by Lee Roberts
The boy ran to Shannon as he got out of the car carrying the packages. “Did you bring the marshmallows, Daddy?”
“Sure. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Cook-out night!” the boy cried, dancing about.
Shannon crossed the lawn to where Celia sat beside the picnic table already laid with paper napkins, cups and plates. Shannon placed his packages on the table and smiled at his wife. “How about a martini?”
“I’d love one. You were gone quite a while. Complications?”
“Some.” He told her about the woman found on Snake Island, about Lewis Sprang’s attack, and ended by saying, “I’ve scheduled Lew for surgery in the morning. He’s pretty old, but tough—I think he’ll make it. John Kovici is handling the anesthesia. The woman should be okay in a day or two.”
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know. She was in shock and couldn’t talk—I didn’t force it. Middle-aged, but quite attractive. George Yundt said he’d seen her at the Y, but didn’t know her name. Mort Watson called the Y, thinking that someone there could identify her so that her family could be notified, but the Y office is closed on Sunday afternoon. Mort tried to reach Russ McClory, the physical director, but he’s out of town for the weekend. We can check in the morning, if it’s necessary. Anyhow, she’s in no danger. She should be able to talk by tonight and I’ll learn who she is then.” Shannon dumped briquettes into the barbecue burner. “Any calls while I was gone?”
“One—Ed Malone. He thinks his wife is about due.”
Shannon sighed. “He could be right. I’ve got her down for next week, but you can never tell about Alice Malone.” He poured lighter fluid over the charcoal and applied flame from a match. The charcoal flared and then subsided to a steady licking flame which would soon result in an even glow. The boy clapped his hands and whirled about in five-year-old antics.
Celia said, “Ed Malone just wanted to alert you, I guess. He said he’d call again.”
Shannon nodded, patted his wife’s cheek and entered the house to make a small pitcher of martinis.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was after visiting hours when Shannon reached the hospital. The corridors were hushed and dimly lit. Miss Martha James, the head night nurse, smiled at him as he stopped by her desk in the south wing.
“Quiet evening?” he asked, placing his bag on the floor.
“So far.” Miss James was a plump, cheerful woman, about thirty, with black hair and milky skin. “We’ve three customers in the labor room.”
“Who?”
She laughed, a rich, pleasant sound. “Oh, don’t worry—none of them are your patients. If you get called out of bed tonight it won’t be to deliver a baby.”
“Don’t be too sure. Alice Malone is due.”
“Oh,” Miss James said. “Alice usually cuts it pretty close.” She sighed and gazed down the corridor leading to the main part of the building. “It’s too quiet, Doctor. Gives me the creeps, somehow. For months we’ve been jammed, even putting beds in the halls, but tonight, all of a sudden, we have six empty semi-private rooms and four privates, and the ward is only half full.”
“Don’t be so greedy,” he told her. “The mortgage was paid off last year.”
“I know, but we need another iron lung, the plaster in the cafeteria is bad, the boiler needs cleaning and repairing before winter, we’re having trouble getting nurses’ aides and orderlies for a dollar-ten an hour, and—”
“Maybe I can dig up some business,” Shannon said, grinning. “How would it be if I put a little cyanide in my patients’ vitamin capsules? Not enough to kill—just enough to make them hospital cases. Complete rest in private rooms.”
Miss James laughed. “You’d better not suggest that to Mr. Grange—he’d be all for it. By the way, the radio station heard about that woman admitted this afternoon—I suppose Mr. Watson told it all over town—and wanted to know all about it. I didn’t come on duty until six, but Mrs. Andrews told me about the woman before she left. So—”
“How is she?” Shannon broke in.
“Conscious, but she hasn’t said a word. I tried to talk to her, find out who she is, where she came from, but it seemed to upset her and I didn’t try any more. Incidentally, I had her moved. I saw on her chart that you ordered complete quiet, and her room on the main corridor is pretty noisy, especially during visiting hours, and it’s fairly close to the street, too.”
