The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  Rosetti helped him into a wheelchair, then casually pushed it down the trauma wing corridor and across the reception area. As the electronic front doors slid open, a woman’s voice behind them called out, “Hey, you two, where are you going?”

  David scrambled out of the chair and hung on to Joey’s arm as they raced the last few yards to the Chrysler. “No rubber,” Joey panted as they dove into the back seat.

  Rudy Fisher nodded and eased past two parked cruisers down the sweeping circular driveway and off toward Boston’s North End.

  * * *

  Janet Poulos stood helplessly to one side of the reception area and watched them go. She had told Dahlia nothing of her abortive attempt to handle matters. Now she had another decision to make—whether or not to see if Leonard Vincent was alive and needed help. Since she was the only person the man could identify if he were arrested, the decision was not difficult.

  She stopped by the crash cart, took several ampules of pancuronium, and dropped them into her pocket. The respiratory paralysis caused by the drug helped maintain respirator patients. Well, now it would help her, too, provided she had the chance to use it. If not, she would have to find a way to help the man escape. Perhaps she could still salvage some heightened prestige in Dahlia’s eyes.

  Janet cursed her rotten luck and David Shelton for causing her so much difficulty. Then she stalked down the hall to Trauma 12, hoping she would find Leonard Vincent dead.

  “Ouch! What is that stuff?” David winced as Terry Rosetti scrubbed at the dirt embedded in the deep gouge along his arm.

  “Just something I use to clean the windows,” she said. “Now sit still and let me finish.”

  The Rosettis’ North End apartment was old, but spacious and newly renovated. Terry had decorated the place with grace, making full use of a collection of family furniture that would have been welcome in any of the posh antique shops on Newbury Street.

  David lay stretched out on the large oak guest bed, savoring the smell and texture of fresh linen and wondering if he would ever feel warm again. He was weak, lightheaded, and aching in a half-dozen different places. Still, he could sense his concentration improving as the mental fog brought on by his hypothermia began to lift. He silently thanked Joey for reasoning him out of an immediate search for Christine in favor of a hot shower.

  Terry Rosetti, a full-breasted, vibrant beauty, expertly wrapped his arm in gauze. “Fettuccini and first aid,” David said. “You are truly the complete woman.”

  Terry’s smile lit up the room. “Tell that to your friend out there. I think he’s starting to take me for granted. Do you know he was actually able to stop in the middle of making love to me to answer the phone when you called?”

  “No wonder it seemed to be ringing forever,” he said. “I almost hung up.”

  “It’s a lucky thing you didn’t,” Terry said. “David, Joey didn’t kill that man, did he?”

  The fear in her eyes left no doubt of the importance his answer held for her. “I wanted him to pull the trigger back there, Terry. I really did. That animal killed my friend. But Joey said he’d promised you and backed off.”

  Terry Rosetti swallowed at the lump in her throat.

  At that moment, Joey marched into the room, carrying a load of clothes, a pair of crutches, and the Boston phone book. “I think this must be the woman,” he said. “C. Beall, 391 Belknap, Brookline. I checked the other books and this is the only name that fits. By the way, the clothes and shit are courtesy of the North End Businessman’s Association.”

  “What’s that?” asked David.

  “Oh, just some simple business types like me who like to help poor, unfortunate folks that get chased into the river by a gorilla.” Joey smiled conspiratorially at Terry and winked. He failed to notice her lack of reaction. “You feel up to traveling, Doc?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. What time is it anyway?”

  “Twelve thirty. It’s a new day.”

  “Three hours.” David shook his head in amazement. “It’s only been three hours …”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, hand me the phone, please. I only hope she’s all right.”

  Joey squinted down at him. “You positive you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Well, you’re the one with the education an’ the degrees an’ shit. All I got goin’ for me is my street smarts. Just the same, I can think of at least six or seven good reasons why we would want to tell this C. Beall what we have to tell her face to face, not over the phone. Remember, you’ve already been arrested for murder. Right now that woman’s your only hope of gettin’ off.”

