Tell No One Read Online Free PDF Page B

Again it came up an error. No surprise really. I stared at the message, reading it over and over as though I might find a deeper meaning. I didn’t.
    Last night, I gave blood. The DNA test would take weeks, but Sheriff Lowell thought they might be able to get a preliminary match earlier. I pushed him for more information, but he remained tight-lipped. He was keeping something from us. What, I had no idea.
    As I sat in the examining room and waited for my first patient, I replayed Lowell’s visit. I thought about the two bodies. I thought about the bloody wooden bat. And I let myself think about the branding.
    Elizabeth’s body was found off Route 80 five days after the abduction. The coroner estimated that she’dbeen dead for two days. That meant she spent three days alive with Elroy Kellerton, aka KillRoy. Three days. Alone with a monster. Three sunrises and sunsets, scared and in the dark and in immense agony. I try very hard not to think about it. There are some places the mind should not go; it gets steered there anyway.
    KillRoy was caught three weeks later. He confessed to killing fourteen women on a spree that began with a coed in Ann Arbor and ended with a prostitute in the Bronx. All fourteen women were found dumped on the side of the road like so much refuse. All had also been branded with the letter K. Branded in the same way as cattle. In other words, Elroy Kellerton took a metal poker, stuck it in a blazing fire, put a protective mitt on his hand, waited until the poker turned molten red with heat, and then he seared my Elizabeth’s beautiful skin with a sizzling hiss.
    My mind took one of those wrong turns, and images started flooding in. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished them away. It didn’t work. He was still alive, by the way. KillRoy, I mean. Our appeals process gives this monster the chance to breathe, to read, to talk, to be interviewed on CNN, to get visits from do-gooders, to smile. Meanwhile his victims rot. Like I said, God has some sense of humor.
    I splashed cold water on my face and checked the mirror. I looked like hell. Patients started filing in at nine o’clock. I was distracted, of course. I kept one eye on the wall clock, waiting for “kiss time”—6:15 P.M. The clock’s hands trudged forward as though bathed in thick syrup.
    I immersed myself in patient care. I’d always had that ability. As a kid, I could study for hours. As a doctor, Ican disappear into my work. I did that after Elizabeth died. Some people point out that I hide in my work, that I choose to work instead of live. To that cliché I respond with a simple “What’s your point?”
    At noon, I downed a ham sandwich and Diet Coke and then I saw more patients. One eight-year-old boy had visited a chiropractor for “spinal alignment” eighty times in the past year. He had no back pain. It was a con job perpetrated by several area chiropractors. They offer the parents a free TV or VCR if they bring their kids in. Then they bill Medicaid for the visit. Medicaid is a wonderful, necessary thing, but it gets abused like a Don King undercard. I once had a sixteen-year-old boy rushed to the hospital in an ambulance—for routine sunburn. Why an ambulance instead of a taxi or subway? His mother explained that she’d have to pay for those herself or wait for the government to reimburse. Medicaid pays for the ambulance right away.
    At five o’clock, I said good-bye to my last patient. The support staff headed out at five-thirty. I waited until the office was empty before I sat and faced the computer. In the background I could hear the clinic’s phones ringing. A machine picks them up after five-thirty and gives the caller several options, but for some reason, the machine doesn’t pick up until the tenth ring. The sound was somewhat maddening.
    I got online, found the email, and clicked on the hyperlink yet again. Still a no-go. I thought about this strange email and those dead bodies. There had to be a connection. My mind