Raney & Levine

by J. A. Schneider

  Another text dinged. From Jill: “We’re headed to St. Mary’s now, crossing Tompkins Park. I’m wearing a bug, don’t worry, all’s well.”

  He stared at his phone. Flipped anxiously back to the mean-faced photo of Dara Walsh. At least it looked taken from across the street. They were being extra careful.

  But now? Headed for an alone-in-a-room with a violent-sounding paranoid schiz? David’s fist clenched; he fought the compulsion to text back and say No, don’t go!

  With Nash, Jill wouldn’t be with Alex and Keri. What damn good would a bug do if they were this time across the street or just outside if Nash got hostile or worse…

  His mind raced as his fingers raced across his phone’s letters. What to text back? He felt guilty, crazy-helpless. He wanted to be with her, visit psychotic Nash together. This was nuts. God, he worried, missed her. Even when she was departments and floors away, she was still here, in the hospital, under the same roof.

  He started to punch keys: Let the cops do it. It’s ten to three, please, turn around now. Come back and let the cops do it-

  The phone rang in his hand. It was Woody, falling over his words.

  “All hell down here in the ER. Woman seven months pregnant just brought in, fell or was pushed off a fire escape, skull and bone fractures, gonna be a crowded surgery table, and we might be able to save the baby. Meet us in OR 6!”

  David closed his eyes for a second. Inhaled. Deleted what he’d started and instead shakily texted, PLEASE BE CAREFUL. I’M WORRIED. I LOVE YOU.

  He sent it and got to his feet. Turned back to the swinging doors to go scrub in again.

  They’d crossed Seventh Street and entered Tomkins Square Park, keeping their heads down as they moved under trees and past people reading, eating, exercising, break dancing. A stoned trannie with pink hair and ROCK MY WORLD on his sweatshirt told them mournfully, “I’m so done with him.”

  Jill barely heard. She was checking her cell phone and found David’s I LOVE YOU. Blinked at it. Wanted to cry. It was only the second time he’d actually said it. The first time in high emotion too. The words looked so rushed, frantic, as if typed running between one crisis and another.

  She felt unaccountably guilty. She should be there, not here clomping through some park past more guitars and bongos, dog walkers and acrobats.

  Then DEVIL’S WORKSHOP DESTROYED! flashed back at her. And same creep, he’s moving fast…

  She felt so anxious, cold. Being with two cops didn’t help; ahead Ralph Nash awaited in his room in an understaffed psychiatric institution. She so wanted to be with David. Her mother never hugged her. David hugged and comforted her. Always had his arm around her when they walked, was there for her, emotionally. She missed that so much…

  LOVE YOU BACK, she texted him, tearing up, then flicked her phone to the picture of him with Jesse sleeping on his shoulder. Smiled down at it, nearly bumped into a man playing his saxophone.

  “Oh! Sorry!”

  His eyes smiled and he kept on playing. Stoned and happy. Lucky guy.

  “So,” Keri asked, wrenching her back as they passed a water fountain. “What’s this about you almost becoming a cop?”

  Jill fingered the medallion around her neck. David’s text and walking under trees, seeing people having fun, had unwound her a little.

  Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Like I said, my mother was a prosecutor, an ADA.” She hesitated. “Absentee, divorced, ambitious…not cold but just… too busy when I was growing up. Some things got me her attention, though – good marks and following her cases, talking to her about them, asking questions. And the apartment had lots of cops visiting. Detectives in huddles with her, trying to figure if they had a case.”

  She saw Alex testing the medallion bug in his ear pod. “The connection’s good,” he said. “You’re coming in loud and clear.”

  “Great, I’m two feet away.” It came out a bit acerbic, but both cops cracked smiles.

  Jill came back to Keri’s question, and let herself smile too. “I really loved the cops. They were funny. The harder The Job got, they more they cracked jokes, told incredible stories. Mom would let me listen in, and I loved it. I even learned how to wire the old way.” She fingered her medallion again. “Boy, if they had these gizmos then…”

  Alex asked, “Who did you know? I might recognize the names.”

