The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  “Help,” he called out. “Please help.” His cry was instantly swallowed by the night storm. “Please help me.”

  He was ten feet away when the figure lurched around to face him. It was an old man—toothless, unshaven, and drunk. Water dripped from the brim of his tattered hat. David started to speak, but could only shake his head. Gasping, he supported himself against a parked car. Without sound or warning, the rear window of the car shattered. David spun around. Through the gloom and the rain he saw his pursuer’s shadow, down on one knee in position to fire once more. He was running when flame spit from the silencer. Running when the bullet meant for him slammed into the old man, spinning him to the pavement.

  He pushed himself forward, through the pain and the downpour. Pushed himself harder than ever in his life. His heels slammed down on small stones, sending dagger thrusts up each leg. Still he ran—across Marlborough Street, across Beacon Street, and on toward the river. It was his.route, his run—the path he had jogged so many promising sunlit mornings. Now he was running from his death. Behind him, the huge killer gained ground with every stride.

  Traffic on Storrow Drive was light. David splashed across without slowing down—onto the stone footbridge and over the reflecting basin. Ahead of him, the lights of Cambridge shimmered through the rain and danced on the pitch-black Charles.

  Double back, he thought. Double back and help Ben. Maybe he needs you. Maybe he’s not really dead. For God’s sake, do something.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. The man, delayed by several cars on Storrow Drive, had lost some ground, but not enough. David knew the chase was almost over. With fear his only rhythm and flailing strides, he was near collapse. He scanned the deserted esplanade for somewhere to hide. The killer was too close. His only hope was the river. Stones along the bank tore away what was left of his socks as he scrambled over them and plunged into the frigid oily water.

  He had little capacity left for more pain, yet icy stilettos found what places remained and bore in. Behind him, Leonard Vincent crossed the footbridge and neared the bank. As deeply as he could manage, David sucked in air and dropped below the surface. He was twenty feet from shore, pushing himself along the muddy bottom. His clothes became leaden, at first helping him stay down, then threatening to hold him there. He broke once for air. Then again. Still he drove himself. The water stung his eyes and made it impossible to see. Its taste, acrid and repugnant despite years of waste- and pollution-control, filled his nose and mouth.

  All at once his head struck something solid. Dazed and near blind, he explored the obstacle with his hands. It was a dock—a floating wooden T, laid on the river to tether some of the dozens of small sailboats that spent the warm months darting over reflections of the city.

  For a minute, two, all was silent save for the spattering of rain on the dock and on the river. David crouched by the dock in four feet of water, rubbing at the silt in his eyes. His feet and legs were numb. Then he heard footsteps—careful, measured thumps. The killer was on the dock! David pressed the side of his face against the coarse slimy wood. The footsteps grew louder, closer. He slid his hand under the dock. Did it break water? Was there room enough to breathe? If he ducked under he might be trapped without air. If he didn’t …

  He inhaled slowly, deeply, realizing the breath might be his last. Eyes closed tightly, he pulled himself beneath the dock. His head immediately hit wood. Terror shot through him. He was trapped, his lungs near empty. Pawing desperately overhead, his hands struck the side of a beam. An undersupport! He pushed to one side and instantly his face popped free of the water. There were four inches of air. A thin smile tightened across his lips, then vanished. The footsteps were directly over his face. Through the narrow slits between timbers he could have touched the bottoms of the man’s shoes, now inches from his eyes. The pacing stopped. David bent his neck back as far as he could and pressed his forehead against the bottom of the dock. Through pursed lips, he sucked in air slowly, soundlessly.

  Above his face, the shoes scraped, first one way and then another, as Vincent scanned the river. Then, with agonizing slowness, the man headed toward the other arm of the T.

  In the icy water David began to shake. He clenched down with all his strength to keep from chattering and wedged himself more tightly between the river bottom and the dock. All feeling from his neck down was gone. The footsteps receded further and further, then disappeared. The closed space began to exert its own ghastly terror. Is he just sitting up there? David wondered. Sitting and waiting? How long? How much longer can I stay like this?

