Why does his nose bleed? she thought to herself. Because he will be washed in the blood of the lamb until he confesses his sins.
“I get the feeling you don’t like him,” Dr. Gillespie stated. “You know it’s not easy being at the top,” he said, trying to joke with her again. Maybe she was jealous of the archbishop’s power. Women had no power in the Catholic Church.
“Every man thinks he is tried more than his neighbour,” she shot back. “Some deserve it.”
3
Quidi Vidi Lake is located at the east end of the city of St. John’s and is home to the longest-running sporting event in North America: the annual Royal St. John’s Regatta. It is a fixed-seat rowing race that draws thousands to the banks of the pond on the first Wednesday in August. This holiday is unique to St. John’s and the only one of its kind in the world.
On the north side of the lake stands the historic former American Pepperrell Air Force Base. Its name had been changed some time ago to Canadian Forces Station St. John’s. Few people in the city call it by its new name. From the air, you can see that the outline of the base forms the shape of a cowboy hat. It was designed by an engineer from Texas. During World War II, the base housed and employed thousands of American servicemen and their families. Today, most of the old infrastructure has been demolished and replaced with brightly coloured townhouses and a new Canadian Forces headquarters. One of the last remaining buildings is the old Royal Canadian Legion Branch 56. It stands as sentry over its former commander.
Dr. Luke Gillespie ran past the Legion’s memorial, deep in thought. There is more going on here than meets the eye, he thought as he ran the dirt trail around Quidi Vidi Lake. This 3.8-kilometre leg of the St. John’s grand concourse always cleared his mind.
He had his best ideas when he was running, but this morning his head was foggy. He knew Sister Pius wasn’t telling him the whole story. Praying for his soul, she had said. What does that mean? It wasn’t his soul that was bleeding. Or was it? What did she know?
He ran past the boathouse. The early-morning rowers were pushing their shells into the water and gliding toward the start line. Several were already at the stakes, each practising beating the record-breaking time of 8:58:20 rowed by Outer Cove two years before. The fog was sitting lightly on top of the pond, and the water was as still as glass.
Luke picked up his speed and began to sprint toward the top of the lake. He could hear the coxswain yell his orders out to the boat crew. He turned his head to see them cutting through the lake like a bullet through water. He drew from his full strength and tried to race the historic shell, but he was no match for a six-man crew who could row 3,200 metres in less than nine minutes.
By the time he got to the top of the lake, his lungs were heaving and felt like they had collapsed. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees, trying to draw in deep breaths. Sweat ran down his forehead, burning his eyes. His morning coffee was back in his throat, then in his mouth and on the pavement. He staggered to his car, opened the trunk, took a towel out of his gym bag, and wiped the sweat and puke from his face.
“What just happened?” he asked himself out loud. He had pushed himself too hard. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. The long hours in the hospital and lack of sleep were catching up with him. Making him feel older than he really was. He drove back to his condo thinking about Sister Pius. From all appearances, she looked humble and wholesome, but she had a layer underneath that she hid. A layer of hate, he thought. He could feel it when she spoke. This was a woman scorned, but by whom? He didn’t know.
* * * * *
Gillespie started his shift in the ICU, and Nurse Agatha Catania was already waiting for him at the front desk with the archbishop’s file in her hand. “The tests are all back.” She handed him the file. He flipped it open as she continued talking.
“So, if a patient was losing weight for an unknown reason, had night sweats, fever, fatigue, enlarged and swollen lymph nodes, chronic diarrhea, unusual white spots in his mouth and dark spots that appeared all over his body for unknown reasons, what would you say he had?” She was out of breath.
“I know where you’re going with this, but these symptoms are similar to those of many illnesses. It’s not HIV.” He had already thought of that. The archbishop was a celibate man, and he didn’t fit the description of a drug user. Gillespie had still ordered the HIV antibody test, p24 antigen test, and PCR test.
