HALLOWEEN: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre

by Paula Guran [editor]

  Doctor Spink looked up from the open laptop on her desk. “Oh. To you, too, Samson.” She had iron-gray hair cut like a shining steel helmet, and wore scrubs the color of slate; at fifty-six she was considered the doyen of the ER. “It’s going to be you and Flanders tonight.”

  “I saw on the assignment board,” he said. “She here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen her. She usually rides in with Annamarie—”

  He interrupted her. “—Smith. They aren’t here yet.”

  “Huh!” said Spink, surprised. “They usually call in if they’re going to be late.” She looked at the file-folders sitting on the shelf next to her right elbow. “You want to sit?”

  “Sure,” he said, and plunked himself down on the futon currently in couch mode next to the door, and looked through the magazines and papers on the occasional table next to the futon. He found a two-day-old newspaper and opened it. “Says here it was supposed to rain tonight—it’s clear and windy.”

  “The Air Force says that the Wednesday night UFO flap was a hoax.” Spink said, pointing to the front page of the paper that was emblazoned with a night sky spangled with red and green glowing eggs.

  “Of course they did,” Samson said, bored; he closed the paper.

  “Did you see the pirates?” Spink asked suddenly.

  “One of them. He was kind of waterlogged.”

  “He fell in the bay.”

  Samson snorted a kind of laugh. “Damn silly, if you ask me.”

  “People do get silly on Halloween,” she said. “And worse than silly. The full moon doesn’t help.”

  “Saturday doesn’t either.” He picked up a magazine from the rack and began to thumb through it.

  Two honks on the hospital’s public address system announced the change of shift. There was a flurry of activity out in the corridor, as the day shift gave over to the six-till-two shift. Lockers were opened and closed, a cluster of nurses and staff gathered in front of the emergency entrance, cell-phones clapped to their ears. Over the next ten minutes, staff and nurses milled in the admissions area, then either left the hospital or went along to their assignments. The hospital settled into its usual weekend rhythm, the ER ready for early arrivals.

  Linda Spink answered her summons, gesturing to Samson to come with her. “Two kids with dog bites. Cops are with them.”

  Samson set the magazine aside and got up. “Right behind you, Doc.”

  They heard the noise before they reached the triage desk; Spink gave Samson a signal to keep close.

  One woman’s voice, shrill and angry, penetrated the general babble coming from the cluster of people confronting Mitchell Doyle, the triage nurse, who was trying to sort out what was going on. “You people! Letting dangerous dogs out on Halloween!” She appeared to be addressing the EMTs and two cops; she was in her thirties, of medium height, spare, with lackluster hair and work-chapped hands. “Reece could have been killed!”

  “Aw, Ma,” said the gangly ten-year-old boy in a cheap, store-bought Spiderman costume standing beside her, a thick bandage wrapped around his hand.

  One of the cops rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

  She shifted attention to her son. “What were you thinking, going up to an unknown dog?”

  “I keep telling you, he had a collar, and he wasn’t that big,” the boy whined. “Hey, the dog came up to us, tail wagging.”

  The woman next to her was kneeling down, comforting a slightly smaller boy in a homemade Mad Hatter costume; this child was clearly in need of more help than his companion, so Doctor Spink started with her. The woman looked up, flushed slightly, and got to her feet. “Doctor?”

  “Talk to the cops and the EMTs, Samson,” said Spink, and turned her attention to the smaller boy, speaking quietly to reassure him. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asked, lowering her voice.

  The younger EMT came up to Samson. “They 9-1-1-ed us about thirty minutes ago, and we had the boys in the ambulance, mothers included, in a little over ten minutes. Animal control has the dog. Looks like a smaller shepherd mix of some kind, maybe thirty-five pounds. The boys told us they went up to pet it, and something spooked the dog, so it growled and bit.”

  The nearer cop said, “Dog looked trained. It backed right off when we showed up. I think the costumes bothered him.”

  “Male dog?” Samson asked.

  “Once upon a time,” said the cop. “That’s another reason I’m not buying the kids’ story of an unexpected attack.”

