The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  “Doesn’t look like a hospital,” he said. “At least not like a hospital I’ve ever seen before.”

  “It’s not.” Donovan flipped the cover on his computer. “It’s a premium healthcare facility.”

  Wilson took his foot off the gas. “Isn’t that just a fancy name for a hospital?”

  Donovan nodded at the building. “But look at it, if you called that a hospital you’d have to rename every hospital in Maine to... I don’t know, to Factory for the Unwell. Look at it.”

  And that’s exactly what Wilson was doing. He turned off the road, driving slowly until they reached an eight-foot wrought iron gate. He stopped the car beside the pedestal-intercom and pressed the only button available. It buzzed.

  He turned to Donovan. “They’re expecting us, right?”

  “They’re expecting Mr Wilson and Mr Fisher of Wilson, Fisher and Donovan.” Donovan straightened his tie. “You’re Mr Fisher.”

  “What?” Wilson asked. “Why am I Fisher? Why can’t I just be Wilson?”

  “Because I’m Mr Wilson.”

  “John, don’t be ridiculous. I’m Wilson.”

  “Don’t you want to pretend to be someone else? Carlton Fisher is a very capable attorney. He’s just...”

  Wilson held his hand up. “Just shut up, I’m...”

  “Good morning, Kennebec Health Consultancy. Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was crystal clear through the intercom.

  He leaned out of the window, closer to the speaker. “Good morning, I believe we have an appointment? Mr Wilson and Mr Donovan of Wilson, Fisher and Donovan.”

  There was a brief pause and then the gates started to swing inward.

  “Park in bay number two please.”

  Wilson was about to answer, to say thank you, but the intercom had already gone silent.

  “Are they really going to buy this?” he asked, easing the car forward. He waited just long enough for the gates to open before driving through.

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Maybe because we’re not attorneys and know nothing of the law?”

  The driveway was packed dirt but either side was grass; browning and patchy grass that looked impressive from a distance but didn’t stand close scrutiny.

  “Confidence,” said Donovan. “That’s what it’s all about.” He moved the rear-view mirror and ran a hand over his crew cut. “Maybe I should’ve worn a wig, like you.”

  “I’m not wearing a wig!” Wilson snapped.

  “Right. Just sound confident, speak with authority and we’ll be fine. Places like this don’t give a shit who you are, they just want to milk money out of desperation.”

  “What did you tell them on the phone?” asked Wilson.

  “I told them we needed to come and talk to them about Mrs Pace’s continuing care.”

  “Did you tell them Pace was dead?”

  “No,” Donovan replied.

  “Well, did they already know? Have the cops been?”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  They followed the driveway in a sweeping curve to the front of the facility. Windows stretched around the impressive side. It was huge, much larger than the front elevation would imply. Wilson parked in bay number two, which was identified by a gold plaque and the number embossed in black on it.

  Wilson whistled as he climbed out of the car. “Nice view,” he said.

  They stood beside the whitewashed colonnaded entrance and looked down the hill at the town. Hemlock Mill didn’t appear any less depressing from this angle but the vista was nonetheless spectacular. The Kennebec had become a black and oozing artery leaking across the landscape. Tributaries and diversions ran off in all directions along the valley, some man-made and some of the river’s choice.

  To the left of the town and the intersection, the tip of a red-brick chimney poked above the expanse of hemlock and pine. It was the first and only indication either of them had seen that a paper mill ever operated here.

  Wilson looked up at the mansion. It was three stories high, and on the upper two levels an impressive iron balcony stretched all the way around the building. Floor to ceiling windows opened onto each private section of that balcony, with shutters completing the picture. It couldn’t have had any more southern charm. It also could not have been more out of place.

  They both turned around and walked up the steps to the double doors.

  “You’ll need these,” Donovan said, handing over a stack of business cards.

  Wilson looked them over. His name was on the front followed by a string of letters he recognized as professional qualifications. The crest for their legal firm looked very impressive. He sometimes wondered if Donovan had taken a criminal lifestyle degree at Maine and not history.

