Thirteen West

by Jane Toombs

  "Valium," Alma told him. "I'm looking up the side effects. Report'll have to wait a few minutes."

  "Ataxia," she said after a moment. "Drowsiness. Fatigue."

  "She's got ataxia all right," Lew put in. "Did you see how she staggered?"

  "All that on just five milligrams," Alma said with a sigh. "What are we going to do with her?"

  "I'll help you get her home," Lew offered.

  David said nothing. If he offered to do anything he'd be late again and the roof would fall in. Let the others take care of her. Let big-deal Frank worry about her.

  * * *

  Crawford pulled on his pants, feeling more alert by the minute. Not only alert—sharp. Fine-honed. Wonderful.

  Flit over to A East and take care of that little problem. Minor detail. The adrenaline had probably cured the guy already.

  Paradox. The word flashed red as a neon sign in his head. Paradoxical reaction. Thorazine. Adrenaline. A no-no. Jesus. Had he told Frank to give the patient adrenaline? Not in an overdosage of Thorazine. Made the central nervous system depression worse, acted in the opposite manner than what would be expected. What the hell had he said to Frank? Well, he'd take care of that, too. The way he felt, he could handle anything.

  * * *

  Frank rode over in the ambulance van, sitting in the back with Dolph, who now had oxygen running into his nose per cannula.

  "Bad luck to have it happen at the end of your shift," the driver called to him.

  Frank grunted in lieu of an answer. Dolph no longer had an obtainable radial pulse and the one at the temple was very faint. He wasn't going to make it.

  Where had Dolph gotten the whiskey? And why had no one noticed anything until so late? Those were the questions Dr. Fredericks would want answered.

  Frank leaned his head against the side of the van. He couldn't go on much longer without sleep. If there was any use in going on.

  He followed the gurney into A East and watched them transfer Dolph's limp body to the exam table.

  "Jeez, Frank, you could have kept this one," the charge nurse said, lifting his head and taking the stethoscope out of his ears. "I don't hear beat one." He proffered the scope.

  Frank inserted the earpieces and put the diaphragm to Dolph's bared chest. He heard nothing—no heartbeat, no breath sounds.

  "Should we start CPR?" the charge nurse asked. "This isn't a no heroics case, is it?"

  Frank moved away from the table toward a phone. "Go ahead with the CPR. I'll see what's keeping Dr. Greensmith."

  "I'm just on my way," Crawford said into the phone. "Be there shortly. They are? No apical pulse at all? Well, don't let them give him any adrenaline. Levophed's okay." Frank conveyed the order to the A East charge nurse, scribbled it as a phone order on Dolph's chart and left. Nothing more he could do, anyway he was dead on his feet. Dolph was dead all the way, poor bastard, but at least he had no more worries.

  * * *

  Sal Luera, the night supervisor, met him just outside the ward door. "What's this emergency I hear you're leaving me?" he asked.

  Frank gave Sal a brief change-of-shift report.

  "You look like hell," Sal informed him. "Get out of here and hit the sack."

  * * *

  Alma and Lew succeeded in getting a wavering Sally up the steps and inside her apartment. While Lew propped her up, Alma hurried into the bedroom and turned down the covers. As Lew let Sally sag down onto the bed, he said, "Just made it. You going to need me anymore?"

  Alma shook her head. "Thanks for helping."

  "That's okay. I'd stick around, only my wife—"

  Alma waved her hand. "Good night, Lew," she said.

  After he went out, Alma sat on the bed and felt Sally's pulse, relieved to find it regular. "How do you feel?" she asked.

  "Like I'm not inside me at all," Sally mumbled.

  "Ever have a drug reaction before?"

  "Only to penicillin. Never took Valium till now."

  "Maybe I'd better call a doctor," Alma said, wracked by guilt for giving her the stuff in the first place.

  Sally sat up. "No, please don't. I'll be okay."

  "No doctor, then. Lie down and take it easy. You'll probably just sleep it off, but I'll stay here tonight to make sure." Alma yawned. "You got extra pajamas?"

  "In the dresser. Sorry to be trouble. I'm always trouble."