  “Wakely, Tomicelli, Reiser, Joe Connor-”

  “Joe Connor?”

  “Yeah. Joseph Francis Connor. I was at his funeral. I was fourteen. I cried so hard they thought I was a member of the family.”

  Keri looked questioningly at Alex, who told her somberly, “Joe Connor was shot. Trying to save a baby in a drug bust.”

  They all fell silent for moments. Jill finally inhaled and said, “So that’s when I decided to become a cop.”

  Keri had been checking out people they passed. “So what changed your mind?”

  “When my mother got cancer. Ovarian cancer gallops, she was metastasizing in months. It was a double shock because I realized that I’d never had her as a real mom. Don’t think we ever had a heart-to-heart. And then with all the crying, it hit that I needed, wanted, an antidote to sorrow. A college friend was planning on med school and OB, and I thought…babies! Families! Hugs, smiles, flowers! Well it’s mostly that, thank God, but there are tragedies too, and couples fighting, divorcing, custody threats going on right at the new mom’s bed…not to mention” - she breathed in – “the other half of OB which is GYN-”

  She stopped short, staring ahead. “Oh please don’t tell me that’s Dara Walsh again.”

  They followed her gaze. Thirty yards north, just passing the next water fountain, was indeed Brian Walsh’s wife, moving fast.

  “Must have entered at Ninth Street,” Alex said low.

  They watched her leave the pedestrian path and head briskly up Avenue B.

  “Headed where we’re headed.” Keri frowned; and Alex, tight-lipped, said, “What the hell…?”

  They left the park, and at a good distance followed Dara Walsh the four remaining blocks to St. Mary’s.

  Which Dara passed. Walked right past the old red-brick pile, then passed the yellow police barriers and the closed church behind them, and disappeared around the corner.

  Alex radioed to have her followed. He then stood eyeing the two shadowy service alleys on both sides of St. Mary’s. The one on the left was wrought-iron-gated. The one on the right, between St. Mary’s and a brownstone, was open. “We’ll be in there,” he told Jill, gesturing to the right. “Hugging the building, just yards away.” He put his ear pod back in.

  Keri subtly slipped in hers too. “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Jill’s heart started banging. She pulled out her syringe for both of them to see. “Valium. Works fast. Big help unless I get jumped from behind.”

  They didn’t look reassured.

  “Keep your voice steady,” Alex said. “If we hear the slightest alarm in it, we’re in there in a second.”

  Jill nodded numbly, swallowing. Stood there on the sidewalk and watched them duck into the alley.

  Then looked up at the building. Four stories and brooding, its red bricks looking ready to crumble. She could imagine the creaks coming from its old wooden floors and doors. ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL read the faded carving on the lintel.

  It was five minutes past three. She pulled in a deep breath, checked her Mace under her sweater sleeve and the Valium in her pocket again.

  Then climbed the few steps and went in.

  28

  The lobby was small, dark, and smelled old. Jill asked the receptionist for Ralph Nash.

  “Christine Connor,” she said. “He’s expecting me.” She’d planned on another last name. Joe Connor’s just came to her.

  “Ah Christine, yes, he told me.” The receptionist looked delighted. He had a thin but affable face, thinning pale hair, and looked maybe forty. “My name is Will,” he said proudly. “I’m not really a receptionist, I’m
a patient.”

  “Oh?” A medicated patient. No real receptionist. “Good for you,” Jill said a bit awkwardly.

  “Good for this great place that helped me. Terrible its funding is drying up, staff let go. My disorder’s been under control for weeks.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  Will wanted to talk more about his bipolar disorder, the neighbors complaining about his vacuuming at 4 a.m., but when Jill just stood there, saying little, he sighed, smiled again, and pointed to a set of swinging double doors. “Ralph is on the first floor in room 12. Six doors past the stairway. Careful, don’t trip over the threshold. It’s broken, the wood pops up. They’ve even had to lay off the maintenance people.”

