oOo

Less than five minutes afterward, they were on their way, the detective expertly threading the car through the dense New York City traffic. Harrington, who was either fairly perceptive or just of a generally taciturn nature, didn't speak at all during the drive, leaving Paul to his thoughts.

They had been driving for a good ten minutes when Paul spoke: "Can you tell me what happened? How did my wife get shot?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. She was found inside a flat in downtown Manhattan by the owner of the flat, a Mrs Beverly Kingston. Is she a friend of your wife's?"

"Yes, although they haven't seen each other for years." Paul was silent for a moment. "Didn't Mrs Kingston tell you?"

"That's what's a bit odd. There was some confusion when the officers first arrived on the scene. Mrs Kingston initially identified your wife as Louise Harvey. It was only later that we found her papers and were able to properly identify her. That was why it took us so long to notify you."

"Louisa Harvey is my wife's given name, but she changed it before we met" Temple explained "She must still have been using it when she was friends with Beverly Kingston," he added, the last remark address more to himself than to the detective.

"Didn't anyone see who shot her?" Paul asked suddenly, his mind toying with one scenario after the other, discarding each one as it didn't make at least sense.

"Unfortunately, we haven't been able to find any witnesses so far. I's early days yet, Mr Temple. To be honest, though, I don't think there were any witnesses."

"Why not?"

"Well, from what we can tell at the moment, the shooter was most likely positioned on the roof of the building across the street."

"A sharpshooter?" Paul asked, incredulous. The more he learned, the less sense it all made. If there had been a sharpshooter, it hadn't just been a random act of violence. Someone had been lying in wait. But this didn't matter now. What mattered was whether Steve was going to be all right. Finding out who was too blame could wait, Paul told himself.

"That's what it looks like at the moment," Harrington answered Paul's rather rhetorical question. "That's the front entrance coming up right there," the detective pointed out as he slowed the car. "Is it all right if I drop you off here, Mr Temple?"

"Of course, detective. Thank you for the ride," Paul said sincerely. As soon as the car stopped, he got out.

oOo

Upon inquiry, Paul had been directed to a waiting area furnished with hard, uncomfortable-looking chairs. On a small table lay a pile of well-read, but largely outdated magazines. Paul reluctantly took a seat. Both physically and mentally, he felt to need to act, to do something, anything to fix this. It went against his nature to just sit quietly and await developments, not when the stakes were this high. He was used to being in control. Maybe his occupation as a novelist had fostered that trait in him, or maybe it was just part of his character make up. Even when he was on a case, he had always managed to retain at least some control over the events. Enough to keep Steve and himself reasonably save. Until now that was. Seeking refuge from the tormenting feelings of anxiety and helplessness, his mind turned back to what little he knew of the events that had brought him here. He was carefully examining every piece of information he had gathered from Detective Harrington, turning them over in his mind, when he spotted a man in a white coat – a doctor presumably – emerge from a door at the end of the hallway.

"Mr Paul Temple?" the man who looked younger, almost too young to be a doctor, now that Paul saw him up close, asked.

"Yes, I'm Paul Temple," he confirmed, while struggling hard to keep his voice from trembling.

"I'm Dr. Daystrom." The two men shook hands. "Why don't we go into my office?" he suggested.

Paul followed Dr. Daystrom into the room where the younger man had just come from.

"Please, take a seat. Mr Temple." The doctor indicated a chair opposite a large oak desk before sitting down behind it.

"Please, doctor, tell me, how is my wife? Is she alive?" Paul could bear the tension no longer.

"Yes, Mr Temple, your wife is alive, but I'm afraid her condition is extremely serious. She's suffered a penetrating gunshot wound to the head. We don't know how much damage was done exactly, but in view of the fact that the bullet exited on the other side, we have to assume that it is extensive."

"What are her chances?" Paul asked. He needed to know where he stood, if he could allow himself to hope. Because if he did and Steve should die anyways, he wasn't sure how he'd pick up the pieces.

"I don't want to give you any false hopes, Mr Temple. To be frank, I'm surprised she has lasted this long in view of the severity of her head injury. It's unlikely that she'll ever regain consciousness."

