Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls by James Patterson Page B
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: FIC031000
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nature, but the evening
was warm and pleasant, so she stopped to window-shop for a change.
The college-town crowd was familiar, friendly, and very comfortable. She loved her life here, first as a medical student and
now as an intern. She never wanted to leave Chapel Hill, never wanted to go back and be a doctor in West Virginia.
But she would go. It was her promise to her mother—just before Beadsie McTiernan died. Kate had given her word, and her word
was good. She was old-fashioned about things like that. A small-town mensch.
Kate’s hands were thrust into the deep pockets of a slightly wrinkled hospital medical jacket. She thought that her hands
were her bad feature. They were gnarled, and she had no fingernails to speak of. There were two reasons for that: her job
as slave labor at the cancer ward and her avocation as a second-degree black belt, a Nidan. It was the one tension releaser
she allowed herself; karate class was her R & R.
The name pin on the upper left pocket of her jacket said
K. McTiernan, M.D.
She liked the tiny irreverence of wearing that symbol of status and prestige with her baggy pants and the sneakers. She didn’t
want to seem like a rebel, and she really wasn’t, but she needed to keep some small individuality inside the large hospital
community.
Kate had just picked up a paperback copy of Cormac McCarthy’s
All the Pretty Horses
at the Intimate Book Shop. First-year interns weren’t supposed to have time to read novels, but she made time. At least she
promised to make time tonight.
The late April night was so fine, so perfect in every way, that Kate considered stopping off at Spanky’s on the corner of
Columbia and Franklin. She might sit at the bar and just read her book.
There was absolutely no way she would let herself meet somebody on a “school night” —which meant most nights for her. She
usually had Saturdays off, but by then she was too bushed to deal with pre- and post-mating rituals.
It had been that way ever since she and Peter McGrath had severed their on-again, off-again relationship. Peter was thirty-eight,
a doctor of history and close to brilliant. He was handsome as sin and way too self-absorbed for her taste. The breakup had
been messier than she had expected. They weren’t even friends now.
It had been four months without Peter now. Pun intended. Not good, but not in the top ten worst things she’d had to deal with.
And besides, she knew the breakup was really her fault and not Peter’s. Breaking up with lovers was a problem she had; it
was part of her secret past. Secret present? Secret future?
Kate McTiernan raised her wristwatch to her face. It was a funky Mickey Mouse model that her sister Carole Anne had given
her, and it was a swell little timekeeper. It was also a reminder to herself: Never get a big head because you’re a DOCTOR
now.
Damn!
Her farsightedness was getting worse—at
almost
thirty-one years old! She was an old lady. She’d been the grandam of the University of North Carolina Medical School. It
was already nine-thirty, past her bedtime.
Kate decided to pass on Spanky’s and head back to the hacienda. She’d heat up some fourth-degree chili, and maybe have hot
chocolate with about an inch topping of Marshmallow Fluff. Curling up in bed with some junk food, Cormac McCarthy, and maybe
R.E.M. didn’t sound half bad, actually.
Like many of the students at Chapel Hill—as opposed to the wealthier crowd up Tobacco Road at “Dook” —Kate had a major cash-flow
problem. She lived in a three-room apartment that was the top floor of a frame house, a North Carolina “country” house. All
the paint was peeling, and the house looked as if it were molting. It was at the ass-end of Pittsboro Street in Chapel Hill.
She had gotten a good deal on the rent.
The first thing she had noticed about the neighborhood were the exquisite trees. They were old and stately hardwoods, not
pines. Their long
was warm and pleasant, so she stopped to window-shop for a change.
The college-town crowd was familiar, friendly, and very comfortable. She loved her life here, first as a medical student and
now as an intern. She never wanted to leave Chapel Hill, never wanted to go back and be a doctor in West Virginia.
But she would go. It was her promise to her mother—just before Beadsie McTiernan died. Kate had given her word, and her word
was good. She was old-fashioned about things like that. A small-town mensch.
Kate’s hands were thrust into the deep pockets of a slightly wrinkled hospital medical jacket. She thought that her hands
were her bad feature. They were gnarled, and she had no fingernails to speak of. There were two reasons for that: her job
as slave labor at the cancer ward and her avocation as a second-degree black belt, a Nidan. It was the one tension releaser
she allowed herself; karate class was her R & R.
The name pin on the upper left pocket of her jacket said
K. McTiernan, M.D.
She liked the tiny irreverence of wearing that symbol of status and prestige with her baggy pants and the sneakers. She didn’t
want to seem like a rebel, and she really wasn’t, but she needed to keep some small individuality inside the large hospital
community.
Kate had just picked up a paperback copy of Cormac McCarthy’s
All the Pretty Horses
at the Intimate Book Shop. First-year interns weren’t supposed to have time to read novels, but she made time. At least she
promised to make time tonight.
The late April night was so fine, so perfect in every way, that Kate considered stopping off at Spanky’s on the corner of
Columbia and Franklin. She might sit at the bar and just read her book.
There was absolutely no way she would let herself meet somebody on a “school night” —which meant most nights for her. She
usually had Saturdays off, but by then she was too bushed to deal with pre- and post-mating rituals.
It had been that way ever since she and Peter McGrath had severed their on-again, off-again relationship. Peter was thirty-eight,
a doctor of history and close to brilliant. He was handsome as sin and way too self-absorbed for her taste. The breakup had
been messier than she had expected. They weren’t even friends now.
It had been four months without Peter now. Pun intended. Not good, but not in the top ten worst things she’d had to deal with.
And besides, she knew the breakup was really her fault and not Peter’s. Breaking up with lovers was a problem she had; it
was part of her secret past. Secret present? Secret future?
Kate McTiernan raised her wristwatch to her face. It was a funky Mickey Mouse model that her sister Carole Anne had given
her, and it was a swell little timekeeper. It was also a reminder to herself: Never get a big head because you’re a DOCTOR
now.
Damn!
Her farsightedness was getting worse—at
almost
thirty-one years old! She was an old lady. She’d been the grandam of the University of North Carolina Medical School. It
was already nine-thirty, past her bedtime.
Kate decided to pass on Spanky’s and head back to the hacienda. She’d heat up some fourth-degree chili, and maybe have hot
chocolate with about an inch topping of Marshmallow Fluff. Curling up in bed with some junk food, Cormac McCarthy, and maybe
R.E.M. didn’t sound half bad, actually.
Like many of the students at Chapel Hill—as opposed to the wealthier crowd up Tobacco Road at “Dook” —Kate had a major cash-flow
problem. She lived in a three-room apartment that was the top floor of a frame house, a North Carolina “country” house. All
the paint was peeling, and the house looked as if it were molting. It was at the ass-end of Pittsboro Street in Chapel Hill.
She had gotten a good deal on the rent.
The first thing she had noticed about the neighborhood were the exquisite trees. They were old and stately hardwoods, not
pines. Their long
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