by JA Schneider
Gary asked, “What if the amoxicillin doesn’t work?” And Ramu asked, “Can we get a preliminary reading from Bacteriology?”
David said, “I’ll be calling to check. The surgery was fourteen hours ago, there’ll probably already be some colony growth.”
He looked, and saw George Mackey there too, taking notes. “Hi George,” he said. Higher-up residents often joined intern rounds if a case was interesting.
“I heard, wanted to see this,” George said low. “Is this the same, uh-”
David motioned for him to stop. George shrugged sorry and went back to his notes. His scrubs as always looked slept in.
Jill’s cell phone vibrated. She nervously checked it; Administration had called her. David was answering Gary’s question about amoxicillin – she didn’t need that – so she punched to hear the message.
And caught her breath. Fast-wrote three words on her tablet, and showed them to David.
Rick Burrell called.
He blinked, finished talking to Gary, then moved closer to Mackey. “Hey, the rest are healthy, happy new moms. Would you take over rounds?”
“Sure. Happy to. Been a while.”
Casting last looks at Dara Walsh, her gaze still miserably averted, Jill and David went out to the hall.
Jill punched the number from Administration’s message. After a few rings Rick Burrell picked up.
“How…? What is going on?” He sounded shocked. “I found a call from the cops. Dara Walsh was attacked?”
“Yes.” Jill held the phone so David could hear. “And stabbed.”
Silence at the other end. Then, slowly, “Oh my God.”
“She’s stable, and the wound wasn’t deep. She’s lucky but despondent. Asked for you.”
“Me?”
“Right. Not her husband.” Jill fought to keep her voice even. David bent close to her.
At Burrell’s end someone yelled, and he excused himself. Muffled assurances, the yell became a whine, and he was back.
“They’ve been having problems,” he said. “Dara and Brian, I mean. I guess Dara thought I was nice. I mean, I listened…”
“Problems?”
“I was surprised she even told me. We were making posters at some meeting, she just started to cry, and this whole…thing came out.”
Jill’s silence prompted him.
“Patients are wandering around upstairs, I gotta get back,” Burrell said tensely. “But…well, Dara said she’d found out she was pregnant, and Brian didn’t believe it was his. They’d been trying for years, and he’d decided God willed them to be childless.”
Jill traded stunned looks with David.
“So…I was supportive,” Burrell went on. “It didn’t seem like she had anyone to talk to, and Brian’s got a wicked temper. I invited him once to bowl with my team. He was doing lousy and flew off at everybody. So…yeah, guess I became a shoulder to cry on. There were more meetings, and she called a few times.”
“Do you know where Brian might be now?”
“Wouldn’t want to know. Him, you can have.”
“It would cheer Dara if you’d visit. Plus she might remember something about the attack and tell you. She seems wary of us.”
He hesitated. “I work until six. Then I have bowling at seven, I can’t let my team down…”
“There’s been a terrible crime, Rick. And a depressed patient you can help. Please come.”
Even his silence sounded guilty. “Okay. I can work it out. What time after six is good?”
“You couldn’t come sooner? Try.”
“I will. If I can I’ll let you know.”
Jill thanked him and hung up. She gave David a shaky smile.
“Think Dara would like that medallion?” she asked. “I’ll tell Alex to turn it back on.”
She had to run and catch up with rounds, so David called Pappas again, got his voicemail, and then tried Brand.
He was at his desk. Low-voiced and intense, David told him about the call to Burrell.
“Dara won’t talk, probably because she saw us with you.” His phone beeped; he glanced at the readout and tensed further. “Burrell is her friend, sounds like it’s not more than that but she may unload to him.”
“Good, it’s something,” Brand said. “We haven’t found Brian Walsh yet. Cops went to his favorite bars, tried his apartment again this morning - no answer. He’s missing. We’re waiting for a warrant to get into his place.”
“It’s only eight-thirty, judges don’t keep our hours.”
Woody Greenberg had come up, and David motioned for him to wait. Woody grimaced and paced with his hands in his pockets; almost bumped into a loaded gurney; got yelled at by an orderly.
Then Woody stood looking at David like a puppy that wanted to go out, badly.
“Here’s a surprise,” David said, back to the phone, his eyes telling Woody Wait, dammit. “Walsh didn’t believe his wife’s pregnancy was his.”
Brief silence at the other end. Finally: “I’ll be damned.”
“Burrell’s coming to visit Dara tonight. Maybe sooner.” David’s hand gripped his phone so hard his fingers hurt.
“Sooner is better,” Alex said. “This killer’s bustin’ to kill, and it’s gotta be Walsh. If Dara spills to Burrell…here’s an idea. Think Dara might want to wear that medallion?”
“Jill thought of that too. Great minds and all.”
“She should’ve been a cop.”
“I know. I know.”
Hanging up, David nearly shouted “What?”
Woody held up both hands. “Easy, cowboy. Holloway just got called, looks like he’s gonna be starting a Caesarean, so he’s asking to be re-scheduled from that hysterectomy.”
“Tell him okay. I’ve got a lot of re-scheduling to do. Sorry I yelled.”
