Nine o’clock Saturday night at the Toronto General Hospital had come and gone, and Amanda was sitting up in bed flipping channels on her television set in a desultory manner. The hospital, as is the way with such places, was already concentrating its efforts on bedding everyone down for the night, and an atmosphere of weary boredom had taken over. She sighed and flopped back down again. Nothing on. She was already getting sick and tired of being there and was eager to get back to Aunt Kate’s. She even itched to get back to school, cast and all, just for a change of scenery. The door was flung open suddenly, heralding the arrival of a nurse; Amanda had observed that each class of person at the hospital entered a room in a distinctive way—the cleaning staff gingerly, the nurses abruptly, the doctors coyly, and so on. This was a new nurse. They changed with dizzying frequency, and when Amanda had commented on it, she was told that it was a consequence of landing in hospital close to a holiday weekend. She smiled vaguely at the nurse, who was proceeding toward her briskly.

“Now, love, just roll over, and we’ll soon have you feeling better. Come on.” She grabbed the corner of the bedclothes to flip them back.

“Hey! What’s that?” said Amanda, sitting up and pointing at the wicked-looking hypodermic needle in her hand.

“It’s your injection, dear. Now roll over.”

“I’m not supposed to get an injection. Stop that!” she said loudly as the harassed nurse tried to roll her on her side. “Stop! Al! Help!” She was screaming by now. Into the room raced two hundred and ten pounds of well-muscled, uniformed policeman. He grabbed the nurse by the arm.

“I’ll have to ask you not to do that,” he said apologetically, not loosening his grip. “Not until I get authorization from someone. She’s not supposed to get anything that I don’t know about. Sorry,” he said, looking nervously at the nurse’s face, which was rapidly shading from scarlet to purple.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll get the doctor who ordered the injection, and perhaps you won’t attack him!” She stormed out of the room, muttering something that sounded unprofessional.

“Thanks,” said Amanda. “I’m getting tired of people doing things to me these days.” He winked at her.

Five minutes later the door opened, a trifle more gently this time, and a white-coated resident, young and brisk-looking, poked his head around and said, “So this is the young lady with the pain, is it?” He smiled. Amanda was sitting bolt upright, bright-eyed and determined. “You don’t really look as if you’re in pain, though. Is it better?”

“Better? I’m not in pain. I haven’t been in pain all day. I’m fine,” she said fiercely.

“Then you really shouldn’t have asked for an injection, you know. It’s not good for you to have these strong drugs if you don’t need them. If you’re having trouble sleeping we’ll give you something for that—no need to ask for a needle. Isn’t that true, nurse,” he said to the woman who had followed him in. His gently condescending voice was immensely irritating.

“I didn’t ask for an injection, I tell you. I’m fine. I’ve been fine all day, haven’t I, Al?” She turned to her protector and star witness. “So you can keep your drugs and injections to yourself.” She tried to wave her huge cast in their direction, muttered a silent ouch, and settled back on her pillows.

“Well, I was just doing what I was asked to do,” said the nurse, huffily. “Dr. Weatherill ordered an injection and I came to give it.”

“I ordered the injection because I got a call from the nursing station that the patient in 526 was screaming in pain. Why else would I do it?” Now he glowered at Amanda, then at the nurse. “I have enough to do around here without medicating patients who don’t need it. If you knew the kind of load I had on a holiday weekend you’d realize I don’t go around treating other people’s patients just to amuse myself.” His voice was low and bitter now.

“Who called you, may I ask?” said Al hastily, before Weatherill could get any further in his catalogue of complaints.

“I don’t know. It must have been Miss Beatty here,” he said.

“Wasn’t me,” she said, rapidly tossing the responsibility as far away as she could. “I just got back from my break and there it was—the order for the injection. So I got it ready. I know nothing about it. I haven’t been on duty for days. I just got back this evening.” She glared at Dr. Weatherill. “It must have been one of the others.” At that she flounced out of the room.

“I’m going to have to call someone in to look into this, Dr. Weatherill,” said Al. “You understand that this young lady is under police guard because an attempt has already been made on her life.”

“Well, investigate away,” he replied, offended. “But all I know is what I told you.” As he left, he brushed against an orderly hurrying past, and saw but did not see an innocuous-looking man leaving the room across the hall, saying goodbye tenderly and affectionately to an empty bed and two unoccupied chairs.

Sanders was standing, keys in hand, vehemently pointing out to Eleanor that a woman of her age should be able to spend a night out without worrying what her mother might think. “Dammit, Eleanor, has she ever said anything?” he whispered. They were standing in the corridor of his apartment building and making half-hearted attempts to keep their voices down. She paused to consider for a moment.

“Stop trying to steamroller me,” she complained. “You’re entirely too used to pushing people around. It’s not good for you.” Before he could think of a reply, the phone on the other side of his door began to ring.

“Dammit.” He fumbled with the lock, cursing under his breath, flung open the door and dashed to answer it. For a long time he simply listened. “Did you call Dubinsky? Okay. Tell him I’ll see him there right away.” He turned to Eleanor and shook his head. “Okay, sweetheart. You win this time. Someone made another try to get at Amanda. She’s fine—they bungled it—but I have to go down and see what’s up.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll drop you off on my way.”

“That’s not exactly the way I had hoped to win this particular fight,” she said. “Losing would have been more fun.”

Chapter 12

The mills of justice, in their own way, like the mills of the gods, grind on, even on holiday weekends and in unlikely places. Easter Sunday morning dawned bright and clear in southern Florida—the birds and the tourists sang and fluttered in the early morning sun. In fact, many of the birds, like many of the tourists, were on their way back to Canada and were making the most of the friendly climate while they were still there. But in the minor resort town of Pidgeon’s Bay, a clutch of motels and beach houses outside of Fort Lauderdale, things were dull and dreary in the sheriff’s office. The drunken students were gone, the hordes of tourists were slowly dwindling, and the sleepiness of summer was beginning to pervade the atmosphere. Des Hepworth sat in lonely splendor, staring at a cup of coffee and the various papers that had hit the desk since Friday, when he had last been on. Among the long lists of stolen cars and wanted fugitives one stray item caught his attention. The words “1984 Corvette—white” leapt out at him. That was what he wanted with all his heart and soul. A white Corvette. So did Lindy. When he had made his unsuccessful bid to transfer her from beach blanket to motel last night, she had distracted him with shrieks of delight at the white Corvette parked outside the Flying Fish Motel. “Look, Des,” she had squealed, “isn’t that the most gorgeous car! I wonder who it belongs to?” And he had dragged her away again, almost forgetting what they were supposed to be there for. Or had she done it on purpose? Damn that girl. You could never tell what she was up to.