She flipped the box and tapped it, emptying it of tobacco remnants. She put the figures in and looked at him. “He just came once and you never saw him again.”
“No, I said, I never saw him before he came to the store. I saw him plenty of times after.”
“Where?”
“Out. Walking. Used to eat down the road once in a while.”
“These are really remarkable. If you happen to see him again, I want to find out where he’s staying. I’d like to know where he got these if he didn’t make them himself. And if he did make them . . .”
“Hasn’t been around in some time.”
“Do you think he was vacationing in the park? They might have a record of his name.”
“The man wasn’t vacationing, I can tell you that.”
“How do you know?”
“He looked like he was starving. Thin and pale, and weak on his legs. Sickly.”
“Didn’t you offer to get some help for him? If he was sick . . .”
“There’s people you just don’t mess with.” Calvin lifted one of the boxes. “And he was one of them.”
FORTY-TWO
Jon bumped into Eric Wilson as he arrived at the office, almost knocking him to the floor. He reached out a hand to steady him.
“Sorry.”
“Just on my way to the hospital to relieve Andy,” Eric said.
Jon nodded and went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
Notes from Earl. No sign of Nora Samuels, the Burroughs’ next of kin had been located and arrangements were being made to claim the bodies, the typed reports were in from the autopsies, and no new bodies were found.
Another note, from dispatch. Rachel Adams had called twice.
He looked at the note. Her home number was listed but it might be about one of the cases. He hesitated and then picked up the phone.
She answered on the second ring.
“Rachel, it’s Jon. I got your message.”
“Can you come over to the house?”
“Ah, I just came on duty, I’ve got some things to clear up here . . .”
“I had a visit from Louisa Tyler’s sister this afternoon. She had some interesting things to say.”
“Hm. I talked to the San Diego PD—probably more of the same.”
“But even more important, she called and talked to Susan at the hospital a little while later. She gave her the name of Wendall Tyler’s psychiatrist. And I just got off the phone with him.”
“It’ll be an hour.”
“That’s fine, I have a few things to do.”
He listened to her hang up the phone and slowly returned the receiver to the cradle.
Proximity.
Rachel opened the door to let him in and then began to pace, taking sips from a glass of amber liquid.
“I think I’m on to something,” she said and looked at him. “Want a drink?”
He shook his head no. “Talk.”
“Right. Wendall Tyler has been in trouble for most of his life . . . he’s been arrested a couple of times and gets turned loose. He begins to feel invincible, like he’s beyond the reach of the law . . .” she looked at him, “above prosecution. He has a vicious temper and never starts anything he isn’t sure that he can finish.”
“Until now.”
“Just listen. He’s had a rotten childhood, been a juvenile delinquent and an adult criminal. His in-laws think he’s a fortune hunter, and none of them will have anything to do with him. Now . . . there’s Louisa.”
“Louisa was too good for him.”
“Her family thought so, maybe Wendall thought so, but Louisa didn’t think so. She loved him. She chose him over her somewhat stuck up family. How does that make him feel?”
“You tell me.”
“He loves her. She stands by him every single time that he gets in trouble, she defies her family and she believes in him. She’s the only good thing in his life.”
“Go on.”
“He wouldn’t hurt her.” She stopped at the fireplace and finished her drink. “He would protect her. Remember, he thinks he is invincible. Now, they’re up here for a drive because Wendall likes to drive when he’s feeling pressured. They stop and get out of the car, maybe they’re a few yards apart. And someone attacks Louisa, snaps her neck right in front of his eyes—he can hear it crack.” She crossed over to the chair he was sitting in and sat on her heels in front of him. “And in one stroke he’s lost Louisa and the precious illusion of power.” Her voice was a whisper. “He wasn’t strong enough to protect the one person he truly loved.”
The silence lengthened and they held each other’s eyes, Rachel’s hand on his knee.
“Does the psychiatrist agree with your theory?”
“He agrees that Tyler had an Achilles complex, and that Louisa was his vulnerable spot.”
“You really don’t think he did it, do you?”
“No.”
“His temper . . .”
“. . . was never directed at his wife.”
“Did you talk with his psychiatrist about hypnotizing him?” Her hand was distractingly warm.
“He agrees it might work, although it would be very stressful for the patient.”
“Dangerous you mean.”
“There are always risks.”
“But are they justifiable?”
Rachel nodded. “I think they are. If I prepare him to re-live Louisa’s death and try to suggest that he give up his pain, it’s possible that he’ll be controllable.”
“Do you mean more than one session?”
“It will take several, I think, depending on his response. But he needs to work this out as much as we need to know what happened. It will be a relief for him to discharge everything that’s pent up inside him.”
“But it could explode.”
“Not if I . . .”
“Just give me a straight answer.”
“It’s almost impossible to predict how a given subject will react under hypnosis. Yes, he might become violent.”
“Then the only way that I’ll let you hypnotize him is if I’m in the room with you.”
