Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  Rousing himself, the young physician scowled at Eleanor. “My attending? You mean, Dr. Chen? Hell, up till last week she was a goddam intern.”

  “Staff’s stretched pretty thin, Doctor.” I smiled. “Lots of activity tonight. You know that better than anyone. Low-risk patients like you and me aren’t a top priority.”

  He didn’t appreciate my attempt at solidarity. He sighed dramatically, then sat back against his pillow. I had to admit, Holloway didn’t look good. Skin pale, almost translucent. Slight anxiety tic under his left eye. He was physically and emotionally exhausted. It was evident—at least to me—that his ordeal with Roarke had taken a huge toll.

  I also speculated that, given his solid, muscular build and relative youth, his friends and colleagues would probably underestimate its traumatic effects. They’d assume that Holloway would have little trouble coping, and “moving on.” In fact, all too soon, they’d insist upon it.

  Under different circumstances, I thought, I’d probably offer him my card. Which I suspected he’d refuse.

  Polk stirred unhappily in his chair.

  “Much as I’m enjoyin’ this get-together, I’d like to get some kind of statement from the doc here. Before he tranks out on meds and starts forgettin’ those pesky little details that make doin’ our jobs even half-way possible. If nobody minds.”

  He raised an eyebrow at Lowrey, who nodded and leaned in closer to Holloway. Gave him a brief but warm smile.

  I’d asked that the overheads be shut off, to spare both Holloway and myself the inevitable headaches our injuries often created. So the room was lit only by small table lamps on either side of the bed. A similar tableau to that which I’d come upon in Treva’s room in the ICU.

  The overall effect was of an intimate, unofficial meeting. Less an interview than a conversation. Which was also something I’d hoped to accomplish, though I hadn’t mentioned this notion to Polk and Lowrey.

  My reading of Holloway was that a strictly by-the-book, authoritative approach would meet with greater resistance from the young doctor. I guessed that he prided himself on his independence. On being a maverick. After all, he didn’t wear that pony tail for nothing.

  “I know you’re in a lot of pain, Dr. Holloway,” Eleanor began, her voice soothing. “But we really need to hear your version of events. Get a sense of this guy’s moves. The sooner the better, if we’re gonna catch him.”

  Smart approach, I thought. We need you, she was saying. As a prime eyewitness to what happened, you’re the authority figure, not us.

  “Yeah, okay.” Holloway sniffed. “Probably be good to lay it all out now, while it’s still fresh in my mind. While I can still feel that bastard’s gun in my ribs.”

  He sat up again, hands gripping the bed rails as though to launch himself into his story.

  “I shoulda known something weird was going to happen. I mean, I could feel it. ICU was too quiet.”

  “Is that because the two other patients had been removed from their rooms?” I asked.

  “Yeah. One had died, and the other was upgraded to stable and taken to the regular patient wing. She’s just down the hall from us, matter of fact. So like I said, it was suddenly pretty quiet up there. Just the night nurse, at her station at the other end of the corridor. And me with Treva Williams, in her room. I’d just gotten there to check up on her. Update her chart.”

  Eleanor cut in. “Where was Detective Robertson?”

  “Where he usually was, standing outside the door. Treva was awake and responsive, so I informed Robertson that it was okay if you guys wanted to talk to her.”

  “Right. That’s when Robertson called me. But he also said Ms. Williams insisted that I not be present for the questioning.”

  Holloway shrugged. “Hey, I just told Robertson what Treva said to me. She was adamant about it.”

  I glanced over at Eleanor. Saw the pain in her eyes. I quickly spoke up.

  “What happened next?”

  Holloway turned to me. “Right after that, the night nurse went to take her break. Then Robertson pokes his head into the room and says ‘Why don’t I give you two some privacy?’ and goes down to the nurse’s station.”

  Polk clucked his tongue. “To sit in her chair. Take a load off.”

  Holloway gave a half-smile, the most he could manage under the bandage. “Hell, it was fine with me. Guy’s a big waste of space, in my opinion. Treva and I were both laughing about it. ’cause you could hear Robertson snoring all the way down the hall.”