  Alma helped Sally into pajamas and found a nightgown she could get into.

  "Never looked like that on me," Sally said. "I'm not sexy." Tears overflowed.

  "Come on, don't start crying again."

  "Why does Frank think I'm sexy?" Sally wiped clumsily at her wet face.

  "Does he?" Alma said, handing her a box of tissues. "Then you don't have anything to cry about."

  "I can't help it. He—I can't tell you what he did."

  Alma shook her head. "Look, Sally, tonight isn't the best time for trading confidences. I had a rough time yesterday and last night and I'm out on my feet. I'm going to grab one of these blankets and curl up on that settee in the other room."

  "He raped me. In this bed."

  Frank? Alma thought incredulously. Old granite face? Was Sally hallucinating?

  "You don't believe me."

  "You've got to admit the idea's a shocker," Alma said.

  "That's why I was upset tonight and behaved so badly, not rechecking Dolph, upsetting the Duchess and falling apart like I did." Sally's eyelids drooped.

  "Better go to sleep now. We'll talk again in the morning. Okay?"

  Sally didn't answer and Alma saw she'd slipped into sleep. She stayed a few minutes longer to be sure the sleep seemed natural.

  On the settee, blanket wrapped about her, Alma considered what Sally had told her. Who'd have thought it of Frank—if it was true, that is. She shifted position on the settee, aware she felt more annoyed than anything else. What—bent out of shape because Frank hadn't raped her? Alma smiled wryly.

  What did Sally mean by rape? Frank wouldn't stop when she wanted him to? Hardly possible Sally was still a virgin at nearly twenty....

  She jerked alert as someone rapped on the apartment door. As she stared toward it, a piece of white paper appeared, slipped through the crack between door and sill. "Who is it?" she called.

  No answer.

  Alma rose and unlocked the door to peer out the crack afforded by the chain. Nobody there. She relocked the door and picked up the paper.

  "Sally," she read. "I'll wait in the car for five minutes. If you want to see me, come down. I can't go on knowing you hate me. Try to forgive me for what happened. Frank."

  Alma let her breath out with a whoosh. Now what? Obviously Sally was in no condition to go anywhere. Alma tried to decide if she should go down and tell Frank about the Valium. No, better not get involved in this thing, whatever it was. She had enough problems of her own.

  She reread the note. Shit. What did he mean he couldn't go on? She'd better try to rouse Sally.

  "Uh," Sally mumbled. "Go 'way."

  "Wake up, Sally, come on."

  "Be good girl, Daddy Keith," Sally wailed, opening her eyes. She stared in bleary-eyed confusion at Alma.

  "Look, Frank left you a note. I read it. Here." Alma thrust it at her.

  Sally struggled to a sitting position, blinking as she focused on the paper.

  "What's he mean?" she asked.

  "How should I know? You want me to go down and tell him you're sick?"

  Sally shook her head, setting her jaw so she looked like a sulky child. "Let him suffer like I had to." She tore the note in two and let the pieces drift onto the bed and the floor. "I'll hate him forever, even after he's dead, dead, dead."

  Alma shrugged. "It's your affair, not mine," she said, turning away.

  What was the Daddy Keith business? Sally saying she'd be a good girl? Was it merely the Valium or had she just never noticed Sally was a tad weird?

  * * *

  Joe Thompson sighed and stretched out on his two pulled together chair
s in the day room. Willie wouldn't be replaced for a couple more days so he and Zenda were alone. He'd be lucky to get more than a couple hours sleep. That Willie—told him and told him to watch his ass. The grapevine had it one of the doctors was mixed up in Willie's knifing—Dr. Jacobs, who was also rumored to be laid up with stab wounds. Seemed like a strange combination. Alma Reynolds was a sexy enough piece—but she had class. What would she want with Willie? Easier to believe she and the doctor had a thing going. Still, with all this soul brother and sister jazz, you never knew.

  * * *

  Zenda stood by Chester Mausser's bed. "You could've waited till morning," she scolded.

  "What're you talking about?" he demanded. "Hey, leave me alone."

  "Turn over, Mousie. Don't give me none of your sass. I got a good mind to let you lay in this crap all night."

