Lightning Read Free Page A

rimed with frost. The air was too warm. The six chairs and two end tables were too much furniture for the narrow space. He had an urge to push through the double swinging doors into the corridor, race to the other end of the hospital, cross the main public lounge, and break out into the cold night, where there was no stink of antiseptics or illness.
    He remained in the maternity lounge, however, to be near to Janet if she needed him. Something was wrong. Labor was supposed to be painful but not as agonizing as the brutal, extended contractions that Janet had endured for so long. The physicians would not admit that serious complications had arisen, but their concern was apparent.
    Bob understood the source of his claustrophobia. He was not actually afraid that the walls were closing in. What was closing in was death, perhaps that of his wife or of his unborn child—or both.
    The swinging doors opened inward, and Dr. Yamatta entered.
    As he rose from his chair, Bob bumped the end table, scattering half a dozen magazines across the floor. “How is she, Doc?”
    “No worse.” Yamatta was a short, slender man with a kind face and large, sad eyes. “Dr. Markwell will be here shortly.”
    “You’re not delaying her treatment until he arrives, are you?”
    “No, no, of course not. She’s getting good care. I just thought you’d be relieved to know that your own doctor is on his way.”
    “Oh. Well, yeah ... thank you. Listen, can I see her, Doc?”
    “Not yet,” Yamatta said.
    “When?”
    “When she’s ... in less distress.”
    “What kind of answer’s that? When will she be in less distress? When the hell will she come out of this?” He instantly regretted the outburst. “I ... I’m sorry, Doc. It’s just ... I’m afraid.”
    “I know. I know.”
    An inside door connected Markwell’s garage to the house. They crossed the kitchen and followed the first-floor hallway, switching on lights as they went. Clumps of melting snow fell off their boots.
    The gunman looked into the dining room, living room, study, medical office, and the patients’ waiting room, then said, “Upstairs.”
    In the master bedroom the stranger snapped on one of the lamps. He moved a straight-backed, needlepoint chair away from the vanity and stood it in the middle of the room.
    “Doctor, please take off your gloves, coat, and scarf.”
    Markwell obeyed, dropping the garments on the floor, and at the gunman’s direction he sat in the chair.
    The stranger put the pistol on the dresser and produced a coiled length of sturdy rope from one pocket. He reached beneath his coat and withdrew a short, wide-bladed knife that was evidently kept in a sheath attached to his belt. He cut the rope into pieces with which, no doubt, to bind Markwell to the chair.
    The doctor stared at the pistol on the dresser, calculating his chances of reaching the weapon before the gunman could get it. Then he met the stranger’s winter-blue eyes and realized that his scheming was as transparent to his adversary as a child’s simple cunning was apparent to an adult.
    The blond man smiled as if to say, Go ahead, go for it.
    Paul Markwell wanted to live. He remained docile and compliant, as the intruder tied him, hand and foot, to the needlepoint chair.
    Making the knots tight but not painfully so, the stranger seemed oddly concerned about his captive. “I don’t want to have to gag you. You’re drunk, and with a rag jammed in your mouth, you might vomit, choke to death. So to some extent I’m going to trust you. But if you cry out for help at any time, I’ll kill you on the spot. Understand?”
    “Yes.”
    When the gunman spoke more than a few words, he revealed a vague accent, so mild that Markwell could not place it. He clipped the ends of some words, and occasionally his pronunciation had a guttural note that was barely perceptible.
    The stranger sat on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the telephone. “What’s the number of the county