  David understood instantly. If Christine had nothing to do with Ben’s death, the news could panic her into a hasty, possibly fatal move. If she was somehow involved or had knowledge of who might have hired Leonard Vincent … He wouldn’t allow himself to complete the thought. “When this is all over,” he said, “I’m going to write my medical school and tell them to bring you in as a guest lecturer. You could teach medical students about making it in the real world. Let’s go find her.”

  Ten minutes later, they were back in Rudy Fisher’s car headed toward Brookline. “Don’t push it too hard, Rudy,” Rosetti ordered. “We don’t want to get stopped. If Vincent already got paper for the woman, all the fancy driving in the world isn’t gonna help.” David grimaced and looked out the window.

  After a mile of silence, Joey said, “Doc, there’s somethin’ I want to tell you. Call it a lesson if you want, since you’re gonna make me a teacher.”

  David turned toward his friend, expecting to see the wry glint that usually accompanied one of his stories. Joey’s eyes were narrowed, dark, and deadly serious. “Go on,” David said.

  “Leonard Vincent may not be the slickest operator in the world, but he is a pro. And as long as he or someone like him’s in the picture, you’re gonna be playing by his rules. Understand?” David nodded. “Well, we don’t have much time, so I’m gonna make the lesson simple for you. There’s only one rule you gotta know. One main rule for survival in Vincent’s game. I didn’t follow it back there in the hospital because Terry made me promise not to. But you got no Terry, so you pay attention and do what I say. If you even think someone’s gonna do it to you, you damn well better do it to him first. Understand?” He slipped his gun into David’s pocket. “Here. Whatever happens, I got a feelin’ you’re gonna need this more than me. Terry’ll make you something real special when she hears you got it away from me.”

  John Dockerty knelt by the door to David’s apartment and watched as the medical examiner’s team finished working around Ben’s body and wheeled it into the elevator. He looked up at the patrolman who had been making inquiries in the other apartments on the floor. The man shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing,” he mouthed.

  The news came as no surprise to Dockerty. Survival in the city meant hearing, seeing, and reporting as little as possible. He picked at the bullet holes in the doorjamb, then retraced the steps it seemed the action had taken. There was blood smeared on the hallway floor and wall of David’s apartment and along the bottom of the open bedroom window. He made a note to check David’s military and health records for mention of his blood type.

  A fatal knife wound, bullet holes, blood all over, an old drunk shot to death two blocks away, and not one witness. Dockerty rubbed at the fatigue stinging his eyes and tried to re-create the scenario. There were several possibilities, none of which looked good for Shelton. He had little doubt the man was dead.

  At that moment David’s phone began ringing. Dockerty hesitated, then answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Lieutenant Dockerty, please.”

  “This is Dockerty.”

  “Lieutenant, it’s Sergeant Mcllroy at the Fourth. We just got a call from one of our people at Doctors Hospital. Apparently this David Shelton—you know, the one you busted for that mercy killing?”

  “Yeah, I know, I know.”


  “Well, this Shelton showed up a little while ago on the emergency ward all smashed up. I called your precinct and they said you’d want to know about it right away.”

  “Tell your people to hold him at the hospital,” Dockerty said.

  “Can’t. He’s gone. Took off with some guy a few minutes after he arrived. No one realized it until too late. Our men were off taking statements from two assholes who had a shoot-out at the High Five Bar.”

  “Who the hell was the guy?” Dockerty’s head began to throb.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, isn’t it on Shelton’s emergency sheet?”

  “That’s just it. There is no emergency sheet. The clerk swears she typed one out, but now no one can find it.”

  “Jesus Christ. What in the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, tell the men at the hospital I’ll be right over. They’re not to let anyone leave who saw Shelton. No one. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Dockerty dropped the receiver in place and swept some strands of hair off his eyes and back under his hat. It was going to be a long goddamn night.

