“I’m Maggie Blaine. My husband was brought here . . . Doctor Grant Blaine.”
“Oh, yes. He’s in seven. Right down the corridor on your right,” she said. “When you’re finished, please stop by to complete the form,” she added.
“When I’m finished,” Maggie muttered, and charged down the corridor.
The sight of Grant spread on the gurney, his face ashen, took her breath away. A nurse was checking the IV bag of blood, which was nearly empty.
“I’m Mrs. Blaine,” she said quickly. The nurse turned to her. “How is he?”
“His blood count’s coming up. We’re moving him to ICU,” she replied in a calm, cold businesslike manner.
Why wasn’t he moved there already? Maggie wondered, and went to Grant’s side. She gazed at the wound in his neck, the bandages, the sight of blood, and held his hand. It felt horrifyingly cold to her touch.
“Grant,” she whispered. There was no movement under his eyelids. She gazed at the monitors beeping and studied the lines of light that jetted across the screen. It was all medical gibberish to her. “Where is Doctor Saltzman?” she asked the nurse.
“He’s with another emergency. Someone will be down to take your husband up in a few minutes,” she said, nodding at Grant.
“Do you know what happened?”
The nurse looked at her as if she had asked the most ridiculous question.
“Someone jabbed a fork into his neck is all I was told,” she said. “There’s a policeman in the lobby. I’ll let him know you’re here,” she added, and left the room.
Maggie turned back to Grant.
“Oh, Grant,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.” She brought her lips to his cheek and kissed him while she stroked his hair. She heard a knock on the doorjamb and turned to see a police officer.
“Ma’am,” he said. “I’m Officer Hodges.”
“Do you know what happened?” she demanded quickly.
“Not completely, ma’am, no. That’s what we’re trying to find out now.”
“Where’s Bois?”
“Bois?” He looked at his clipboard. “That’s the man who brought him in. Yes, I spoke with him earlier. All he said was your husband babbled about being stabbed in the neck with a fork. Another, earlier patient apparently—”
“Where is Mr. Bois now?”
“I think he left, ma’am.”
“What about my husband’s secretary . . . Fay Moffit?”
“His secretary is right outside, but she wasn’t at the office when this occurred,” he said.
“Where is she?” Maggie went to the door and saw Fay standing in the hallway, a handkerchief in hand, dabbing her eyes.
“Fay!”
“Oh, Mrs. Blaine,” Fay said, hurrying to her. “How’s he doing?”
“The nurse said his blood count was coming up nicely. They’re moving him to ICU.”
“I’m so sorry I was late this morning. Maybe if I had been there, too, it wouldn’t have happened,” she moaned.
Maggie turned to the police officer.
“You know who really did this, don’t you?”
“Mrs. Moffit gave me the name of the patient who had the first appointment.”
“No, Bois must have done it himself.”
“You mean the man who found him and brought him here? Why would he stab him and then save his life, Mrs. Blaine?”
“He’s been doing many things to harm my husband,” Maggie blurted, “and I think he might be responsible for the death of Jack Landry, a private investigator, who was murdered last night.” Her voice was at a very high pitch, and she knew she sounded mad herself, rambling, but she wanted to get everything out now, desperately.
“Really?” Fay said with surprise.
“Yes. I’ll tell you more about it,” Maggie said to the policeman. “I should have gone directly to the police station this morning. The man’s not mentally ill; he’s evil. He’s been driving my husband mad for weeks and—”
“Mrs. Blaine,” Fay said. “Mr. Ormand’s been a patient only a couple of weeks. This was only his second session with Doctor Blaine.”
“You’re not listening. It wasn’t Ormand, I tell you,” Maggie said with a cold smile. She turned to the policeman. “It had to be Jules Bois.”
“Oh, no,” Fay said. She shook her head. “Not Mr. Bois. He would never do such a thing,” she added, her face changing from sadness to indignation. “Mr. Bois is a very kind, gentle man. And he saved Doctor Blaine’s life. Just lucky he’s had some medical background.”
Maggie stiffened as she focused her attention on Fay Moffit, noticing for the first time how different she looked, how changed was her appearance, the makeup, her hair, and her clothing.