All the questions Paul might have had fled from his mind at the physician's words.

"Can I see her?" he finally managed, his throat having gone dry.

"Well, given the circumstances, I believe that can be arranged," the young doctor agreed sympathetically. "I'll take you to see her now."

oOo

Paul had to bite back a gasp when he first caught sight of Steve. He doubted he would even have recognized her at a casual glance. Most of her head was swathed in bandages. Her skin was pale to the point of appearing nearly translucent against the sheets, except where at the edges of the gauze, dark bruises stood in stark contrast to her pallor.

He nodded gratefully to the nurse who brought him a chair, not trusting himself to speak. He sank down in the chair, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. A few moments later, he tentatively reached out to take her left hand in both of his.

"Oh Steve..." he murmured.

The next few hours passed in a daze for Paul as he sat by Steve's bedside, sometimes talking softly to her, but most of the time just sitting in silence. The only times he ever left her side was when the medical staff requested he do so.

He'd lost all track of time. It was only when Dr. Daystrom informed him that Detective Harrington was wanting to speak to him and Paul reluctantly left the ward to speak to the NYPD man that he noticed that night had fallen.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at time like this, Mr Temple, but the earlier we get going in a case like this, the better," Harrington began apologetically.

"It's all right, I understand," Paul replied with automatic politeness. "What is it that you need to know?"

"I understand that you arrived here in New York City three days ago from Southampton,"

"Yes, that's correct," Paul tried and failed to keep the impatience out of his voice entirely. He knew that such questions, however routine were necessary, but right now, he couldn't have cared less about the investigation. If Steve really was dying, then he needed to be with her, not out here answering routine questions.

"Listen, detective, I appreciate that you are just doing your job, but I honestly don't know anything. If I did, I would tell you."

"All the same, you might know more than you realize. Even the smallest detail can be valuable," Harrington persisted.

Paul was too weary to argue further. The sooner he answered the man's questions, the sooner he'd be done.

"As far as you know, did your wife know a woman named Winifred Morris?"

Paul shook his head. "No, not as far as I'm aware."

"Miss Morris was found dead in the same room where you're wife was found shot. It appears that she died around the same time your wife was shot. She too had been shot in the head."

Too tired and worn to contemplate the implications of that statement right now, Paul docketed the fact in his mind, storing it to be examined at a later time.

"Are you sure you haven't heard the name before?" Harrington broke in on Paul's thoughts.

"No, I don't think so," Paul shrugged.

"One more question, Mr Temple," Harrington went on. "Who knew that your wife was going to call upon Beverly Kingston?"

"Well, she mentioned her intention to me at breakfast, but I don't think anyone else knew. We don't really know many people here in New York City."

"But you do know some people?" Harrington asked sharply.

"Yes, but..." Paul began, but Harrington cut him off. "Do you think you could write down a list of their names for me?" the detective demanded.

With a suppressed sign, Paul gave in. Part of him knew that the man was only doing his job, but for the rest of him, it was very hard to care about anything except Steve right now.

Paul quickly scribbled down the names of his New York acquaintances on a piece of paper that Harrington had given him.

"Here, that should be everyone." Paul handed Harrington the list.

"If you will excuse me now. I need to get back to my wife," Paul said curtly and bade the detective good-bye.

oOo

In view of Steve's condition, Dr. Daystrom had given orders that Paul be allowed to stay even though visiting hours were long over. He stayed at Steve's side throughout the night, talking to softly to her for hours. He didn't recall falling asleep, but suddenly, he jerked awake, startled by the arrival of a nurse. He stared at her for a moment, then his eyes flew back to the bed. Steve was still lying exactly as she had before, only her chest moving up and down slowly with the rhythm of her breathing. Slightly reassured, he glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after six.

"If you would please step outside for a moment, sir," the nurse requested.

Paul acquiesced and went out into the hallway. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but it couldn't have been very long, as he was still extremely tired. Not to mention he was also aching all over from having spent the night in a chair. For the first time since receiving the bad news, his mind turned to the practical matters that he'd inevitably have the deal with. He'd have the cancel the remainder of his lecture tour. Doing so would involve more than a few phone calls. He loathed to leave Steve, but considering that they had been scheduled to depart New York City this afternoon, there was no putting it off. He hadn't looked in a mirror lately, but he also suspected that he could do with a shower, a shave and a fresh change of clothes.