  "I didn't do that. Those others wait till I'm not looking and—"

  "Oh, shut up and turn over." Zenda gave him a shove onto his side.

  "Don't you take liberties with me, woman."

  "You old creep—who'd want you?"

  * * *

  Simpson raised his head and listened. Quiet. He sat up and slipped the bottle from under the covers. He pulled off his pajama top and carefully wrapped it around the bottle, then slid out of bed. Bending over, he thunked it against one of the metal bed legs. The cloth muffled the sound, but also protected the bottle and it didn't break until his fifth try.

  Simpson sat on the bed, laid the wrapped and broken bottle in his lap and carefully peeled away the cloth. He bent his head to peer at the shards of glass in the dim light, barely conscious of the reek of whiskey.

  Too small. Not pointed enough. Possible. No, this one was better. At last he rejected all except one and rewrapped the rest, slipping the bundle under his pillow.

  He raised a hand to the hollow of his throat, then shook his head. Not there. The big veins were to either side of his neck. He felt for them, the neck cords slithering under his fingers as he intoned the words of his grandmother in a half-whisper: "Orm lumballa Macardit..."

  A sound from the next bed penetrated his concentration. He glanced over and saw the gleam of eyes. The man in the other bed watched him, the white man who shared his room. Simpson ceased his chant. What did this mean? Did Macardit reject his sacrifice? Surely the Great Black One wouldn't enter a white man.

  The man stood and began to walk toward the door. Did he mean to go out and tell the others about the glass knife?

  No!

  Simpson leaped from the bed and slashed at Jacko, who fell writhing at his feet. Hurrying past him, Simpson peered up and down the empty corridor. There on the end was the bathroom the women used. The others wouldn't look for him there.

  * * *

  Margaret Flowers paused beside her bed—had she heard someone approaching? She listened carefully, but the sound wasn't repeated. Barefooted, she made her way across the room to the door and peeped out. No one. She nodded and slipped out into the hall. Best to flush the capsule down the toilet before morning. If they ever once found her with an unswallowed pill they'd know what she was doing.

  She padded along the corridor. They'd hear the toilet flush and come and check the bathroom, but that was safe enough. Who could tell what went down the drain? Margaret smiled thinly.

  She reached the women's bathroom, tissue ready in her hand. The door swung shut behind her. Heading for the first toilet, she paused in dismay when she noticed someone lying on the floor. A man? And was that blood?

  Quickly she dropped the wad of paper with the pill into the stool and pulled the handle, then she hesitantly approached the unmoving figure, stepping over rivulets of blood. The man they called the Preacher. Reverend Jones. She stopped before reaching him, certain he was dead. Poor tortured soul.

  Margaret glanced quickly behind her. Would they think she had anything to do with this? She retraced her steps, noting with sudden horror there was blood on her bare feet. Her head whirled and she staggered against one of the toilets.

  Dead, he was dead, they'd never tie him down again.

  But why had there been so much blood? She sat on the toilet seat and hunched forward, hands clenched to her mouth. Her teeth chattered and she shuddered. Fragments of thoughts roiled in her head.

  I looked for some to take pity but there were none... The poor man. He knew the Psalms. He knew God... Sixty-ninth psalm...

  Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul... She said Richard was dead...

  Margaret closed her eyes, pressing a hand against the crushing pain in her chest. It seemed to her she could see Richard's hands reaching out to her. "Yes," she cried, "take me with you!"

  * * *

  Zenda was dumping Mousie's dirty linen into the container when she heard the toilet flush. She dropped the lid into place, unlocked the utility room door and shoved the cart back inside, making sure the door clicked shut, automatically locking.

  Women's bathroom. She stood in the corridor waiting for the door to open so she'd know who had used the toilet. No one appeared. Zenda sighed and shuffled toward the bathroom to find out who was in there.

  She was getting too old to work like this. She hadn't felt right since Dr. Fredericks made her tell him what she suspected about Willie. Not that she owed Willie anything, didn't even like the man. But tattling was something she'd never cottoned to.

  "Ahhh..."

