“Do that,” said K-Paul, his face impish. “Sure you want to go?” Standing in his underwear, he looked fit and handsome. “You’re going to miss a good show.”
“We’ve seen this show before,” said Marie, linking her arm through Lillianne’s and exiting the lounge.
Two AM. Most of the night in the ER had been a mad sprint; now, it had a slow, steady rhythm. No life-threatening cases.
The storm had grown worse. Thunder and lightning rattled and brightened Charity’s windows. Dozens of homeless trekked in. Junkies, alcoholics, veterans, a mother with a toddler and a preteen trailed rain and mud onto the linoleum and sat or slept wrapped in steaming hospital sheets. The air-conditioning system couldn’t fight the humidity.
Lillianne let the homeless stay as long as they were quiet. Nurses handed out sandwiches—tuna, turkey, and egg salad, a bit stale, leftovers from the cafeteria.
The exam rooms were empty except for Exam Three where Will, a chronic asthma patient, was recovering from an attack. Just fifteen, Will was a frequent ER visitor. So frequent, his mother dropped him off, rarely staying.
“I’ve got four other kids to see to,” she’d answered once when Marie had raised her brows. Sometimes, she returned to pick up Will; most times, he walked home after a debilitating attack.
In Exam One, Marie applied salve to a Haitian’s arm, a new immigrant who probably hadn’t quite learned the ins and outs of McDonald’s deep-fat fryers. At least she thought he was Haitian. But he could be any islander from the African diaspora. The fast-food joints and restaurants loved immigrants, legal or illegal.
“You were lucky.”
The solidly built man didn’t speak. He’d left “Name” blank on the pink admissions form. For “Insurance,” he’d written: “None.” For “Work,” “Part-time.” Charity cared for anybody and everybody.
“Apply the salve daily. Then wrap it in gauze like this.” She spiraled the gauze from his elbow to his wrist. “This butterfly clip holds it in place. Okay?”
Still he didn’t speak; he just sat on the metal chair, dignified, impressive, his skin a glowing black. In New Orleans, boats arrived daily from the Caribbean isles—fishing boats, immigration smugglers, and independents, rafting in on makeshift crafts, seeking a better life.
“Here’s a prescription for Vicodin. Just a couple of pills. Afterward, Motrin or Tylenol.”
Nothing gave any indication that the patient was in pain. Of course, he had to be—burns were the most painful of wounds. Why else come to the ER if not for pain?
“Maman Laveau.” His voice sounded like butter, deep, still mixing in the churn. Marie couldn’t discern his accent. “Watch for the waters.”
“Waters? What waters?”
“You know, as I do, there be no accidents.” Standing, he undid his gauze.
“No, stop. You need to heal.”
The white gauze unraveled, swinging and swaying, a windswept ribbon, or a kite’s tail, or a wave’s foam.
The wound was healed.
“Water needs to go where she wants to go.”
Marie felt disoriented. The skin was smooth, like black glass.
Beyond the Haitian, she saw El near the automatic glass door, saw the ghost family, sitting, bereft, in the waiting area.
Lillianne and Huan were laughing. Nurses were restocking supplies.
K-Paul was leaning on the nurses’ counter doing paperwork—sensing her gaze, he stopped writing, looked up, and winked.
Did K-Paul see the man? Had anyone seen her dressing his wound? Or did they just see her applying antibiotics to air?
The ER was often filled with craziness. Why not have a crazy doc, too?
“I’m here.”
She looked at the man, (creature?) his eyes black pools, his face morphing, becoming more androgynous, both male and female. A turquoise bead necklace hung from his/her throat.
“Who—what—are you?”
“Mind the water.”
“Marie,” shouted Huan, pulling back the curtains. “Last dumpling.” The dumpling looked pathetic on the paper plate.
“Try,” said Huan.
She turned, for a second, but in that second, her patient disappeared.
The exam room was empty.
Marie bit into the bun. It tasted sour. But her mood altered everything. Even if Huan’s dumpling had been pure sugar, it would have tasted sour to her. She hated it when her worlds, medical and spiritual, commingled. The rational and the seemingly irrational.
