Deathbed fk-8

by William X. Kienzle

  “Really! I had no idea! Father, will you look at that cloud pattern on the weather map. Looks like we’re in for some more snow.”

  “I guess so. “ Koesler went into the kitchen to make some instant coffee. As far as he knew, he was the only one left in the world who would attempt to drink the coffee he made. The taste never offended him. And he was at a loss to know why others refused his coffee. He had forgotten that years in the seminary had made him an omnivore. And that if not for bread and peanut butter, he very probably would have starved long before ordination.

  As he stirred his usual overabundant spoonful of instant coffee granules into the steaming water, he wondered what he had accomplished by his disputation with Father Harold. Probably not much. Harold would continue to let the Church Xerox his mind and conscience. At most, perhaps he would understand how others might responsibly differ with the ordinary magisterium. That alone was a not inconsiderable achievement.

  * * *

  In the brief time since his inadvertent rescue of Sister Eileen, George Snell had achieved the status of in-house hero. Singlehandedly he had raised the image of a ragtag protective service to a level of respectability. Nor had he himself been unaffected by the new image that had been created.

  He had long considered himself God’s gift to womankind. Now he saw himself as fearless guardian of St. Vincent’s Hospital and all its personnel as well.

  He had conveniently managed to blot out the stark reality of that fateful evening. If aide Helen Brown had not upset his balance while he was entering into the famed Snell Maneuver, Sister Eileen undoubtedly would have been strangled. As it was, she had come all too close to death. And she would have been murdered in the same room with him. He would have risen satisfied and sated from his unique maneuver to discover the corpse of the CEO he was supposed to protect.

  As it was, he was a hero. And that was plenty good enough for him. So good, indeed, that since l’affaire Eileen he had taken to actually patrolling his beat. Who could ask for anything more? Certainly not his supervisor.

  “Checkin’ in a little early, ain’t you?” Chief Martin asked.

  “Early? Didn’t realize I was early,” Snell said virtuously.

  “Yeah, early.”

  “Better early than sorry. I made that up.”

  “Yeah? Well, you ain’t gonna be paid overtime just ’cause you came in early. I made that up.”

  “You don’t have to pay me overtime. I’m just here to do my job.”

  The chief scratched his head. “What is it with you? Ever since you kayoed that detox guy, you act like a cross between Superman and Mother Teresa.”

  “Oh, no sir, Chief. I’m just little old ordinary George Snell, doin’ my job.”

  “Another thing, Snell. I paced off the distance down that hallway you said you covered when you seen that guy drag the nun into the room. I paced it off maybe a dozen times. No way I can see how you covered that distance in the time it had to take you to get to him in time to save the nun. You just ain’t in no way, shape, or form that fast.”

  “You know how it is, Chief: In moments of stress you don’t know your own strength or speed.”

  “I dunno. I guess you had to do it. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how you did.”

  “Chief, my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

  It definitely bolstered Snell’s inward and outward credibility that he himself had come to believe this fairy tale.

  “And now,” Snell said, “if you’ll excuse me, Chief, I’ll start on my rounds.”

  “Go ahead. “ Martin turned toward the closed-circuit television monitor. “But you ain’t gettin’ any overtime.”

  Snell sauntered off. After all, he was early. He began his patrol in the hospital’s basement. At this hour, it was the eeriest section of the plant. Housekeeping, the kitchen, and general cafeteria were all closed and the people who worked there were long gone home. No one else should be in the basement. No one else was.

  That was a slight disappointment. George had been rather looking forward to another confrontation. Unarmed though he was, he was convinced he could handle any disturbance. So much had he come to believe in his own misbegotten reputation.

  From the basement, he took the elevator to the fourth floor, which was completely residential. A skeleton staff of nurses and aides fluttered about answering patients’ summonses, delivering medication, in general being busy.

  “Evening, Officer Snell,” one passing aide greeted.