“But they came back ‘indeterminate.’” She pointed to the red writing on the chart.
“Indeterminate could mean anything,” said Gillespie. “It may be from the blood transfusions he had over the past few days. He could have lupus or diabetes. Or it could be a problem with the test itself.” He continued to speed-read through the file.
“Or he could have syphilis,” she said with a wry grin. “They ran the tests three times. Each time it came back ‘indeterminate.’ I have more news,” she teased.
He looked up from the file and straight into her eyes. “Well?”
“There’s another one in the emergency on the way up. A sixty-one-year-old male with the same symptoms. A real bleeder with an unquenchable thirst.”
“Is he a priest?” Gillespie inquired.
“Nope. Child psychiatrist.” She smirked.
Gillespie let out a great sigh and closed the archbishop’s file. It was then he noticed that the X-ray technician was standing outside the archbishop’s room again, looking in through the window. “He has a visitor?” Gillespie nodded toward the man.
“Yes.” Agatha turned around quickly. “But not him. There’s a guy inside the room.”
“Why? Is he family? Only family should be allowed in now.” Luke kept his eye on the X-ray technician so he didn’t sneak out.
“The archbishop seemed to know him.”
Gillespie put the file under his arm and decided to deal with the X-ray tech first. “Cousin, isn’t it?”
The man turned around. “Yes. Jermaine, please.” He shook the doctor’s hand.
“Not much has changed since your last visit. We still don’t know what’s going on with Archbishop Keating, but we’re working on it.” Gillespie looked closely at him. His eyes were red and his face was white, drained of blood like he saw a ghost. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” Cousin’s voice was shaking. He turned to walk away.
“Sister Pius was here.” Gillespie wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected, but Cousin turned around and a smile came across his lips.
“She’s a good woman,” he said. “Stern, but a good person. Don’t let her crusty exterior fool you.”
“So, you know her?” asked Gillespie.
“She was the principal at my school. She was a tough bird, but fair,” Cousin replied.
“A tough but fair penguin?” Gillespie added.
Cousin laughed. “You went to Catholic school, too?”
“Oh, yes. I know what nuns are like. I’ve felt their strap more than once.”
“Sister Pius wasn’t like that. She didn’t hurt the kids. She protected them. She’d face the devil himself, and often did.” He looked through the window at Archbishop Patrick Keating, who was sitting up in the bed and talking to his visitor.
What an odd thing to say, Gillespie thought. Not a lot of people like this archbishop. “Is he the devil himself?” The doctor looked at the priest through the glass.
He was startled when Cousin answered him. “He’s one of them.” Cousin’s pager went off, and he took it out of his pocket. “Duty calls.” He turned and walked away.
Gillespie wanted to talk more but didn’t know what to say. There is more than meets the eye to this archbishop, he thought. He pushed the door open and walked into the patient’s room.
Keating was sitting up with his head turned toward the window that faced the parkway separating the He
alth Sciences Complex from Memorial University. He looked perturbed.
His visitor sat in a chair at the foot of his bed. It looked like the chair was two sizes too small. Luke guessed he had to be over six feet tall. His hands were as big as a boxer’s. When Gillespie came into the room, he looked up at him.
“You have a visitor?” Dr. Gillespie acknowledged the archbishop’s guest.
Archbishop Patrick Keating put a sour look on his face and folded his arms in defiance.
“I am Nicholas Myra.” The guest rose and shook the doctor’s hand.
“You’re a police officer?” Gillespie asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
It was that obvious. From his thick moustache to the deep lines around his eyes, it was easy to tell that Nicholas Myra was a cop. “Are you family? The archbishop is a very sick man. I just lifted the quarantine,” Gillespie informed him.
“We’re having a chat.” Sgt. Myra put a small black leather notebook in his coat pocket.
“I hope the archbishop hasn’t been a victim of a crime?” Gillespie was curious now.