“How do you know so much about him, Fay?”
“I . . . I just do,” she replied, but blushed.
“How?”
Fay looked guiltily at the policeman, whose face was full of confusion.
“You’ve been seeing one of Grant’s patients?” Maggie asked quickly. “Did Grant know this?” she followed with cross-examiner’s speed.
“Well . . . my private life is my own business,” Fay said sharply.
“Not when it involves Grant’s patients.”
“Ma’am—” the policeman said.
“Just a minute,” Maggie snapped. “How long have you been seeing him, Fay? Have you told him things about Grant?” Fay just stared. “It’s very important that you be honest and forthcoming in front of the policeman. This man is dangerous. The police have got to know.”
“He is not dangerous. He’s very concerned about other patients and he understands their problems,” Fay insisted.
“What other patients?” Maggie narrowed her eyes when Fay looked away. “You told him about some of Grant’s other patients, didn’t you?”
“I just came down to see how the doctor was,” Fay said, stepping back.
“Stay away from this man, Fay. Christ.” She spun on the policeman. “You’ve got to go after this man. Somehow, he was responsible for this, I tell you. Look at what he’s done to my husband’s secretary. She’s practically under hypnosis.”
“Huh?” The policeman looked at Fay and shook his head.
“Can’t you see?” she demanded.
The policeman looked at Fay and then at his clipboard.
“Okay,” he said, “we’ll look into it. First, we’ll send someone to question Mr. Ormand.”
Maggie turned back to Fay, who was inching farther away with every passing moment.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to get back to the office and let the other patients know what’s happened,” she said.
“Fay.”
“I’ll call you, Mrs. Blaine.”
“Fay, stay away from that man,” Maggie cried. Fay hurried away.
“I think I have enough for now,” the policeman said. “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Blaine.”
“Who’s going to be on this case?” she demanded.
“Probably Detective Hartman,” he replied.
“Tom Hartman?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had cross-examined Tom Hartman on two different occasions while defending clients. She wasn’t on his my favorite persons list. She was as sure of that as she was of the vice versa. Nevertheless, this was her husband and her life now. Her view of the police now was different.
“He’s got to go after that man,” she said, but the police officer closed his folder. He nodded. “Don’t you understand? He’s got to question him closely.”
“I’ll give everything to Detective Hartman, who will be in contact with you, I’m sure. I hope he’s all right,” he said, nodding at Grant, and then he started away.
The nurse approached.
“If you could stop by the admittance desk, Mrs. Blaine,” she said.
“Right,” Maggie said sharply. “Our paperwork is more important than anything else.”
The nurse pulled her shoulders back and turned aw
ay as two attendants arrived to take Grant to ICU.
Maggie sucked in her breath.
There wasn’t much she could do now anyway. Get the bureaucratic crap over with, she told herself, and headed for the desk.
Nearly an hour later she was sitting at Grant’s bedside in ICU. They permitted her to remain there, talking to him, because the doctor thought it might help bring him back to consciousness faster. She held his hand and rattled on and on, apologizing again for the way she had gone about investigating behind his back, but emphasizing how she was more convinced than ever now that she had done the right thing. She talked about his mother, her current case, plans for a vacation. After a while, she realized she was just babbling. She hadn’t even been aware of the activity around her: nurses parading past, other patients being wheeled in with other loved ones standing by, doctors examining, conferring.
She took a deep breath. Perhaps I should give it a rest, she thought, and considered leaving for a while. But before she released Grant’s hand and stood, she felt his fingers twitch, and then she saw his eyelids flutter.
“Grant!”
They continued to flutter until they opened.
“He’s awake!” she cried. She turned toward the nurse’s station. “My husband . . .”
One of the nurses hurried around the counter.
“Doctor Blaine,” she said. She patted his other hand and checked his monitor. Then she smiled at Maggie. Grant’s eyes widened at all the activity going on around him.
“Grant,” Maggie said, leaning over. “How do you feel?”
His eyelids fluttered and he looked from the monitor and back to her.
“What happened? How did I get here?”
