Lightning

Carlson said:
    "… major uterine obstruction… one of those women not really designed to have children. She should never have gotten pregnant. I'm sorry… so sorry… everything we could… massive hemorrhaging… but the baby…"
    The word "baby" broke Bob's paralysis. He took a halting step toward Carlson. "What did you say about the baby?"
    "It's a girl," Carlson said. "A healthy little girl."
    Bob had thought everything was lost. Now he stared at Carlson, cautiously hopeful that a part of Janet had not died and that he was not, after all, entirely alone in the world. "Really? A girl?"
    "Yes," Carlson said. "She's an exceptionally beautiful baby. Born with a full head of dark brown hair."
    Looking at Yamatta, Bob said, "My baby lived."
    "Yes," Yamatta said. His poignant smile flickered briefly. "And you've got Dr. Carlson to thank. I'm afraid Mrs. Shane never had a chance. In less experienced hands the baby might've been lost too."
    Bob turned to Carlson, still afraid to believe. "The… the baby lived, and that's something to be thankful for, anyway, isn't it?"
    The physicians stood in awkward silence. Then Yamatta put one hand on Bob Shane's shoulder, perhaps sensing that the contact would comfort him.
    Though Bob was five inches taller and forty pounds heavier than the diminutive doctor, he leaned against Yamatta. Overcome with grief he wept, and Yamatta held him.

    The stranger stayed with Markwell for another hour, though he spoke no more and would respond to none of Markwell's questions. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, so intent on his thoughts that he seldom moved.
    As the doctor sobered, a throbbing headache began to torment him. As usual his hangover was an excuse for even greater self-pity than that which had driven him to drink.
    Eventually the intruder looked at his wristwatch. "Eleven-thirty. I'll be going now." He got off the bed, came to the chair, and again drew the knife from beneath his coat.
    Markwell tensed.
    "I'm going to saw partway through your ropes, Doctor. If you struggle with them for half an hour or so, you'll be able to free yourself. Which gives me time enough to get out of here."
    As the man stooped behind the chair and set to work, Markwell expected to feel the blade slip between his ribs.
    But in less than a minute the stranger put the knife away and went to the bedroom door. "You do have a chance to redeem yourself, Doctor. I think you're too weak to do it, but I hope I'm wrong."
    Then he walked out.
    For ten minutes, as Markwell struggled to free himself, he heard occasional noises downstairs. Evidently the intruder was searching for valuables. Although he had seemed mysterious, perhaps he was nothing but a burglar with a singularly odd modus operandi.
    Markwell finally broke loose at twenty-five past midnight. His wrists were severely abraded, bleeding.
    Though he had not heard a sound from the first floor in half an hour, he took his pistol from the nightstand drawer and descended the stairs with caution. He went to his office in the professional wing, where he expected to find drugs missing from his medical supplies; neither of the two tall, white cabinets had been touched.
    He hurried into his study, convinced that the flimsy wall safe had been opened. The safe was unbreached.
    Baffled, turning to leave, he saw empty whiskey, gin, tequila, and vodka bottles piled in the bar sink. The intruder had paused only to locate the liquor supply and pour it down the drain.
    A note was taped to the bar mirror. The intruder had printed his message in neat block letters:
    IF YOU DON'T STOP DRINKING, IF YOU DON'T LEARN TO ACCEPT LENNY'S DEATH,
 YOU WILL PUT A GUN IN YOUR MOUTH AND BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT WITHIN
ONE YEAR. THIS IS NOT A PREDICTION. THIS IS A FACT.
    Clutching the note and the gun, Markwell looked around the empty room, as if the stranger was still there, unseen, a ghost that could choose at will between visibility and invisibility. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who the
hell
are you?"
    Only the wind at the window answered him, and its mournful moan had no meaning that he could discern.

    At eleven o'clock the next morning, after an early meeting with the funeral director regarding Janet's body, Bob Shane returned to the county hospital to see his newborn daughter. After he donned a cotton gown, a cap, and a surgical mask, and after thoroughly scrubbing his hands under a nurse's direction, he was permitted into the nursery, where he gently lifted Laura from her