" the cockatoo squawked. "M amp;M's. Where's Elisabeth?"

"Ran off and joined Cirque du Soleil."

The cockatoo's head tilted, then straightened. "Where's Elisabeth?"

"Moved to Memphis with a blues band." David took care not to spill any birdseed this time as he angled a handful through the bars of the cage into the plastic cup.

The cockatoo shifted from foot to foot, then dashed over and picked at the birdseed. Before David could leave the room, it raised its head again. "Where's Elisabeth?"

David paused by the cage. "Ice fishing in Alaska."

Taking the cordless phone and moving to the living room, he paged Ed again, then collapsed into a plush leather chair. Above the mantel hung a signed de Kooning print-Woman I. A violent depiction with rough, haphazard brush strokes, the painting portrayed an archetypal woman with a gleaming, devouring crescent of a mouth and a mess of broad, bloody strokes where her hips should be. It had been his mother's favorite painting.

Arrayed on the Oriental cabinet to one side were a Waterford vase and several photographs in silver frames. A picture of Peter with David's mother from late in her tenure as chief of staff-her head was tilted slightly back, suggesting royalty or aloofness. His favorite shot of Elisabeth, in the tub, only her head and knees visible in the wash of bubbles. A photo from the ER retreat to Catalina-David talking to Diane on the ferry over to the island, her smile just becoming a laugh. For the first time, it struck him as noteworthy that he kept a framed picture of himself and Diane on the cabinet with his personal photos. The mind moves before it is aware.

The phone rang and he picked it up on a half ring, eager to get an update from Ed.

"David, it's Diane."

"What's wrong?"

"It's Carson. We had a seventy-year-old stroke victim in early this morning. He was putting her in the sniffing position to tube her and accidentally snapped her neck. She died a few minutes later. David? Are you there?"

"Jesus, that's awful. How's he doing?"

"Not great. Dr. Lambert screamed at him for five minutes in front of the whole staff, called him a killer, and kicked him out of the ER. He was a mess. I'm stuck here all day, then I'm covering Marcy's late-night shift. I thought maybe you might want to-"

"What's his address?" David found a slip of paper and jotted it down. Carson lived in a little apartment complex at the top of Barrington near Sunset with which David was familiar. "I actually have to take care of some things around the hospital today. I'll stop by his place this afternoon-he could probably use some time alone now anyway."

"Okay. Swing by the floor if you get a chance."

"Will do."

"I've never seen Carson like this." A long pause. "I have to go figure out how to take a history from a deaf-mute."

David felt sick when he hung up the phone.

He dressed quickly and fixed himself a quick breakfast. He left the LA Times out on the doorstep, not wanting to see the day's blaring headlines, but he couldn't resist turning the radio on during his drive to the hospital. The news about the case was mostly high drama and rehash. He wasn't sure what to make of the fact that Ed hadn't returned his pages; he found himself second-guessing whether turning over to him a key piece of evidence had been a wise call. Maybe Ed hadn't even placed an anonymous call to the police, as he'd claimed he would.

David parked and hurried up to the seventh floor, pausing outside the anatomy lab.