  He counted. To one hundred, then back to zero. He sang songs to himself—silly little songs from his childhood. Gradually, inexorably, he lost control over the soft staccato of his teeth. Still he did not move. “… This old man he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe …” “… I knew a man with seven wives and seven cats and seven lives …” “… Red Sox, White Sox, Yankees, Dodgers, Phillies, Pirates …”

  The chill reached deep inside him. He could no longer stop the shaking. How long had it been? His legs seemed paralyzed. Would they even move? “… Red Rover, Red Rover, come over, come over …” “… I’ll bet you can’t catch me, betcha can’t betcha can’t …”

  “I’ll bet … I’ll bet … I’ll bet I’m going to die.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Joey Rosetti closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrance of Terry’s excitement. That scent, her taste, the way her dark nipples grew firm beneath his hand—even after twelve years the sensations were as fresh and arousing as they were warm and comfortable.

  He rubbed his cheeks against the silky skin between her thighs, then drew his tongue upward between her moist folds.

  “It’s good, Joey So good,” Terry moaned, drawing his face more tightly against her. She smiled down at him and dug her fingers through the jet-black waves of his hair.

  Shuddering, she brought his mouth to hers. Her heels slid around his body as the hunger in their kiss grew. He entered her with slow, deepening thrusts.

  “Joey, I love you,” Terry whispered. “I love you so much.”

  She sucked on his lips and caressed the fold between his buttocks. The heavy muscles tensed as her fingers worked deeper.

  Joey’s thrusts grew quicker, more forceful. It would be soon, they knew, for both of them.

  Suddenly, the telephone on the bedside table began ringing. “No,” Terry groaned. “Let it ring.” But already she felt a let-up in Joey’s intensity. “Let it ring,” she begged again. Six times, seven—the intrusive jangling was not going to stop. The pressure inside her lessened. An eighth ring, then a ninth.

  “Damn,” Joey snarled, popping free of her as he rolled over. “This better not be a fucking wrong number.” He mumbled a greeting, listened for half a minute, then said the single word, “Where?” A moment later, he kicked the covers off and scrambled out of bed.

  “Terry, it’s the doc,” he said. “Doc Shelton. He’s hurt and he needs help.” He flicked on the bedside light and raced to the closet.

  “I’m coming with you,” Terry demanded, pulling herself upright.

  “No, honey. Please.” He held up a hand. “He’s like crazy. I could barely understand him. But he did say there was trouble. I don’t want you there. Call the tavern. See if Rudy Fisher’s still working. If he is, tell him to get his ass over to the esplanade by the Charles River. The Hatch Shell. I’ll meet him there.”

  “Joey, can’t you call someone else? You know how I feel about that m—”

  “Look, I don’t have time to debate. Rudy’s been with me longer than y—for a long time. If there’s trouble, I want him around.”

  Twelve years had taught Terry the uselessness of arguing with her husband over such matters. Still, his insistence on Rudy Fisher, a giant who doted on violence, frightened her. “Joey, please,” she urged. “Just be careful. No rough stuff. Please promise me. If he’s hurt, then just get him to a hospital and come home.”

  “Ba
by, the man saved my life,” he said, pulling on a pair of pants. “Whatever he needs from me he gets.”

  “But you promised …”

  “Listen,” Joey snapped, “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.” He forced a more relaxed tone. “I’m a businessman now, you know that. If he’s hurt, I’ll get him to the hospital. Don’t worry. Just do what I asked you to.” He grabbed a shirt from the closet.

  Terry sat on the edge of the bed, admiring him as he dressed. At forty-two he still had the cleanly chiseled features and sinewy body of a matinee idol. There was a calm, unflappable air about him that gave no hint of the deadly situations he had survived in his life. Reminders were there, though, in the burgundy scars that crisscrossed his abdomen. One, an eighteen-inch crescent around his left flank, was a memento from his days as a youth gang leader in Boston’s North End. Intersecting it just above his navel was another scar—ten years old—the result of a gunshot wound sustained while thwarting a holdup at the Northside.

  Rosetti had been one of David’s first private patients at White Memorial—a twelve-hour procedure that some of the operating room staff still spoke of reverently. During Joey’s convalescence, a friendship had developed between the two men.