It still rattled her to have lesser gods, loas, medicine men, walk into Charity’s ER.
She spit out the dough. “Damnit, Huan, I’ve got to go. Got to find him.”
“Who?”
“My patient. Didn’t you see my patient?”
“I didn’t see anyone. No one’s here.”
“No, he was here. He was here, Huan. Didn’t you see him?” She knew she was sounding wild, crazy. “I need to make sure he comes back for follow-up.” Abruptly, she left, pushed through the curtains, rushing, searching the ER floor:
Technicians carrying pills, drawing blood; K-Paul completing paperwork; Lillianne smoothing her hair, repinning stray strands. A nurse wheeled a woman to the elevator; Labor and Delivery was on the fifth floor. The ER lounge was filled with bedraggled, sleeping patients. Some stretched across the folding chairs; some nodded in sleep, their chins grazing their chests.
There.
She saw a silhouette behind the green curtains of Exam Three. The Haitian leaned over a patient. She raced forward. The silhouette changed—breasts enlarged, hair growing long, longer, tied into a ponytail.
His/her outstretched fingertips touched a chest.
She dashed forward, swung back the curtains.
Will was resting on the bed. The creature was gone.
“Hey, Doc. I’m better. All better.”
“Hey, Will.” He didn’t seem traumatized. He seemed healthy. Will’s family was uninsured and too poor to buy inhalers. An ER trip often saved his life, but the visits were an expensive and inefficient use of resources. Worse, every time Will came to the ER, she worried he’d die.
Marie pressed her stethoscope to Will’s lungs. The airways were clear, no irritated passageways. Air was flowing unimpeded.
“I’m cured. All better,” said Will, sitting up like any healthy teenager.
“I’d like you to stay for observation.”
“I’m fine. I could play basketball.” Will jumped out of bed, stepping into his worn tennis shoes, tying the laces. “You really fixed me this time, Doc.”
She was perplexed. “Will, did you see anyone?”
His brows rose. “You’re kidding, right? You were here just a minute ago. I tell everybody Charity’s got the best docs. You fixed me up.” He grinned. “Hope I don’t see you again, Dr. Laveau. Just kidding. Don’t need the ER anymore.
“Don’t you remember? You told me I could go. Told me I didn’t need to come back. Said I was cured.”
Jaw slack, she stared at the space that Will had just left.
Had the creature really manifested itself as her? Gone from invisible to visible? Had Will really been cured?
She started trembling. If a creature could manifest as her and convince Will, then it might also mislead Louise and Marie-Claire.
Huan pulled back the curtains. “You okay?”
“I need air.” She couldn’t bear her child being in danger. “Come with me, please?”
For seconds, Huan studied her. Marie knew she wanted to understand what had happened, wanted to get inside her mind. But, instead, Huan, a good colleague and friend, only replied, “Whatever you need.”
Huan set down her empty paper plate at the admitting station and grabbed her umbrella, propped against the break wall.
“Break,” she shouted, aggressively. “Lillianne, me and Marie need a break.” Then Huan ruined her fierceness by giggling.
A few sleeping homeless stirred. One man turned, opening his brown, bloodshot eyes. A
bored technician smiled.
K-Paul shouted, “Can I come?”
“Girls only,” said Huan.
The ER doors opened and they were outside, the rain still falling.
Marie inhaled deeply. The fresh air was good for her. “Thanks, Huan. Thanks for covering me.”
“No problem.”
Inside, she wasn’t sure she would have kept her composure. Bright artificial lights were too revealing. Outside, in the dark, she felt calmer.
The street was empty, the ER bay quiet. Secondhand hospital light made the black asphalt glow. There weren’t any car headlights gleaming, inching and circling down the parking ramps.
She and Huan stood close together beneath the pink umbrella built for one instead of two. Their ponytails were still wet. Huan’s was long and thin, a jet black rope to Marie’s dark brown strands.
“It’s all good,” said Huan.
“What?”
“Everything.”
Should she tell Huan that she’d seen something she didn’t understand?