  Jill thanked him, took a deep breath, and pushed through the swinging doors. A darkened hall stretched ahead. On her right were winding wooden stairs with dusty banisters, and on her left was a small waiting room with magazines on a table. No television. Were there any TVs in this place? Likely not, come to think of it. TV news and violent shows would upset the patients. Will’s eyes had shown no glimmer of recognition from the media.

  Jill started walking, looking up and around. There seemed to be no security cameras. She touched her medallion. “I’m in,” she whispered. “Entrance is swinging doors to the left of reception.”

  The medallion gave an almost inaudible beep.

  Plaques outside each closed door marked the room numbers. She crept past several, soundless within, and reached number 12. Belatedly it occurred to her to switch her cell phone onto “record.”

  Then she knocked.

  Inside, a chair scraped. The sound of footsteps came closer and a male voice said, “Christine?”

  Jill breathed in, her heart thudding. “Yes, it’s me.”

  The door opened, revealing a different-looking Megaphone Man. He looked neater, in laundered jeans and a frayed white shirt. His eyes were an overly bright brown, and his graying dark hair was combed. The red, angry face that they’d seen outside the hospital was pale now that there was no crowd hassling him. He looked to be in his mid forties.

  “Come in,” he said eagerly, his bright eyes fixed on her.

  The room was tiny, with a bed, a crucifix over it, a small desk, a chair before it and another chair by the window. Papers covered with large, handwritten scrawls littered the desk, the floor, and the bed. The chair by the window afforded a view of the closed church’s tan blank wall.

  “Do you mind keeping the door open?” Jill asked primly. “I’m not accustomed to being alone in a room with a man.”

  “Because you are a decent woman,” Nash said approvingly. “Of course.”

  Jill opened the door wider and stood there awkwardly. She kept her jacket on. Nash did not offer to take it.

  “Please, have a seat.” He motioned her to the chair by the window as he fumbled through his computer and assorted jumble on his desk, took an old transistor radio into his arms, and sat stiffly facing her on his bed.

  “I am so glad you came,” he said, hugging his transistor, his eyes lit with magnetic neediness. That made it easier to respond.

  “Of course.” Jill was facing the open door and the hallway. It was so quiet out there. Not a sound. “When you wrote about your woes with the police I had to.”

  Nash shuddered and hugged his transistor. “You’re not afraid of them?”

  “Should I be? Please tell me.” She kept her voice level.

  “They’re after me, spying on me. Told Sister Meg about my website, and she told me to shut it down. But I won’t. Is this still a country of free speech?”

  “Last I heard.” Jill forced an earnest look, though her heart was throbbing. “Why should the police be spying on you?”

  “Because of my website. It contains truth, and an urgent alert that Satan is among us.” Nash spoke with a creepy intensity. “That Madison hospital – you saw the name on the website?”

  “Yes, yes.” She leaned forward with an expression from a revival tent.

  Nash leaned forward too, lowered his creepy voice. “They’ve had the arrogance to take the place of the Creator, and that child up there is Satan’s son. The world must be saved from him.”

  He fixed intently on Jill across the tiny room. “And you agree, yes?”

  What to say now? Oh jeez…Jill licked dry lips. “The truth shall prevail,” she said, wondering where that interpret-any-way cliché came from. Then she sidestepped as a question came to her. “You are skilled to have put up that website by yourself.”

  A modest smile crept across Ralph’s face. “I didn’t.”

  Jill cocked her head, let her confusion show.

  “God did,” he said.

  God built his website?

  “Oh,” Nash said brightly. “Rick showed me that free web site place, and gave me a lesson. It’s easy. Rick and Sister Meg were so pleased that I’d found something I liked” – a slow, unhappy headshake - “until they found out what it was. Now they’re letting the Devil Police intimidate them and telling me to take it down.”

  “Who’s Rick?”

  “One of the only two nurses left. Gary is the other nurse and Sister Meg is St. Mary’s director.” Nash looked up at the ceiling. “They must be with patients upstairs. They’re too sick to merit being on the first floor,” he said proudly. “I moved down nine weeks ago, when they started transferring patients out, and because I was…happy on my medication.”