  It surprised him. He hadn’t expected to be greeted. In fact, he had never before been greeted by anyone on the hospital staff. He had been convinced that, on the one hand, no one knew his name and, on the other, that no one wanted to.

  Evening, Officer Snell. It had a nice ring. He could grow to like it.

  She was a pretty little thing, too. For a split second, he toyed with the idea that he might bestow God’s greatest gift to women upon her. But in that second she was gone, disappeared into one of the rooms. He might have pursued her. But he wasn’t going to do that any more. He was a celebrity now. If someone wanted his favors, she could at least inquire, if not beg.

  He boarded the elevator to the first floor. Now he would work himself up to the third floor, the scene of his triumph both over the assailant of Sister Eileen and, literally, over nurse’s aide Helen Brown. As he recalled, and this he clearly recalled, the crescendo and climax of God’s gift had been denied Ms. Brown. That, he felt, should be remedied.

  First floor, through the day busier than most downtown streets, was now deserted. And all the more creepy for its comparative silence and emptiness. Even though Snell felt slightly more invulnerable than Achilles, he moved through these corridors somewhat more cautiously.

  What was that? Something had moved up ahead. It wasn’t just the movement. Anyone might have been walking in this hallway. It might have been a late departer from the day shift. It could have been someone going from one department to another. From, say, one of the residence halls to the emergency room. But, somehow, he was certain it was not. Whoever it was had been moving furtively, stealthily.

  Snell’s only consolation was that the furtive figure had seemed very small. In a confrontation, he would have every advantage of size. If the figure were human.

  Snell began to perspire freely. But if he were going to take this job seriously he would have to investigate. He really would.

  Warily he quickened his pace, trying to close the distance between himself and the mysterious figure.

  Once again, the figure stepped out of the shadows. By now, Snell had advanced to within a few feet. “All right!” he commanded. “That’s far enough! Stop where you are!”

  Sister Rosamunda collapsed against the wall, clutching at her heart. Snell was overwhelmed with confusion. “Sister! S . . . S . . . Sister,” he stammered. “What . . . I had no idea . . . are you okay?”

  “Whew!” She could say no more. Her eyes, as she looked up at him, exuded a mixture of fear and fury.

  “S . . . S . . . S . . . . Sister, are you all right?”

  “I think so. No thanks to you! Who are you, in nomine Domini?” She squinted through her bifocals. “George Snell, is it? Well, George, where did you get your training? With the Gestapo?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t know who you were—I just saw you sneaking down the hall—”

  “Sneaking! Sneaking, is it? I was not sneaking! Nuns don’t sneak! How dare you!”

  “Like I said, Sister, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. I had to find out. For the safety of the patients. I just had to find out. You could have been anybody.”

  “No, I couldn’t be anyone but me, you ninny!”

  “Well, I couldn’t tell that, Sister. All I saw was someone sneaking down the hall.”

  “There you go again!”

  “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean sneaking.”

  “Then stop saying it, in nomine Domini.”

  “Yes,
Sister.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Well, anyway, where were you going? I mean, it was odd that you were snea—going down the hallway—so . . . uh . . . cautiously.”

  “What business is it of yours, young man, where I’m going? I’ve been a part of this hospital since long before you were born. Can’t I go somewhere in the evening, down to the chapel to say some night prayers, without being scared half out of my wits by some ape!”

  “Oh, to chapel, that’s different.”

  “What’s different about it, young man? Is there any place in this hospital that is out-of-bounds to me? Has anyone given you any orders regarding my behavior in this hospital?”

  “Well, no, ma’am . . .”

  “What is this ‘no, ma’am’? I am a Religious Sister of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean, yes, Sister.” By this time, Snell would have been hard pressed to give the proper spelling of his own name. He just wanted out of this confrontation.

  “Well, then, am I free to go, young man? Or do you have some more bizarre surprises for me?”

  “Oh, no, Sister. I just . . . can I do anything to help you?”

  “Get out of my way! And while you’re at it, get out of my life!”