  “Terry, will you stop gawking and make that call,” Joey said tersely as he stepped into a pair of black loafers. He waited until her back was turned, then snatched his revolver and shoulder holster from beneath the sweaters on his closet shelf.

  He was headed toward the door when Terry said, “Joey, don’t use it, please.”

  Rosetti walked back and kissed her gently. “I won’t, honey. Unless I absolutely have to, I won’t. Promise.”

  Terry Rosetti waited until the door slammed shut, then sighed and picked up the phone.

  David sat on the ground of the esplanade, hanging on to the dangling pay phone receiver to keep from falling over. He shook uncontrollably, fading in and out of awareness as the driving rain splattered him with mud. Squinting through the downpour, he could see the Hatch Shell Amphitheater. The mountainous half-dome, looming several hundred yards away, was the only landmark he’d been able to think of to give Joey.

  Slowly, painfully, he released the phone, rolled over in the muddy puddle, and began crawling toward a night-light at one side of the dome. For ten minutes, fifteen, he clawed his way over the sodden ground. The tiny bulb, at first a beacon, soon became his entire world. It seemed farther away with each agonizing inch. Again and again he tried to stand, only to crumple beneath the pain in his ankle and the overwhelming chill throughout his body. Each time he got to his hands and knees and pushed on. Twice he doubled over as spasms knotted his gut, forcing fetid river water and bile out of his nose and mouth. The taunting light grew dimmer, more distant.

  “It can’t end like this.” David said the words over and over, using them as a cadence to force one hand, then one knee in front of the other. “It can’t end like this …”

  Suddenly the grass turned to concrete, then to smooth slick marble. He was on the stairs at the base of the Shell. His shivering gave way to paroxysmal twitches of his hands, shoulders, and neck—the harbingers of a full-blown seizure. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as his teeth, chattering like jackhammers, minced the edges of his tongue. Overhead, the night light flickered for a moment, then went black. David felt the incongruous peace of dying settling within him. He fought the sensation with what little strength, what little concentration, he had left. Christine knows, he thought. She knows why Ben is dead and now she’ll die, too. Must hang on. Hang on and help her. It can’t end like this.… It can’t.

  * * *

  The emptiness had set in only minutes after Christine had declined Ben’s offer of a ride and started home. It was as if a tap had opened, draining from her every ounce of emotion and feeling. She had abandoned her attempt to shelter herself beneath the overhangs of buildings and wandered along the center of the sidewalk, oblivious to the downpour.

  The session with Ben had been easy—at least, easier than she had anticipated. In his comfortable, nonjudgmental manner, he had assured her again and again that her decision to confess was the right thing, the only thing to do. He had accepted the explanation she chose to give—one in which she, acting alone, had honored the wishes of a close, special friend who was dying painfully. The most difficult moment had come when he brought up the forged C222 order form.

  “The what?” Christine asked, stalling for even a little time.

  “The form. The one Quigg, the pharmacist, claimed Dr. Shelton filled at his store.”

  Christine’s mind raced. Clearly, Miss Dalrymple or one of the others had used the form to protect her. With no forewarning of what had transpired, she had no ready response. “I … I used it and … and then I bribed the pharmacist.”

  “How did you come by it in the first place?” Ben asked. There was no trace of disbelief in his face.

  “I … I’d rather not say just yet.” Christine held her breath, hoping the lawyer would push no further. With a few days she could think of something. If Miss Dalrymple still wished to protect The Sisterhood, she would have to do whatever she could to insure that the pharmacist did not contradict her. She would also have to convince Peggy that Christine was determined to keep the movement out of her confession.

  Ben studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, then,” he said. “Let’s talk about how I believe you should handle things. That is, if you want my advice.”

  “I’d like more than that, Mr. Gl … I mean, Ben. If it’s possible, I would like you to represent me.”

  “I’ll have to think it over, Christine. Just to be sure there wouldn’t be any conflict of interest involved.” He smiled. “But off hand, I don’t think there would be. You meet me Monday morning at my office. Nine o’clock. I’ll see to it that Lieutenant Dockerty is there. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you ahead of time exactly what to say to him. Monday, okay?”

