Code Blue

by Walters, Janet Lane;

  The falling snow made the flagstones slick. He grasped the rifle in one hand and the railing with the other. When he reached the end of the walk, he climbed the steps to the walled terrace. The sound of raised voices reached him.

  The sliding doors stood open. De Witt stood with his back to the terrace. Trish waved her arms and shouted obscenities.

  He raised the rifle, aimed and fired. De Witt pitched forward. Trish screamed. Why? She should be happy. He fired again. Her scream died. He ran down the steps, slipped and nearly fell. The rifle clattered on the flagstones. A scream pierced the air. He reached his car and dove behind the wheel.

  Tonight would see his mission ended. He looked at the dashboard clock. Too early to meet Susan. His wheels spun on the snow-dusted street.

  He tapped the steering wheel with an impatient rhythm. "Are you angry, Mommy? Barbara Denton, Dr. Mendoza, Leila Vernon, Julie Gilbert, Dr. De Witt. Dr. Barclay, did I kill him? I must have pulled the trigger. Who else would want him dead?

  Cautiously, he drove through the snow to the house he shared with Mommy. He found the presents for Susan. Then he headed for the diner and a hot meal.

  At the diner, he bought a newspaper. Julie's picture stared at him.

  "Weird events," the waitress said. "If I was one of those nurses, I wouldn't go to work."

  He looked up. "Sorry."

  "Guess you're not safe anywhere these days. A lot of nurses come in here after work." She pointed to Julie's picture. "She was here not long ago." She flipped open her order book. "What will you have tonight?"

  "The turkey dinner with mashed potatoes, French dressing on the salad and coffee." He stared out the window at the snow. The weather was perfect for his plans. His meal arrived and he began to eat.

  Sometime later, the waitress returned to refill his coffee cup. "Dessert?"

  "Hot apple pie and ice cream."

  * * *

  There was nothing wrong with the orchestra or the music, but Patrick shifted restlessly in his seat. At ten o'clock, he slipped out of his seat in the last row of the community college auditorium. Ever since coming home from the grocery store to find Susan's note, he had felt uneasy -- and angry -- and disappointed. The many facets of his emotions surprised him. Did she realize he wouldn't smother her the way Jim had? Why didn't she see how much he approved of her growing independence? Most of the time, he thought.

  As he unlocked his car, his imagination ran wild. He visualized a dozen scenes with Susan as the victim of some madman. With an effort, he forced his thoughts back to reality. Susan was safe. She wouldn't finish work and leave the hospital for an hour and a half.

  He turned the key in the ignition. The CB radio tuned to the police band, a habit from the days when he'd chased stories, crackled. "Riverbank Apartments. We need the detectives and a supervisor on the scene."

  Another murder, Patrick thought after translating the message. He shook his head. There hadn't been this much violent crime when he had worked the police beat.

  As he pulled into the driveway, a familiar voice spoke. "Davies here. Is the ME on the way? Tell him to use the terrace entrance."

  "He wants her to use the terrace entrance." Once again, Patrick heard Susan's indignant statement. His hand froze on the key. De Witt lived in one of those luxury apartments on the river. Had the man killed himself?

  Patrick shifted gears and backed out of the driveway. Ten minutes later, he reached a barricade that blocked the street in front of the apartment building. Clusters of spectators lined the sidewalks. He flashed his press card at the uniformed policeman. "What gives?"

  "Some doctor and a woman."

  "Was she another Bradley Memorial nurse?" Patrick asked. The officer shrugged. Greg's booming voice issued orders. Patrick strode to his friend. "De Witt and who?"

  Greg turned. "Thought you weren't doing crime."

  "Who was the woman?"

  "Not your friend. A Trish Fallon. What are you doing here?"

  "I heard your report and knew De Witt lived here. Was it a murder/suicide?"

  Greg shrugged. "The ME just got here."

  "I need to know."

  A young officer hurried over. "I interviewed the neighbor who found them. She heard a quarrel and then two shots. The Fallon woman was still alive when the neighbor arrived. She said something like bola or vola." The young man looked from Greg to Patrick. "Sorry, sir."