  “After you, Mr Fisher,” Donovan whispered.

  Wilson turned on him but said nothing. He hoped the stare would be enough. He pushed through the doors into a magnificent foyer. The floor was a black and white checkerboard and from the ceiling hung a beautiful, ornate glass chandelier. Behind a desk on the other side, a great staircase swept upward to the next level. It was like walking into an upmarket hotel rather than a hospital. Or the set of a modern version of ‘Gone With The Wind’.

  Wilson paused only briefly to look about and then strode confidently toward the desk. A nurse smiled at him and then Donovan as they approached. “Mr Fisher and Mr Donovan?”

  Wilson shook his head and looked at Donovan. “I’m afraid Mr Fisher was called away, I’m Mr Wilson and this is my associate Mr Donovan.”

  She stood up. “It’s a shame Mr Fisher isn’t with you. I had a lovely chat with him yesterday.” She looked like a department store beauty consultant, with heavy make-up and scarlet lipstick.

  “He sends his regards,” said Donovan. “Nurse Jones.”

  She smiled. “Well, say hi from me.”

  “I most certainly will,” replied Donovan.

  She slid a ledger across the desk toward them. “Could you fill this out please and then I’ll show you through to Dr Hamilton. She’s expecting you.”

  Wilson entered their names onto the ledger and slid it back. Nurse Jones scanned it quickly and then walked around the desk.

  “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen.” She set off up the stairs, leaving Wilson and Donovan standing.

  Donovan nudged Wilson and pursed his lips. He made an hourglass shape in the air and pointed at Nurse Jones’s ass. Wilson had to concede her starched, white uniform fit her very well. He shook his head and followed her up the staircase.

  6

  Dr Louise Hamilton’s office was on the first floor at the rear of the building. On their way, they passed several open rooms. They appeared to be austere, featureless boxes and the smell of bleach wafted into the corridor from the mops and buckets wedged in the doorways.

  Wilson craned his neck to see all the way inside one of the rooms but the door was slammed shut before he could get a decent view. He saw the bottom third of a leg, its flesh the color of the leaden clouds. He winced involuntarily. The facility might not look like a hospital but the smell was the same; the facade a mystery but the purpose clear. Constant.

  “How many patients can you accommodate?” Wilson asked.

  “Guests, Mr Wilson.” Nurse Jones didn’t turn around to correct him. She guided them swiftly along the corridor. “They’re all our guests. At the moment we have twenty-four but we can comfortably take forty-eight. If need be.”

  “And how many doctors?” he asked.

  “One,” she replied and turned around a corner. She stopped abruptly. “Here we are,” she said and knocked on the door. The plaque read ‘Dr L. Hamilton’.

  “Come in!” a voice shouted from the other side.

  Nurse Jones opened the door and ushered them inside. “Don’t forget to say hey to Mr Fisher for me.”

  Donovan opened his mouth to reply but something in her expression made him close it right away. He straightened his tie instead. Wilson saw it too and he didn’t like it.
It crossed his mind that their ruse was up. He dismissed it. He couldn’t afford to be anything other than confident.

  “Dr Hamilton.” He swaggered into the room with his hand outstretched. He’d rather face Psycho Slater with a shotgun on his shoulder than try to bullshit his way through this, but Donovan was right. A man with a shotgun or an attractive doctor with the deepest blue eyes and most disarming smile, they were both the same when you came down to it. You just had to look them in the eye and let them know you understood what made them tick, what they were capable of.

  She took his hand and shook it. “Mr Wilson?”

  Wilson smiled. “And this is my associate Mr Donovan.”

  Over her shoulder, a large window revealed the leaden sky and not much else. The best view was reserved for the guests, clearly. Dr Hamilton was petite and the unfastened white coat she wore was a little too large for her frame. It made her look smaller than she actually was.