  Rudy Fisher made three passes along Christine’s street before Rosetti felt certain there were no “surprises.” He directed the giant to wait half a block away, then helped David up the concrete steps to the house. “Old Leonard’s probably having a time of it right now.” Joey laughed. “I can just imagine him trying to weasel his way out of that situation in the hospital with the only ten or twelve words that he knows.”

  David braced himself on his crutches and peered through the row of small panes paralleling the door. He moved gingerly, but even a slight turn or drop of his head brought renewed dizziness and nausea. The prolonged hypothermia, he realized, had somehow impaired his balance center or perhaps his body’s ability to make quick blood-pressure adjustments.

  The house was dark, save for a dim light coming from a room on the right—the living room, David guessed. He glanced at his watch. Nearly 1:00 A.M.

  “I guess we ring the bell, huh?” David asked nervously.

  “Well, Doc, given the options, I’d say that was your best bet. I’m glad you’re not this tense in the operating room.”

  David managed a laugh at himself, then pressed the bell. They waited, listening for a response. Nothing. David shivered and knew that the chill reflected more than the fine, wind-driven mist. He rang again. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.

  “Do we break in?” he asked.

  “We may have to, but I’d suggest trying the back door first.” Joey walked to the street and motioned to Rudy Fisher that they were going around to the back. David gave the button a final press, then fought through a wave of queasiness and followed.

  It was that third ring that woke Christine. She was stretched across her bed, careening through one grisly dream after another. On the floor, shards of torn note-paper were strewn about two pill bottles. Both of them were full.

  “Wait a minute, I’m coming,” she called out. Could both her roommates have forgotten their keys? Knowing them, a likely possibility. She pushed herself off the bed, then stared at the floor. The shredded note, the bottles of gray-and-orange death—how close she had come. She threw the pills into a drawer, then swept up the scraps with her hands and dropped them in the basket. By the end of the terrible dark hour that had followed her return home, Christine had resolved that nothing ever would make her take her own life. Nothing, except perhaps a situation such as Charlotte Thomas’s. She would face whatever she had to face.

  Again the doorbell sounded. This time it was the buzzer from the back door. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She rushed through the kitchen and was halfway down the short back staircase when she stopped dead. It was him, David, propped on crutches and peering through the window. She reached down and flipped on the outside light; then she gasped. His face was drawn and cadaverous, his eyes totally lost in wide, dark hollows. A second man, his back turned, was standing behind him. Christine’s pulse quickened as first confusion, then mounting apprehension gripped her.

  “Christine, it’s me, David Shelton.” His voice sounded weak and distant.

  “Yes … yes, I know. What do you want?” She felt frightened, unable to move.

  “Please, Christine, I must talk to you. Something has happened. Something terrible …”

  Joey grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy?” he whispered, working his way in front of the window. “Miss Beall,” he said calmly, “my name is Joseph Rosetti. I’m a close friend of the Doc’s. He’s been hurt.” He paused, gauging Christine’s expression to see if any further explanation was necessary before she let them in.

  Christine hesitated, then descended the final two stairs and undid the double lock. “I … I’m sorry,” she said as they entered the hallway. “You took me by surprise and … Please, come up to the living room. Can you make it all right? Are you badly hurt?”

  For the next fifteen minutes she did not say another word as the two men recounted the events of the night. With each detail a new emotion flashed in her eyes.

  Surprise, astonishment, terror, pain, emptiness. David studied them as they appeared. He wondered if she were even capable of a successful lie. Whatever she might have done, he was now certain that in no way was she responsible for Ben’s murder.

  Still, she was somehow involved. That reality pulled David’s attention from her face. “Christine, what did you tell Ben?” She seemed unable to speak. “Please, tell me what you said to him.” There was a note of urgency and anger in his voice.

  “I … I told him that it was me. That I was the one who … who gave the morphine to Charlotte.”