  "No harm done," Greg said. "Mr. Macleith was just leaving." Greg grasped Patrick's arm and led him to the barrier. "Go home."

  "I'm not after a story. Did De Witt kill Fallon? I need to know. Susan thought he was the mugger."

  Greg shook his head. "Get out of here and take your imagination with you. I have a case to investigate."

  Patrick stopped at the barrier. "Then there's only one person who knows the truth."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The muggings." Patrick grabbed Greg's arm. "Hear me out. These deaths are connected. There's a madman out there. Someone with a grudge against these people."

  "I don't have time for theories now. Call me in the morning. I'll know more then."

  Patrick strode to his car. Though De Witt was dead, his gut feeling told him Susan was in danger. But from whom?

  Julie knows. He had to talk to her. He headed toward the hospital. Several blocks later while waiting for a light to change, he spotted a flaw in his plans. Visitors in ICU were restricted to immediate family and close friends. The nurses would never let him in, but Julie's parents might. They owed Susan a lot.

  He drove home at a speed that risked a ticket. At Susan's, he searched her address book for Julie's number. When he found it under J, he shook his head. While waiting for an answer, he beat his fingers in an impatient rhythm on the kitchen table.

  "Gilbert resident."

  "Mr. Gilbert, I'm Patrick Macleith, a friend of Susan Randall." He gulped a breath. "I believe Susan is in danger from the man who attacked Julie."

  "I thought the police have a suspect."

  Patrick inhaled. "Trish Fallon, a nurse who worked with Julie and Susan, was shot tonight. So was Dr. De Witt. The killer has to be the man who attacked Julie." As he waited for Mr. Gilbert's response, Patrick mulled over what the young officer had said.

  "Larry shot? When? Is he still alive?"

  "Not long ago and I don't know if he's alive. Mr. Gilbert, Susan needs Julie's help."

  "She doesn't remember anything about the attack."

  "So Susan said. I might find the right question to trigger her memory." His voice tightened with the tension that gripped his body. "Please. Would you meet me at the hospital and convince the nurses to let me see your daughter?"

  The pause continued until Patrick wondered if they had been disconnected. "All right, Mr. Macleith. I'll let you see Julie. Are you sure this will help Mrs. Randall?"

  "Absolutely. Thanks. I'll meet you at the hospital in fifteen minutes."

  * * *

  Gusts of wind scooped snow from the sides of the road and created a curtain through which he drove. To keep the windshield clear, the wipers worked at high speed. Entranced by the rapid, hypnotic rhythm, his head swayed until the scraping sound became a toll of the recent dead. Though no cars followed him, he flipped the turn signal and slowed the car before he turned into Susan's street.

  Seconds after he passed her driveway, a car backed into the street. Where was Susan's tenant going? How long would the man be gone? The tenant represented a potential spoiler of his plan.

  He parked across the street from her house and stared through the wind-blown snow that shrouded the house. Only the porch light created a pale island of brightness.

  It had to be tonight. An ache filled his chest. He chewed the inside of his lower lip and visualized the expression on Susan's face when she realized the truth. Her mouth gaped. Her eyes shone with awe. He savored the moment.

  Barbara, Leila and Julie. Then there was Trish--a mistake. They had all seen him for an instant, but not for long enough fo
r him to taste their terror. The encounter with Susan would be a feast. His shoulders straightened. Dreams of power electrified his body.

  With furtive movements, he reached for the white silk nightgown. He kneaded the cloth, then raised the soft fabric to his face and inhaled the scent of roses.

  Mommy had worn this gown the night she died. Beneath the fading aroma of the familiar perfume, he inhaled the odor of her fear. Tonight, Susan's fear would be delicious. Though he envisioned her clad in white silk, he couldn't think of a way to entice her to change her clothes. He closed his eyes. In kaleidoscope fashion, the face in his vision shifted from Mommy's to Susan's, again and again.

