The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  Dalrymple leaned forward in her chair and stared at her intently. “Obviously I am here sharing these facts with you for a reason.” Her voice held a strange, mystical quality. “Christine, we are sisters, you and I. Sisters.” Christine gasped. “I wanted so much to tell you that afternoon on Four South, but our rules forbid it. I have been part of The Sisterhood of Life since my earliest days in nursing. In fact, I represent the Northeast on our board of directors.”

  “I never would have thought … what I mean is, I never suspected …”

  Dalrymple laughed. “There are several thousand of us, Christine. All over the country. The very best nursing has to offer. Joined by ideals and our pledge to forward the cause of human dignity.”

  “Then you know about Charlotte?”

  “Yes, my dear, I know. All the directors know—the New England Screening Committee knows—and, of course, Peggy knows. I am here representing all of them. I am here to help.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yes.”

  Christine shook her head. “Who’s going to help Dr. Shelton?” she asked sullenly.

  “My dear, you don’t seem to have understood what I said.” Dalrymple leaned forward for emphasis. “The man is a …”

  Christine cut her off with a raised hand and a finger to her lips. She stared toward the side of the house. Dalrymple looked at her quizzically, then followed the line of her sight to the spot.

  “I heard something,” Christine whispered. “Out there by the window.”

  Dalrymple cocked her head to one side and listened. “Nothing,” she said softly.

  Christine wasn’t convinced. She tiptoed to the side of the window and peered out at the night. The driveway and as much of the street as she could see were quiet. She stood there pressed against the wall for several minutes. Still nothing. Finally, with a shrug, she pulled the blinds and returned to the couch. “There was a noise out there,” she said. “Some kind of a thunk.”

  “Probably a cat,” Dalrymple said.

  “Probably.” There was little certainty in her voice. Dalrymple sipped patiently at her tea, waiting for Christine’s concentration to return enough to continue their discussion.

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” Christine said at last.

  Dalrymple smiled. “I understand what you’re going through, dear,” she said. “We all do, even though a situation such as yours has never before arisen and probably never will again. Ours is not an easy task. Everywhere along the way there are choices to make, and few if any of them are painless.” There was an edge in her voice that Christine found unsettling.

  “Just what are you suggesting I do?” she asked.

  “Why nothing, dear,” Dalrymple said. “Nothing at all.”

  Christine stared at her with disbelief. “Miss Dalrymple, I can’t let that man suffer for something I’ve done. I could never live with myself.”

  Dalrymple looked back impassively and shook her head. “I’m afraid, Christine, that many more would suffer if you made any attempt to clear him.”

  Foreboding tightened in Christine’s gut. “Wh … what do you mean?”

  “Peg—the woman you spoke to—is Peggy Donner. Almost forty years ago, she founded The Sisterhood of Life. She has dedicated her entire life to its growth.”

  “And?”

  “Christine, she will not allow you or any other sister to be hurt for doing what is right. She fears that your exposure will sooner or later lead to the exposure of the entire movement.”

  “But that’s not true!” Christine cried. “I would never disclose anything about …”

  “Please. What matters is not what you think would happen, but what Peggy thinks would happen. You see, before she would risk having the public learn of us through a sordid police investigation and sensationalist press, she will move to inform them herself.” Dalrymple’s expression was grave. “She has our tapes, Christ-tine. All of them. If you move to go to the police, she has promised the board of directors that she will make them public in her own fashion. For several years now she has wanted to do so anyway. Only pressure from the rest of us has kept her in check. We did not feel it was time.”

  The throbbing in Christine’s head began anew. “This … this can’t be happening,” she murmured. “It just can’t.”

  “But it is, Christine. And the careers of all those in The Sisterhood hang by the thread that you hold. I’m not at all happy with the situation, despite my personal dislike for degenerate physicians such as Dr. Shelton. However, you must believe me, as one who has known Peggy for many years. She will do it.”