  “I see,” said Samson.

  The second EMT nodded toward Spiderman/Reece. “That one started it; you can tell. I have a hunch they were teasing the dog.”

  “Me, too,” said the older cop, having completed his report to Mitchell Doyle. “Though I think it was more tormenting than teasing.” He nodded in the direction of the boys. “You’re right: that Reece kid’s the type to do it.”

  Spink rose, but before she could speak, Reece’s mother announced, “I’m going to sue the dog’s owner and the city for allowing such a dangerous animal to run loose.”

  “Oh, Mandy,” said the Mad Hatter’s mother wearily.

  “You should join me, Eloise. Someone has to pay for what’s happened to Jeff.”

  “Whatever you decide to do, do it later,” Spink said in what Samson called her Official Voice, “right now though, Jeff needs a couple X-rays and probably half-a-dozen stitches. If Reece will let me have a quick look at his hand, I’ll know what more needs to be done with him.”

  “You heard Doctor Spink,” said Samson, using his height to add force to his words. “Let her take care of the kids, then you can decide on what’s to happen next.”

  “I’m not letting Reece out of my sight,” his mother declared.

  “I’m not asking you to,” said Spink.

  The PA system announced three children arriving by ambulance, suspected of being poisoned.

  “Will you go deal with the new arrivals?” Spink asked Samson, briefly looking up from Jeff’s injuries.

  “If that’s what you want,” said Samson, ignoring the glare Mandy shot at him, and the sigh of the older cop.

  “Take them into Bay 3, in case,” she said, indicating she was anticipating vomit and feces at the least. “Where’s Flanders when I need her?”

  “I’ll see if Doyle’s heard anything,” said Samson as he left the cubicle, bound for the ambulance entryway.

  By eight o’clock, Spink had treated thirteen children, four of whom had been sent home, eight had been admitted for overnight observation, and one had been sent into surgery for multiple fractures that had nothing to do with Halloween; there was a thick file on the autistic girl’s so-called falls and clumsiness. The emergency room was unusually busy for all those on duty, what with a riot having broken out on the edge of a homeless encampment and a number of admissions for some kind of unidentified flu, which was bringing sufferers to the ER at the rate of eight or nine a hour, coughing and running high temperatures. The hectic pace all this demanded was starting to tell on the staff.

  “Flanders still isn’t here,” Samson told Spink as they stood near the waiting room, each with a cup of caffeinated coffee to shore up their increasing fatigue. “I checked with Doyle about five minutes ago. The clerk at the desk called her house, but there was no answer.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Spink.

  “Who does? Smith and Flanders are important and we need them tonight.” He drank more coffee.

  “Another six hours,” said Spink as if she was reciting a prison sentence.

  “Fewer kids than last year,” Samson observed.

  “So far,” said Spink.

  “Do you want a little time to yourself? Nothing much is happening just now.” Samson kept his voice even, though he wanted to yawn.

  Spink thought about it. “No. It’ll leave me groggy. I’ll do better if I’m a bit hyper.”

  She saw Doyle coming toward her, fretting. “What is it?”

  “Ambulance coming in,
twelve-year-old on a bike clipped by a car. The driver wasn’t drunk, but there were a lot of kids going door-to-door, and he couldn’t watch them all. A Batman on a bike was hard to see. At least, that’s his story.”

  “What do the EMTs say?” Spink asked as she tossed the last third of her coffee into the nearest refuse bin.

  Doyle said, “Better to talk to the cops than the EMTs about that.”

  “Let me know if the cops show up.” Motioning to Samson to follow her, she went along toward the pediatric cubicles, saying to him over her shoulder. “Find Jenkins and tell him to set up for a kid. Then check to see if he’s arrived. I’ll want you ready.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Not until I see the boy.” She waved him away, and went where Doyle pointed out to her.

  Samson gave a short sigh, took a last gulp of coffee, and went off toward The Canteen to find out if Jenkins were available. “Try the computer room,” one of the younger nurses recommended. Samson took her suggestion and found Jenkins emerging from the men’s room. “Spink has a kid hit by car while on his bike coming in.”