  The gown was a gift to celebrate his attempt on Julie. Surely she was dead. He slammed the car door hard enough to cause snow to slide down the windshield. Wind gusted and showered him with snow. He crept down the driveway and walked onto the porch. There, he hung the nightgown from a pair of hooks that must have held plants in the summer. He left the porch and watched the gown dance. He could almost see Mommy and he yearned to touch her in ways that weren't permitted.

  He reached into his jacket pocket. He had another gift for Susan. Perhaps there should be two but Trish Fallon was a mistake. He retreated to the clump of rhododendrons and gripped the tri-colored bracelet. He rubbed his fingers back and forth along the thick links. Faster and faster, the chain moved. He stared at the swirling snow and retreated into the past.

  He stood in the doorway. A liquid sound rose from the figure in the bed. "Mommy, don't leave me. You promised you would never go."

  Over and over again, he repeated his litany. "I'll never leave you. They'll have to kill me first."

  The nurse, the kind one, raised the head of the bed. She reached for a plastic tube connected to an apparatus on the wall. He inched toward the bed. Mommy's eyes were dark pools reflecting fear. Her fingers clawed the sheets. Susan slid the tube into Mommy's nostril. He reached to stop her. She pressed the call button. "You'll have to leave so we can help your mother," she said.

  He backed into the hall and stood where he could see into the room. The loudspeaker above his head crackled. "Code Blue, room 514. Code Blue, room 514."

  The fat practical dragged a blood pressure machine down the hall. The wheels left a trail on the dark green carpet. A young nurse pushed a red cart past him. The house doctor followed at her heels.

  The door closed and cut his view of the action. He strode across the hall and pressed his head against the painted surface. What were they doing? For an instant, he imagined a coven performing an arcane ritual. His hands tightened into fists.

  "I'll never leave you. They'll have to kill me first." He clung to the promise.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" the supervisor asked. He shook his head. She opened the door and slipped into the room.

  He paced to the end of the hall and back again. A blond doctor strode toward him. What was that man doing here? Mommy didn't like her doctor's young partner. He moved to block the door.

  "Get out of my way," the doctor snapped. "There's an emergency here."

  He turned and strode to the patients' lounge. There he stood at the window that filled most of one wall. Drops of rain like the tears he couldn't shed ran down the window.

  "Mommy, please." His cry echoed from the past to the present. He looked at his watch. Susan would be home soon.

  Chapter 13

  When Patrick opened the ER door and started down the hall, a guard rose from behind the desk. "No visitors at this time of night."

  "I'm meeting Mr. Gilbert, the father of the nurse who was attacked Thursday night. I need to see the girl."

  "I can't let you in."

  "Has Mr. Gilbert arrived?"

  "No one's been past this desk since nine thirty."

  "Then I'll wait." Patrick leaned against the wall and stared at the glass doors. Snow fell faster. A man entered and stamped his feet against the floor.

  "Mr. Gilbert?" Patrick asked.

  "Yes, and you must be Mr. Macleith."

  Patrick held out his hand. "Thanks for coming."

  Mr. Gilbert clasped Patrick's hand. "Let me call ICU." He reached for the phone on the security desk. A short time later, he turned to Patrick. "They'll let us in. Just before I left home, I heard Larry is dead. When you talk to Julie, be careful. My wife and I don't want her to learn until tomorrow when we're both with her."

  "I agree. Things have been rough enough for her."

  They strode down the hall. Mr. Gilbert paused at the door to ICU. "Are you sure Susan's in danger? Julie's frustrated because she can't remember. I don't want to put her through more stress."

  Patrick let out his breath. "Susan's in danger and Julie will be too. What's to stop the killer from reaching her when she's transferred? She's the only one who can name him."

  Mr. Gilbert reached for the door. "I'll go in and talk to her first."

  Patrick paced from the closed door to the entrance to the ICU corridor. He wanted a phone to call Susan's unit to ask her to wait for him. The only phone he'd seen was at the security desk and he didn't want to go that far.

  The door opened. Mr. Gilbert motioned to Patrick. "I tried, but she blocks on the name. She wants to see you."

  Patrick moved past Mr. Gilbert. How could he help Julie find the name? He paused outside her cubicle and prayed for a way to trigger her memories.

