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chopper to the nearest level-one facility, in this case, Eisenhower Memorial itself. Perhaps a neurosurgeon was available at DeLand, Lou speculated, and didn’t want to lose a juicy case. Or perhaps the weather was too chancy.
    Poor goddamn Meacham.
    What in the hell happened out there?
    John Meacham was tightly wound, but not this tightly wound. In fact, he had a better-than-decent recovery program, and had mellowed considerably. Word was bound to get out that he had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings for four years, and a few hundred alcoholics and drug addicts in need of the program would decide that they were better off going it on their own.
    Any excuse in a storm.
    Meacham was one of the first docs Lou had been assigned after he went to work part-time as the assistant to the director of Physician Wellness. A father of three, and a history buff, the internist was a lifelong Virginian, working in D.C. at the time. He played bluegrass on several instruments and could take his motorcycle apart and put it back together. The only two drawbacks in his life were his temper and alcohol. The day he exploded at one of his patients for continuing to smoke following a coronary, Meacham admitted to Lou that he had a ferocious hangover after drinking the night before. The result of his outburst was a report by his patient to the board, a six-month suspension, and a referral to the PWO.
    Lou ordered an immediate psych evaluation and sent Meacham away for a month of rehab and anger management. As soon as he was discharged home, Lou signed him to a legally binding monitoring agreement—random urine testing twice weekly, regular psychological therapy, frequent face-to-face sessions with Lou, and involvement with AA.
    What could go wrong?
    Much to his chagrin and that of his dentist, Sid Moskowitz, Lou was a teeth clencher and grinder. Moskowitz had been pushing forever for some kind of mouth guard, but even in the ring, Lou could barely handle an appliance jamming up against his gag centers like two stalks of rubber celery. He could kick the grinding habit, he insisted, even as Moskowitz was totaling up the cost of the crowns he would soon be installing. He could kick the habit just as he had kicked the drugs.
    But not today.
    With the wipers slapping steadily, Lou turned into the crowded physician parking lot of DeLand Regional. Four cruisers, strobes flashing, were parked near the ER entrance. Twenty-five yards away was a phalanx of sound trucks. Lou estimated that the glass-and-redbrick three-story hospital had a capacity of somewhere between 150 and 200 beds. It had a decent reputation from what little he knew, although he had no firsthand experience with the place.
    Before he made it to the elevator and up to the second-floor ICU, Lou’s credentials were checked three times. There were two uniformed cops—a woman and a man—posted outside the unit, and another man, a broad-shouldered African American in plainclothes, whom Lou guessed might regularly rehearse his air of authority in front of a mirror.
    “No one’s allowed in there,” the man said, performing a heavy-lidded inspection of the new arrival.
    “I’m a doctor.”
    “So’s the guy in there who just killed seven people.”
    “Nice comeback. How about if I said I was a close friend of his?”
    “ID?”
    Lou passed over his driver’s license and wallet-sized medical license. “Neither of these say I’m a close friend of his. I left that one at home.”
    “I can be a wise-ass because I’m in charge,” the detective said. “You can’t, because you’re not. And the head nurse left word that no one is to be let in until she says so. They’re going after the bullet in your close friend’s head.”
    “They’re what!”
    Incredulous that they were going after the bullet in the ICU and not the operating room, Lou stared across at the man, who looked perfectly serious. Not possible , Lou was thinking. Even in the most ragtag level-two trauma center