  Christine could only shake her head.

  “We would like you to take a vacation from the hospital,” Dalrymple continued softly. “I’ll have no trouble granting you a leave for, say, three or four weeks. When you return, a shift supervisor’s slot will be waiting for you. Perhaps Greece? The islands are beautiful this time of year. A month in the sun for you and the whole matter will have blown over.”

  “I … I don’t think I could do that.”

  “For all our sakes, Christine, you must. Please believe me, Peggy’s threat is not an idle one. With our number and the positive image she would project, she feels certain that The Sisterhood can now withstand exposure. If you go to the authorities, nothing, no one will be able to stop her. She may even be right, but I for one do not wish to risk my career and life on that chance.”

  “There would be chaos,” Christine said.

  “At least.”

  “I need time. Some time to think.”

  “The sooner you take your trip, the better,” Dalrymple said. “I promise that getting away from this city will make the whole process much easier on you.” She stood up, withdrew an envelope from her purse, and handed it to Christine. “This should help you do what you must. Please call me if I can be of any further help. It is a difficult situation, Christine, having to hurt one to avoid hurting many. But the choice is clear.”

  Christine followed her to the hallway and stood numbly to one side as she put on her coat. “Your sisters,” Dalrymple said, “all of us, are grateful for what you are doing.” She reached out and squeezed Christine’s hand, then turned and let herself out.

  The blue sedan, parked in an islet of darkness between two streetlights, was virtually invisible. Slouched behind the wheel, Leonard Vincent kept his attention fixed on the house as he struggled to catch his breath. The close call beneath the window and his dash to the car had left him winded and, despite the chill night air, soaked with sweat. On his lap his right hand moved in continuous circles, working the blade of a knife over a whetstone with the loving strokes of a concert violinist. The blade was eight inches long, tapered and slightly curved at the tip. The handle, carved bone, was nearly lost in his thick fist. The knife was Leonard Vincent’s pride—the perfect instrument for close work.

  The front door opened. Vincent snickered at the sight of the huge woman maneuvering herself down the concrete front steps. As she crossed the street to her car, he amused himself by planning the description he would use in his report. “At precisely five thirty a blimp floated into the house.” Vincent’s sallow face bunched in a mirthless grin. “She rolled out of the house and bounced down the stairs to her car. At precisely six fifteen she started getting behind the wheel. At six thirty she made it.”

  Distracted by his own wit, Vincent was slow to react when the woman made a sudden U-turn and came toward him. An instant before her headlights flashed by, he dove across the front seat, striking his forehead on the passenger door handle. He cursed the handle, then the door, and then the fat bitch who had made him hit it. But mostly he cursed himself for taking a job without knowing exactly who was hiring him or even what he was expected to do.

  It had started with a call from a bartender friend. “Leonard,” he had said, “I think I may have something for you. There’s this broad in here askin’ me if I know of anyone who’s interested in makin’ some big bucks. She says that whoever it is will have to be able
to keep his mouth shut and do what he’s told. I tried to find out some details, but she just gives me this fucking look, shoves a fifty across the counter, and says that there’ll be more if I can get her someone who asks less questions than I do. You interested? I’ll tell you, Leonard, the broad’s weird, but I think she’s on the level. Also, she’s got great tits.”

  Right away, Vincent hadn’t liked her or the setup. The name she had given him, Hyacinth, was a phony, he was sure of that. But no matter. Except for setting up the job, all she would do is deliver the money.

  So he had ended up with twenty-five hundred bucks up front, a phone number, and a name—Dahlia. Another phony.

  Vincent rubbed at the egg that had started forming over his left eye. He cursed Dahlia, who was responsible for his sitting out in a hurricane, bumping his head on a goddamn door. “Face it, Leonard,” he told himself, “you’ve really hit bottom this time, no matter how good the fucking money is.”