  Susan closed the care plan book and looked at the clock on the wall across from the Desk. Impossible, she thought. I'm finished. The oddity of the situation stunned her. She turned to the night nurses. "Are you sure I've told you everything? I've never finished this early before."

  "You've never had nine patients instead of twelve and a full staff. Why is Meg being sweet?"

  "More like Grace Greene. Meg's not due back until Monday. I'm not sure there's a reason. The census for the entire house is down."

  "Let's enjoy the lull while it lasts, especially with the way the snow's coming down. Go home. Weren't you here last night waiting with Julie's parents?"

  "I was and I learned a lot about patience."

  "Spare me the lecture. You were born patient, kind and thoughtful." She handed Susan the phone. "Call. Heroines deserve a reward."

  "I'm hardly that." As Susan tapped the numbers, the two part-time nurses finished report. "Grace, it's Susan Randall... Hardly, just a favor. We're done and I'm beat. All of us... Thanks." She hung up. "We can go."

  "Even me?" Kit asked.

  "She said the entire evening staff."

  "How did you manage that?"

  "I asked." Susan walked to the lounge and pushed the door open. "We're free," she called to the practicals. "Someone grab my teapot."

  "Hey, this is cute," Tina said. "Where'd you get it?"

  "Julie bought it at the Potter's Wheel."

  In the rush and confusion with seven people banging lockers and acting like prisoners freed from captivity, Susan reached the elevator carrying the teapot, her oxfords and the heavy stethoscope. Oh well, she thought. If she returned the shoes to the locker, she would hold the others back.

  At the ER exit, the guard waved them on. "Take care, ladies. Don't anyone leave before everyone's in their cars."

  "And check the back seats for strangers," Kit said.

  Snow swirled through the air. Flakes melted on Susan's face. "I'm glad we're on our way home."

  "It's too soon for snow," Kit said. "Should have waited until closer to Christmas."

  "There's plenty of time for several storms before then," Tina said.

  "I hope it doesn't snow all night." Susan juggled the shoes as she stepped from the curb. "Since I live so close, they'll call and ask me to work. They'll even come for me."

  "I'm glad I live upstate," one of the part-time nurses said. She pushed Susan's shoes into a better position. "The trip home will be bad enough. No one's about to ask me to come in tomorrow morning."

  "Take your phone off the hook," Kit said. "That's what I do."

  "I have an ans
wering machine that broadcasts the caller's message so I can decide if I want to talk," Tina said. "Get one like that."

  Susan shook her head. "I don't need an answering machine." She stopped beside her car and while searching for her keys, juggled shoes, stethoscope and teapot.

  Once she settled behind the wheel, she started the wipers and waited for the others to reach their cars before she backed out. A train of cars followed her to the gate. In hopes of finding a weather report, she turned on the radio.

  "...another bizarre death involving a nurse from Bradley Memorial Hospital." Susan's hands tightened on the wheel. "Police report the bodies of Trish Fallon and Lawrence De Witt were found earlier this evening in the doctor's riverfront apartment. Further details are expected as the investigation continues."

  The voice droned on. Susan felt sick. When Trish had talked about De Witt's involvement in her addiction, she had barely controlled her anger.

  What about Julie? How would the younger nurse handle this news? Though Julie had broken with De Witt, she said she still loved him.

  Susan sighed. With De Witt dead, the truth about the attacks would never be learned.

  Patrick entered Julie's cubicle. No miraculous method of memory recovery had occurred. If she couldn't tell her parents or Susan, why did he think he would succeed? He clenched his fists. He had to find the answer. Susan was in danger.

  After drawing a deep breath, he walked to the bed where Julie sat propped by pillows. Only the luminous eyes in the pale face beneath the white turban seemed familiar. "How are you? Thanks for agreeing to see me." He stared at the monitor on the wall above her bed without understanding the meaning of the moving lines.

  "I'm fine. Dad said you think Susan's in danger from the man who attacked me." She shifted her position. "I know you're right, but I can't remember why."

  She looked away but not before he saw sadness creep into her expression. "Do you remember who attacked you?"