“You could be Vietnamese,” said Huan.
Marie laughed.
“No, I’m serious. One reason I came to New Orleans is that people here believe in ghosts. You know, El and DuLac are both glad you stayed at Charity.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
Huan raised her brows. “No,” she whispered, stricken. “I’m not a shaman like you. Just ordinary girl. But I know you’ve been feeling bad since they died. I know they’re happy that you’re still here.”
“And you?”
Bowing, hands pressed together, Huan answered solemnly, “Yes. Honor to work with you.”
Marie, pressing her palms together, bowed in return.
Pop. It sounded like a firecracker bursting. Jerking upright, Marie staggered. Blood sprayed over her white coat. Huan’s head tilted forward; then, knees buckling, she fell, her face and body slamming onto concrete. Her umbrella spun, splashing into the rain.
Marie dropped to her knees, her feet triggering the automatic door. She turned Huan over. Blood drained from her neck. “Help,” she screamed. “K-Paul, help.”
K-Paul kneeled beside her. “What the hell happened?” Lillianne, nurses, and an ER tech crowded around.
Sully, gun drawn, stood in the street, searching for the shooter. He shouted into his radio, “Ten-seventy-one. Ten-seventy-one. Charity Hospital shooting.”
Huan’s blood, mixed with rain, streamed into the storm drain.
“Hold on, Huan. Hold on,” pleaded Marie.
“Move aside, Marie.” K-Paul and the tech lifted Huan onto a gurney. Eyes closed, body limp, she seemed already beyond help.
“Call an OR attending,” Marie shouted. In the trauma room, Lillianne added saline and IV blood drips. Marie clipped on the EKG monitor.
“Her pulse is slowing,” said K-Paul. “Ninety over seventy.”
“Where’s the surgeon?” demanded Marie. “Clamp.”
K-Paul handed it to her.
“OR is on the way,” said Lillianne, her voice frayed.
Marie pressed against Huan’s neck. The artery was like thin rubber; the metal clamp slipped. She tried again. Success. “Another clamp.” Then another. The blood flow became sluggish.
“Pressure dropping,” yelled K-Paul. “Do what you did in the ambulance bay. Come on, Marie.”
“I can’t,” she answered. “Too much damage.”
“Bullet?” asked Lillianne.
“High-powered rifle. Had to have been.”
The EKG monitor whined.
“We’ve lost pulse.”
“Compressions, K-Paul.” He began compressing Huan’s chest.
“More blood, Lilliane.”
“She’s already had ten bags.”
“A hundred, if we have to. Is the defibrillator charged?”
“Charged to a hundred,” said K-Paul. “Step back, Marie.”
She stepped back, staring at the monitor, the waves of green lines.
“Charge to two hundred.”
“What’ve you got?” asked Roberts, the surgeon on call.
“GSW. Neck. Carotid artery hit.”
“Let me see.” He pushed Marie aside, one hand on Huan’s wrist, the other touching the wound. “Hopeless.”
“No,” insisted Marie. “Charge to three hundred. Try again, K-Paul.”
“Charge.”
Marie whispered in Huan’s ear, “It’s not your time.”
“Stand back.” K-Paul shocked Huan’s chest, her torso lifting up, then down.
“Even if she survives,” said Roberts, “she won’t be the same. This is Dr. Huan, isn’t it?”
“Don’t say that,” cried Lillianne.
The heart monitor flatlined.
“It’s over, Marie,” said K-Paul.
“No,” she raged, knocking over a tray of medical instruments.
K-Paul looked at Roberts. The surgeon nodded, then left. The staff began mourning, some crying, others bowing their heads and praying. Lillianne wiped her eyes.
“She’s lost too much blood.”
“Another EPI,” said Marie. “Charge again, K-Paul.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted it.” K-Paul set down the electric paddles. “It’s been a while, Marie. Brain damage is likely.”
Lillianne murmured, “I’ll get the chaplain.”
Marie stared at her blankly.
“Father Roland has ties to the Vietnamese community. He’ll notify the family. Do all that is proper.”
Marie nodded.