  He watched the house until he was reasonably sure Christine Beall was not coming out, then he shoved the knife into a hand-tooled leather case and drove around the corner to a phone booth. A woman answered on the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Leonard.” His voice was a toneless rasp.

  “Yes?”

  “You wanted a report on everyone who talks to this Christine.”

  “And?”

  “Well, a big fat woman just left. She got here about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Mr. Vincent, your instructions were to call as soon as she met with someone, not to wait until they had left.”

  “Hey, you don’t sound like Dahlia. Is this Dahlia?”

  “Mr. Vincent, please. When Hyacinth paid you, she told you to call this number and report. Now you will either do exactly as instructed or I promise you trouble. Big trouble. Is that clear?”

  The threat was effective. Leonard Vincent feared nothing that he could see, but an icy, disembodied voice was something else. He cursed himself again for taking the job. “Yeah, it’s clear,” he said.

  “All right. How long did you watch the house after the woman left?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes. I don’t know exactly. Long enough, though. She’s staying put.”

  “Very well. Return to your post, please.”

  “What about sleep?”

  “You are being paid, and paid well, to watch that woman and report on her movements, Mr. Vincent. Now return to your post. And remember, we wish to know the minute she talks with anyone—not after they have already left. Call this number at two o’clock, and we shall discuss your sleep. Oh, one last thing. Before she paid your advance money, the woman who hired you did some checking around. She learned of your tendency to hurt people, sometimes without provocation. No one is to be touched without our say-so. Is that clear?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Like you said, it’s your money.” He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, then spat on the receiver. A reflex check of the coin return and he drove back to watch the house.

  The only lights in the apartment shone through the blinds of the living room window. Every few minutes Christine’s silhouette appeared, then vanished. Leonard Vincent picked up his whetstone and began clucking a one-note melody as he withdrew another knife from the glove compartment.

  Christine had been unable to sit since Dotty Dalrymple’s departure. She paced from room to room, tapping the unopened envelope against her palm. Suddenly she looked down, as if noticing it for the first time. Then she tore it open.

  Inside were five neatly banded packets of hundred dollar bills—ten in each.

  “The choice is clear,” she said out loud, testing her nursing director’s words. Again the image of David’s face formed in her mind. She stared at the packets, then threw them on her bureau.

  “The choice is clear,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER XVII

  On Thursday, the ninth of October, as on the previous three days, Boston forecasters predicted an end to the tenacious low pressure system and the rain. For the fourth straight day, they were wrong.

  In Huddleston, New Hampshire, ninety minutes north of the city, a one-hundred-fifty-year-old covered bridge washed away before Crystal Brook—-little more than a trickle in August.

  Accidents on frenetic Route 128, never a rarity, more than tripled.

  On David Shelton, however, as on most in the area, the effects of the unrelenting downpour were even more insidious. It was more than a mile from his apartment to the financial district and the law offices of Wellman, MacConnell, Enright, and Glass. Irritable and frustrated by inactivity, he chose to defy the storm and walk to his appointment with Ben. Within a block he was soaked beyond the consideration of turning back. “Wet is wet,” he pronounced testily, trudging head down into the wind.

  The suite of offices occupied most of the twenty-third floor of a mirror-glass building whose name and address were both One Bay State Square. “No wonder he charges $10,000,” David muttered as he approached the reception area. Three women were handling traffic with practiced calm in a space nearly as big as David’s whole office.

  He looked and felt like a drowned rodent. For a moment he thought of asking the severe receptionist for some towels and a change of clothes, but nothing in her expression encouraged that kind of frivolity. “Mr. Glass,” he said meekly, “I have an appointment with Mr. Glass?” The woman, struggling to mask her amusement, motioned him to a bank of leather easy chairs. Discreet chimes sounded, signaling Ben.

  Whatever the goals of the interior decorators, David decided, making clients who looked like drowned rodents feel less conspicuous was not one of them. The sterile opulence featured thick gold carpeting, original oils on the walls, and a jungle of bamboo palms and huge ferns. A well-stocked library was prominently displayed behind glass walls. Even more impressive to him was the fact that several people were actually using it.

