The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Page B

imprecise, nothing like Kim had taught him. Without protection, his feet and knuckles soon became a raspberry red and began to ache, but he kept at it, feeling the release. His breathing became strained, and his arms and legs felt leaden. Springsteen gave way to Bono and the Irish band U2. Bono sang about streets with no names. The guitars pulsed; the drums pounded. Bono shouted about wanting to run and hide and tear down walls.
    Peter ducked and dipped, weaving from side to side, continuing the onslaught, rising to land another punch or kick. The heavy bag spun until his arms and legs weakened to the point that his punches slowed and lost force, becoming long, looping swings. His chest heaved, and he exhaled raspy gasps of air until finally, unable to continue, he draped his hands around the bag, clutching it for support. Beads of sweat trailed down his neck and chest.
    Kim turned off the cassette player. “Peter?”
    Until then, he hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. Didn’t know she was there. He let go of the bag and stumbled backward against the unfinished concrete wall.
    “Peter, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
    “He’s back.”
    He never referred to his father by name. He didn’t have to. Kim knew the history of abuse, and she knew his father had died in an accident in their home. She didn’t know the circumstances. He’d never told her. He’d never told anyone, except Mike Harris.
    Kim cupped his face in her hands and gently turned it, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Your father can’t hurt you anymore, Peter. He’s gone.”
    “No,” he said. “He’s not gone, just buried.”

Chapter 10
    December 24, 1987
    Dimmed lights cast a pallid glow down the sterile hall. Nurses sitting behind counters adorned with Christmas lights reviewed charts, starting their morning shifts. One ate cereal from a plastic bowl. Christmas Eve, but not here. Here, it was just another morning, a place that did not know weekends or stop for holidays. Donley walked down the sparkling linoleum, past gurneys, linen bags, and carts with teetering stacks of empty dinner trays. He stepped into Lou’s private room in the cardiac-care ward. Most of the tubing that had pierced Lou’s body in the intensive-care unit had been removed, along with the tube down his throat. The room had much less the feel of impending death.
    The same doctor who had confronted Donley in the intensive-care ward walked through the door and startled at the sight of him. “This is getting to be a bad habit,” she said. At 5:00 a.m., visiting hours didn’t begin for another three hours.
    “I just needed a few minutes. I won’t disturb him.”
    They moved to the doorway.
    “They took the tube out of his throat,” he said.
    “He’s breathing on his own. He’s made remarkable progress,” the doctor said, but cautioned that she could not quantify the damage or determine whether any of Lou’s paralysis would be permanent until he was strong enough to undergo a series of tests, probably within a few days. They had, however, established that the stroke had not impaired Lou’s vocal chords.
    “When we removed the tube from his throat, he said, ‘Goddamn thing was choking me to death.’”
    Donley laughed. “That sounds like Lou.”
    In a very short time, Lou had charmed them all. “He’s becoming a favorite here among the nurses. I get the impression your uncle is excitable?”
    “That’s an understatement.”
    “I think he pretty much willed himself through this one. Then again, it’s likely he caused it by his diet and the work hours his wife says he keeps.”
    Donley nodded. “It comes with the job.”
    The doctor lowered the clipboard, looking at Lou. “Probably not anymore, I’m afraid.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’ll have to consider retirement.”
    “That’s not going to happen.”
    She fixed her gaze on Donley. “Even if he could go back to work, I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said, looking grim. “This