“Where did you put her?”
“In 140 in the north wing. Mr. Sprang was in there, you know, and he was moved to 102, where the woman was. He said he didn’t mind; in fact, he complained that it was too quiet back there, and nothing to see out the window but the rear lawn.” Miss James paused and then said brightly, “So everybody’s happy.”
“Good,” Shannon said. “Did the woman eat anything tonight?”
“A little bouillon and some tea. I took her temperature—a degree above normal. She’s rather pretty—anyhow, she was pretty once.”
“And she won’t talk?”
“Nope. Not a peep.”
“What did you tell the radio people?”
“All I could. Gave them her description and said that up until now, due to her condition, she has been unable to tell us how she came to be on the island or who she is. Maybe if they broadcast it, someone will come and identify her.” Miss James paused and frowned. “She seems to be in sort of a—a trance.”
“Yes,” Shannon said. “I’ll take a look at her now. Do you have Lew Sprang down for surgery in the morning?”
“Yep. Dr. Kovici is assisting, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. See you later, Martha.” Shannon picked up his bag, walked to the main corridor and turned to his left. As he reached the hospital’s front entrance he encountered Miss Coral Thatcher stepping up from the small lobby. “Hi, Thatcher,” he said, knowing that she liked being addressed by her last name.
She smiled at him, showing sharp little teeth behind thin lips, and her small hazel eyes glinted with pleasure. “Good evening, Doctor.”
“Why don’t you call me Clint,” he said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
She was flustered; her gaze swerved away and her hands fluttered to her rather lank brown hair, which was beginning to gray. Then she forced herself to look at him directly, annoyed at the sudden rapid beating of her heart, and attempted a coy airiness. “Why, thank you, sir. I’m flattered.”
“Working overtime tonight?” he asked, thinking that she was not really too unattractive and that her figure, what could be discerned of it beneath the loose summer print she was wearing, must be quite good, even extraordinary for a woman of her age, and he wondered why she’d never married. “Don’t you go off duty at five?”
“Yes, but I’ve been doing some extra work for Mr. Grange. We’re late in getting out accounts payable and he asked me to work tonight to get caught up.”
Shannon glanced at his wrist watch. Almost nine o’clock.
“I know it’s rather late to be starting,” Coral said hastily, “but I had to go to choir practice with Mother.”
“I see. How is your mother?”
“Very well, thank you, everything considered. She’s seventy-six, you know.”
“I know, but the last time I saw her she seemed very well.”
“She’s well,” Coral said with faint bitterness. “Mother has a—an iron constitution, as they say. Eats just everything, and sits up until all hours watching television.”
“Good for her.” Shannon glanced at his watch again. He had promised Celia and Jack to be home in time to take them out to a frosted malt drive-in.
“Doctor,” Coral said, gazing at him with sudden intensity, “could—could I see you? Soon?”
“See me?” He couldn’t conceal his surprise.
Coral flushed. “I mean—professionally.”
“Of course.” He had treated Mrs. Thatcher for a long time, and Mr. Thatcher, too, before his death, but Coral had never been to see him for anything
, not even for cold remedies. “Are you ill?”
“I—I don’t know. I feel—funny. And Mother irritates me terribly. Sometimes I feel like screaming, for no reason.” Coral attempted a smile. “Isn’t that silly?”
“Perhaps not. Why don’t you come to the office tomorrow?”
“I will. You’re there in the evening, aren’t you?”
“On Mondays, yes.”
“Doctor…” Coral averted her gaze and her fingers twined together.
“Yes?” he said gently.
“I—I don’t know how to tell you. It’s—embarrassing. I—”
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” he said, smiling. “I’ll expect you.”
