Critical Condition

by Peter Clement

  Holy shit! thought Richard, caught off guard by the outburst, and he strained his legs against the heavy cabinet, shoving it away from him to the brink of going over.

  "You will not thwart me," his attacker screamed as he thudded into the aisle below.

  Richard rocked the shelves back toward him.

  "I will avenge your wrongs against God's works!"

  This guy's nuts, he thought, getting the wall of metal and paper moving nicely to and fro a few times, until one final tug sent the entire structure and all its contents crashing onto the man underneath.

  His howls of pain and rage trebled.

  For good measure Richard dropped his own one-ninety pounds onto the back of the toppled cabinet, giving his human sandwich a final whack.

  Then all was silent.

  Too silent.

  Christ, had he killed the lunatic?

  As he scrambled over the slippery surface, he felt the slope of it under his feet, presumably because the man's body lay wedged between it and the floor. When he reached its end he knelt down and listened at the opening to the space it had created, hoping to hear the guy's breathing.At first there was absolute silence. Then a soft brushing sound came toward him.

  He was alive. Time to get out of here. But the man had answers that might save Kathleen.

  "Are you all right?"

  The movement continued, then stopped.Maybe he was hurt and couldn't answer.

  Richard got back to his feet, slipped his fingers around the edge of the top shelf and gave a heave. He couldn't lift it. Maybe it had pinned the guy and was crushing the air out of his lungs, he thought, his alarm growing. Feeling around he could tell the heavy structure was at least partially hung up on the cabinet in front of it. Not all the weight was on the trapped man.

  Still, if he had knocked him out, the man could have swallowed his tongue and be having trouble breathing. Shit! The sounds Richard had heard could even be him seizing.

  Or he could be playing possum.

  Richard hovered, thinking of Kathleen. If the man died, so did his best chance to find out what Hamlin did to her.

  Goddamn it! Better check him, he decided, yielding to his ER reflexes.

  He lay flat on his stomach and slithered into the tiny space, his slim frame finding clearance without much difficulty. "Answer me if you can. Are you able to get your breath?" Nothing.

  He inched ahead, unable to see anything. Every two feet he stopped and listened. Not even the sound of the air-conditioning penetrated in here.

  Before Richard heard him, he s me I led him, a sour aroma of sweat and the biting perfume of aftershave subtle as toilet bowl deodorizer in a gas station rest room.

  Squirming forward a few more inches, Richard caught the rise and fall of the man's respirations, quiet and regular, not at all labored.

  Too regular for someone in distress.

  He instinctively pulled up, just as a handful of fingers swept by the front of his throat and another clutched at his neck but missed.

  "Shit!" he screamed, writhing backward as fast as he could. The man crawled after him, grunting and huffing as he came. Richard continued to propel himself feetfirst toward the opening with his elbows and knees, burning the skin off them as he went. At first, the man's hands brushed his face as they kept grabbing and reaching for him, and puffs of the guy's breath blew hot against the backs of his own hands. Richard sped up, easily increasing the distance between them. The creep must be fatter than me, he thought.

  Seconds later Richard was out from under the cabinet and heading for the door, his own breathing quick and burning. He'd need help; he was too spent to fight. As he raced away, he heard a plaintive wail.

  "You can't escape me. For I am a soldier in the Legion of the Lord," the man bellowed.

  What was it with all the God stuff?

  "And as I do His work, He is at my side!"

  The creep really must be loony.

  "You hear me! As an enemy of His plan you shall perish! As a destroyer of His seed you will receive the Almighty's just punishment."

  Oh shit! Richard thought of all the times he'd treated psychotics in ER who sounded like that when they were in the throes of some religious delirium. What if he was some escaped psychiatric patient who'd wandered off the floor and had nothing to do with the killings?Increasingly uneasy that he might have made a terrible mistake, Richard ran faster.

  "Hey!" yelled the man. "Stop!"

  Visions of litigation for assaulting a patient danced through his head.