  “That’s when Roarke saw his chance,” I said. “He must have come up from where he’d hidden downstairs, in the morgue. Then he waits behind the access door.”

  “That’s the way we see it, too.” Polk leaned forward. “Especially since there’s an electrical panel right inside that door. Controls the juice for the whole floor. He musta praised Jesus when he saw it there. Givin’ him an added edge.” He laughed. “Guy’s not just smart. He’s lucky.”

  “Whatever,” Holloway said flatly. “Anyway, all of a sudden the lights go out. Treva becomes upset, so I try to calm her. I also call out to Robertson. Tell him to get a hold of maintenance. We’ve got a short or something. Next thing I know, I see a guy standing in the doorway to the room. Can’t make him out in the darkness, but I could tell he was big. Treva sees him, too, and starts screaming.”

  Holloway paused, drew a hand tentatively up to touch his jaw. All the talking was probably taking its toll.

  “So Robertson comes running down the hall. But by then, the big guy is out of sight. Robertson appears in the doorway, peering in at Treva and me. Then suddenly the big guy steps in and hits him from behind. Robertson drops like a stone. And I knew right then I was fucked.”

  I looked past Holloway at Polk and Lowrey. “Roarke needed two things: a doctor to tend to his wound, and a hostage to force him to do it. Just in case the doc was resistant.”

  Holloway gave a short, bitter laugh. “He didn’t need to worry. He had me at ‘Hello…I’ve got a gun.’”

  His laugh turned into a spasmodic cough. Eleanor reached and touched his shoulder. He waved her away.

  “Let me finish the damn story. Since apparently I’m not getting juiced with happy pills any time soon.”

  Eleanor rose. “I’ll go check up on that, okay?” Then she left the room.

  Holloway took a long breath. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah. After taking care of Robertson, Roarke comes over to Treva’s bed. He’s bleeding all over the floor from his wound. Treva sees this and goes white. Like she’s about to faint. Roarke doesn’t care, just puts his gun to her head. Then he turns to me, says he’ll kill her unless I go with them to an empty OR and fix him up. Believe me, I wasn’t going to argue. So off we go, through the access door and down to the OR bay.”

  “Was Treva conscious?” I asked.

  “Just barely. Roarke has to drag her by the arm, keeping her upright, with one eye on me the whole time.”

  He paused, swallowed. “Once we’re in the OR, he ties Treva up and plants her in a corner. Then he gets up on the surgical table, and I help him off with his shirt. His arm’s a goddam mess. I tell him he’ll need a general anesthetic, but he says no, just a local. He needs to be awake to watch me. So I give him a shot and go to work.”

  Holloway narrowed his eyes at me. “Not long after that, you joined the party.”

  “I assume he heard me coming down the hall.”

  “Yeah. Soon as does, he gets off the table. Says, ‘Not a word or everybody dies.’ Then he hobbles over to the door, waits just inside for you to come in. Then he takes a divot out of the back of your head.”

  “I remember. I was there.”

  Holloway smiled coolly. “After that, he ties you up, climbs up on the table again and I go back to work. Just your average meatball surgery, with a loaded gun in my ribs. Under the circumstances, I think I did a pretty good job on that arm.”

  “That’s swell,” Polk grumbled. “Maybe they’ll give you a raise.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t want a raise. I just want my meds, and a couple sick days. I need a break from this place.”

  As if on cue, Eleanor entered with a young Asian woman. Slim, with wire-rim glasses. Dr. Chen, I presumed.

  Holloway screwed his face up at her.

  “What do you have for me, Harriet?”

  “Percodan. As requested.” She stepped over to his bedside and handed him a paper cup. Rattled the pills inside. “Though I’m starting to feel like a drug dealer.”

  He gave her a smug grin. “You work in a hospital, Harriet. Get used to it.”

  Holloway threw back the pills and reached for a water glass on the bedside table. Sank back against his pillow with a satisfied smile.

  Polk gave me a caustic look, which I returned with a shrug. Then Eleanor turned to Dr. Chen.

  “What about Treva Williams? May we talk to her?”