“Thank you.” Coral moved quickly away and entered the glassed-enclosure which was the cashier’s office. She sat at her desk there, opened the accounts payable ledger and began to work. But the figures seemed blurred and her heart was still pounding at her sudden and unexpected meeting with Dr. Shannon. He had asked her to call him Clint, but she could never do that. Perhaps, if the meeting had not been so unexpected, she would not have summoned the courage to speak to him as she had. It had been embarrassing, but he had seemed to understand. Such a wonderful man! Now that she had made the plunge she almost looked forward to seeing him in the privacy of his office—she should have gone to him long ago. Coral told herself that she was going through a natural physical and mental phase—after all, she was forty-five—but she had been fighting it for over two years now, and she needed help. I need help, she thought desperately. Someone has to help me…
Down the corridor from the cashier’s office Dr. Shannon passed room 102, where the woman found on Snake Island had been and which was now occupied by Lewis Sprang, attorney-at-law, continued to the end of the corridor, and turned left into the long wing which led to the rear of the hospital, away from the busier main corridor which paralleled the street. A young orderly in white passed him and said cheerfully, “’Evening, Doc.”
Shannon returned the greeting, continued to the end of the corridor and stopped before room 140. The door was slightly ajar and a dim glow of light came from inside. He hoped the woman was not asleep, because he wanted to examine her again, and maybe talk with her if he could, but he decided that if she was asleep he would not disturb her. She needed sleep, and rest, and he could see her in the morning, after the surgery on Lew Sprang. Gently he pushed at the door and peered inside.
The woman was awake. She turned her head on the pillow and stared at him.
“Hello,” he said, moving into the room. He stood by the high hospital bed and gazed down at her. Her short tawny hair had been combed and lay smoothly on the pillow. Although it was a warm evening, she was covered with a sheet and a light blanket. Her tanned skin contrasted sharply with the white pillow and hospital gown. She watched him silently as he placed fingers on her left wrist. Her pulse was now steady and strong. He smiled at her. “You’re all right now. All you need is a few days rest.”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Come on,” he said gently. “You’re strong enough now. Tell me about it.”
“Who are you?” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“I’m a doctor. Shannon is my name.”
She moved restlessly and gazed at the white walls of the room. “Why am I in a hospital?” Her voice was stronger.
“You’ve had a bad time, but you’re all right now.”
“What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”
Shannon frowned. “Don’t you know?”
“How—did I get here?”
“Some fishermen found you on an island in the middle of the lake. You were unconscious. They brought you in and called me.”
“Island. What island?”
“It’s called Snake Island.”
Her lips trembled. “Doctor, I—I never heard of it. How did I get there?”
Suspicion plucked at Shannon’s brain and he said sharply, “What’s your name?”
“Name?” Her mouth worked. “I—I’m—My name is…” Her voice faltered and she stared at him in dumb bewilderment.
Shannon saw the gold wedding band on her finger. “Where’s your husband?”
“Husband?” Her fingers plucked at the blanket.
“You’re wearing a wedding ring.”
She lifted her hand and stared at the gold band. Then her gaze swung slowly to Shannon’s. “Who am I?” she whispered. “I—I can’t remember.” Her eyes closed and her mouth worked silently.
Shannon gazed at her, his lips compressed. Then he stooped down, opened his bag, shook two capsules from a vial, took a glass of water from the bedside table and said, “Here, take these.” He put an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her a little. Obediently she took the capsules, swallowed some water, and gently he lowered her to the pillow. She sighed deeply and her fingers plucked at the blanket once more.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” Shannon said. “Rest now.”
She closed her eyes and didn’t answer. Shannon watched her a moment, and then picked up his bag and left quietly.
When he reached the main corridor he stopped before the half-open door of room 102 and peered inside. The room was dark, but in the dim reflected glow from the corridor he could see the form of the old lawyer on the bed. He was lying with his back to the door, the sheet pulled up to his ears, and Shannon thought oddly that Sprang’s bushy, tawny hair was almost the same color and thickness as the hair of the woman he’d just left. He stepped inside and said softly, “Lew.”
