Balance of Power

    "For a trauma surgeon, these difficulties are enhanced by the jagged edges of the bullet, which can cut the surgeon's tendons and end his or her career. As it did to one of our residents."

    The flatness of her tone, Sarah realized, made her answer seem more lethal. In response, Nolan, too, became expressionless. "Could you," he asked evenly, "describe Marie Bowden's injuries?"

    For the first time, Hines seemed drawn into a very specific memory. "The patient," she said at length, "had a wound to her lower abdomen. On opening the cavity I encountered a grape-sized hematoma—a collection of blood. It immediately burst, complicating our efforts to remove the bullet and locate the wound." Hines paused and then continued with the same dispassion. "The wound, when I found it, was severe. An ordinary bullet would create a hole. This bullet shredded the vena cava."

    Nolan cocked his head. "Describe what you mean by 'shredded.' "

    "Torn apart," Hines answered tersely. "On impact, the point of the Eagle's Claw becomes six razor edges. They ripped apart the vein in three different places. The ends of each wound were ratty."

    The description seemed to give Nolan pause. "As a surgeon, what was your response?"

    "Limited. The patient's blood pressure was crashing, her temperature was falling quickly and her blood had lost the capacity to clot." Once more Hines's pause came in mid-answer. "I determined to pack the wound and close her up as best I could. The hope was to raise her temperature, stabilize her, and operate in twenty-four hours. There wasn't time."

    In Sarah's mind, this clipped account conveyed a purposeful frenzy, swift improvisation, and almost superhuman self-control. But Nolan seemed not to hear it. "Why didn't you attempt to repair the wound?"

    At once, Hines refocused on the man in front of her. "Because," Hines answered succinctly, "she was dying.

    "With an ordinary bullet wound, I could have operated right away. An adult would have had a ninety percent chance of surviving, and a six-year-old girl more than half. But the Eagle's Claw had functioned as intended."

    The final sentence—with its intimation of Callie Hines's true feelings—caused Nolan to sit upright. "Do you have a personal antipathy toward Lexington Arms?"

    For the first time there was no pause. "I'm a doctor," Hines answered in even tones. "I described the cause of death exactly as it occurred. Therefore—as a doctor—I consider your client an accessory to murder. There's nothing personal about that."

    Nolan stared at her. "It's nearly ten o'clock," he said at last. "Let's take a fifteen-minute break." Only then did Hines, standing, favor Sarah with a glance, the hint of a bitter, complicit smile in her deep brown eyes.

NINE

After a quick stop at a fund-raiser for Paul Harshman, Senator Cassie Rollins of Maine dined at the Cosmos Club with her predecessor, Warren Colby.

    In a blue pin-striped suit, wing-collared shirt, and his trademark gold cuff links, Colby—as always—looked fit, trim and impeccably tailored, and his clear blue eyes and still-black hair lent him an aura of youth. At once suave, principled, and unusually literate, Colby was a particularly urbane model of the Washington insider, whose reputation for integrity and balanced judgment had led to his appointment, though a Republican, as Attorney General under the prior Democratic administration. This selfless record of service, Colby had wryly observed, might help him achieve his ultimate ambition—Commissioner of Baseball. In the meanwhile, he had to content himself with frequent mention as a possible Supreme Court justice; the income of a named partner in a prestigious Washington law firm; and a second marriage to a beautiful and savvy woman who ran the city's premier public relations group. His life, as he remarked to Cassie, was truly a bitter pill.

    Their dinner, a monthly ritual, had begun when Cassie had become a senator. Before that, she had been an aide in Colby's office, then his Chief of Staff. Blonde and freckled, with an open face and a wholesome outdoorsy appeal, Cassie had proven a quick learner. When Colby had determined not to seek reelection, Cassie, with his support, had literally started running: a former tennis star and marathoner, she had campaigned by jogging from town to town, crisscrossing the state, until she had run through every county. Though victorious, her margin had been thin. Since then, she had walked a fine line between the moderation of Maine voters and the demands of the Senate leadership, far more conservative, and now she faced the next election with apprehension.

    It was after dinner, as Colby swirled Courvoisier in a snifter, that he broached what proved to be his own concern. "You have a secret admirer," he said.

    "And who might that be?"

    "Chuck Hampton. We had a meeting the other day, regarding the

government of Lithuania's heady aspirations to join NATO. Afterward, he mentioned you with fondness." Skipping a beat, Colby added dryly, "And worry."

    Cassie smiled. "Over guns?"