Lightning by John Lutz Page B

and the exposed back of his neck as he waited for an answer to his ring.
    There was a faint sound behind the door, then it was opened by an attractive woman in her late thirties with tousled blond hair, a square jaw, and inquisitive blue eyes. She possessed an elegant figure beneath a loose-fitting blue dress and had on white toeless shoes with built-up heels. The arch of her eyebrows was accentuated by eyebrow pencil darker than her hair, making her appear mildly surprised.
    Carver introduced himself and asked to see Dr. Benedict.
    “I’m Leona Benedict, the doctor’s wife,” the woman said in a voice that sounded more Boston than Del Moray. “Could you tell me what this is about?”
    “It’s about what happened at the clinic.”
    She looked wary as well as surprised. “The bombing, you mean?”
    “Yes. A woman who was injured in the explosion was carrying our child.”
    A fleeting expression of pity crossed Leona Benedict’s handsome face. A doctor’s good wife, she wanted to deflect Carver so he wouldn’t disturb her husband’s time away from the operating room, but there was no denying that Carver had a claim on that time.
    She smiled, not totally erasing the pity, and invited him inside.
    He was in a cool living room that seemed dim after outside. The view through the wide window was of the vast stretch of lawn and the street, his rust-spotted Olds convertible squatting at the curb like a last weary warrior from Detroit in the land of BMWs, Lexuses, and Volvos. Leona Benedict left him alone and disappeared down a wide hall in search of her husband.
    Carver turned his attention from outside to inside, appreciating the white leather sofa, soft beige carpeting and drapes, original oil paintings, and glass-shelved bookcases that contained an extensive collection of small pewter figurines. Expensive and tasteful. This was probably one of the better-furnished homes on Macon Avenue.
    A medium-height, dark-complexioned man with a barrel chest and thinning black hair entered the room. He was wearing a gray-and-white striped short-sleeved shirt open at the collar and navy blue pleated pants. His feet were almost bare in skimpy leather sandals. He said he was Dr. Benedict as he shook Carver’s hand. His soft, commiserating tone suggested that his wife had already explained Carver’s connection with Beth. He had bushy black eyebrows above dark eyes whose pupils moved quickly and seemed to see a lot. He wasn’t a handsome man but there was a heartiness and energy about him that women might find attractive. The doctor appeared to be about ten years older than his wife. Carver wondered if the expensive furnishings were for Leona Benedict, who might well object to the long and unpredictable hours of her physician husband.
    “I’m sorry about Miss Jackson,” Benedict said. “How is she?”
    Not “your wife.” The doctor was up on things.
    Carver told him Beth was doing very well but was still depressed over the loss of their child.
    “It will take time for her to assimilate that,” Benedict said in his soft, soothing voice. “If you help her, she’ll heal from the loss.” He smiled in a way that made Carver like him. “Perhaps someday there’ll be another pregnancy.”
    “The last one wasn’t deliberate,” Carver said.
    “I see. Most pregnancy’s aren’t, you know.” Again the smile. “That’s what keeps me in business.”
    “I understand you and Dr. Grimm alternated days at the clinic.”
    Benedict frowned at the mention of his dead partner’s name and nodded. “Yes, with only Sundays off. Of course, both of us were always on call.” He shrugged. “That’s the life of a doctor. Complications and special circumstances don’t follow the calendar.”
    “So it’s possible that Dr. Grimm was the bomber’s target.”
    “If either of us was,” Dr. Benedict said, “I suppose it was Harold. More likely it was a symbolic act and the bomber didn’t have a specific victim in mind.” He took a deep