Sprang stirred, turned over and gazed at the dark outline of the doctor in the doorway. Shannon stepped to the bed. “It’s me, Clint,” Shannon said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Oh, hello,” Sprang said, raising himself to one elbow. “I’ll turn on the light.”
“Never mind. You should be asleep.”
Sprang sank back on the pillow. “They gave me a pill a while ago, but it didn’t work.”
“I’ll see that you get something stronger. Any pain?”
“Not much now. It comes and goes… You still set on cutting me open in the morning?”
“Yes.” Shannon could see the old man better, now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. “I want Dr. Carlyle’s opinion on the x-rays, but I’m sure he’ll agree with me. It’s the best thing for you, Lew.”
The old man sighed and pushed a thick lock of hair back from his forehead. “All right, if you say so—but I’m not young any more.”
“You’ll be fine in a couple of weeks.”
“Maybe,” Sprang said grimly, “but I’m not worrying about it. I’ve lived a good life and a long one. No regrets. My affairs are in pretty good shape—except for one thing. In the morning I was going to close out my savings account and put it in bank stock. But it doesn’t matter now.”
“Can I do it for you?”
“Thanks, Clint, but it can wait.” Sprang twisted beneath the sheet and grimaced in pain. “That—that was a hard one.”
“I’ll stop that.” Shannon pressed the room signal button on its cord beside Sprang’s pillow.
“How’s that woman we found?” the lawyer asked.
“She’ll be all right. Right now she can’t remember what happened, or who she is, but with rest and sleep it’ll come back to her. She owes her life to you. Mort Watson said you spotted her as you were pulling away from the island.”
Sprang nodded. “Just happened to see her—thought she was dead. Glad she’s going to be okay. A nice looking woman. Wonder who she—” Once more his face twisted with pain.
A young nurse entered the room and Shannon said to her. “A quarter grain of morphine for Mr. Sprang right now.”
“Yes, Doctor.” The nurse turned and left.
Shannon touched the old man’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He moved to the door and stood in the dim lane of light there.
Sprang lifted a thin hand. “Good night, Clint.”
“Good night.” As Shannon turned a
nd walked down the corridor he thought that Lew Sprang was one of the finest men he knew, gentle and kindly, a man with many charities unknown to the public. He was not only a patient, but a good friend, and he said a silent prayer for the success of the surgery in the morning.
As he passed the cashier’s desk, Coral Thatcher looked up from her work. He smiled and she smiled back, too brightly. He continued down the corridor, wondering why Coral wanted to see him, but thinking, from the little she had told him, that it was nerves, maybe a climactic thing, menopause. She was old enough. And he wondered again why she had never married. Maternal domination? Frustration? An early unhappy love affair? Or a hopeless love for the wrong man? As he turned into the south wing, he thought, Psychosomatic. Medicine with sympathy. Hormones and mild bromides, with kind words. And a man. That’s the prescription for Coral Thatcher.
A pretty little blonde in the blue uniform of a probationer passed him and said, half shyly, “Good evening, Dr. Shannon.”
“Hi,” he said, smiling. He did not know her name, because she was new, but he was pleased that she already knew his. At Miss James’ desk he stopped and nodded at the retreating trim little figure. “Who’s the new proby?”
“Susan Archer. Haven’t you met her?”
“Nope. Listen, Martha, I just ordered a quarter grain of morphine for Lew Sprang. He’s having some pain, and I want him to rest tonight. You’d better see that he gets a grain and a half of seconal, too.” He wrote on the chart.
“Right. How’s our mystery woman?”
“Okay, but she can’t remember anything—or pretends that she can’t. Amnesia, temporary. I gave her some phenobarbital to settle her down a little. She can have more if you think she needs it. I’ll see her in the morning.”
“Okay.” Miss James stood up, smoothed her uniform over her plump hips, and gave him a snappy mock salute. “Very good, sir.”
Shannon grinned at her. “At ease, James. Carry on.”
“Martha is the name,” she said tartly. “Don’t give me that corny Men in White routine.”
“Coral Thatcher likes it.”