“Thursday’s child,” the nurse said, checking the clock. “Far to go.”
It was after midnight when Laura was in her room on the hospital’s second-floor maternity ward. She was drained and energized at the same time, and her body wanted to sleep but her mind wanted to replay the drama of birth again and again. She dialed her home number, her hand trembling.
“Hello, you’ve reached the residence of Douglas and Laura Clayborne. Please leave a message at the tone, and thank you for calling.”
Beep.
Words abandoned her. She struggled to speak before the machine’s timer clicked off. Doug wasn’t home. He was still at the Hillandale Apartments, still with his girlfriend.
The end, she thought.
“I’m at the hospital,” Laura forced out. And had to say it: “With David. He’s eight pounds, two ounces.”
Click: the machine, turning a deaf ear.
Laura, hollowed out, lay on the bed and thought about the future. It was a dangerous place, but it had David in it and so it would be bearable. If that future held Doug or not, she didn’t know. She clasped her hands to her empty belly, and she finally drifted away to sleep in the hospital’s peaceful womb.
5
Gaunt Old Dude
THE VOICE OF GOD WAS SINGING IN MARY TERROR’s at thirty-three and a third revolutions per minute. She was sitting on the bed, using a dark blue marker on the white size extra-large uniform she’d rented from Costumes Atlanta on Friday afternoon. The uniforms of the nurses on the maternity ward at St. James had dark blue piping around the collars and the breast pockets, and their hats were trimmed with dark blue. This uniform had snaps instead of buttons, as the real uniforms did, but it was all she could find in her size.
It was near seven o’clock on Saturday morning. The wind had picked up outside, scudding gray clouds over the city. The third of February, Mary thought: fifteen days until her meeting at the weeping lady. She was patient and careful at her work, making sure the ink didn’t run or smear. She had a jar of white-out nearby in case of mistakes, but her hand was steady. On the table beside her bed was a dark blue plastic name tag with white letters: JANETTE LEISTER, in memory of two fallen comrades. She had gotten it from a place in Norcross that made plastic tags and novelties “While U Wait.” It was the same colors as the name tags the nurses at St. James wore. Her white shoes—size 10EE— had also come from the costume rental, and she’d bought white stockings at Rich’s department store.
She’d gone to the hospital yesterday, changing from her Burger King uniform after work and putting on jeans and a sweater under a baggy windbreaker. Had taken the elevator up to the maternity ward and walked around. Had gone to the big glass window to look at the babies, and she’d been very careful not to make eye contact with any of the nurses but she’d made mental notes of the dark blue piping on the white uniforms, the white-on-blue plastic name tags, and the fact that the elevator opened right onto the nurses’ station. There had been no security people in sight on the maternity ward, but Mary had seen a pig with a walkie-talkie in the lobby and another one strolling around in the parking deck. Which meant that the parking deck was a scrub; she’d have to find another place to leave her truck, close enough to walk to and from the hospital. Mary had checked out the stairwells, finding one at either end of the long maternity ward corridor. The one on the building’s south wing was next to a supply room, which could make for an unpleasant confrontation; the one on the north wing would have to do. A problem here, though: a sign on the stairwell door said FIRE ESCAPE, ALARM WILL SOUND IF OPENED. She couldn’t check out where the stairwell led to, so she had no idea where she would come out. She didn’t like that, and it was enough to call the whole thing a scrub until she saw an orderly pop the very same door open with the flat of his hand and walk through. There wasn’t a peep. So was the alarm turned off at some times of the day, was the sign a phony, or was there some way to cheat the alarm? Maybe they’d had trouble with it going off, and they’d shut it down. Was it worth the risk?
She’d decided to think about it. As she looked through the window at the babies, some sleeping and some crying soundlessly, Mary knew she could not take a child from this room because it was too close—twenty paces—to the nurses’ station. Some of the perambulators were empty, though they were still tagged: the babies were in the rooms with their mothers. The corridor took a curve between the nurses’ station and the north stairwell, and on almost every door there was a pink or blue ribbon. The last four doors next to the stairwell were promising: three of the four ribbons were blue. If a nurse went into one of those rooms and found a baby with his mother, what reason might she have for going in? Time to feed the baby. No, the mother would know the feeding times, and what were breasts for? Just need to check the baby for a minute. No, the mother would want something more specific. Time to weigh the baby.