  Ben popped around a corner, smiled at David’s appearance, then extended both hands. “Either you walked over or this is autumn’s answer to the Blizzard of Seventy-eight,” he said.

  “Both.” He took the lawyer’s hands in his and squeezed them tightly. Ben was a thin break in the clouds—an island in the madness and confusion.

  “Had lunch yet?” he asked as they walked to his office.

  “Yesterday. But please, nothing for me. You go ahead if you want.”

  “Meatloaf à la Amy?” He produced a brown bag from his desk. “There’s plenty here. You sure?”

  David shook his head. “No thanks. Really.” He looked around the room. Ben’s cluttered office was in sharp contrast to the rest of the austere suite. Books and journals were everywhere, many of them open or marked with folded sheets of legal paper. The walls were overhung with framed photographs and pen-and-ink drawings. “Your partners let you get away with all this earthiness?” he asked, gesturing at the disarray.

  “They think I’m camp.” Ben grinned. “One of my partners once called my office ‘funky.’ A thousand a month just for this room and he calls it funky.” He took a bite of sandwich, then spoke around chews. “Even soaked, you look better than yesterday. Are you holding up all right?”

  David shrugged. “I got suspended from the staff at the hospital,” he said flatly.

  “What?”

  “Suspended. I had a visit this morning from Dr. Armstrong—she’s the chief of staff and the only one at that place who really seems to give a shit about what happens to me. Anyhow, she called and asked to stop by. I knew what she had to say and suggested she tell me over the phone, but she insisted on doing it in person. That’s the kind of woman she is.”

  “So?”

  “So, last night the executive committee voted, over her objection, to ask me to voluntarily suspend my staff and O.R. privileges until this whole business is cleared up.”

  Ben shook his head. “Not ones to waste any time, this executive committee of yours.”

  “According to Dr. Armstrong, Wallace Huttner, the chief of
surgery, led the push. He’s also helping the murdered woman’s husband put together a malpractice case against me. If I’m found guilty, they want to be ready to move right in and sue. Dr. Armstrong said they made my suspension voluntary as a favor to me—to keep me from having an enforced suspension on my record. I think they did it because it’s less paperwork for them.”

  “Shit,” Ben muttered.

  “It’s probably just as well. Even before I was arrested the place became instant iceberg the minute I set foot in the door. It’s all crazy. I … I don’t know what the hell to do. I’d fight back if I had even a faint idea of who or what I was fighting, but …”

  “Hey, easy,” Ben urged. “The fight’s just starting. For now I’ll throw the punches, but you’ll get your chance. This afternoon we share ideas about who and why. Tomorrow we’ll start planning what to do. Somewhere out there is an answer. Just be patient and don’t do anything rash or crazy. We’ll find it.”

  David nodded and managed a tense smile. “Hey, I almost forgot this.” He pulled a soggy envelope from his pants pocket. “Good thing pencil doesn’t run,” he said, passing it over. “Dr. Armstrong didn’t want me to get into any more trouble at the hospital, so in exchange for my promise to stay put, she did some checking for me. There are four names on the sheet inside. She got them from the hospital personnel computer. Two orderlies with prison records, a nurse with a drug-use history, and another nurse who is pressuring the hospital to post a Patient’s Bill of Rights. I don’t know any of them. It’s not much, but Dr. Armstrong said she would get the names to Lieutenant Dockerty.”

  Ben cut him off. “She already has, David.”

  “What?”

  “The lieutenant called a short time ago. I talked to him for half an hour. He wants you—and Dr. Armstrong—to quit playing Holmes and Watson and let him do his work.”

  “Do his work?” David’s voice was incredulous. “Ben, the man has spent almost a week tar-and-feathering me. He’s the other side. He’s one we should be fighting.”