  Snell backed away. He had never attended parochial school. But in just a few moments, Sister Rosamunda had taught him all the abject terror and humiliation ever experienced by a nice little Catholic boy or girl in the good old days.

  He was beginning to doubt himself and his newfound resolve. He needed something. Something to rekindle his confidence. If he had been a religious person, he might have said a prayer. As it was, though employed by a Catholic hospital, he was less an agnostic or atheist than simply a backsliding Baptist.

  Yet, almost in answer to his unoffered prayer, he heard a sound. A metallic object striking the terrazzo floor. A sound that should not have been made at this hour. Who’d be carrying something metallic? Maintenance? If it were someone from maintenance, why didn’t he show himself? Someone was lurking in the shadows. Snell’s opportunity for self-redemption.

  Turning on his powerful flashlight, Snell began to retrace his steps. Hugging the wall, he directed the beam all around, into corners and behind columns. The trouble with these old buildings, there were too many places a person could hide.

  Pressed tightly against the opposite wall and partially hidden by a pillar, Bruce Whitaker cursed his luck. Why had he dropped the pliers? Everything had been going so smoothly. The plan laid out by his comrades had been working flawlessly until he’d dropped the damned pliers. The racket, enhanced by the night’s quiet, had alerted the guard. Now Whitaker had become fair game. He was being hunted down. The guard was only a few yards away.

  What kind of explanation could he give when inevitably he was found out? A volunteer roaming the corridors at night? With a pair of pliers? What for? This could get nasty. Could he be thrown back in jail for something like this? Probably not. But he undoubtedly would be dismissed from the hospital as a volunteer. All their plans would be washed away. How would he be able to face his friends? Failed again! And all because he had dropped the pliers!

  Well, there was no sense in continuing to try to hide. In a few seconds he would be found out. He might as well step out and surrender. One good thing, as far as he could recall, the guards were not armed.

  Whitaker was just about to step out into the soft indirect light of the hallway when he heard a sound behind him, further up the corridor. He could not identify it, but it was a very specific sound. He was not the only one who had heard it. The guard’s flashlight beam swept by and focused further back up the hall.

  “Who is that? Who’s there?” the guard called out.

  No response. But there had been a sound. No doubt of that.

  The guard walked past the column where Whitaker cowered, heading toward where the sound had come from.

  Exhaling relief, Whitaker slipped down the hallway as the guard arid he passed as ships in the night. What luck! What outrageous luck! This, very definitely, was not the way it usually worked out for Whitaker. Could it be that things would turn about for him? Whatever. He must get on with his task.

  “Who is it, I said! Who’s there?” Snell tried to focus the beam in the general area whence he thought the sound had originated.

  A young woman stepped out of the shadows. She was dressed as a nurse’s aide. She seemed embarrassed. Whitaker was too far down the corridor to see who it was. Nor did he care. He was intent alone on his mission.

  Snell relaxed. She presented no physical challenge. Still, he was puzzled. Who was she? What had she dropped? And what was she doing there, in the shadows, on the main floor at this hour? All questions that had answers. And he would have them.

  Snell focused the beam on her identification tag. “Ethel Laidlaw.” He noted that she was small-breasted. But young enough so that they were still fairly firm. Firm little breasts. One could make a case for them, too.

  “So,” he said, “Ethel Laidlaw. What is Ethel Laidlaw doing here now?” Snell stood close to her, emphasizing the disparity in their sizes. He was so big while she was so small. He liked to impress people with his bulk.

  “Oh, I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Now, why’s that, little lady?” Snell’s male-chauvinist-pig tendencies were beginning to blossom again.

  “Well, I just wanted to meet you. And when you were on my floor, you walked by so quickly . . .”

  “Wanted to meet me, eh?” Snell leaned forward, putting one hand against the wall and, in a way, trapping her. “Whatever would you want to do that for?”

  “Well . . . because you’re a hero. I mean . . . you rescued Sister Eileen the other night . . .”