  She released Donovan’s hand and motioned for them to sit. Two chairs had been placed in front of her desk in readiness.

  “So,” she started, moving around her desk. “You’re from...” She traced a manicured but unpainted fingernail across a sheet of paper. The letter was Donovan’s work but it was the first time Wilson had seen it. He was impressed.

  “Wilson, Fisher and Donovan out of...?” She looked at them both waiting for an answer.

  “Boothbay Harbor,” Donovan blurted out. “We’re a relatively new company but our client list is expanding all of the time.” He slid his business card across the table. Wilson followed suit.

  She nodded, tapping the sheet of paper again. “And this letter, signed by Mr Pace two weeks ago, gives you permission to act on his behalf. He didn’t mention the change when I saw him ten days ago.” She shrugged, pushed the letter to one side. “But he was obviously a man who liked to change things if he felt they weren’t working.”

  “His mother’s care, you mean?” Wilson asked, pleased to have passed the identity tests. At least for now.

  “Yes, I got the impression he was about to move her again.”

  Wilson exchanged a quick glance with Donovan.

  Her face slid into a frown that didn’t suit her features. “I was sorry to hear of Mr Pace’s suicide,” she said.

  “You heard, then?” Wilson asked.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “His lawyers, I mean his other lawyers, contacted me. There’s a trust fund set aside for Frances Pace’s care and they wanted to discuss it.” She looked at them both in turn. “Is it usual practice for someone to instruct two sets of lawyers to act on their behalf?”

  “Crossover,” Donovan interrupted. “They still manage the fund, and will continue to do so until everything changes over to us. As you can imagine, our profession is adept at generating layer upon layer of bureaucratic nonsense through which we are obliged to sift. When two sets of attorneys are involved, there is double.”

  Wilson nodded. He needed to get out on the road with Donovan more often. The man was a fount of bullshit. Effective and convincing bullshit.

  Dr Hamilton sat down behind her desk and pushed the sheet of paper to one side. “And what can I do for you?” she asked, her blue eyes staring straight into Wilson. It felt like she was making it clear that she knew what he was capable of, not the other way around.

  That’s it, he thought? As easy as that? He swallowed and licked his lips. Shouldn’t he have a briefcase or something? Something he could open and pretend to look inside for a moment while he collected his thoughts.

  He returned her gaze. “Mr Pace requested we visit and ensure his mother’s care continues as per his previous instruction.”

  “His previous instruction?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wilson continued. “Nothing is to change.” He was unsure why he felt the need to add ma’am.

  “Everything to remain the same,” Donovan chipped in. Unnecessarily, in Wilson’s opinion. Although it did result in Dr Hamilton’s eyes diverting to Donovan for a second. It provided Wilson with a brief moment of relief.

  She nodded. “And, on his last visit, did we give Mr Pace the impression that his mother’s care would be altered, or compromised in any way?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am,” Wilson answered. “Not over and above his ongoing concerns for her health, of course.”

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. How old was she? It was difficult to say for sure. Traces of tiredness skimmed under her eyes; not obvious, but beside her startling eyes, noticeable. Somewhere between his age and Donovan’s would be his best guess.

  She stopped drumming her fingers. No wedding band, but with doctors Wilson suspected that might not be the sign it was for everyone.

  “I’m not entirely sure why you’re here then? If nothing is to change and Mr Pace has no concerns then why has he sent you? Unless instructed to do otherwise, we wouldn’t arbitrarily change anything.”

  Wilson looked at the framed certificates on the wall. He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that.

  “We’d like to see Mrs Pace,” Donovan said. “Out of courtesy, really. So we can meet her and she us.”

  “Are you aware of her condition, Mr Donovan? Mrs Pace is unaware of her surroundings, her position, her illness. She isn’t aware that her son is no longer with us.”

  “I have some knowledge, although my expertise is in legal matters rather than medical,” Donovan replied. “And as the letter states, Mr Pace wished us to meet his mother once matters had been handed to us. We’re acting on his instructions only.”