  Christine nodded.

  Monday. Christine repeated the word over and over again as she scuffed through the rain. Three days before her life would, to all intents, come to an end. Hell, she realized, it had ended already. A bus careened past, spraying her boots and trench coat with muddy street water. She did not even break stride. In a rush of images, she pictured what was to follow for her: the arrest … the judge … Miss Dalrymple … her brothers and sisters … the newspapers … her father, already confined to a nursing home … the nicknames—Death Angel, Mercy Murderer … her roommates and their families.… But most punishing of all, perhaps, were the images of David and the hatred she knew he would feel for her.

  She walked past the turnoff for her street. Little by little, the great black hole within her grew. The relief and the peace she had felt while talking with Ben were gone. Tears of rain supplanted the tears she was too empty to cry. Monday.

  Unseeing, she studied the windows of shops and stores as she passed. All at once, she was standing in front of a pharmacy—her pharmacy. The elderly pharmacist knew her, knew all three roommates, in fact, and liked them all. Dreamlike, she entered, exchanged a few forced pleasantries, then asked the man for a refill of the Darvon she occasionally took for cramps. Her last prescription, filled six months ago, was at home in her bureau, the vial still nearly full. After a brief check of her file, the man refilled it for her.

  On the walk home Christine began to compose the note she would write.

  “Rudy, he’s up here!” Joey cried out. “Mother of God, what a mess! I think he’s dead.”

  David’s motionless form lay face down in a puddle to one side of the amphitheater steps. He had crawled up the stairs and wedged himself behind a marble slab, hidden from the sidewalk below. Gently Joey rolled his friend over to his back. The driving rain splattered filth and blood from David’s face. At that instant, he moaned, a soft whine, nearly lost in the night wind.

  “Jesus, go get a blanket!” Joey screamed. “He’s breathing!” He cradled David’s head in one hand and began patting his
cheek—faster and harder. “Doc, it’s Joey. Can you hear me? You’re gonna be all right. Doc? …”

  “Christine …” David’s first word was an almost indistinct gurgle. “Christine … must find Christine.” His eyes fluttered open for a moment, strained to focus on Joey’s face, then closed. Rosetti set a hand on David’s chest. He nodded excitedly at its shallow, rhythmic rise and fall.

  “Hang on,” he said. “We’ll get you to the hospital. You’re gonna be all right, Doc. Just hang on.” He looked up and muttered a curse at the downpour. In moments the wind died off. The heavy rain gave way to a light, misty spray. Joey stared overhead in amazement, then nodded his approval.

  “First thing in the morning You get a raise in pay.” He grinned.

  David heard Rosetti’s voice, but understood only the word hospital. No, he thought. Not the hospital. He struggled to hang on to the thought, to put it into words, but his consciousness weakened, then let go, and he plunged into darkness.

  Five minutes later, he was bundled in a blanket, propped against Joey on the back seat of Rudy Fisher’s Chrysler. His uncontrollable shaking continued but, moment by moment, he was regaining consciousness. Joey ordered Fisher to the Doctors Hospital emergency ward. Like echoes down a long tunnel, David heard his own words—disconnected, tinny whimpers. “Ben is dead … Christine is dead. No hospital, please … Must find Christine.… I’m cold … so cold. Please help me get warm …”

  Several ambulances were lined up in front of the emergency entrance, their lights flashing in hypnotic counterpoint. Joey jumped out and returned moments later with a wheelchair.

  “Place is a fucking zoo,” he said as they eased David out of the car. “Must be the rain. Looks like a scene from some war movie. Rudy, wait for me in that space over there. You all right, Doc?”

  David tried to nod, but the lights and the signs and the faces spun into a nauseating blur. He was retching as Joey pushed him through the gliding doors into the artificial brilliance of the reception area. The atmosphere and action were reminiscent of a battleground infirmary. A constant stream of patients—some bleeding, some doubled over in pain—flowed in through several doors. Litters were everywhere. Joey took in the scene, then pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the triage nurse.