  “Just one kid on a bike?” Jenkins asked as he changed directions. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got a machine available; the last of the pirates is gone. D’you think she’ll want a CAT scan?”

  “No idea, and I won’t try to second-guess her. She wants you standing by.” They went down a slight incline in the hall, a reminder of how two buildings had been cobbled into one almost twenty years before. Once they were in the larger portion of the building, they went to a sturdy double door that required Jenkins’ ID card swipe to enter.

  “Kid, possible multiple fractures, en route in the ambulance,” he said to the monitor on duty, hardly slowing his pace. “Probably be here in ten minutes or so.”

  “Take Room 5," the monitor said, making an entry on the laptop at the end of the counter. Unlike most of the hospital, this facility lacked a waiting room, and there were no vending machines; there were chairs in a large alcove down the hall on the other side of the double doors where families and friends could wait. Just at present, the alcove was empty.

  “Five it is,” said Jenkins, bound for a heavy door at the far side of the small lobby. “Come on, Samson.”

  Samson paused at the monitor’s counter. “The patient is Doc Swink’s. Notify her where they’ll bring the kid.”

  “Will do,” the monitor said even as he punched in more information on the computer and pressed a button to signal the ER.

  Jenkins was in the X-ray control room—which was little more than a bay in the corner—checking out the console. “Did you ever see a flick called Fire Maidens from Outer Space?” he asked Samson.

  “I can’t remember if I have or not,” said Samson.

  “Oh, you’d remember this one. It’s terrible.” He grinned. “I usually watch it on Halloween. You want to come over and watch it with me when our shift ends?”

  “Why’d I stay up to see a bad movie?” Samson asked.

  “You might get a kick out of it.” He shrugged and said, “You see the Air Force said the UFOs were a hoax?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s bullshit.” He drummed his fingers on the X-ray table. “How long do we have to wait, do you think?”

  “Doyle seemed to believe the ambulance would be here shortly.”

  “You know where it’s coming from?” Jenkins asked.

  “No idea,” said Samson, and went silent.

  “The kid with the dog bites was admitted? Jeff, his name is,” said Jenkins.

  “Yes. Spink’s worried about shock, not just the bites on his shoulder and thigh.”

  There was a bang as the main doors were opened by a gurney heading into the X-ray department, and less than a minute later, the gurney arrived at Room 5, an orderly pushing it with practiced speed. “You ready for him?”

  Samson looked at the boy in his ruined Batman costume, his head held in place by the neck collar the EMTs had put on him; though the room was dark, Samson could see the patient was badly injured. “We have to handle him carefully,” he told the orderly.

  “I’m not a beginner,” the orderly said curtly. “The kid’s barely conscious. Name’s Winston Bradley Harrison.”

  Samson glanced at the papers clipped to the gurney. “Four foot nine, eighty-seven pounds, broken bones for sure, possible skull fracture.”

  “So much for the obvious,” said Jenkins as he brought out the plastic foam bolsters to put the boy in place on the table. “Parents here?”

  “Father. With Spink,” said the orderly. “Said it’s his custody weekend. Mother lives in Easton; she’s driving in. Should be here in a couple of hours.”

  Samson adjusted one of the bolsters, asking as he did, “Speaking of here, is Flanders here yet?”

  “Don’t think so,” said the orderly, handing a sheet to Jenkins to sign. “Didn’t see her anywhere in the ER, nor Smith.”

  Jenkins went into the control room where he kept his pen while the orderly prepared to move out of Room 5. “Is there a bed for this kid?”

  “Spink was arranging it as I brought him up,” said the orderly, waiting for Jenkins to hand him the paper.

  “Any orders beyond what’s on the paper?” Jenkins asked as he emerged with the paper.

  “Not that I know of,” said the orderly as he took the paper and got out of Room 5 and the X-ray department.

  “Full body, spine, left arm, right shoulder, left knee-to-foot,” Jenkins said. “I guess we better get started. I’ll need your help on this one.”

  The boy coughed once, and foamy blood spread on his lips as he began to spasm.