  Nash smiled again, and glanced briefly out the open door. “There are empty rooms on this floor too. It’s so sad. The Archdiocese has no more money, but that’s the work of the devil too. Taking their money.”

  Time to steer him back. “You said God put up the website?”

  Nash patted his old transistor. “God speaks to me through this. He told me what to say.”

  Jill blinked uncertainly. She’d never had experience in psych. “Oh, how wonderful,” she managed. “Will God speak to me too?”

  A slow, sorry headshake, another modest smile. “Unfortunately, no. Only I am the chosen one to bear witness. Besides, God speaks to me just at night, and only at a certain frequency. I cannot divulge what it is.”

  Uh, great, now what? Jill frowned a little, turned, and peered out the window to the service alley. It stretched between this building and the closed church. Trash bins had been pushed right up to the front wrought iron gate. Odd. For easier access to collect garbage or…for climbing over? She noticed too that the window latch, once cemented closed, had been broken open.

  Inhaling, she turned back and moved her chair away from the window, then said with fake anxiety, “Do people look through that window?”

  “I don’t think so.” Nash blinked placidly and glanced at his watch. “The gates are locked at both ends.”

  Huh? Paranoia about police spying on him but not looking through the window?

  “But those gates are low,” Jill said. “Only four feet.” She rubbed her hands together. “When I came you … asked if I was scared of the police. I’m not yet, but I am afraid of that murderer…”

  “Murderer?” Nash looked politely confused.

  Genuine or good acting? “Yes. It’s been in the papers. There have been murders of pregnant women. They were beaten to death and left with snakes wound around their necks.”

  “Snakes! Oh how horrible!” Nash’s whole body contorted in revulsion and he almost dropped his transistor.

  No reaction to the murdered women.

  There was a sound in the hall. Footsteps and someone knocking on another door.

  Nash glanced out and then back. Jill did too.

  “So maybe that’s why the police don’t like your website,” she went on, still faking anxiety. Nash seemed distracted again by sounds in the hall, voices talking. Jill craned for his attention. “Because these women were pregnant by IVF, do you know what that is?”

  She saw him blink. “Of course.” He turned his head back to her, his voice whispery soft. “It’s a sin. It violates the place of the Creator,�
�� he said again. “Even fundamentalist Protestants deem it adultery.” His hand swept the sprawl of papers littering his room. “This is what I study. Why I work so hard to restore God’s will.”

  Does restoring God’s will include murder?

  “The newspapers also said these women were surrogate mothers,” Jill blurted. Let’s see this reaction, she thought.

  A male voice yelled down the hall. Another male voice placated. Jill’s glance darted again to the hall, saw no one.

  Then saw that Nash’s eyes had turned hard, venomous. “Surrogates? Then those women were prostitutes. They took money for their adulterous, God-defying service. What they did is a mortal sin. And the snakes, though horrible, signify their evil.” He lifted his chin importantly. “Galatians 6:7: ‘As ye reap, so shall ye sow.’”

  Jill faked more torn by doubt and squirmed dramatically. “But murder…that has to be why the police are involved. Oh, I do want to help you, but what if they think we both have something to do with the murders? Suddenly…I guess I am afraid.”

  Nash looked down at his transistor, his eyes hooded, seeming deep in thought. Then he looked up appraisingly. “But you agree with me? In my beliefs and in my horror at what is being done against God’s will?”

  Jill floundered for an answer, her gaze sweeping the floor and desk. “I must study, understand more. Can I have a copy of one of your papers you’ve written?”

  “Of course.” Nash reached to the floor for a scrawled-on paper and handed it across to her. Fingerprints! She took the paper by a corner he hadn’t held, folded it carefully and put it into her pocket not containing the syringe.

  Nash smiled aggressively. “I asked you a question. Do you agree with my beliefs-”

  Footsteps and a knock on the door jam saved her.

  “Time for your pills,” said a male nurse entering. Rick? Gary? He was lanky with short dark hair in white pants and a white shirt open at the collar. Looked in his late thirties. Looked familiar, too. Jill’s lips parted and she racked her brain. Where had she seen him before?

  Nash looked displeased with him. “What you gave me is still working.”