37
Ninety minutes later, in the outpatient OB/GYN clinic, Jill had whipped through three routine exams and a post-delivery checkup when her phone buzzed.
It was Rick Burrell, elated. “I just got the chance to tell Sister Meg about Dara, the whole situation. She’s horrified, and said to help any way I can. So I can come right after lunch.”
“That’s great.” Jill stepped awkwardly aside for someone rolling an instrument table. She was back to using her crutch. Now her leg ached and her armpit ached.
“Things are under control here,” Burrell said. “There are so few patients left anyway and they’re medicated. Greg and Sister Meg can handle the afternoon. Hey, I can visit and still get to bowl.”
“Greg’s better?”
“His scissor stab is sore and bandaged, it wasn’t too bad, so he’s back to work. So…I’ll see you after lunch?”
“If I’m free. Give me a call.”
In a blur Jill went back to work, but kept looking over her shoulder. For what? Someone who looked like they may have snuck in dynamite? Between her second and third patients she’d peeked out at the waiting room. The same faces, it seemed. Anxious or bored…no monks in long black robes. One man - a relative? – looked crossly at her, and she ducked back to the clinic.
Tricia and Gary were working with her.
“Try to relax, you’re wound so tight,” Tricia urged, stopping to hug her as the two rushed between cubicles. And, “Hey, no snakes,” Gary said brightly, patting Jill’s arm.
She went white.
“Phipps, you are such an idiot,” Tricia told him.
“Just trying to help.” Gary looked injured.
At lunch in the cafeteria the three joined Ramu and George Mackey. David was in surgery but Jill texted him that Rick Burrell was coming sooner, after lunch. Then she flipped to watch Jesse, getting changed, his tiny arms flailing happily.
She smiled a little, but she couldn’t eat.
Had the cops found Brian Walsh? Gotten a warrant for his apartment yet? What would they find there anyway? He must know he was being hunted. Was probably holed up in some crappy hotel or hiding place, laying low until…
Don�
��t go there, don’t, don’t…
She picked at her food while the others, feeling the hospital tension in their own way, talked about the harm that religious extremism had done through the ages. Ramu, in his lilting U.K. English, told some hideous stories from England’s sixteenth century Reformation. “Catholics were executed under treason laws. Then during Mary’s reign, Protestants were hacked and burned at the stake. When her sister Elizabeth took over, it was back to executing Catholics and even priests were beheaded.”
“Under Napoleon too,” Mackey said, munching.
“School boys,” Ramu continued intently, “used some poor priest’s head as a football. To this day, there are secret tunnels under some of the grand old houses for the priests to hide in.”
Gary looked unusually thoughtful. “Now in Syria priests are getting beheaded, while crowds cheer and scream for more. Extremists enjoy their hate. They get off on it.”
The room dipped and swam. Jill was now reliving her dream about Galileo when her phone buzzed.
Burrell. “I’m here! I mean, just coming out of the subway. I forgot to ask what room Dara’s in.”
Jill told him and said to go right up. Seconds later she frowned at her phone, remembering something.
He just got out of the subway, she thought.
Am I losing my mind? Dammit, I forgot my plan…
Grabbing a roll and excusing herself, she crutch-hurried back to her call room. Found the medallion on the dresser, and put it in her pocket.
The line was long. Burrell wore a leather jacket and gloves, carried a big bouquet, and pulled his Rolling Thunder two-ball bowling bag. He waited patiently.
The dogs were calm, barking just a little, sniffing and straining as far as their leashes let them, while their handlers smiled and reassured over and over. “Just a precaution”…“for your protection”…“her name’s Ollie, sure you can pat her.”
They also hand searched through purses, opened shopping bags and backpacks. When they got to him, they took extra pains with the flowers. Examined the blue glass vase, made sure it was filled with water – one of the K-9s even nosed closer wanting a drink – then opened his Rolling Thunder bag to find two bowling balls, and smelly shoes and socks.
Nothing else. One of the cops made a face zipping the bag closed.
“Next,” said another cop handling a dog straining toward someone’s gift-wrapped package. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “We’ll have to put that through the X-ray.”
Rick Burrell crossed the foyer past more dogs and reassuring cops. Even stopped to pat a friendly Lab and smiled.
Then he squeezed himself and his rolling bag into the elevator crowded with other visitors.
Someone had already pressed for the fifth floor.
OB got so many visitors.
In short, painful minutes Jill was at Dara’s bedside. Dara was asleep. Painkillers can do that, make people sleepy. Could she lift Dara’s head and slip the chain around her neck?
No, she’d wake, get hostile.
Jill looked around, her heart thudding. Was Burrell already in the elevator? Probably. No time…
Stoopid, she thought. He might recognize the medallion anyway and wonder what the hell – it was possible, wasn’t it?
Quickly, she wound the chain small and put the medallion on the bedside table, behind a small lamp.
A sound startled her, and she turned.
Rick Burrell was in the doorway, carrying flowers and pulling his bowling bag, blinking feelingly at Dara in her bed.
“Hi,” Jill said, crutch-crossing to him. “She’s sleeping lightly. You can wake her. She’ll be happy to see you.”
He shrugged uncertainly. “If you say so.”
