Five minutes passed before Dr. Galt emerged from the room. Carver noticed that the doctor needed a haircut; the long strands of hair combed across the top of his head curved upward on the side of his head opposite their roots. He moved down the hall a few yards, motioning for Carver, to follow, so they wouldn’t be heard inside the room.
“How is she really doing on a day-by-day basis at home?” Dr. Galt asked.
“I think she’s okay,” Carver said. “She’s tough.”
“Physically, you mean?”
“Yes. And mentally.”
“I’ll vouch for the physical part. She’s a fast healer. The bruising is beginning to disappear on her right side, and her superficial cuts are all closed and knitted perfectly. Does she talk about the baby she lost?”
We lost, Carver thought. “Sometimes. Not as often as she did just after the bombing. Beth isn’t the type to talk things out of her system.” Neither am I.
“She still thinks about it a lot,” Dr. Galt said. “Believe me. She doesn’t like to show pain or weakness. If she were a man we’d call it machismo.”
“It comes from survival,” Carver said, “whatever your sex.”
“Be gentle with her when discussing the subject of the baby.”
“I have been. Always will be.”
Dr. Galt studied him. “How are you coping with the loss of the child?”
Well, well, the father had been remembered. As Dr. Galt rose in his estimation, Carver thought about the question. “I don’t talk about it as much as just after the bombing.”
“If you need counseling,” Dr. Galt said, “either of you, it’s available here at the hospital.”
“We’re both survivors.”
Dr. Galt gave a hopeless little chuckle, but if he was amused, it didn’t show on his face. “You don’t have to hurt as much as possible in order to survive.”
“Sometimes you have to develop contempt for the pain.”
Dr. Galt glanced down at Carver’s cane and bad leg. “Possibly. I suppose contempt can be a curative. But it might leave long-lasting and undesirable aftereffects. Watch Beth, and don’t try to dissuade her if she wants to come back here for help. In fact, encourage her.”
“I promise to do that,” Carver said.
“So did she,” Dr. Galt said, “when I asked her not to dissuade you from coming here.” He nodded, smiling at Carver, and started down the hall.
“Do you know if Dr. Benedict is in the hospital this afternoon?” Carver asked, stopping Dr. Galt after three steps.
The doctor turned around and shrugged. “I don’t know any Dr. Benedict.”
“He’s from Women’s Light Clinic. He switched his practice here temporarily after the bombing.”
Dr. Galt shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you. I’ve never seen Dr. Benedict, don’t know what he looks like.” He smiled again at Carver and continued his walk down the long corridor. From behind he looked small and tired.
Carver watched him until he reached the intersecting hall and turned right, in the direction taken by the long-legged blond nurse. He remembered what McGregor had said about doctors and nurses and was briefly ashamed. McGregor could make a kindergarten birthday party seem a riot of sin. That was simply the way he thought. The man’s moral compass had no needle.
“Dr. Galt leave?”
Beth was beside him. She looked fine except for the small bandage on the right side of her neck.
“He had other patients waiting,” Carver said. “Was it decided that you’re healing okay?”
“Sure. I’m in better condition than before I was blown up. Might do it to myself from time to time. Want to grab an early supper downstairs in the cafeteria?”
“While we’re here, I’d like to talk with Dr. Benedict.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “It’s too early for supper anyway.”
He couldn’t think of a reason to refuse her.
Seldom could.
This time Dr. Benedict was easy enough to find. Carver and Beth wound up in the cafeteria anyway, after a nurse on two had informed them that Dr. Benedict was there relaxing between appointments.
Carver saw him immediately, sitting alone in a booth on the far wall. A paper plate and white plastic fork or spoon were before him on the table, and Dr. Benedict was staring into his foam cup of coffee. Carver and Beth got cups of self-service coffee, paid for them, and carried them over to Benedict’s booth.
As they approached, he noticed them and managed a tight, determined smile. He was obviously not glad to see them. Carver formally introduced Beth to the doctor.
“Mind if we join you?” Beth asked.
“As if you were coming apart,” Carver said in the face of the doctor’s relentless, humorless smile. “Sorry. It’s an old Groucho Marx joke, though I’m sure I don’t have it exactly right.”
Dr. Benedict’s smile stayed glued to his face. He was a gamer. Carver and Beth slid into the booth to sit opposite him. Carver saw that the plate in front of Benedict contained crumbs from a piece of pie. The white implement was a plastic fork. “Is the pie any good here?” he asked.
“Better than the coffee,” Benedict said. “What brings you two here?”
“I had the stitches removed from where they plucked broken glass out of me,” Beth said.
An expression of compassion passed over Benedict’s face. “Good. From what I heard, you had a close call. If you’d gone into the clinic a few seconds sooner, you might have been killed.”
“How is the nurse who was injured in the clinic?”
“Delores? I saw her this morning. She’ll be sent home soon. She lost her right foot, you know.”
“I thought I saw Sam Wicker with her a little while ago, pushing her along in a wheelchair.”
“Wicker? Ah, the FBI guy. Yes, they seem to be spending more time together than is officially necessary. That kind of thing is good for Delores. It’ll give her some hope. What happened to her, just doing her job and then suddenly . . .” He looked into his coffee cup again and shook his head. “Those bastards! How can they possibly think they’re doing God’s work?”
“Martin Freel would explain it to you,” Carver said.
“I’ve seen him on television, heard him denounce violence. While all the time he’s inciting his misguided flock to terrorize innocent women and menace physicians acting within the law.”
“I understand you’ve received more threats,” Carver said.
Benedict didn’t look up. Something fascinating about that coffee. “Yes. Death threats. They’re coming with increasing frequency. Crudely printed notes the police can’t trace. Phone calls in the middle of the night. I try to answer them, but sometimes my wife picks up. She’s brave, but she’s scared,”
“Why don’t you get an unlisted number?” Beth asked.
“It doesn’t do any good. Of course I’ve had it changed three times. You must not realize the deviousness and evil of the people doing this sort of thing to doctors who perform abortions.”
“Do you have any idea who’s making the threats?”
Benedict looked at him unbelievingly. “You must be joking again. It’s Martin Freel and his Operation Alive fanatics. Don’t tell me you believe his public statements about abhorring violence? He’s stepped up his attack on me so the police will think the bomber’s still out there. Some of the notes actually claimed whoever wrote them planted the bomb at Women’s Light. That’s the whole idea behind the continuing threats-to make Norton look innocent by giving the impression that the real bomber’s still at large.”
“Are the threats getting to you?” Beth asked.
“I won’t pretend they don’t have some effect. But I’m not going to be frightened away from my work.” He finally looked up from his cup and his gaze traveled back and forth between them. “I believe in what I’m doing just as strongly as the people trying to stop me believe in what they’re doing. A physician who performs abortions has to feel that way. There aren’t that many of us left. If we’re all scared out of business, women will have to return to back-alley butchers, knitting needles, and wire hangers.”