"Is Dr. Daystrom in yet?" Paul asked the nurse when she emerged from the ward.

"Yes, sir, he just got in. I can see if he's available to speak to you," she answered.

"Yes, please."

The nurse disappeared down the hallway. Paul didn't have to wait long. Less than two minutes after his conversation with the nurse, Dr. Daystrom came up to meet him.

"Good morning, Mr. Temple," he greeted him amicably.

"Tell me doctor, how is Steve doing?" Paul asked, not wasting time on pleasantries. He dared not hope that somehow the grim outlook of the previous day had changed. The words still rang in his ears as if the earlier conversation had taken place only moments ago.

"There is still significant cause for concern, but she appears to have stabilized. What we have to watch out for now is infection. That's the biggest danger at the moment. As for her chances at recovery, I'd hate to speculate. It may be that the injury wasn't quite as severe as we first thought, but even so, it doesn't look very good."

"Is there no way to tell?" Paul considered himself a well read and educated man, even without the expansive research he had done for his work over the span of his career so far. Medicine however was not a field he knew much about and he had no choice but to trust the professional's assessment.

"Not unless she regains consciousness, but I have to tell you that that's not likely to happen."

It broke Paul's heart to hear that, but he hadn't really expected anything else.

Paul nodded. "Listen, Dr. Daystrom, I need to take care of a few matters. It shouldn't take me much longer than an hour or two, but could you please let me know if Steve's condition changes at all? I'll be at the Laurent Hotel here in town."

"Of course, Mr Temple. I'd suggest you get a few hours' sleep and something to eat as well."

"But..." Paul started to protest. It felt wrong to leave Steve when she was at her most vulnerable. It was true that, strictly speaking, Paul couldn't do anything to help her, but he still hoped that at least on some level, Steve was aware of his presence.

"I doubt it will do your wife any good if you run yourself into the ground."

"I suppose you're right," Paul agreed reluctantly. Not only wouldn't it help Steve a bit, but it was also certainly not would she would want him to do.

"I promise I'll telephone you should there be any change," Daystrom added.

"All right, I'll be back sometime this afternoon, I hope." Paul said and bade the doctor good-bye.

oOo

The cab he caught outside the hospital's main entrance got stuck in the morning traffic, causing his journey back to the hotel to take nearly twice as long as it normally would have taken. When he finally arrived and went to collect his room key, he was surprised to hear the porter inform him that three messages had accumulated while he was gone. He collected the slips of paper from the porter and also picked up a letter that had arrived for him the previous evening.

Once in his room, he took off his hat and coat, tossing both carelessly onto the bed before sitting down in one of the chairs. The room, though impersonal and generic, felt strangely empty without Steve. Everywhere there were little signs of her having inhabited the room that he hadn't even noticed before, but which now painfully tugged at his heart. Determined to distract himself, he checked the messages he'd received. The first was from Dr. Wood, the lecturer with whom he had been scheduled to have lunch after his lecture at the university. Dr. Wood, obviously having heard what had happened, expressed his sympathies and asked Paul to call him if he needed anything. The second message was from Beverly Kingston, simply asking Paul to call if he got the chance. The third was from Detective Harrington, also asking him to call back. Paul dropped the notes onto the small table in the room to be dealt with later and examined the letter more closely. The envelope, made of good quality paper, bore no sender's name or address. Paul reached for the letter opener.

The letter contained a single sheet of typewritten text. It ran thus:

Dear Mr Temple,

Please allow me to express my sympathies for what happened to Mrs Temple. It really was a most regrettable incident and believe me when I say I am sincerely sorry. Your wife was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. She did not deserve this. She was the only one who did the right thing. But do consider yourself warned Mr Temple. I know who you are and I will not tolerate you or anyone else meddling with my affairs.

