Lightning

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 hospital?"
    Markwell blinked. "Why?"
    "Damn it, I asked you the number. If you won't give it to me, I'd rather beat it out of you than look it up in the directory."
    Chastened, Markwell gave him the number.
    "Who's on duty there tonight?"
    "Dr. Carlson. Herb Carlson."
    "Is he a good man?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Is he a better doctor than you—or is he a lush too?"
    "I'm not a lush. I have—"
    "You're an irresponsible, self-pitying, alcoholic wreck, and you know it. Answer my question, Doctor. Is Carlson reliable?"
    Markwell's sudden nausea resulted only partly from overindulgence in Scotch; the other cause was revulsion at the truth of what the intruder had said. "Yeah, Herb Carlson's good. A very good doctor."
    "Who's the supervising nurse tonight?"
    Markwell had to ponder that for a moment. "Ella Hanlow, I think. I'm not sure. If it isn't Ella, it's Virginia Keene."
    The stranger called the county hospital and said he was speaking on behalf of Dr. Paul Markwell. He asked for Ella Hanlow.
    A blast of wind slammed into the house, rattling a loose window, whistling in the eaves, and Markwell was reminded of the storm. As he watched the fast-falling snow at the window, he felt another gust of disorientation blow through him. The night was so eventful—the lightning, the inexplicable intruder—that suddenly it did not seem real. He pulled at the ropes that bound him to the chair, certain that they were fragments of a whiskey dream and would dissolve like gossamer, but they held him fast, and the effort made him dizzy again.
    At the phone the stranger