  What was that sound coming from behind her? Zenda halted and turned. The hair on her nape rose as she saw a figure crawling out of the Preacher's room. She hurried toward the whimpering man.

  "Joe!" she yelled. "Joe, I need help!"

  By the time Joe got to her, Zenda had stretched Jacko out on the hall floor and was trying to staunch the bloody laceration along his neck and upper chest with his pajama top.

  "Jesus!" Joe exclaimed before he turned and ran for the emergency kit in the med room.

  On the way back, he snatched up the phone and told the operator to get Sal Luera to Thirteen West stat.

  "I never saw so much blood," Zenda said as she pressed the gauze pads he handed her against Jacko's wounds.

  "Don't think it hit an artery, though," Joe said. "Not pumping. He's be dead by now, if it had."

  "What could have happened?" Zenda said, glancing around uneasily.

  "Keep the pressure on," Joe ordered as he got to his feet. "I'll check on the Preacher."

  He was back in a moment. "Not in his bed. Blood in the room. Whatever happened to Jacko was in there."

  "Someone flushed a toilet in the woman's bathroom," she said. "I never did get there."

  Joe sprinted toward the bathroom. He opened the door and stopped, speechless.

  Margaret opened her eyes and raised her head. "He's dead," she said. "Richard is dead."

  Joe let out his breath. Jesus. Congealing blood covered half the bathroom floor. He couldn't avoid stepping in it as he bent over to touch the Preacher's already cooling face. A bloody dagger of glass protruded from the gaping neck wound. Dead. Joe straightened and looked at the Duchess.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Richard is dead," she repeated, pressing her hands to her chest. "The girl was quite correct."

  "This isn't Richard. This is Simpson Jones. Did you see what happened in here?"

  "Richard's coming for me," she said, her words coming in little gasps. "It's time for me to go."

  She slumped over and Joe was barely able to catch her before she slid off the toilet onto the floor.

  Sal Luera burst into the bathroom. "Christ!"

  "Help me get her to bed," Joe said. "She's fainted."

  "I told the operator to get hold of the doctor," Sal said as they carried Margaret into her room. "Now I'd better talk to him about this before he gets here. We'll have to notify someone in Administration. Shit, I'd better call Dr. Fredericks myself."

  They lowered Margaret onto her bed. Joe felt her wrist. "Wait," he called to Sal, who was halfway out the door. "I can't get a pulse
on her."

  Sal rolled his eyes. "She better not go out on us— things are bad enough already."

  Leaving Margaret temporarily, Sal and Joe got Jacko into his bed. "Stay with him," Joe told Zenda. "I got to check on the Duchess."

  "What happened?" she asked apprehensively.

  "Can't stop. Tell you later," he flung over his shoulder as he hurried out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A church bell rang, tinny instead of melodious.

  Crawford felt it was appropriate for his wedding to Louise— the shrillness matched her voice. He'd be a damn fool to go on with the wedding, tying himself to a woman who cared nothing for his comfort...

  The bell went on and one, endlessly, forcing out the church and the minister, blotting out Louisa. Crawford opened his eyes.

  Night. Telephone. He grabbed for it.

  "Dr. Greensmith?"

  "Um."

  "This is Sal Luera calling from Thirteen West. There's been an accident here. One patient is dead and another badly injured. Shall I send the injury to A East by van? He needs suturing and maybe some blood. Or do you want him sent out?"

  "A death?"

  "Looks like one of the patients stabbed another and then killed himself."

  "Oh, God."

  "Doctor? Do you want the injured man sent to A East?"

  Crawford focused his eyes with great difficulty on his lighted watch dial. Ten minutes to two. He'd been asleep only a half hour.

  "What kind of injuries?" he asked.

  "He has a shallow laceration of the neck and a deeper one of the upper chest. It doesn't appear any vital structures are involved. We've controlled the bleeding, but he's lost a lot of blood."

  Crawford hung his legs over the edge of the bed and switched on the light, closing his eyes against the sudden glare.

  "I'll be there," he said. Had to get outside, maybe the cold air would clear his mind so he could function. For Chrissake, didn't they do anything but slice themselves up?