  "Hang on, I'm going to get some people to help you," he called back, figuring about six orderlies and a syringeful of Haldol ought to do it. The door couldn't be too much farther.

  Sounds of running joined his own.

  Christ, the son of a bitch was after him again.

  This must be in the reception area, he thought, and sprinted for where the way out ought to be.

  "You are damned to hell!" screeched the man descending on him.

  Yeah, right. Slamming into the wall he immediately felt along it for the handle, the frame, anything. His lead couldn't be more than ten seconds. His hand closed over the latch. He yanked it open, bringing the light from the hallway flooding in, practically blinding him. Out he ran, and made a beeline for the stairs."You're agents of the Devil!" the man screamed from inside the room. "His vengeance will destroy you both."

  Both? Now he was seeing double, Richard thought.

  Before starting up, he looked back, hoping to catch a glimpse of his pursuer.

  No one followed.

  "Where are you now?" McKnight said.

  "At the front entrance, with the security guards."

  "Can they block all the exits?"

  "Not likely. This time of night there's only a skeleton staff. But we've got men here and at the ER doors."

  "And there was no sign of this guy when you returned with the orderlies?"

  "None.""So where is he?"

  "We figured he slipped out a fire exit."

  "Shit! Can you describe him at all."

  "He's got bad breath and wears lousy cologne."

  "That's it?"

  "Hey, I never saw him. The lights were out, and once I reached the corridor, he stayed out of sight."

  "None of the floors are missing a psych patient?"

  "No."

  "Jesus Christ! We'll have to search the whole fucking hospital, just to be sure he's not still hanging around. Look, I'm on my way, and I'll dispatch a couple patrol cars—"

  "There's more. I'm sure this guy's tied in with whatever Hamlin and Lockman did to Kathleen.""And how do you figure that?"

  "Because she just told me a man dressed as a cleaner tried to inject her with something a few hours earlier."

  "What!"

  "That's what set her off."

  "Holy shit! Is she all right?"

  "Yeah. The dragon lady who drugged her happened to be in the right place at the right time for once and, without even realizing it, interrupted him before he could do anything. The man came within seconds of taking Kathleen's life." Richard kept his voice icy calm, his feelings deep-frozen for the moment.

  "But wait a minute," McKnight said. "How do you know it was the same guy as in the basement? You said you couldn't see down there."

  "Because we both s me I led him." 5:07 a.m.

  "Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night . . ."Jim Norris woke with a start to hear Bette Davis's voice blend with the sound of a bell ringing. He lurched out of his easy chair and stumbled toward the phone. He found it by the silvery glow of his television set that he kept permanently tuned to the classic movie channel. Having the likes of Gary, Humphrey, and Clark around for a while was the only way he could get any sleep these nights, their familiar voices in the distance as comforting as if they were old friends in the next room watching over him.

  The ringing didn't stop even after he picked up the receiver, and he stood staring at it, the buzzing dial tone puzzling him even more. Urgent tapp
ing replaced the bell, and a woman's voice, not Bette Davis's and barely above a whisper, said, "Norris, wake up, I know you're in there."

  He pulled his housecoat around his lean, well-creased body and did up the tie, having nothing on underneath. After dispatching the TV with his remote, he shuffled over to the door. "Francesca?" he said.

  "Let me in, Jimmy."

  Norris drew a breath and held it."Are you alone?"

  "Of course I am. Let me in. We have to talk."

  "The way you've been chatting it up with Laurel and Hardy," he said, resorting to the label he'd once jokingly given tiny Adele Blaine and the corpulent Paul Edwards, "I wouldn't think there'd be much left over you could say to me."

  "Those two disgust me."

  "Then why go running to them every time they call?"

  "I'll tell you inside, Jimmy. I'm asking nicely."

  "You're waking my neighbors, is what you're doing."

  "Please, Jimmy, let's just stop hurting each other. I've got a way out of this for both of us."