“He’s trying to crucify me!” exclaimed the archbishop. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he shouted.
“Now, now. Don’t play the martyr, Patrick. It won’t work on me.” Myra had obviously talked to this man before.
The archbishop turned his head toward the police officer. His face was red with anger. “Who do you think you are? Talking to me like that! I am the head of the Church in this province, and I answer to no one,” he screamed.
Myra shot back, “He may have created you in His image, but that does not mean you are His equal.”
“One call. One call . . .” The archbishop pointed his index finger at Sgt. Myra. “. . . and you’ll be walking the beat downtown.”
“Those days are gone,” Myra informed him. “There’s no sweeping this under the rug anymore.”
“Sweeping what under the rug?” the archbishop yelled, looking toward Gillespie, who was standing with his mouth open, caught in the crossfire. “I was helping those boys. You don’t know how promiscuous they were with each other, with strangers. It was the only way to calm them down.”
“Is that how you justified it?” Myra asked.
“It was how we calmed them down. Kept them under control.” The archbishop was exasperated.
“Kept them intimidated and scared,” Myra added to the archbishop’s sentence.
“Hang on a second here,” Gillespie jumped in, turning on Myra. “This is my patient. You can’t do this.”
“He agreed to speak to me,” said Myra, standing up to his full height.
“Outside,” Dr. Gillespie ordered. Both men left the room, shaking in anger.
“What are you doing?” Gillespie asked as soon as the door to the archbishop’s room closed.
“Conducting an investigation. He consented to it.”
“In an ICU room?” The doctor was pissed now.
“We started in his office a few weeks ago, then the police station. I am just finishing my file now.”
“Are you charging him with something?” Gillespie asked.
“Yes,” Myra said. “The formal charges will be laid shortly.”
Gillespie was stunned. “He’s the archbishop, for God’s sake. How could he be anything but innocent?”
“All men are innocent till proven guilty in a court of law.” Myra was sick of the privileges that were bestowed upon the archbishop. “But Doctor, I don’t charge innocent men.”
Nurse Catania had just finished getting her new patient settled when she heard the commotion in the hallway. She peeked out to see Dr. Gillespie and the police officer, both looking frustrated.
“The new patient is here,” she interrupted.
Dr. Gillespie turned toward her. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“I am a little stressed.” Sgt. Myra changed his voice to a softer tone. “There are fifteen victims. All who were young boys. All with the same story.”
Gillespie believed he knew what that story was by now. More so than he wanted to. “He’s still my patient.”
Myra’s cellphone rang, and he turned to answer it. Gillespie took the file from Agatha and began to read.
“He’s sleeping now,” she told him. “Fifty-three-year-old male, unbearable pain, uncontrollable bleeding, and unquenchable thirst. The exact same symptoms.”
Doctor Gillespie stood in front of the new patient’s open door. “Well, the first thing we do is try to find a common ground between our two patients. Did they work together? Did they visit the same place? Are they related? Do they even know one another?” Gillespie was at the beginning of his shift but already felt exhausted.
“They know me.”
Gillespie and Catania jumped at the voice coming from behind them. Myra was putting his cell back in his pocket.
“They do?” Gillespie asked.
“They both know me quite well.” Myra stood about seven inches taller than Gillespie, and the doctor hated that he had to look up at him.
“So, the only thing these two men have in common is you.” He was shocked by the sound of his own voice.
“No. The only thing these two men have in common is that they are both part of a police investigation.” He straightened his coat and walked toward the exit. He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to the doctor.
Gillespie watched him leave, then read the card. Sgt. Nicholas Myra, Child Exploitation Unit, Royal Newfoundland Constabulary. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach.