  David’s heart pounded. His arrest, the filth and degradation of his night in jail, the unraveling of everything he had regained in his career, Ben Glass’s death—she was responsible. “And the forged prescription?” There was bitterness in his words now. “Were you responsible for that, too?”

  “No! … I mean, I don’t know.” The muscles in her face tensed. Her lips quivered. The only explanation she could think to give him was the truth; but what was the truth? The Sisterhood had sacrificed David to protect her, she felt certain of that. But why Ben? It was hard enough to accept that they would choose to send an innocent man to prison, but murder? “Oh, my God,”she stammered. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand.”

  “What?” David demanded. “What don’t you understand?” His eyes flashed at her from their craters.

  Christine began to cry. “I don’t understand,” she sobbed. “So much is happening and nothing makes sense. It’s horrible. The pain I’ve caused you. And Ben—they’ve killed Ben. Why? Why? I … I need time. Time to sort this all out. It’s crazy. Why would they do it?”

  “Who’re they?” David asked. Christine didn’t answer. “Dammit,” he screamed, “what are you talking about? Who’re they?”

  “Now just hold it a minute.” Joey put up a hand to each of them. “You’re both gonna have to calm down or we could all find ourselves in trouble. Leonard Vincent’s probably out of the picture, but there’s no guarantee he was working alone. The longer you two spend goin’ at one another like this, the more chance there is that some goon’s gonna crash in here and do it good to all three of us.” He paused, allowing the thought to sink in, and watched until he sensed an easing in the tension. “Okay. Now, Miss Beall, I don’t know you, but I do know the doc here, and I know the shit he’s been through. The way I see it, you’re both in hot water until this whole business is straightened out. I can see that the news we’ve brought has shaken you, but this man here deserves an explanation.”

  “I … I don’t know what to say.” She spoke the words softly, as much to herself as to them.

  Joey could see that she was coming apart. He glanced at David, whose expression suggested that he sensed the same thing. “Look,” Joey said finally, “maybe what we should do is just call the cops an
d—”

  “No!” Christine blurted. “Please no. Not yet. There’s so much I don’t understand. A lot of innocent people could be hurt if I do the wrong thing.” She stopped and breathed deeply. When she continued, there was a new calm in her voice. “Please, you must believe me. I had nothing to do with Ben’s death. I liked him very much. He was going to help me.”

  David leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “Okay.” He looked up slowly. “No police … yet. What do you want?”

  “Some time,” she said. “Just a little time to work this whole thing through. I’ll tell you everything I know. I promise.”

  David sensed himself soften before the sadness in her eyes and turned away.

  “Look, Doc,” Rosetti said impatiently, “I meant what I said before. We’re just not smart stayin’ here any longer than we have to. If it’s no police, then it’s no police. If it’s some time to talk, then it’s some time to talk. Only not here.”

  David heard the urgency in Rosetti’s voice and saw, for the first time, a flash of fear in his eyes. “Okay, we’ll get out,” he said. “But where? Where can we go? Certainly not my apartment. How about the tavern … or your place? Do you think Terry would be upset if we went there?”

  “I have a better idea. Terry and me have this little hideaway up on the North Shore. I think if you two can keep from rippin’ each other apart without me for a referee it would be a perfect place. Doc, you can’t see yourself, but let me tell you, you look about ready for an embalmer. Why don’t you go on up there tonight and get some sleep. Tomorrow you can take all the time you need to talk things out.” David started to protest, but Rosetti stopped him. “This ain’t the time for arguin’, pal. You’re my friend. Terry’s friend too. So I know you’ll understand that I don’t want her mixed up in anything this messy. It’s the North Shore or you’re both on your own. Now what do you say?”

  David looked over at Christine. She was slumped in her chair, staring at the floor. There was an innocence about her—a defenselessness—that was difficult to reconcile with his pain and the hell she had caused him to live through. Who are you? he thought. Exactly what is it you’ve done? And why?