  “Better tell Spink to hurry,” said Jenkins.

  Things had slowed down a bit by ten-thirty, when Winston Harrison’s mother arrived, pale yet outwardly composed, and went in to see Spink, leaving Samson to put himself at the service of whomever might need an extra nurse, which is how Samson was one of the first to hear that there had been an accident and that Smith and Flanders had been involved.

  “Are they all right?” Doyle asked the cop who had brought the news. “Where are they?”

  “They’re at the fourth precinct giving statements.”

  “You mean they aren’t hurt?”

  “They’re shaken up, but no blood showing,” said the cop.

  Samson ambled over to the admissions desk. “What happened?”

  The cop regarded him suspiciously. “And you are?”

  “Samson. I’m a pediatric nurse; I often work with Flanders.” He leaned against the counter, minimizing the impact of his size; it worked with kids and it worked with the cop.

  “Huh,” said the cop. “Well, Smith was driving, so the fault is hers, but Flanders says the guy—he was in a dark costume, something like a wetsuit, but with a kind of creature head, something like a hadrosaur’s top-knot—stepped out from between two cars, where the staff parks. There was a light, but it was out. We checked, and it was—had been for a couple of days.”

  Samson was amused that the cop knew something about dinosaurs, and decided he must have kids.

  “Are you telling me that Smith ran into someone?” Doyle asked, his voice rising half an octave.

  “Looks that way. She was going pretty fast.” The cop shook his head, going on as if he wanted to figure it out for himself. “The two women stayed with the guy after they called 9-1-1. They gave some first aid, put a blanket over him, put a light bandage on his leg where it was bleeding, but didn’t move him. They were out on Golden Hills Country Club Road; they’d dropped off Smith’s kids for a party; her ex lives out there, in one of those yuppie mansions. Smith said they were running late so she was speeding. Says she didn’t see him at all until the right front bumper tossed him in the air. They had real trouble getting bars enough to call 9-1-1. Flanders walked almost a mile before she could get through. And then dispatch took over an hour to get an ambulance to them; there’re a lot of them busy picking up what’s left of the rioters, and it took mor
e than half an hour to free one up to go get the guy in the costume. It’ll be coming in here in about twenty minutes. I can tell you right now, he’s gonna need X-rays and maybe surgery. You’ll have to undress him; that costume of his really is skintight and tough; the ladies didn’t want to mess with the costume. Really sophisticated. Probably cost a bundle. The EMTs didn’t want to try to cut it off him either.”

  “Why?” Samson asked. “Because it’s expensive?”

  “They wanted to move him as little as possible. He’s pretty banged up, and getting something that tight off—” The cop gave a sketchy salute.

  “What was he doing out on Golden Hills Country Club Road?” Doyle was baffled. “What’s out there for trick-or-treat?”

  “That’s another thing,” the cop said. “The guy’s not a kid. Maybe a little short, but in good shape under his costume. Got real muscular legs, and thick arms. He could have been lost if he was looking for a private party, or he could have been up to no good—you know, putting on a costume so he wouldn’t be noticed? It happens. There are some pricey homes with some valuable things in them in that development behind the country club. If the guy pulls through, we’ll have some questions for him.”

  Doyle was still taken aback by this news, and so said nothing to the cop as he turned to leave.

  “Thanks,” said Samson, and decided not to interrupt Spink with this news, not while Spink was explaining to Winston Harrison’s parents the likelihood that their son had suffered brain damage and would need long-term therapy when he woke up, if he woke up at all. Out of habit, he wandered into The Canteen, where four nurses were gathered in front of the TV, and made himself a cup of tea. He had just sat down away from the television when Wadley came into the room, looking haggard.

  “You hear about Smith and Flanders?” He saw Samson nod. “Doyle just told me they hit someone driving in.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Samson said.

  “What an awful thing to happen.” Wadley poured some well-stewed coffee into a large mug. “I’m glad we’re on the down-slope for our shift. We’ve admitted sixteen rioters so far, and treated fifty-three. I hope that’s the last of them.”