  He opened the door leaving the chain on. The grim face that greeted him seemed so sucked-in on itself he thought it would fit through the inch-wide crack between them. The dark rings under her eyes matched his own.

  What the hell, he thought, flicking the metal clip free of its slot. He stepped back and waved her into his living room. "I guess misery really does love company."

  She walked in and stood hugging her raincoat around her. The gray of first light through the windows tinted her blond hair and pale skin the color of ashes.

  Like a lot of apartments on the upper West Side, his had a large, high-ceilinged, living-dining area, a small pair of bedrooms placed like apostrophe's about an even smaller kitchen, and a closet for a bathroom. When they'd first started dating eighteen months ago, she had him make love to her in every conceivable nook and cranny, to "make the place ours" as she put it. He got the impression she was exorcising all his previous women. He even welcomed her erasing those ghosts. There were a lifetime's worth, his easygoing charm and rugged looks having lured them in over the years. Once they realized that the best they could expect was to be second to his lab, they all left quickly enough. The system suited him. There was always another resident, technician, or nurse eager to test his reputation in bed.

  As he'd anticipated, Francesca was different, because she was as smart, tough, and passionate about her career as he was.

  She looked around, her expression pained. He wondered if she was taking inventory of their time together, and if her memories of what they'd done to each other seared her as cruelly as his did him. He'd been so confident back then, on fire about how the six of them would turn medicine on its ear, his lifetime in the lab about to pay off. The shambles of that pipe dream tasted dry as dust now. "Should I put on some coffee?" he said, desperately needing a diversion from the awkwardness he felt."Yes, that would be nice."

  He retrieved his espresso maker from where it had been sitting on a shelf since she left over six months ago. Spooning in enough fresh grounds for two, he recalled how weeks afterward he'd still absently take a pair of cups down in the morning, then remember she was gone. That's when he had switched to tea.

  She was so frail looking, he thought, watching her through the doorway, waiting for the brewing cycle to finish gurgling and growling. Yet he knew the strength of will that lay beneath her slight exterior, having felt its full, bruising impact once she'd decided to shut him out. Not hurt each other? That was a laugh. Both of them were too expert at it to quit.

  "So what do you want?" he said minutes later, standing a few feet behind her with the mugs on a tray.

  She gave a start, her mind clearly elsewhere, and turned to look at him. His being nude under the robe made him feel self-conscious.

  "Right!" She sat on the edge of his couch, her hands in her pockets. Leaning forward, she seemed about to get up and leave at any second. As he placed her cup in front of her, she looked him in the eye and said, "Lockman's dead. Murdered. I was called into ER for a case tonight and word was all over the hospital."She was studying him for a reaction, he thought. But he was ready for her. "I know. One of my lab technicians heard it on the news. She called me around midnight."

  "Really?"

  The question hung there, suggestive as a striptease.

  "Yeah, really." He took a seat in an easy chair opposite her, and clasped his own hot drink between his palms. "You know how they like to keep a radio on down there, to take the edge off being alone in the depths of the hospital."

  "You heard as well that Sullivan got Steele, along with a detective in the NYPD, to believe her story about Hamlin and Lockman?"

  "Yeah."

  "Damn it, Jimmy. How can you just sit there? Didn't your lab tech tell you what else they're saying about the murder tonight?" Her tone of voice was scalpel sharp.

  "Yeah. Somebody took the trouble to cut Matt's heart out."

  She shivered, and seemed to retreat deeper into the folds of her coat but kept her eyes welded to his. "You seem mighty cold about it."

  "Is that why you're here, Francesca?" he said. "To see my reaction?"

  "Jimmy, please, don't."

  "You want to know if I killed him? And Hamlin?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "If my cutting out Lockman's heart was a special message to you?"

  "Please, you're frightening me."

  "Or maybe you think I had them killed?"