Yes. That would work.
Mary walked to the north stairwell door and back to where the corridor curved again. A woman’s laughter trailed from one of the rooms. A baby was crying in another one. She noted the numbers of the three rooms with the blue ribbons: 21, 23, and 24. The door to 21 suddenly opened, and a man walked out. Mary turned away quickly and strode to a nearby water fountain. She watched the man walk in the opposite direction, toward the nurses’ station; he had sandy-brown hair, and he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a dark blue sweater. Polished black wingtips on his feet. Rich bastard, father of a rich kid, she thought as she took a sip of water and listened to his shoes click on the linoleum. Then she walked back to the stairwell’s door and looked at the warning sign. She would have to know where this led if she was going to do it, because she couldn’t come up in the elevator. There was no choice.
Mary popped the door open with the flat of her hand, as the orderly had done. No alarm sounded. She saw black electrical tape holding down the doors latch, and she knew somebody had decided it was better to cheat the alarm than wait for the elevator. It was a good sign, she thought. She stepped into the stairwell and closed the door behind her.
She started down. The next door had a big red one on it. The stairwell continued down, and Mary followed it. At the bottom of the stairwell the door was unmarked. Through its glass inset, Mary could see a corridor with white walls. She opened it, slowly and carefully. Again there was no alarm and no sign of warning on the other side. She walked along the hallway, her senses questing. At a crossing of corridors, a sign pointed to different destinations: ELEVATORS, LAUNDRY, and MAINTENANCE. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and pipes clung to the ceiling. Mary kept going, in the direction of the laundry. In another moment she heard someone humming, and then a husky black man with close-cropped white hair came around the corner, wheeling a mop in a bucket-and-wringer attachment. He wore a gray uniform that identified him as a member of the hospital’s maintenance crew. Mary instantly put a mask on her face: a tightening of features, a coolness of the eyes. The mask said she was where she was supposed to be, and she had some authority. Surely a maintenance man wouldn’t know everyone who worked in the hospital. His humming stopped. He was looking at her as they neared each other. Mary smiled slightly, said, “Excuse me,” and walked past him as if she were in a hurry to get somewhere—but not too much of a hurry.
“Yes’m,” the maintenance man answered, drawing his bucket out of her path. As she walked on around the corner she heard him start humming again.
Another good sign, she thought as the tension eased from her face. She had learned long ago that you could get into a lot of places you weren’t supposed to be if you stared straight ahead and kept going, and if you masked yourself in an aura of authority. In a place this big, there were a lot of chiefs and the Indians were more concerned with the work at hand.
She came upon an area where there were several laundry hampers standing about. The voices of women neared her. Mary figured one woman alone might not ask questions, but someone in a group possibly would. She stepped around another corner and wai
ted, pressed against a door, until the voices had gone. Then she went on, concentrating on her path and how to get back to the stairwell. She passed through a room full of steam presses, washers, and dryers. Three black women were working there, folding linens on a long table, and as they worked they were talking and laughing over the thumping noise of laboring washing machines. Their backs were to Mary, who moved past them with a fast, powerful stride. She came to another door, opened it without hesitation, and found herself standing on a loading dock at the rear of St. James Hospital, two panel trucks pulled up close and a couple of handcarts left untended.
When she closed the door behind her, she heard the click of a lock. A sign read PRESS BUZZER FOR ADMITTANCE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She looked at the buzzer’s white button beside the door grip. There was a dirty thumbprint on it. Then she walked down a set of concrete steps to the pavement, and she began the long trek around to the parking deck, her gaze alert for security guards.
Joy sang in her heart.
It could be done.
