Dave had parked his van in the medical center parking lot.
He had reclined the seat back a few degrees so that he could watch the lot and also see Dr. Perkins’s second-floor office. At 4 p.m. on the nose Perkins left the building, got into his car, and drove away.
The open bottle of wine rested between Dave’s thighs. He lifted it, took a couple of pills along with some fine Channing Cabernet, and waited for his pulse to slow.
Then he made a phone call to the doctor’s office.
He recognized her voice.
“Nurse…Atkins?”
“Yes. To whom am I speaking?”
“Uh. It’s Dave. Channing.”
“What do you want, jackass?”
His words were coming slowly. He took long breaths and exhaled deeply. He said, “I came to, uh, bring something for, uh, the doctor.”
“He just left,” she snapped. “Don’t call here again.”
Before she hung up, Dave shouted, “Wait! I brought something. An apology. And a check. For the damage…for what I did, uh, to his car.”
“Leave it in the lab pickup box downstairs. I’m hanging up now.”
Again Dave yelled, “Wait.”
“I have things to do, Dave. You should have your lawyer send the check to the doctor, but I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to show remorse so that the judge doesn’t put your sorry ass away for the full three years—”
“That’s not…it. Listen.”
“Make it quick.”
“I took pills. I don’t…have much…time. I wrote…an apology to you, too. And I brought you…a gift. My mother painted a…a small oil. Could be worth…more than…twenty…thousand. My way of saying…I’m sorry.”
“What kind of pills did you take?”
Dave’s laugh was a croak.
“I took ’em all. Sleep. Heart. BP…”
“Digoxin?”
“Yeah. If he had it, I took it. I barfed some. But he had spares. I’m drinking…Dad’s best wine.”
“How much of the digoxin?”
“I wasn’t, uh, counting.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’m…passing…out.”
“Where are you?” Atkins asked.
“Out…side. The van. Channing Winery…”
Blinds were cracked open on the second floor. Then Atkins hung up the phone.
Dave watched the lights in Perkins’s office go out. He took his phone out of his hip pocket and placed it on the dash. He took another swig of the wine he’d helped grow and bottle.
Then he laid his head back. Waiting. Waiting.