The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,266

times she placed her hands on his shoulders and did her little mental trick of envisioning what was going on inside the brain. Was she helping him or merely calming herself? She had no idea. Yet she worked on him mentally, as hard as she had ever worked on anyone, even whispering aloud to him that he must heal now, that the weakness in the wall of the artery was repaired.

“Long life to you, Mr. Benjamin,” she whispered under her breath. Against her closed eyes, she saw the brain circuitry. A vague tremor passed through her. Then, slipping her hand over his, she knew he would be all right.

Slattery was in the doorway, showered and shaved, and ready to take her to the airport.

“Come on, Rowan, get out of here, before anything else happens!”

She went to her office, showered in the small private bathroom, put on her fresh linen suit, decided it was much too early to call Lonigan and Sons in New Orleans, even with the time difference, and then walked out of University Hospital, with a lump in her throat. So many years of her life, she thought, and the tears hovered. But she didn’t let them come.

“You all right?” Slattery had asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Just tired.” She was damned sick of crying. She’d done more of it in the last few days than in all her life.

Now, as he made the left turn off the highway at the airport, she found herself thinking that Slattery was about as ambitious as any doctor she’d ever met. She knew quite emphatically that he despised her, and that it was for all the simple, boring reasons—that she was an extraordinary surgeon, that she had the job he coveted, that she might soon be back.

A debilitating chill passed over her. She knew she was picking up his thoughts. If her plane crashed, he could take her place forever. She glanced at him, and their eyes met for a second, and she saw the flush of embarrassment pass over him. Yes, his thoughts.

How many times in the past had it happened that way, and so frequently when she was tired? Maybe her guard was down when she was sleepy, and this evil little telepathic power could assert itself wantonly, and serve up to her this bitter knowledge whether she wanted it or not. It hurt her. She didn’t want to be near him.

But it was a good thing that he wanted her job, a good thing that he was there to take it so that she could go.

It struck her very clearly now that, much as she had loved University, it wasn’t important where she practiced medicine. It could be any well-equipped medical center in which the nurses and technicians could give her the backup she required.

So why not tell Slattery she wasn’t coming back? Why not end the conflict inside him for his sake? The reason was simple. She didn’t know why she felt so strongly that this was a final farewell. It had to do with Michael; it had to do with her mother; but it was as purely irrational as anything she’d ever felt.

Before Slattery even stopped at the curb, she had the door open. She climbed out of the car and gathered up her shoulder bag.

Then she found herself staring at Slattery as he handed her the suitcase from the trunk. The chill passed over her again, slowly, uncomfortably. She saw malice in his eyes. What an ordeal the night had been for him. He was so eager. And he disliked her so much. Nothing in her manner, either personally or professionally, evoked a finer response in him. He simply disliked her. She could taste it as she took the suitcase from his hand.

“Good luck, Rowan,” he said, with a metallic cheerfulness. I hope you don’t come back.

“Slat,” she said, “thank you for everything. And there’s something else I should tell you. I don’t think … Well, there’s a good possibility I may not come back.”

He could scarcely conceal his delight. She felt almost sorry for him, watching the tense movement of his lips as he tried to keep his expression neutral. But then she felt a great warm, wondrous delight herself.

“It’s just a feeling,” she said. (And it’s great!) “Of course I’ll have to tell Lark in my own time, and officially—”

“—Of course.”

“But go ahead and hang your pictures on the office walls,” she continued. “And enjoy the