The pain came in waves, like tiny fragments of shrapnel flying in her face from a series of explosions. Her harsh breaths, strengthened with groans, fired through her chest as though she were finishing a marathon. Grinding her teeth, tensing her entire body, she drew her legs up under her and prepared for the blind sprint.

Douglas DaVella's records popped up on-screen, and David scanned through them eagerly. DaVella had come into the ER for a standard physical after a fender bender in '87-no significant findings-and he'd seen a gastroenterologist in '91 for irritable bowel.

Clearly, they hadn't cross-referenced medical files with employee records when Clyde had worked at the hospital as Douglas DaVella. That made sense, given patient confidentiality and logistical considerations.

David jotted down DaVella's social security number, date of birth, and address-1711 Pearson Rd. He'd just noted that the address was in Venice when his pager went off, its text message alerting him to get down to the ER immediately.

Chapter 45

WHEN Pat ignored David, he thought it was merely residual ill will from their confrontation earlier in the week, but the entire staff was stiff with him as he made his way to the Central Work Area. He couldn't find the attending on call, so he tapped a nurse on the shoulder as she passed. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"You haven't heard?" She had a cruel, stupid face and wore too much eye shadow.

"I guess not," David said.

A medicine intern looked up from his paperwork. "There's been another attack, Dr. Spier."

David felt the air leave his lungs all at once. "On who? Who is it?"

The CWA was full, but no one answered. They stared with dull, implacable eyes, or turned back to their charts. "Who is it?" he said again.

The medicine intern angled his head toward the door to Hallway Two and David walked out at a fast clip. Bronner slumped in a chair near the door to Exam Eight. Jenkins stood over him, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

Jenkins looked at David with more concern than anger, which sent David's anxiety through the roof. He strode toward the door and shoved it open.

Diane lay on the bed inside, her forehead and right cheek blistered in streaks and patches. A series of raised white bubbles ringed her right eye.

David stepped forward, dazed, his hand swiping the air several times before finding the back of a chair. He leaned. A tingling warmth spread across his face, and he blinked hard several times to strike preemptively against tears.

Diane looked away. "That bad, huh?"

He knew his voice would be unsteady, so he waited a moment to speak. "No," he said. Fighting to keep his emotions from overwhelming him, he crossed to her bed, dragging the chair along with him. She still didn't meet his eyes. He wanted desperately to touch her, to caress her face, but could not. Her hair, still wet from saline irrigation, had darkened the pillow. He took her hand, and she let him.

He sat at the side of her bed.

"You just missed plastics. Can't do anything acutely. Probably have some scarring, but no disfiguring contractions. Neosporin and Silvadene, blah blah blah. Wait and see. Should be fine." Head still turned, she laughed to herself, a nasty little laugh. "Wait and see."

"Ophthalmology?" David asked, still not trusting his voice to form longer sentences.

"Hourly Pred Forte, Cipro four times a day. Mild corneal epithelial erosion, faint anterior stromal haziness, no ischemic necrosis of perilimbal conjunctiva or sclera." She shook her head. "Words. Lots of words."

"Prognosis?"

"I should have little or no corneal scarring." She raised an index finger and twirled it lazily. "Whoopee."

David exhaled, relieved. "You're very lucky."

"Lucky. God, do we sound that stupid to people who come in here? I don't feel lucky, David."

He weathered her burst of anger quietly. She was entitled to it. After a moment, he asked, "Where did he…?"

"Emptied out medicine gelcaps, filled them with alkali crystals. Then, he broke into my place, unscrewed my showerhead, and stuck them behind there. Hot water melts the capsules. Presto. Liquid alkali."

"Who thinks of that?" David asked in disbelief.

"I hate to confess I find it somewhat ingenious. If he'd just packed the showerhead with straight crystals, it would've clogged up, or I would've noted the immediate change in water color. Of course, it was slightly diluted, which is why I can see you right now."

He picked at the skin of his cuticle, drawing blood. "That bastard. That sadistic bastard." He stood up and paced around the room. "This is my fault."