Sincerely yours,

Xavier

Paul read the letter twice. He didn't know anyone named Xavier and the contents of the letter didn't make much sense to him either. It was possible, he supposed that Steve had indeed been at the wrong place at the wrong time. But why had he been sent this letter in this first place? He had come up against his fare share of killers, but had never encountered one who had shown even the capacity to feel remorse. It didn't make sense. And what did that mean: 'she was the only one who did the right thing'? That sounded like the writer of the letter knew Steve personally. Maybe that was why he had shot her, to prevent her from recognizing him? And then there was the warning, directed at him. It was possible that the writer might be someone Paul and Steve knew or had at least crossed paths with at some point.

Paul felt like he was going in circles. His head was far to overburdened to make sense out of this whole affair. He briefly considered trying to get some sleep, but decided to have a shower instead. Maybe that would help clear his head.

Paul indeed felt suitably refreshed after he'd showered and shaved. Wrapped in his dressing gown, he returned to the chair and placed the first of a number of telephone calls to Dr. Wood. Wood, who had helped Paul organized the particulars of his lecture tour to the East Coast was only too happy to offer his help in canceling it. He once again expressed his sympathies for what had happened to Steve and the rang off. Glad to have the matter out of the way, Paul turned his attention to the next message left for him. He wasn't sure what Beverly Kingston might want to speak to him for, but it would be rude to ignore her request, so Paul requested a call to be put through to the number she had left.

"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.

"Is this Mrs Kingston? It's Paul Temple speaking," he said.

"Oh, Mr Temple. I'm so glad that you've called. I can't tell you who sorry I am about what happened to your wife," Beverly Kingston sounded almost breathless.

"Thank you. What did you want to speak to me about?" Paul asked, not in the mood to waste his time on social niceties.

"Well..." she hesitated. "I was wondering if we could meet sometime. There is something I want to show you."

"Show me?" Paul echoed.

"Yes, Mr Temple. Please believe me when I say that it's important," she sounded pleading, bordering on desperate.

"All right, would this afternoon be all right?"

"Yes, that would be great. Shall we say in an hour?" Beverly Kingston sounded much relieved.

"I'm at home," she said and gave him her address.

"Yes, I'll see you in an about hour," Paul replied and rang off. What could Beverly Kingston possibly want to show him, Paul wondered. He didn't even know the woman. If she knew something about the shooting, why didn't she simply tell the police? Detective Harrington might not be the most imaginative of investigators, but Paul had no reason to think that he wasn't a thorough and dedicated detective.

One hour didn't leave him with much time, especially since he still had to get dressed. He had just enough time to give Detective Harrington a ring and see what he wanted. The call was quickly put through and second later, Paul was on the line with Detective Harrington.

"It's good of you to call, Mr Temple," Harrington said after they had exchanged greetings. "I would like to have another talk with you."

"Oh?" Paul queried, suddenly wondering for the first time if it was possible that the NYPD man suspected him.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr Temple, rest assured," Harrington said as if having read Paul's mind.

"I contacted Scotland Yard and Assistant Commissioner Graham Forbes vouched for you. Still, I'd like another word with you."

"As it so happens, there is something I'd like to show you," Paul said, thinking of the mysterious latter, signed Xavier. Before Harrington could answer, he went on: "I've got another call to make first, but I should be free around 11 o'clock this morning. Would that be convenient for you?"

"Yes, that's fine. I'll see you at 11 a.m. At the Laurent Hotel then," Harrington confirmed and rang off.

Paul leaned back in his chair. Normally, he wouldn't hesitate the get involved in a case when it interested him, but this time, it was different. Steve had been seriously injured, perhaps even fatally and while part of him wanted to find the person or persons responsible and bring them to justice, another part of him hesitated, feeling like he should be at Steve's side and not gallivanting about the city and the track of some mysterious letter writer. If, god forbid, Steve should die, he knew he would stop at nothing to bring her killer to justice, even if it was the last thing he ever did. But if she lived, if there was even a chance at recovery for her, she needed him to be there for her more than ever. But there was no time to ponder that matter further now. He had an appointment with Beverly Kingston and he was already running late. In any case, it wouldn't hurt to hear what she had to say.

TBC