“He is my patient,” she reminded him.
“And I can arrest him and take him out of the hospital.”
“You’re very good at imposing restrictions and conditions, aren’t you? First Nathan had to be there, and now you. If I wait much longer it’ll be so crowded in the room I’ll have to call it in.”
“Rachel, I’m not backing down. Either you agree to my terms right now or I’ll start making arrangements to have him transferred to a locked facility. This is murder we’re talking about.”
She put her hands up in surrender.
“You win.” She rose and turned in one graceful motion, walking back to the fireplace. “Might makes right, is that what they used to say?”
He got out of the chair and looked at her for a moment before extending his hand.
“Friends?”
She put her hand in his. “God knows, I’d hate to be your enemy.”
When he got back into town he was flagged down by Malloy, and he pulled the Bronco to the side of the road and got out.
“Not another one,” he said as Malloy came up to him.
“No, but something peculiar. I haven’t been able to raise Hudson over in Tower One in a couple of days. I didn’t think much of it at first, because we’re both in and out a lot.”
“But now it’s peculiar . . .”
“I drove on over this afternoon, had a look around. The tower was deserted, and wide open, which is against our policy. The jeep was parked, keys in the ignition, and I could tell by the moisture pattern on the soil that it hadn’t been moved in days.”
“He’s disappeared.”
“It sure looks that way.”
“It’s pretty rugged up there. Maybe he took a fall.”
“That could be, he’s in a much denser forest, and there are rock formations, cliffs, caves . . . I don’t know. Anyway, I
want to set up a search for him.”
“We’re still looking for that old woman who walked out of the hospital on Saturday. There are a lot of places we can be pretty sure they’re not.”
“There’s a lot of territory still to cover, though.” Off in the distance a dog barked and Malloy jumped, startled. “I’m kind of jumpy lately,” he said.
“With reason.” Jon swung the Bronco door open.
“It’s a funny thing. I’ve always liked the isolation and the solitude of working up here, and I never minded about the bears and the wildcats or anything else. But I’m scared at night, when I go to sleep. I lock the doors and sleep with my rifle in my hand. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m an intruder, and there’s something that wants me out.”
He drove along the back roads, his headlights off, relying on the faint moonlight and his night vision to keep him from straying.
The radio was static, unintelligible, the faint green light of the dials like a pair of eyes watching him. It hissed.
“You’re spooked,” he said to himself and pulled up at a turnout in the road.
He got out of the truck and walked a short distance away, one hand on his gun. Listening.
And on into the night, while the storm clouds gathered in the west.
FORTY-THREE
“Emma, what are you doing here?” Susan Donlevy said, looking up from her paperwork.
“I traded with Joyce—she had something going this evening.” Emma put her bag of needlework on the counter and slipped out of her coat. “It’s certainly cool tonight.”
“I know, it’s been chilly in here too. All those windows in the patient rooms—I had to close the shutters.”
“Well, it’ll warm up soon,” Emma held up a key. “I’ll turn up the heat.” She went back into the utility room where the controls were.
Susan followed her back and watched as she fiddled with the switches.
“I think we’re in for a summer storm,” Emma said, peering at the thermostat dial.
“And Nora’s out there in it.” Susan rubbed her arms. “All of the patients have been restive this evening, even Tyler.”
“You know, it’s a funny thing.” Emma paused, the adjustment forgotten. “There’s something about a summer storm in the mountains. The wind sort of whistles through the trees, and the sky looks close enough to touch and there’s something almost brutal in the rain. And the lightning . . .”
“Now you’re making me nervous. I hate thunder.”
Emma smiled. “It passes quickly. And if you’re not out in it, it’s really quite splendid,”
“I’d prefer to just sleep through it.” She gathered up her belongings. “I just hope I get home before it breaks.”
“Oh you will, it’s still off in the west. It’ll be daybreak before it starts.”
It had been a long time since Emma had worked the night shift and it took a bit of getting used to. The halls were dark, with every third fixture lit, and the soft background music was off. Everything was locked up, the phone was silent and there was no one to talk to.
For a while she worked on her embroidery—flowered pillowcases to match her flowered sheets and towels. There were few items in her home that weren’t flowered. Tablecloths and napkins, dishtowels and potholders.
Then there was her knitting, and her crocheting, and the quilts and patchwork. Collages on the walls and lately she’d been thinking about pottery. Or maybe stained glass.
Emma Sutter did not believe in idle hands. Or idle minds.
Still, it was an effort to keep finding things to do or make. The linen closet was bulging at the seams, full to overflowing with her handiwork. She gave gifts for every conceivable occasion, and pushed the point once or twice. The grandchildren were covered in sweaters, caps and mittens. She was nearing total saturation.
She sighed and put the needle through the material, laying the hoop on the counter. Thousands of roses and daisies and violets.
She went to the medicine cabinet to fix the medication tray, wondering if there was any way to do small watercolor pictures on the tiny paper cups. A whole new art form.