As she worked on the uniform, Mary began to think about her pickup truck. It was fine for around here, but it wasn’t going to do for a long trip. She needed something she could pull onto a side road and sleep in. A van of some kind would do. She could find a van at one of the used car dealers and trade her pickup for it. But she’d need money, too, because the trade surely wouldn’t be even-steven. She could sell one of her guns, maybe. No, she didn’t have papers on any of them. Would Gordie buy the Magnum from her? Damn, she hadn’t given any thought to money before. She had a little over three hundred dollars in the bank, and a hundred more stashed around the apartment. That wasn’t enough to last her very long on the road, not with a van needing gas and a baby needing food and diapers.
She got up and went to the bedroom closet. She opened it and brought out the boy-sized Buckaroo rifle and telescopic sight she’d taken from Cory Peterson. Maybe she could get a hundred dollars for this, she thought. Seventy would be all right. Gordie might buy this and the Magnum. No, better keep the Magnum; it was a good concealment weapon. He might buy the sawed-off shotgun, though.
As Mary returned to the bed, she caught sight of a figure walking out on the highway in the dim gray light. Shecklett was wearing an overcoat that blew around him in the wind, and he was picking up crushed aluminum cans and putting them into a garbage bag. She knew his routine. He’d be out there for a couple of hours, and then he’d come in and cough his head off on the other side of the wall.
Ought to be ashamed, living like you do with all that money you’ve saved.
Paula had said that. In the letter Mary had taken from Shecklett’s trash and taped together.
All that money you’ve saved.
Mary watched Shecklett pick up a can, walk a few paces, pick up a can. A truck rushed past, and Shecklett staggered in its cyclone. He fought the garbage bag, and then he picked up another can.
All that money.
Well, it would be in a bank, of course. Wouldn’t it? Or was the old man the type who didn’t trust banks? Maybe kept money stuffed in his mattress, or in shoeboxes tied up with rubber bands? She watched him for a while longer, her mind turning over the possibility like an interesting insect pulled from underneath a rock. Shecklett never had any visitors, and Paula—his daughter, Mary supposed—must live in another state. If something were to happen to him, it might be a long time before anyone found him. She could easily do it, and she didn’t plan on sticking around very long after she took the baby. Okay.
Mary walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer and got a knife with a sharp, serrated blade. A knife used for gutting fish, she thought. She laid it on the countertop, and then she returned to the bedroom and the work on the nurse’s uniform.
She was long finished with the job by the time she heard Shecklett coughing as he passed her door. Aluminum cans clanked together; he was carrying the garbage bag. Mary stood at her door, dressed in jeans, a brown sweater, her windbreaker, and a woolen cap. She listened for the clicking of Shecklett’s keys as he slid the right one into his door. Then she went out into the cold, her .38 gripped in her right hand and the knife slipped down in her waistband under the windbreaker.
Shecklett was a gaunt man with a pockmarked face, his white hair wild and windblown, and his skin cracked like old leather. Shecklett barely had time to register the fact that someone was beside him before he felt the gun’s barrel press against his skull. “Inside,” Mary told him, and she guided him through the open door and slid the key out of the lock. Then she picked up the garbage bag full of cans and brought that in, too, as Shecklett stared at her in shock, his pale blue eyes red-rimmed with the chill.
Mary closed the door and turned the latch. “Kneel,” she told him.
“Listen…listen…wait, okay? Is this a joke?”
“Kneel. On the floor. Do it.”
Shecklett paused, and Mary judged whether to kick him in the kneecap or not. Then Shecklett swallowed, his big Adam’s apple bulging, and he knelt on the thin brown carpet in the cramped little room. “Hands behind your head,” Mary ordered. “Now!”
Shecklett did it. Mary could smell the fear coming out of the old man’s skin, what smelled like a mixture of beer and ammonia. The window’s curtains were already drawn. Mary switched on a lamp atop the TV. The room was a dreary rat’s nest, newspapers and magazines lying in stacks, TV dinner trays strewn about, and clothes left where they’d been dropped. Shecklett trembled and had a coughing fit, and he put his hands to his mouth but Mary pressed the Colt’s barrel against his forehead until he laced his fingers behind his head again.