  “Not till tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. She’s been sedated. Shows symptoms of shock. Disorientation. We’ll need that long to be able to assess her properly.”

  I stepped forward. “I’d like to be here when you do.”

  I offered my hand. “Dr. Daniel Rinaldi.”

  “Yes, Doctor. She was barely coherent, but she did ask about you. And said that she wanted to talk to you.”

  Polk noisily cleared his throat. “Not without a cop in the room. In case she has something important to tell us.”

  Dr. Chen folded her arms across her hospital greens.

  “As long as it’s not before two or three PM.”

  Eleanor looked at her watch. “It’s past one AM now.”

  “After what she’s been through,” I said, “I guess Treva’s entitled to twenty-four hours of peace and quiet.”

  “Fine with me.” Polk hauled himself out of his chair and poked me in the chest with a stubby forefinger. “I’ll meet you here at three tomorrow, okay?”

  “Three PM. Got it.”

  But I wasn’t thinking about Treva just then.

  With Polk’s face so close to mine, I got a good look at the rheumy film in his eyes. Smelled the alcohol on his breath. On his clothes. And remembered how worried Eleanor had been earlier tonight. About Harry.

  It wasn’t just that Harry seemed to be off his game. Something else was going on.

  Like his partner, Harry Polk was harboring a secret. But unlike Eleanor’s, I didn’t know what it was.

  As he shuffled out of the room, I wondered if I’d ever find out.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was nearing two AM as I drove the Mustang up the hill toward Mt. Washington and home. Ornette Coleman’s lulling sax pillowed my ears, drew my mind away from its turbulent thoughts. The chaos of that long, long day.

  The night had cooled, gleaming black and cloudless, and I had the windows open. Grateful for air that didn’t feel super-heated, thick, torpid.

  I wasn’t alone. The few other cars I saw had their windows open, too. As did the modest homes I passed when I turned onto Grandview. My street. I could see a few folks sitting by those open windows. Reading. Watching TV. Holding a cold glass up to their foreheads. In the heat of a Pittsburgh summer, it wasn’t surprising that most people became temporarily nocturnal.

  I’d just pulled into my driveway when my cell rang. I checked the display. Angie Villanova. At this hour?

  “Hey, Angie. You know what time it is?”

  “Tell me about it.” Her throaty laugh pinged off the cell’s thin speaker. “Sonny’s havin’ a fit, lyin’ here next to me tryin’ to sleep. Fuck him. This is business.”

  “Police business?”

  “Is there any other kind? I’m the Community Liaison Officer, right? So this is me liasoning, if that’s a word. Anyway, we need you to clear your schedule for the rest of the week. Reschedule your patients.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’re a police consultant, which means you draw a salary from the city. Which means we get to make requests like this once in a while.”

  “But you still haven’t told me why.”

  “Treva Williams, for one thing. The detectives workin’ the case say she’s formed a real bond with you. Trusts you. As the sole surviving hostage, we need her help. So we need your help to keep her from freakin’ out on us.”

  “This is coming from Biegler?”

  “Don’t think so small, Danny boy. Sinclair himself called me. And told me the mayor called him. Remember, you’re still considered a real PR asset to the department. Though I’ve always thought you were over-rated.”

  Again, that throaty laugh came through the phone.

  “Love you, too, Angie. Truth is, I was thinking along those same lines myself. About cancelling my next few days. I’ve got a funeral to go to, as well as another session scheduled with Treva and the cops. Plus anything else the department may need from me.”

  “Then we’re all on the same page. Thank God for small favors. So. Now that we’ve conducted our official business, how ’bout some unofficial gossip?”

  “Do I even want to hear this?”

  “I’m bettin’ you do. You know that sedan Roarke stole from the hospital parking lot?”

  “The one he ditched at the construction site. I heard it’s Biegler’s unmarked.”

  “That’s right. So they bring it back to impound and CSU’s all over it. Meanwhile, Biegler’s spittin’ nails, he’s so mad. He’d just had the motor pool detail it for him. Like new, they made it. Now it’s all banged up, windows smashed, whatever. The only good news is that it was cleaned so recently, all the prints are brand new.”