Franklin Dunn was awake when she came into his room and she smiled sympathetically at him.
“How are you feeling,” she whispered, setting the tray on his bedside table and picking up his paper cup. She handed it to him and poured a glass of water from the insulated decanter.
“Like a fool.” He accepted the water and took the pill.
“Nonsense.” She watched him crush the little pill cup. “It was an accident, I’m sure.”
“How does one accidentally attempt suicide?”
“An impulse?”
“After being an attorney for so many years, I no longer have impulses . . . they’re too dangerous.”
“Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it’s over.” She patted his hand.
“The way you’re keeping me drugged, I’m sure I couldn’t harm a fly.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Where is Nathan, anyway? I thought he would be in to see me . . . or is it worse than I thought, and he’s been here while I’ve been in a drugged stupor?”
“His niece actually got him to take a day off.” Emma fussed around the bed, straightening the covers.
“Good for her.” He paused. “When do you think I might get out of here?”
“When you’re better.”
“Then what?”
“Save your cross-examination for the doctors. I’m only the nurse . . .”
“Huh, and Patton was only a soldier.” He crossed his arms in front of him, looking like a spoiled child.
“Goodnight,” she said and closed the door.
The deputy was asleep in a chair at the back of Wendall Tyler’s room, and she tip-toed in but he started and opened his eyes, sitting upright.
“Sorry,” she said. “Mr. Tyler’s medication.” She held up a syringe.
“Go ahead.” He settled back comfortably in the chair.
She gave the injection intramuscularly, jabbing the needle deep into his hip. The patient did not move.
“Really out of it, isn’t he?” the deputy asked.
“Yes.” She looked at him. “Eric Wilson, isn’t it?”
“I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I’m not as old as I look,” she said dryly. She gestured at the patient. “You’re getting paid to keep an eye on him? The man doesn’t move half an inch a day.”
“He might be dangerous.”
She snorted. “In that case there ought to be two of you, ‘cause you don’t look like you could handle him.”
Wilson patted the gun on his hip. “There are ways to handle trouble.”
“Or start it.” She hustled out the door.
Amanda Frey was as still as death when Emma looked into the room so she closed the door gently and went along the hall. Nelson was sleeping but the other flu case, Brown, complained of nausea and after checking his chart she gave him his pm Donnatol.
At four a.m. she started vitals and when she got to Amanda’s room she noticed a thin line of dried blood running from the corner of her left eye. She wiped it off, thinking that it must have spattered from the IV, and thought no more of it.
Monday
FORTY-FOUR
They began to arrive in the emergency room shortly after six a.m., even as the storm swept in. By the time Emma had the first group situated in the examining rooms, another wave descended. She put in a hurried call to Rachel Adams and then rolled up her sleeves and went back to work.
Their complaints were identical: elevated temperature, nausea and vomiting and severe headaches. She handed out all of the emesis basins that she had on hand and then had no choice but to let them puke into reasonably clean bedpans. The sound of retching drifted down the halls.
Rachel arrived at six-forty and even forewarned she was surprised at the numbers.
“I’ve had to open the west wing,” Emma said. “I’ve got them two to eac
h examining room, and three in each patient room. I’ve kept them out of the east wing because I didn’t want to expose the other patients.”
“Good work.” Rachel hung her coat over a chair and put on a lab coat.
“Some of them are so sick they can’t sit up to vomit—they just lie on their sides and try to hit the pans on the floor.”
“We’ll just have to set up an assembly line treatment, starting with the sickest. I hope we have lots of disposable syringes, and Vistaril and Atropine.”
“Buckets are what we need,” Emma said and was off.
Rachel rapidly established a routine; physical examination, a short history where possible and administration of appropriate medication. After the first four or five patients, she could supply the history herself; sudden onset of severe headache, including dizziness and some visual distortion, and intolerance of bright light. Stomach cramping and nausea followed by forceful episodes of vomiting. Elevated temperature not responsive to aspirin. Generalized weakness and muscular aches. Most had woken from a sound sleep feeling a general malaise which accelerated to misery when they got out of bed.
The sickest among the twenty-two victims were elderly and, as Emma had said, lay inert, eyes begging for relief, vomiting every few minutes.
She was almost finished with the preliminary exams when she heard more arriving.
Joyce Callan arrived at ten minutes after seven and didn’t ask any questions, just began taking care of the people, working alongside Emma.
“How are the in-patients?” she asked after a minute, finished filling a line of syringes with Atropine.
“Gussy’s here,” Emma said, referring to the aide who assisted on days. “She’ll be all right for a while. What we really need is more basins for these patients.”
“Wastebaskets?”
“I’ve got what I could find. We can’t strip all of the patient rooms . . . we’re going to be admitting a few of these people.”
“Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.” She held her hand out. “Give me the keys.”
Emma handed her the key ring and watched her run off down the hall.
In a moment she was back with six gold-colored plastic buckets. “Voila.” She distributed them to the new arrivals.
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