  “Well, little honey, you don’t have to hide in the shadows to meet me. I’m just like everybody else. Put my pants on one leg at a time. Take ’em off the same way.” Snell tried to insert extra meaning in the statement. “Why, I wouldn’t even known you were here if you hadn’t dropped something. What was it you dropped, anyway?”

  “Oh . . .” Ethel hadn’t dropped anything; she didn’t know what had been dropped. “My pen . . . I dropped my pen.” She held it up to prove that, if nothing else, she did indeed have a pen.

  “It didn’t sound like a pen.” But, what the hell; who cared? It might just be possible that Ethel Laidlaw was in need of God’s greatest gift to women. “But, never mind. Well, here I am. Now you’ve met me, what do you think?”

  “Well, there’s this reputation you got.”

  “Yeah? No kiddin’.”

  “Well, people talk. You know.”

  “Yeah? What’re they sayin’?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t repeat it.” She blushed.

  “You can tell me. I mean, my God, it’s my reputation.” Is it possible she’s a virgin, he wondered.

  “Well, there’s talk . . .”

  “Yeah . . .?”

  “Something about . . . a maneuver . . .?”

  Damn! I haven’t even been able to demonstrate it fully to anyone here yet. And already they’re talkin’ about it. “So, what have you heard about it?”

  “Only that it’s . . . uh . . . unique.”

  “Well, you know, it is. I only . . . uh . . . do it with very special people.”

  “Oh.” Blush.

  “Would . . . uh . . . you be . . . uh . . . interested?”

  “Oh, Mr. Snell! Me?”

  “George.”

  “George.”

  “Once we get it together, baby, you will never be formal again.”

  “Oh, George!”

  “Oh, Ethel!” Snell began fumbling, rather expertly, with the buttons of her uniform.

  “Wait!”

  “Wait?”

  “Yes, wait! I have an idea.”

  ‘An idea? Ethel, this is no time for thinking.”

  “Well, yes. As a matter of fact, it is, George.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Don’t
you think we ought to find a bed?”

  “A bed.”

  “Don’t you need something like a bed for your . . . maneuver?”

  “Now that you mention it . . .”

  “The pastoral care department.”

  “Pastoral care?”

  “They’ve got an empty bed. In an empty room.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get there.”

  Pastoral care was only a short distance down the hall. They got there in world-record time.

  Snell returned his concentration to Ethel’s buttons.

  As he reached bra depth, Ethel said urgently, “Wait!”

  “Again!”

  “I’ve got another idea.”

  “Ethel, has anyone told you you think too much?”

  “It’s just something to make it better.”

  “Baby, nothing make it better than I do!”

  “I think it might.”

  Snell considered the possibility that this simple matter was getting entirely too cluttered. “Well, what is it?”

  “I can’t say it.”

  “You can’t—!” On the other hand, this might be interesting. If Ethel were, as he suspected, a virgin, she may have been harboring fantasies. Snell always fancied fantasies and indulged them whenever possible. “But, if you can’t . . .”

  “Let me whisper it to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Snell lowered his massive head to Ethel’s rosebud mouth and listened.

  “Yeah . . . okay . . .” A smile began to form. “Well, why not . . . why the hell not?”

  Snell stepped back from Ethel and began to disrobe himself, slowly, sensuously. It was a male striptease. Ethel appeared to be enjoying it immensely. But she sat there watching him without removing a stitch of her own clothing.

  At last, George stood stark-naked. “Baby, I’m ready!” There was no doubting that truth. “Let’s go!”

  “No! No! The rest of it too!”

  “Oh . . . God . . . okay.”

  After all, her suggestion seemed to be working so far. George found that his striptease, while she remained completely clothed, was a real and rare stimulant. Why not go along with the rest of her fantasy?

  Leaving his uniform—indeed, all his clothing—on the chair next to the bed, Snell retreated to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He’d never tried anything like this before. The plan called for him to return soaking wet. She would be clad in her underclothing, which he would rip from her body. He, a Beast from the Ocean’s depths, taking her—the Earth Woman.