  Good answer, thought Wilson.

  Just as the doctor opened her mouth to reply, the door crashed open.

  “Dr Hamilton, please come quickly. Eight’s room.” The male owner of the voice was gone before Wilson or Donovan had managed to turn around. There was panic in the voice. Wilson thought that was strange given they were in a hospital, a form of hospital anyway. He’d never heard anyone use that tone in all his visits, whether for his mom or dad.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Dr Hamilton was up, moving quickly around the desk. “I have to go.”

  She pulled her white coat together and was out of the door before either of them could say anything.

  “What do you want to do?” He looked around Dr Hamilton’s office. “We could try and find some info.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Or we could follow her.” He was already leaning out of the door, watching Dr Hamilton running back along the corridor. “Come on.”

  *

  Dr Hamilton either hadn’t noticed they were following or didn’t care. Wilson suspected it was the former. In the short time he’d been with her he knew she cared, probably about a lot of things more than her profession demanded of her.

  She reached the staircase and swung left onto another wing. She turned right abruptly and disappeared into a room, one at the front of the building. A room with a view down to Hemlock Mill and the Kennebec River.

  As they reached the door a nurse ran past, nearly knocking them both over. She didn’t appear to notice them either.

  The door was open and Wilson read the plaque. “Frances Pace,” he whispered.

  They stood side by side, effectively blocking the door, and watched. Wilson felt his mouth drop open but was powerless to stop it.

  So to, it seemed, were the medical staff.

  Five staff members stood in an arc around the foot of the bed. All of them in pristine white uniforms. All of them wide-eyed and staring at the withered, skeletal figure thrashing violently on the bed.

  Arms, legs, head, whole body arcing into the air, off the mattress and then collapsing into the bed again. Pushing deeper and deeper into the crisp white sheets until the bed threatened the envelop her, embrace and suffocate her. It was a spasm, a convulsion of such strength and power it seemed impossible that a figure so utterly pathetic could possess that much vitality.

  It was distressing, but it was also frightening. Made worse by the lack of sound, either from her or from anyone else i
n the room. He stepped forward. He had no idea what he should do but simply watching her didn’t feel right.

  At the same time, Dr Hamilton stepped forward. “Don’t touch her!” she shouted. It wasn’t directed at Wilson. She didn’t seem aware he was there but nobody else had moved. He stopped where he was but the Doctor pushed aside a nurse and steadied an IV stand that was at risk of falling on Frances Pace.

  The line leading to her arm stretched taut as she jerked her hand across her body, and the cannula ripped free. Blood speared across the sheets and Dr Hamilton’s white coat.

  “Christ,” he heard Donovan whisper. But Dr Hamilton didn’t flinch, not even when Frances Pace waved a bloody hand in her direction, sending crimson droplets across her cheek.

  The pattern reminded Wilson of the pattern made by Richard Pace’s brains on the window of his Mercedes.

  Wilson realized he was holding his breath and it was only when he was forced to gasp that he knew how long he had been standing there. He felt a pressure on his temples as if someone were squeezing his head. A headache was on its way.

  Then she stopped moving. Frances Pace collapsed back onto the bed and lay perfectly still. Statuesque. Arms by her side, fingers no longer claws.

  For a count of two rapid heartbeats.

  And then her bloodied hand moved slowly upward, reaching into her mouth, retracting the tube that fed her; pulling it out of her body as a magician might pull a stream of ribbons from his pocket. There was a hideous gurgling sound and Frances’s gray eyes bulged in their sockets.

  “Take her hand!” Dr Hamilton shouted at one of the nurses. “Stop her!”

  Wilson watched Frances lift her left hand, the one closest to him. Nobody else saw it, they were looking at the nurse trying to stop Frances remove her feeding tube. But Wilson did and a moment later he saw what her fingers were searching for. Her fingernails were clipped but they found a corner of the dressing holding the tracheotomy tube in place and began pulling it away.