If this ever went to trial, the only way to keep the findings on those medications valid was to protect the chain of evidence. Which meant Timmie had to have that thing in sight until she handed it off to Conrad like a forensics baton.

She hoped Murphy wasn't waiting for an answer. She headed up the stairs instead.

Five minutes later, the evidence box tucked under her arm, Timmie jumped the bottom three stairs and headed for the front door. "Let's go," she said. "I have a chart to read and an old man to visit."

* * *

The only way to enter the hospital at that hour of the night was through the ER. Fortunately, only the secretary was sitting at the triage desk, and she just waved, perfectly comfortable with seeing staff wandering around at odd hours. Timmie guided Murphy past her and through the maze that led to Restcrest.

She stopped by her dad's room first. True to her word, Cathy was lounging in a beanbag chair doing her charting near the memory case that held Cardinals and Clancy Brothers. She smiled benignly when she saw Timmie.

"Quiet as a church," she said.

"Nobody's been by?"

"Nope."

Murphy waited outside while Timmie, needing visual confirmation that her father was still okay, crept into his room.

He was sound asleep. Flung out across the bed as if he'd just fallen there after a hard night playing rebel songs, he snored like a fighter. Timmie couldn't help but smile, kind of the way she did when she watched Meghan sleep. Somehow all the troubles and turmoil eased when their eyes closed, and only the softness remained.

He was soft. Always had been. But it had taken Timmie a long time to figure it out. She'd always thought of him as larger than life. Mountains and thunderstorms, when he was in the mood. Now that she was an adult and he was old, he should have looked smaller, shrunken with the decline of his power. He still looked massive to her. Untamed, unquieted, his only concession to the disease that ravaged that quixotic brain of his the sudden, terrifying detours that sent his thoughts skidding off into space. He was still the man who'd held her above the world to see Bob Gibson and Timmie McCarver and Mike Shannon riding through downtown St. Louis in flashy convertibles and World Series rings. He was the man who insisted, no matter what her mother said, that Timmie was magic. He was the man who would forget her for hours while singing in the pub and then, suddenly, lift her in his arms and proclaim her his fairy child.

God, she wanted him back. Every drunken, wild word. Every silly generosity. She wanted to sit at his knee again and listen to him weave his words into living things and feed on the delight in his audiences' eyes.

She wanted him to never be afraid or lost again.

She'd known since she was five years old that her father was really her responsibility. It was only since the moment she'd been given the chance to permanently hand that responsibility off that she'd accepted it.

"Do not go gentle, Da," she said, hoping that someday soon she'd really mean it. And then she turned around and walked away before the doubts could creep back in.

She didn't even make it to the door. Just the sound of her voice, evidently, was enough to call him back tonight.

"Timmie?"

Timmie all but held her breath. "Yes, Da?"

He smiled. A beatific smile that Timmie hadn't seen in months. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, reaching out for her hand.

She gave it to him, even less sure of herself. He knew it was her. The contact was there, that indefinable something in his eyes that clicked so rarely now, and Timmie knew she had him back.

"What for, Da?"

His smile widened. Damn near glowed, so that Timmie was sure that even Murphy saw it and smiled back. "You're such a good daughter... you always have been... but... did you know there's a bird on your shoulder?"

And damn it if she didn't look.

Timmie smiled until he went back to sleep. Then she walked out the door, sat down in one of the chairs, and burst out laughing. Murphy would probably tell her she was an idiot, but she considered it a sign from God that she really had done the right thing. Which made her laugh harder, until there were tears in her eyes and the nurse started casting nervous little looks at her.

"Feeling better, Leary?" Murphy asked dryly.

Timmie wiped her eyes and laughed some more. God, it felt so good. A cliché, but like water in the desert. She'd been parched for it. "That's why he has to hang around," she said. "Nobody else in this town is as nuts."

Murphy snorted. "I wouldn't put any bets on it."

"Okay, they may be nuts. But they're not as much fun."

He nodded. "You got me there."

It took a second, but Timmie pulled herself together again. Then she got to her feet, straightened herself, and reclaimed her box. "All right, kids. Let's kick some angel-of-death butt."

Amazingly enough, Cathy jumped to her feet as if Timmie had just called the troops to order. "Thank heavens. What can we do?"

So Timmie told her. And then, Murphy trailing behind like an aide de camp, she headed over to find out just what she could about Alice Hampton's death.

It wasn't Gladys who was staffing unit five this late at night, but her compatriot Penelope, a softer, rounder woman with mocha skin, grandma's eyes, and a slow walk, who couldn't quite keep her gaze away from the rectangular box under Timmie's arm.

"You the one went up against Ms. Arlington, aren't you?" she asked Timmie when she'd introduced herself. "Gladys told us."

"Do you know if Alice's chart is still here?" Timmie asked, shifting the box against her hip like a baby.

"Sure. We kinda haven't been able to find it as fast as the review committee wanted. 'Specially since Dr. Raymond hasn't seen it yet, and since Gladys said you might want to take a look at it."

She seemed to glide over to the wall shelves, where all the research books sat, and reached behind the PDR and Merck's to pull out a thick wad of paperwork in a familiar manila folder. Timmie smiled her thanks. Penelope's answering smile was much brighter and more telling. Another big fan of Mary Jane's. What a surprise.

"You really don't have any suspects in mind?" Timmie couldn't help but ask.

Penelope shook her head in frustration. "Weird, isn't it? Most times you know damn well who's the problem."

From the list Timmie had gotten from Conrad, absolutely true. Taking half an hour to skim it while waiting for her call, she'd been amazed at the suspects everybody had fingered for possible serial murderer in their hospital and nobody had been able to reel in. It had been rarer that no suspect was named than vice versa. Which was why Timmie still thought that whatever was happening at Memorial was a conspiracy rather than a lone act. Lone actors tended to get recognized in hospitals. At least by the nurses.

"You haven't seen Dr. Raymond tonight?" Timmie asked as she sat down and began flipping through the chart.

"No. He's not due back till tomorrow."

"Seen anybody interesting?" Murphy asked.

Penelope's eyes widened. "On nights? In an old folks home? Who you expect, honey, Madonna?"

Timmie took that as a no and concentrated on her reading.

Around her the patients rustled and whimpered and snored. The lights were dim, with the occasional monitor glowing green in the dark and IV pumps whirring in tidal syncopation.

Timmie had always hated places like this. Too quiet, too final. Much too real. For the first time Timmie could remember, though, the sights and sounds calmed her. It was as if she were finally seeing how this place was choreographed to soothe the end-stage patients toward sleep. Toward rest and peace and finality. They'd had their fireworks. It was time to shut off the lights and ease away.