4
The whistle of the kettle boiling startled him. Dr. Gillespie realized he had nodded off while standing up making his tea. He poured hot water over the Tetley Tea bag in the porcelain cup, squeezing the tea bag to turn the liquid a dark red. He threw the bag in the garbage and poured in some tinned milk and sugar. This would calm his nerves. What a night it had been. Before he had a chance to think about what Sgt. Myra had told him, the new patient had gone into convulsions. Blood had flowed from his nose like a river, and he screamed out in pain and begged for water but spat it out, complaining it was vinegar. It was the archbishop’s symptoms all over again, but what was the cause?
Gillespie stirred his tea. He was tired. He was an hour away from ending his twelve-hour shift, and he wanted to go home to sleep. He was drained, and it showed in his face. He was beginning to doze off again while sitting and holding his tea when his pager went off. He jolted awake and pulled it from his pocket. emergency room, it read. He staggered to his feet and put his hot tea in the sink. As he hurried past the ICU desk, Agatha was running toward him.
“Another one!” Nurse Catania shouted, running to meet him as he hurried past the ICU desk. “In emergency. They want you down there now.”
Dr. Gillespie picked up speed as he left the ICU. By the time he reached the elevator, he was in a full jog.
The commotion in the emergency department was familiar to him. He could hear a man’s screams as he approached the room. The staff were already dealing with blood spraying over them. The white sheets covering the patient were red. He was sitting up and screaming, “Give me something for pain!” His face was distorted with agony, but his eyes were familiar. Even through the blood and the torment, Dr. Gillespie recognized this patient’s face. John Duffy, the stepfather of his best friend from childhood.
A cold feeling came over his whole body. He walked toward the bed, but Mr. Duffy didn’t recognize him. “The doctor, finally!” gasped Mr. Duffy. “Thank God you’re here. These idiots don’t know what they’re doing,” he complained, blood still dripping from his nose. “I asked for water and they gave me vinegar. I’m in incredible pain.” He was holding a Styrofoam cup full of ice chips. Without notice, he threw it in the face of the nearest nurse. She jumped back and shrieked with a frigh
t.
“Calm down!” Gillespie hadn’t mean to shout so loud. The nurse grabbed a towel and dried her face as she walked out of the room. Luke could tell this was the last straw for her.
Duffy reached up and, with an extraordinary amount of strength, grabbed Luke by the front of his green scrubs. Grinding his teeth together in rage, Duffy informed him, “I am a very rich man. I have very important friends. You tell them bitches to show me some respect.” With each word, his blood sprayed over Dr. Gillespie’s face.
Luke grabbed Duffy’s wrist and pushed him away. He hated this man. He hated his arrogance and sense of entitlement. He hated what he knew about him. Most of all, he hated what this monster had done to his friend and how he had gotten away with it.
“You’ll get the care you’re entitled to,” Gillespie informed him. With that, Duffy gave a long, loud, piercing cry. He slumped down in the bed, his body went limp, his bottom lip drooped to one side, and a stream of blood flowed from his nostril.
“Bastard!” The nurse came back into the room, her hair still wet from the water. “What a bastard he is. Who the hell is he, anyway?”
“He’s a businessman. Very old money.” Luke looked at Duffy lying in the bed. “Did he come in with anyone?”
“No. He came by ambulance. There’s a family member in the lobby now waiting to talk to someone,” she informed him. “Do you want me to hook him up on a morphine drip?”
“No. Don’t do that.”
The nurse gave him a questioning stare.
“Morphine may make him throw up. Let’s wait. It may cause him to choke if he has another nosebleed at the same time.” Luke pulled the top of his scrubs out to survey the blood spray. They had escaped the bloodbath. His outfit was clean.
The nurse obeyed the doctor’s orders. “Don’t forget the family member in the lobby,” she reminded him.
“I’ll take it.” He picked up a face cloth from a shelf over the sink and ran warm water over it. The doctor looked in the mirror and was sickened by the spray of blood on his face. He scrubbed it off and threw the cloth in the garbage. Luke made himself as presentable as a doctor could while working twelve-hour shifts and walked into the lobby.
Operation Wormwood Page 3