  "Jimmy. Listen to me—"

  "Well, here's one right back at you, Francesca, just so you know we're on an equal footing in the who's got good reason to distrust who department. You're the one who could benefit most from Hamlin and Lockman being dead. Hell, maybe with the lot of us knocked off you'd be free and clear to take your work public and reap the fame, along with the fortune that's bound to come with it. But of course in the meantime, if you arranged the first two deaths, you'd have to pretend to be suspicious of me and the others. And taking out a heart, that's just the thing to make it look as if the killer's sending you a specific warning. 'Poor Francesca! Maybe she's next,' the rest of us are meant to say, thereby diverting suspicions away from you."

  "Why that's preposterous—"

  "Really?" It was his turn to let the word drip insinuations into the air.

  She studied him in silence. "Look, Jimmy," she said after a few seconds, "I'm scared." She stood up, came over, and took the cup from his hands placing it on the end table. "Come here," she added, tugging on his arms. "I don't think you killed them. I know you too well. You're a dreamer, not a murderer. I think it was Adele or Edwards, hell maybe even both of them, trying to save their own skins," her voice was as soft as the approach of daylight.

  "Don't play games with me, Francesca—"

  "Just stand up."

  He rose to his feet.

  "Now put your arms around me."

  "No. You fucked me up when you left—"

  She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "I know. I know. I hated you. Felt you'd seduced me, my career, my whole life into a disaster. But I've missed you more than I can bear. And you're right. With Hamlin and Lockman dead, I can go public and get out of this. But I want you with me."

  Her candor appeased him.

  "For my work?"

  She gently clasped his bearded face between her palms. "I want more than just your work, Jimmy, much more."

  "What about Blaine and Edwards?"

  "We don't need them, and they won't dare talk."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "They'll be too scared, Jimmy. Of cops, of us, of each other. After all, they've got more to lose than I do if they get caught. It gives me an edge over them."

  "Over me as well. Why shouldn't I be scared of you?"

  "I already told you. Because I tried living without you and was miserable. Because I've got so damn much more to win by keeping my mouth shut and just getting on with the work. Because you're brilliant and I need you in the lab. What you set out to do was a noble and
beautiful thing, Jimmy, still is, and it's not too late for us to make it happen. Now are you with me?"

  He hesitantly let her guide his arms around her waist and didn't resist when she undid the tie to his robe. As her fingers slid inside its folds and she drew him to her, he inhaled the aroma of her hair and felt the iron-hard hurt he'd carried for the last six months release its grip. For the first time in ages he seemed able to breathe freely. Because much as he desired her, equally intoxicating was the possibility she'd help him finish what he'd started, bring it to fruition in a way that would make it noble in the eyes of the world. The hope they could bury forever its association with Hamlin and Lockman made him feel ready to dare again and be the warrior he always imagined himself. Providing of course Blaine and Edwards kept their mouths closed. And Francesca didn't betray him afterward. Doubts flooded in on his desire.

  The only part of what she'd said that he believed for certain was it being in her own best interests to shut up and get on with their work. Whether she wanted him back again just for his skills, or for "much more" as she'd claimed, he couldn't tell. Neither could he read her protesting her own innocence. Maybe she really did suspect that he'd done the killings and wanted him back anyway. Whatever her reasons, she seemed able to overcome her doubts about him, just as the promise of sex, his loneliness, and the prospect of becoming a scientific celebrity made it easier for him to ignore his own worst fears about her, for now.

  At least that's what he told himself, yielding to the tumble of the moment.

  But who was conning who this time? said a little voice from somewhere off to the side.

  Probably it was mutual, he conceded, ready to believe anything in his rush to slip off her raincoat, glide his hands under her OR top, lift it over her upstretched arms, and escape his solitude by losing himself between her breasts, even if it was just for the next few hours.

  Chapter 11

  That Same Morning,

  Wednesday, June 27, 6:47 a.m.

  Richard watched as the police artist put the finishing shading on the composite created with his laptop computer from Kathleen's instructions.