  “Roarke’s, I assume. And Biegler’s. Right?”

  “Now here’s where it gets interesting. There’s one other set of prints. Perfect match for ones we already got in the system. Guess whose?”

  “Biegler’s wife?”

  “He wishes. Prints belong to a hooker named LaWanda Collins. Real street veteran. They call her the Golden Tongue. Very cop-friendly, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Jesus. Are you telling me that Biegler was stupid enough to pick up a hooker in his unmarked?”

  “Yeah, probably to take her for a soda. One can only speculate. Maybe he figured she’d be impressed by what a nice clean car he drives.”

  I looked out at the night through my windshield. The story almost made me feel sorry for Stu Biegler. It was embarrassing enough that a police lieutenant would leave his car unlocked and the keys in the ignition. Now this?

  “How’s Biegler dealing with it?”

  “How do you think? Word is, he’s trying to bury it. Lose the CSU report. Wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to bribe the techs.”

  “Well, he’s screwed if gets back to the chief.”

  “Not as screwed as he’ll be if it gets back to his wife.”

  ***

  I got out of the car and unlocked the front door of my small, split-level house overlooking the Point. The timer had turned on the living room lamps, so I walked in and out of the shadowed spaces in between and entered the bedroom.

  Then the bathroom. Then, after a long, hot shower, I changed into shorts and a Pitt t-shirt and went back to the living room.

  I poured myself a Jack Daniels, neat, and pulled up a chair at the roll top desk. Looked sleepily at the blinking light on the land-line answering machine. And didn’t move a muscle.

  It wouldn’t be a patient. They only had my office number. Some worried friends or colleagues, maybe? Because I knew enough from my experiences last year that a case of this size would be all over the news. And that I’d be mentioned. A lot.

  Because somehow, without seeking it, I’d once again gotten involved in a major police investigation.

  I took a sip of my drink, recalling something that Harry Polk had said. That my only job was to head-shrink the crime victims sent to me by the department. And that’s all I’d been doing this past year, ever since the Wingfield case. Seeing patients. Helping them cope with whatever horrors they’d endured. Dutifully filing follow-up reports to Angie
Villanova. And staying out of trouble myself.

  Until now.

  I downed my drink, got up and poured another, then came back and sat down. Pushed the button on the answering machine.

  The first message was from Noah Frye. In his typical roundabout, fragmented way, he apologized for hanging up on me earlier. The bar had gotten busy, Charlene was busting his balls, etc.

  Bullshit, I thought. We’d been talking about Andy the Android. His suicide. And Noah had grown increasingly upset about it. Understandably, given Noah’s own history. I just hoped that what happened to Andy didn’t derail the progress Noah had been making lately.

  I rubbed my eyes, and made a mental note to confirm with Charlene that Noah stayed committed to taking his meds. Then, swallowing the rest of my drink, I listened to the second message.

  The caller was Brian Fletcher. Though it took me a moment to place the name. Leland Sinclair’s campaign manager. The slick guy with the gold cufflinks I’d met in Sinclair’s downtown office.

  Christ, I thought. Seemed like a year ago, yet it was only fourteen hours.

  I hit replay and listened more closely this time. Fletcher was reminding me about the big fundraiser at the Burgoyne Plaza tomorrow night. Or, to be accurate, since it was three in the morning, later tonight.

  “Lee will expect you there at seven. Black tie. No attitude. Okay, buddy?”

  I looked down at the answering machine. “Gotcha,” I said aloud. “Buddy.”

  By now, I could barely keep my eyes open, so I went into the kitchen, put the glass in the sink and the Jack Daniels in the liquor cabinet and went to bed.

  Before I let myself crash, however, I used the TV remote to find the local CNN affiliate. As I expected, the manhunt for Roarke was the lead story. The assistant chief, face pinched and haggard, spoke to a row of microphones, detailing the extent and breadth of the search. Including putting security personnel on special alert at the airport, train stations and the central bus terminal. And how this was all being coordinated in conjunction with the FBI.