Turning into the drive, the cab pulled up alongside the cars parked at the curb. The rear door opened, and the passenger stepped out into the cold dusk.He did not seem to hurry, but he completed his turn toward the hospital stairs before the car door slammed shut behind him. The flight bag swung from the man’s hand as he mounted the stairs to the main entrance. The people he passed were huddled inside their overcoats. He was wearing lightweight slacks, a loose sports shirt, a windbreaker and shoes that resembled moccasins. He tucked the flight bag close as he reached the revolving doors.
The lobby was vast and clean and brightly lighted. The man crossed to the information counter. “Deborah Cohen,” he said.
Fingers brushed the Apple III keyboard. “Fourth floor.”
Bypassing the waiting crowd at the elevators, the visitor strode to the side door marked Stairs. Pushing it open, he started up the first flight, taking the steps two at a time. He moved easily, but his appearance was deceptive. What looked like shadows on the rugged face actually were hollows. The decades had carved creases around his eyes and thinned his arms and legs. The thinness could not be concealed by the cut of the sports shirt or the fall of the slacks. The man was breathing hard by the time he reached the fourth floor.
At the nurses’ station, he again inquired about Deborah Cohen. The timbre of his voice made it carry. In the nearby lounge, a teenage girl looked up from her paperback. She covertly...
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