I want it just right, she’d said when he made fun of her. Your job is the only thing you love more than me.
He wished he could smile at the memory; it was a good one.
“Doctor? Doctor?”
He looked up, startled. That was a word he hadn’t heard directed at him for a long time. “Yes?” He stood.
“Dr. Chinn will see you now. Go down the hall and turn right—”
“I know where his office is.” He went to the door, stood there, trying to breathe evenly. He was sweating and his palms were damp. His fingerprints would be all over the envelope.
“Doctor? Are you okay?”
He released a heavy sigh and opened the door.
The interior hallways and offices were filled with familiar faces. Nurses, physician’s assistants, radiology techs.
He forced his chin up.
One by one, the people he’d known made eye contact, recognized him, and looked quickly away. A few of them smiled awkwardly or waved, but no one spoke to him. He felt like a ghost passing through the land of the living. No one wanted to admit they’d seen him.
Some of the gazes were frankly condemning; that was the look he remembered, the one that had sent him running in the first place. Others, though, seemed embarrassed to be seen looking at him, confused by his sudden appearance. What did you say to a man you’d once admired who’d been prosecuted for killing his wife and then vanished for three years?
He walked past the row of women in hospital gowns waiting for mammograms, past the second waiting room, then turned onto another, quieter hallway. In the far end, he came to a closed door. He took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in,” said a familiar voice.
Joe entered the big corner office that had once been his. Huge picture windows framed the Seattle high-rise view.
Li Chinn was at his desk, reading. At Joe’s entrance, he glanced up. An almost comical look of surprise overtook his normally impassive face. “I don’t believe it,” he said, remaining in his seat.
“Hey, Li.”
Li looked awkward, uncertain of how to proceed, what to say. “It’s been a long time, Joe.”
“Three years.”
“Where did you go?”
“Does it matter? I meant to come by here and tell you I was leaving. But—” he sighed, hearing how pathetic he sounded “—I didn’t have the guts.”
“I kept your name on the door for nearly a year.”
“I’m sorry, Li. It was probably bad for business.”
Li nodded; this time his dark eyes were sad. “Yes.”
“I have some film I’d like you to look at.” At Li’s nod, Joe went to the viewbox and put the film up.
Li came closer, studying it. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “You see something I do not?”
He pointed. “There.”
Li crossed his arms, frowned. “Not many surgeons would attempt such a thing. The risks are grave.”
“She’s going to die without the surgery.”
“She may die because of the surgery.”
“You think it’s worth a try?”
Li looked at him, his frown deepening. “The old Joe Wyatt never asked for other men’s opinions.”
“Things change,” he said simply.
“Do you know a surgeon who would do it? Who could do it?”
“Stu Weissman at UCLA.”
“Ah. The cowboy. Yes, maybe.”
“I can’t practice. I’ve let my license lapse. Could you send Stu the film? I’ll call him.”
Li flicked off the light. “I will. You know, it’s an easy thing to reinstate your license.”
“Yes.” Joe stood there a moment longer. Silence spread like a stain between the men. “Well. I should go call Stu.” He started to leave.
“Wait.”
He turned back around.
“Did any of the staff speak to you?”
“No. It’s hard to know what to say to a murderer.”
Li moved toward him. “A few believed that of you, yes. Most . . . of us . . . just don’t know what to say. Privately, many of us would have wanted to do the same thing. Diana was in terrible pain, everyone knew that, and there was no hope. We thank God that we were not in your shoes.”
Joe had no answer to that.
“You have a gift, Joe,” Li said slowly. “Losing it would be a crime, too. When you’re ready—if you ever are—you come back to see me. This office is in the business of saving lives, not worrying about old gossip.”
“Thank you.” They were small words, too small to express his gratitude. Embarrassed by the depth of his emotion, Joe mumbled thanks again, and left the office.
Downstairs, in the lobby, he found a bank of pay phones and called Stu Weissman.
“Joe Wyatt,” Stu said loudly. “How the hell are you? I thought you fell off the face of the earth. Damn shame, that hell you went through.”
Joe didn’t want to waste time with the where-have-you-been stuff. There would be time for that when Stu got up here. So he said, “I have a surgery I want you to do. It’s risky as hell. You’re the only man I know who is good enough.” Stu was a sucker for compliments.
“Talk to me.”
Joe explained what he knew of Claire’s history, told him the current diagnosis, and outlined what he’d seen on the film.
“And you think there’s something I can do.”