She stepped away from him and glanced quickly at her wristwatch. Nine-oh-seven. She was going to have to get this done fast so she could find a good deal on a van before she changed to the uniform and made the drive to St. James.
“So I called the cops. So what?” Shecklett’s voice shook. “You’d have done the same thing if you heard somebody hollerin’ next door. It wasn’t nothin’ personal. I won’t do it again. Swear to God. Okay?”
“You’ve got money,” Mary said flatly. “Where is it?”
“Money? I don’t have money! I’m poor, I swear to God!”
She eased back the Colt’s hammer, the gun aimed into Shecklett’s face.
“Listen…wait a minute…what’s this all about, huh? Tell me what it’s all about and maybe I can help you.”
“You’ve got money hidden here. Where?”
“I don’t! Look at this place! You think I’ve got any money?”
“Paula says you do,” Mary told him.
“Paula?” Shecklett’s face bleached gray. “What’s Paula got to do with this? Jesus, I never hurt you, did I?”
Mary was tired of wasting time. She took a breath, lifted the Colt, and brought it down in a savage arc across Shecklett’s face. He cried out and pitched onto his side, his body shuddering as the pain racked him. Mary knelt down beside him and put the gun to his pulsing temple. “Shit time is over,” she said. “Give me your money. Got it?”
“Wait…wait…oh, you busted my face…wait…”
She grasped him by the hair and hauled him up to his knees again. His nose had been broken. The ruptured capillaries were turning dark purple, and blood rushed from his nostrils. Tears were trickling down Shecklett’s wrinkled cheeks. “Next time I’ll knock out your teeth,” Mary said. “I want your money. The longer you screw around, the more pain I’m going to give you.”
Shecklett blinked up at her, his eyes beginning to swell. “Oh God…please…please…” Mary lifted the Colt again to hit him in the mouth, and the old man flinched and whined. “No! Please! In the dresser! Top drawer, in my socks! That’s everything I’ve got!”
“Show me.” Mary stood up, backed away, and held the gun steady as Shecklett staggered up. She followed right behind him as he went through a hallway into the bedroom, which looked like a tornado had recently roared through. The bed had no sheets. On the walls hung yellowed, framed black-
and-whites of a young Shecklett with a dark-haired, attractive woman. There was a picture atop the dresser of Shecklett wearing a tasseled fez and standing amid a group of smiling, paunchy Shriners. “Open the drawer,” Mary said, her insides as tight as a crushed spring. “Easy, easy.”
Shecklett opened it in fearful slow motion, blood dripping from his nose. He started to reach in, and Mary stepped forward and pressed the gun’s barrel against his head. She looked into the drawer, saw nothing but boxer shorts and rolled-up socks. “I don’t see any money.”
“It’s there. Right there.” He touched one of the rolled-up socks. “Don’t hurt me anymore, okay? I’ve got a bad heart.”
Mary picked up the wad of socks he’d indicated. She closed the drawer and gave the socks back to him. “Show me.”
Shecklett unwadded them, his hands trembling. Inside the socks was a roll of money. He held it up for her to see, and she said, “Count it.”
He began. There were two hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, six twenties, four tens, five fives, and eight dollar bills. A total of five hundred and forty-three dollars. Mary snatched the cash from his hand. “That’s not all of it,” she said. “Where’s the rest?”
Shecklett held his hand to his nose, his puffed eyes shiny with fear. “That’s all. My social security. That’s all I’ve got in the world.”
The lying bastard! she thought, and she almost smacked him across the face again but she needed him conscious. “Stand back,” she told him. When he obeyed, she pulled the dresser drawers out one after the other and dumped their contents onto the bed. In a couple of minutes it was all over; the pile contained Shecklett’s T-shirts, sweaters, copies of Cavalier, Nugget, and National Geographic, handkerchiefs, a full bottle of J. W. Dant and one half killed, and other odds and ends of a solitary life but no money to speak of except for the errant few quarters, dimes, and pennies.
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