He eventually, finally, made it up to the master bedroom. There he double-checked the alarm to find that it was still-again?-set for 4:30. He would have to issue a home edict making his alarm clock off limits except for him and Frannie. He moved it ahead two hours.
In bed, with his wife breathing regularly beside him, he wondered briefly about all the subliminal communication going on in his house, among his family. He and Frannie with the elephants, the Beck's now unspoken but still clearly upsetting fears, Vincent's last joke an obvious attempt to keep his father in the room another few seconds, although he would never simply ask. The dynamic, suddenly, seemed to have shifted and Hardy, at least, felt adrift, moving among the rest of them with a kind of gravitational connection, but nothing really solid, holding them together.
He lay awake now, echoes of his son, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. His memory had dredged up a contradiction that now gnawed at him. Earlier in the day, Rebecca Simms had derided the idea that someone had killed Tim Markham in the hospital. It was ridiculous, she'd said. It must have been an accident.
Or he'd simply just died, which, she'd reminded him, "people do." But by tonight, such deaths-unexplained possible homicides-had become common, a regular feature during the past year or more at Portola. He wanted to call her back and clarify her position-maybe he'd broken through the culture barrier at the hospital where criticism wasn't tolerated and then forced her to consider the unthinkable with Markham, and it had awakened other ghosts.
But the facts of the deaths alone-if they were facts, if they could be proven-were staggering in their implications, and not just for his client, although Kensing was going to be in the middle of whatever transpired. For Hardy, it would mean more hours, greater commitment, escalated involvement; less time with his wife, less connection with his children, less interest in the daily rhythms of his home.
It also meant that he was truly putting himself in harm's way. If someone, whether it was this Rajan Bhutan or someone else at Portola, had in fact killed again and again and if Hardy was going to be involved in exposing those crimes, then he was going to be in that person's sights.
He turned again onto his side, and might even have drifted off into a semblance of a dream state, where he was swimming in turbulent waters with some of Pico's sharks circling, snapping at him, closing in. Then something-some settling of his house, a random noise outside-sent a surge of adrenaline through him and he threw his covers off and sat bolt upright in bed. His breath came in ragged surges.
It woke Frannie up. "Dismas, are you all right? What time is it?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay." But he really wasn't. That largely unacknowledged yet pervasive fear that Rebecca Simms had described at Portola seemed to be stalking him, as well. Even the familiar darkness in his own bedroom felt somehow sinister, as though something terrible lurked hidden just at the edge of it.
He tried to laugh off the imaginings for what he told himself they were-irrational terrors in the wake of a nightmare. But they held their grip. Finally, feeling foolish, he switched on his bedlight for a moment.
Nothing, of course. Nothing.
Still, it took a long while before his breathing became normal. Eventually, he let himself back down and pulled the covers over him. After a minute, he turned and settled spoon fashion against his wife.
Before his brain could start running again, sleep mercifully claimed him.
16
Kensing finished his morning rounds at Portola's ICU and walked out to the nurses' station. Waiting for him there was the tall and thin figure of Portola's administrator, Michael Andreotti, who wanted a private word with him. They walked silently together down one long hallway, then took the elevator to the ground floor, where Andreotti led the way into an empty conference room next to his own office in the admin wing, and then closed the door behind them.
By this time, Kensing had a good idea of what was coming, but he asked anyway. "So what's this about?"
There was no love lost between the two men, and the administrator wasted no time on niceties. "I'm afraid that the board has decided to place you on leave for the time being."
"I don't think so. They can't do that. I've got a contract."
Andreotti more or less expected this response. He had the paperwork on him, and he handed over the letter. "It's not my decision, Doctor. As I said, the board has decided."
Kensing snorted derisively. "The board. You mean Ross. Finally seeing his chance."
Andreotti felt no need to respond.
"What's his excuse this time?"
"It's clearly explained in the letter, but there seem to be too many questions involving you related to Mr. Markham's death."
"That's bullshit. I didn't have anything to do with that."
Andreotti's mouth turned down at Kensing's unfortunate use of profanity. "That's not the board's point. There is the appearance." Andreotti was in bureaucrat mode. He might as well have been a mannequin. He was only there to deliver the letter and the message, and to see that the board's will was implemented.
"What appearance? There's no appearance."
Andreotti spread his hands. "It's really out of my control, Doctor. If you want to appeal the decision, I suggest you call Dr. Ross. In the meantime, you're not to practice either here or at the clinic."
"What about my patients? I've got to see them."
"We've scheduled other physicians to cover your caseload."
"Starting when?"
"Immediately, I'm afraid."
"You're afraid. I bet you are." Kensing's temper flared for an instant. "You ought to be."
Andreotti backed up a step. "Are you threatening me?"
Kensing was tempted to run with it, put some real fear into this stooge, but starting with Glitsky's visit last night, he was beginning to get a sense of how bad things could really get with this murder investigation, this suspicion over him. Some reserve of self-protectiveness kicked in. "This is wrong," was all he said. Glancing down at the papers in his hand, he turned on his heel and walked out.
It wasn't yet 9:00 in the morning. The storm had finally blown over. The sky was washed clean, deep blue and cloudless.
Kensing was back at his home, in the living room of his condominium. He moved forward and forced open one of the windows, letting in some fresh air. Then he walked back to his kitchen, where Glitsky had skewered him last night. The lieutenant's teacup was still in the sink. It was one of a set he'd inherited from his parents after his dad had died, and now he abstractedly turned on the water to wash it, then lifted the dainty thing carefully. There was a window over the sink, as well, and Kensing simply stopped all movement suddenly, staring out over the western edge of the city, seeing none of it.
The cup exploded in his hand, shattering from the force of his grip.
He looked down in a cold, distracted fury. The blood where the shards had cut him ran over his hand and pooled in the white porcelain saucer amid the broken fragments in the bottom of the sink.
Jeff Elliot had his home number from the Baby Emily days, and called him twenty minutes later. He'd been hounding Parnassus for stories lately, and he'd heard the news about the administrative leave this morning, probably not too long after Kensing had gotten it himself. Elliot offered to let him tell his side to a sympathetic reporter who was covering the whole story soup to nuts. He could come right by if Kensing could spare an hour or so.
When he arrived, Elliot wheeled himself into the kitchen. He'd been here before during Baby Emily, and knew his way around. After he sat, his first comment was about the several Band-Aids on Kensing's hand.