Chapter 4: Eleven Minutes

Kurt walked out of the records room.

I stayed inside, pressed against the shelves, with my pants on and my heart in my throat.

Through the slit in the door I could see the back of his head and a slice of Pembrey's gold lanyard.

"Orson," said Kurt.

"Kurt. I wanted to catch you before the Tuesday meeting."

"You caught me."

"It's about culture," Pembrey said.

He had the voice of a man who had never once been in a hurry.

"I've noticed some after-hours traffic in the lower floors. The records room alone has had three badge swipes this week."

"It's the records room."

"At nine at night."

"Then you have a very industrious staff," Kurt said.

There was a pause.

"If you want my badge log, Orson, ask for it in writing," he said.

"If you want my opinion of your culture, ask me at the Tuesday meeting."

I put my hand over my mouth to cover a laugh.

"Of course," said Pembrey, pleasantly. "Have a good evening, Kurt."

His shoes squeaked away down the hall.

I waited a full minute, and then I opened the door.

Kurt was still standing there with his back to me, his hands in his pockets.

"Was that two sentences?" I whispered.

"That was one and a half."

He turned.

Under the fluorescent light he looked exactly as he always did, grave and steady and carved out of oak.

Only I could see the tiny vein beating at his temple.

"Go to work, Fairweather," he said.

"Yes, Chief."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I like it," he said, and walked away.

I ran into Pembrey at the elevator.

He was holding the door with one finger.

"Dr. Fairweather," he said. "How are you finding the fellowship?"

"Very busy, sir."

"Your ear is red."

"Dust allergy," I said. "Records room."

His smile didn't change.

"Do be careful," he said, and let the doors close between us.

That night the hospital turned into a war zone.

A tractor-trailer flipped on the parkway.

For four hours Kurt and I stood on opposite sides of a table, passing instruments across a man's open chest.