“I do. Oh, pretty flowers.”
“Where should I put them?”
“Next to that lamp where she can see them. That was sweet, Rick.”
“You’re using a crutch.”
“Just for aches. I’ll leave you two alone. Try to ask her if she remembers anything.”
At a safe distance down the hall, Jill called Alex Brand. Got his voice mail and told him where the medallion was now.
“Turn your end back on,” she said. “Do you have to be closer? Yards away or something? I don’t know how those things work, but Dara may be transmitting any minute. Tune in…”
Minutes later, a surveillance vehicle rigged to look like a cable TV repair van pulled up outside the hospital. A uniformed cop approached to say don’t double park. He stopped to answer his shoulder phone, listened, and turned away.
Inside, two men adjusted their earphones while others checked their police radio, transmission connection, computers, and printers for photos and reports. Someone also checked the overhead luggage rack - used to conceal the antennas for high-powered radio equipment.
“Audio on,” said the first man in earphones, and the other flicked a switch.
“…really sorry to wake you. Want me to leave?”
“No…” Weak. Muffled.
“I’m so sorry about what happened.”
Silence.
“Hey, don’t cry. Lemme wipe those tears. You and your baby are gonna be okay. The doctors told you that, didn’t they?”
A long, feeble sigh. “Yes.”
“Aww, that’s what I want to see, a smile. Try to consider this behind you…except for them to catch the bastard who did it. Do you know what happened?”
Silence.
“Did you see who did this to you?”
“It was dark. I…think I saw…” A sudden moan. Sound of a sheet thrashing.
“Hey, easy. It’s over and you’re safe. Stay calm for the baby.”
Long, confused silence. “For…the baby.” Voice weak again. “They’re sure…it’s okay?”
“Absolutely. So did you see-“
“Pray with me, Rick.”
“Huh?”
“Hail Mary… full of…grace… The Lord…is…with…”
Silence. “Dara?” Silence. “You asleep, Dara?”
More silence. Then the scrape of a chair, footsteps.
In the van a female officer called in on the police radio. “Got it? Subject questioned. Vague, fell back to sleep.”
“Stay,” a voice said on the other end. “I like that ‘I think I saw…’ We’ll get him back.”
38
“Can you get him back in there?”
“Hope so. This is good, she was talking to him?”
“Yes. Get him back.”
Jill had stayed close. Was crossing the hall between one patient’s room and another’s when Rick caught her eye. He stood, looking uncertain, outside Dara’s room three doors down.
Jill went to him.
“She fell back to sleep,” he said, peering back into the room again, shrugging well I tried at the cop stationed feet away.
The cop smiled tightly back.
“Her meds have almost worn off, I checked her chart,” Jill said, reaching to close Dara’s door. “Would you try again in a bit?”
Burrell looked down at his bowling bag. But he didn’t bowl until evening! Think of something.
“Are you hungry? There’s homemade Danish down in our coffee shop. Oozing with icing, cinnamon, raisins…”
His eyes lit. “Oh, I’m there. Skipped lunch. How long before she wakes?”
It was 1:10. “Twenty minutes, max. Figure 1:30.”
Jill saw the cop’s eyes check the wall clock.
“Okay, be back then,” Burrell said. “I see now I can help.”
“Definitely. So far she’s only talked to you.”
He looked pleased with himself and pulled his bowling bag to the elevators. Pressed the button, patted a police dog while he waited.
Wag, wag.
Nash was on Thorazine, but you wouldn’t know it. He looked alert, bitching about his restraints and hollering about his transistor. “I need God. He can’t speak to me without my transistor!”
David passed the cop stationed near the bed, and
Nash looked pleased to see him. White jacket and scrubs. A new doctor to cajole?
“I hate these straps, and they won’t give me my transistor,” he whined.
“Maybe they’re afraid you’ll throw it at someone,” David said.
Nash’s eyes turned angry, not suspicious. He’d never seen David.
“Throw God? That’s blasphemy! Just the sort of thing Erik would say.”
“Who’s Erik?” A new name… What’s this?
Ralph Nash sulked. His expression changed from reproach to slow, bitter resentment. “He’s someone who betrayed me. It was supposed to be our secret.”
You didn’t have to be a shrink to see that Ralph Nash wanted to talk. David stepped closer to the bed, looked sympathetic, even nodded encouragingly.
“It hurts to feel betrayed,” he said.
“Hurts?” Nash yelled, yanking violently at his restraints. “For something like this? You science types think it’s all fun and games until you get thrown in hell with Satan and his demons because you won’t repent and turn from your sins!”
The psych resident who’d been watching, yards behind David, came up and said softly, “He’s getting agitated.”
David turned to him and whispered, “Scram.” The resident looked worriedly from David to the cop, who stood next to the bed with his arms folded, his narrowed eyes saying the same.
The psych resident backed off.
Nash was still pulling at his restraints. “Erik said it was God’s will even more than the work I’d been doing to put up that web site - to reach more believers to our cause! When I woke in the morning he said it was God who put the writing on it. But that site lost me my transistor – so he must have lied!”
“Did Erik give you a list of women’s names?”
“List? What list?”