The ever-modest Huan, her jacket bloodstained, her shirt and bra cut off, looked immodest in death. The overhead glare made her brown skin appear paler, yellow.
Marie covered her with a sheet.
“Want me to call it?” asked K-Paul.
Hours ago, she and K-Paul had celebrated their medical abilities. Now they couldn’t even save a valued colleague.
“Time of death—4:38 AM.”
Marie flinched. Brown skin. Dark hair. Similar height. “The shooter thought she was me.” She turned, leaving behind Huan, her startled colleagues, the few left in the ER waiting room.
“Marie. Wait up.”
She didn’t stop. The hot rain soaked her anew.
She saw it happening again, her bowing and the bullet entering Huan.
The shot could have come from Tulane University Hospital, across the street, or the garage, or even from one of Charity’s labyrinth towers.
K-Paul grabbed her, his face fierce, twisted with grief. “Where’re you going?”
“Leave me alone, K-Paul.”
“Where’re you going?”
“To track a murderer.” She started sprinting toward her car. Never mind that her shift wasn’t over—or that she wanted to cry for a good woman lost. She shouldn’t have delayed a day. Shouldn’t have let Beauregard delay her. If she’d settled the L’Overture murder earlier, Huan wouldn’t be dead.
“Marie!”
“Leave me the hell alone, K-Paul.”
Inside the garage, he blocked her path, moving right when she tried to move right. Moving left, when she moved left. “Tell me what the hell’s going on?”
Fluorescent lights buzzed.
Breathing heavily, she said, “I’ve got this, K-Paul.”
“That’s your answer to everything. Self-sufficiency. Dr. Laveau knows best.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I won’t.” He gripped her shoulders, hard.
She almost winced, but she wouldn’t give K-Paul the satisfaction. Biting her lip, she glared at him.
He released her. “I’m sorry,” he said, plaintively. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“It should’ve been me,” she sighed. “It was supposed to be me.”
“How do you know?”
“Something happened in the bayou.”
“That’s my territory. Home.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She looked intently at K-Paul. He was a rural Louisianan, through and
through. A Cajun boy who’d come to the city to study medicine, but still spent holidays doing rural care. She’d never known him to let her or anyone else down.
“Let me help,” pleaded K-Paul.
“It’s not safe around me.”
“I’ll chance it. But you’re not thinking clearly. The police are going to want a statement from you. It might help them find Huan’s killer.”
“I already know who her killer is.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
Marie looked at K-Paul disbelievingly. “You know me. Know who I am.”
K-Paul flinched. The garage lights made his face sallow. “Call Parks, your detective friend. I bet he’ll agree with me.”
Marie sighed, “You’re right.” She could hear police sirens, more aggressive than ambulance wails. She’d give her statement. Maybe the crime scene investigators could confirm the weapon, fix the location from where the shot was fired.
Captain Beauregard, clownish, flesh ballooning out of his uniform, stood at the ER doors. Light spilling from the glass doors, police emergency lights strobing red and white made the scene look more like carnivàle than a murder scene. Rain dripped around the three-sided ER drive-through roof.
“They told me you left.”
“I’m surprised you arrived,” said Marie. “Aren’t you usually hugging your desk?”
Beauregard flushed angrily. “Your mouth’s going to get you in trouble, Dr. Laveau.”
“Hey,” said K-Paul. “Respect. She’s a witness.”
The three of them formed an unholy trinity. She and K-Paul were overheated, wet from the rain. Beauregard was sweating, his armpits soaked from nervousness.
Two patrol cars were parked in the ambulance bay.
She stepped closer, smelling Beauregard’s fear. “What happened to you?”
He looked down.
Marie doubted he could see his feet. “Is your friend Walker with you?”
His beady eyes flitted up and sideways. She quickly turned, seeing the illuminated parking garage. The rooftop was dark, with space enough for a killer to hide and fire a scope rifle.
She suddenly understood. “Why?” she asked Beauregard. “Bribery?”
“We should take your statement,” Beauregard blustered. “Officer Raymonde,” he called.
A tall, muscular officer got out of the second patrol car.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 50
