Kat's frustration grew as the hands slowly circled the clock, and the bandage wrapped around Detective Knox's hand grew a darker, richer shade of red. She ripped the door open, poking her head into the hallway, looking for anyone who could give them some attention. Kat thought about the alternative, of doing the job herself. She knew the basics of sewing, though it was a skill she seldom used. Her modest abilities should have been enough to make sure her husband did not bleed to death in what was supposed to be a center of healing, but she knew her husband would never let her take on the task. He was as stubborn as she, and preferred to let the professionals do what they were best at.

Time passed slowly, each second stretching out as it was counted, until the last strands of Kat's patience were frayed through. She felt the grasp she held on her composure slipping, and just as it was falling through her fingers, the door opened. The doctor entered. There was no sign of apology on his face. He looked down at the chart, scribbled something with a careless stroke of his pen, and turned his attention to the patient.

“It says here you need a wound stitched up. Let's have a look at it.”

Kat did not stand in his way, but she was not going to let him carry on as though he had not insulted them, nor wasted their time. Her conscience knew better than to get involved, but one of the things she had learned from her husband was to never get taken advantage of. Detective Knox had a penchant for making those around him into better people, often without his knowledge or effort.

“Excuse me, doctor, but my husband has been bleeding out here for an hour while nobody so much as checked on him to make sure he wasn't dead.”

“Ma'am, we do the best we can. If we thought his injury was that serious, we would have gotten to him sooner.”

Despite her age, nothing infuriated Kat more than the use of that title. It was not without merit, but the connotation made her feel either more matronly than her years, or akin to the stock characters from an old-time western movie. In either case, the term did not accurately describe Kat, and being so casually dismissed, even with a term of supposed respect, was a bone of contention.

“Maybe you don't understand, doctor. You can't just leave us alone in a room for that long without at least telling us that there's nothing to worry about. It's disrespectful, and I'm sure you would never put up with it, if you were in our shoes.”

“Like I said, I'm getting to your husband as quickly as I can. Now are you going to let me do my job, or do you want to continue lecturing me?”

“Go ahead.”

The doctor removed the bandage, pulling strings of congealed blood away, exposing the wound. The sight of his own blood did not disturb him, but piqued his curiosity. He was struck by the dedication of the human body to continue sending blood through the open floodgate, when it could have been put to better use elsewhere.

The doctor slid his chair over, scraping trenches into the tiles, spreading powdered remnants of the floor around his feet. He retrieved a small tray, gathering the needle in his hand as he slid back into position. His work was quick, his hands moving with the precision that came from supreme confidence and skill. Kat watched from the side, wondering if the fluidity of his stitching was nothing but careless abandon. The doctor bore none of the hallmarks of focus or effort, and looked as though he was going through the motions of a meaningless, mundane, task.

The needle fell to the floor as the doctor cut the string, racing a drop of blood to the landing point. It landed in silence, a small arc of blood rebounding, staining the dust. The doctor looked at his work, and, satisfied he had done an adequate job, turned his attention back to Kat.

“Your husband will be just fine. You had nothing to worry about.”

“I did, since none of you people saw fit to tell me that in the first place. It's a little bit of common courtesy to let someone who's obviously in distress know that everything will be fine. Wouldn't you agree?”

“I don't deal with patients, ma'am. I just sew them back up.”

“That figures.”

“We're doing the best we can. Look, there's only so many of us to go around, and in case you haven't noticed, this place is booked solid every night. There isn't always time to be nice.”

“That's a lousy apology.”

“Well, it's the only one you're going to get.”

The doctor was done discussing his conduct with Kat, and instead turned back to Detective Knox. He watched his patient as Knox examined the burgeoning scar that closed the wound.

“You're going to want to be careful for a day or two. Don't do anything too strenuous, or else you might rip the stitches out, in which case you'll be right back here. I don't think any of us want that, do we?”

Detective Knox did not respond to the question. The doctor's words had set off a firestorm in his mind, his thoughts racing faster than he could sort them. He stayed silent, letting the tidal wave of ideas tear down the doubts he had erected, eroding the fuzzy edges of the mystery. Clarity was coming, quickly, flashing before his eyes as he gave in to his subconscious.

The doctor had left without Detective Knox being aware of his absence. He saw only Kat when he lifted his head. She could see something different in him, not the frustration and resignation that had taken hold in the midst of his alcohol-fueled torment. For the first time since he had taken on the case, she could see her husband as she remembered him, his sharp eyes that saw through the masks and makeup that covered reality. He was himself again, and relief came over her when she realized he was not lost to her.

“Kat, I just had an idea.”

“I can tell.”

“I don't even know if it's possible, but I think I might know how George Hobbes was killed.”

“Really? How?”

“I don't think it's a real thing, but I can't jinx it until I know for sure. I need to call Lane.”

Kat picked up her husband's coat, patting down the pockets for his phone. She slipped her hand into the interior pocket, pulling it out with two extended fingers. She held it up, but didn’t hand it over.

“I'll give you your phone, but you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That if your idea is right, and you solve this case, you're not going to put yourself through this hell anymore. You know I love you, but I don't know how much longer I can put up with you when you're like this.”

“What, you want me to retire?”

“Of course not. That would kill you. I just want you to promise that you're going to try to let other people help you more, and you're going to realize you don't have to solve every crime that is committed.”

“Fine. I promise. Now can I have my phone, or do I have to go searching for the one pay phone left in the world?”

Kat handed over the phone, and Knox tapped two buttons before putting it to his ear. He listened to the ringing, impatient for Lane to answer him. Detective Knox had no idea of the hour, only that Detective Lane should not have been asleep, because there was a case that needed to be solved, and answers can come at any time. Five rings later, he heard the click of the line, and began talking before Lane could even offer a groggy greeting.

“Kid, I think I know how George Hobbes was killed. We've got a long day ahead of us, so get yourself down to the precinct. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”

“What's going on? What time is it?”

“That's not important. Just do what I said, and you'll be able to sleep soon enough.”

“Whatever. Just make sure to bring coffee.”

“This time it's on me.”

Chapter 27

An Eternal Fire

The night was crisp, the air cold enough to freeze your lungs if you took too large a breath, the kind of night Detective Knox loved the most. It took a certain constitution to enjoy such nights, a masochistic streak that reveled in making the act of breathing difficult. Standing in that blackness, drawing that air into your lungs, required effort, and a desire to be alive. Life was wasted on the living, he often thought, because they did not understand that life was a precious gift, something that he saw taken each and every day, often without a thought given to the act, more often with no one noticing the absence.