“You were stabbed in the neck and bled profusely,” she said. “Don’t you remember any of it? They said a patient of yours did it with a fork. It happened this morning at your office. Remember?”
Grant shook his head.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in ICU, Cedars-Sinai Hospital.” Maggie looked up helplessly at the nurse.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” the nurse said, and left them.
“You must remember,” she insisted, turning back to Grant. “That man, that horrid man Bois, supposedly found you in your office bleeding and brought you to the hospital. The amazing Mr. Bois. I told the policeman about him, Grant, and I’m going to follow up now with it. I’ve got to.”
“Bois?”
“Your patient, Grant . . . the patient from Hell. Surely you couldn’t forget him,” she said, and started to laugh, but stopped.
Grant stared at her without expression.
“Don’t you remember, Grant?” she asked with more desperation.
He shook his head. An icy sensation flowed down her neck, over her breasts, and across her stomach because of the way he was gazing at her, his eyes void of feeling. She took his hand into hers again and leaned closer.
“Grant . . .” His face remained expressionless, his eyes unchanging, glassy. Then he grimaced as if he had a sharp pain. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“What?”
“Who are you?” he repeated.
The blood drained from her face. It was as if someone had come along and punched her in the stomach. She tried to swallow and felt her throat closed tight. She turned desperately toward the nurse.
“The doctor!” she cried, “when is he coming?”
15
Maggie stood in the ICU waiting room and gazed numbly out the window. The sky had become totally overcast and there was a light drizzle just dampening the streets enough to make them slick and dangerous. She was so tired, so overwhelmingly tired. She closed her eyes and felt her body sway for a moment and then she heard her name and turned to see Carl Thornton standing in the doorway. She had asked him to come.
“Well?”
“Let’s sit here,” Carl said in response, and moved to the settee across from the window. Maggie took a deep breath and joined him.
“When a doctor says please have a seat, it’s usually bad news,” Maggie remarked.
Carl smiled.
“It’s not good, but I don’t think it’s as bad as you believe it is, Mag. Amnesia can follow on the heels of a traumatic event. It’s not something permanent. Just be patient.”
“Be patient? He thinks I’m a total stranger.”
“Just keep talking to him and suddenly he’ll snap out of it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Confident,” he replied.
“But not sure?”
“I think I’m sure. Yes. Leave it to a lawyer to pin me down,” he added with a smile.
“It frightened me,” she admitted.
“I can imagine.”
“You can’t. My mind’s just going wild with fantastic possibilities. Carl, I’m sure it has something to do with this patient of his, this man Bois. Grant’s been disturbed over him ever since he started. He was one of Henry’s patients. I feel sure Bois had more to do with the attack on Grant than anyone thinks.”
“I understood it to be a patient named Ormand. He was a referral and it makes sense, Mag. I know about him. He’s agoraphobic. Fears—rather, I should say he is terrified—of being alone or in places where escape might be difficult or help not available if he needed it. I had an agoraphobic patient who actually killed his father when his father tried to force him to stay in his room.”
“I don’t think it was that man,” Maggie insisted. “I think it was this other patient, Jules Bois.”
“Wasn’t he the one who found Grant and brought him to the hospital?” Carl asked.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t sound like someone out to do him harm, then, does it?”
“Maybe it’s part of his madness. If he didn’t do it, he got Mr. Ormand to do it,” she insisted.
Carl stared at her a moment and then shook his head gently.
“Don’t let your imagination take over, Mag, and make you paranoid,” Carl warned. “We already have one psychiatrist’s wife in a mental clinic.”
Maggie looked away and took a deep breath before turning back to him.
“How is Lydia?” she asked.
“More convinced than ever that she did the right thing. That’s a hard case,” Carl replied.
Maggie thought a moment.
“I want to see her,” she said.
“What?”
“I want to see her again. Please, arrange it for me, Carl.”
“Sure,” he said, and shrugged. “But I don’t think you’ll get anything sensible from her.”
“Nevertheless . . .”
“Fine,” Carl said. He stood. “From what the doctor says, I don’t think Grant will be in ICU much longer.”
“What if he still doesn’t remember me?”
“Pretend you’re having an affair,” Carl said, smiling. “I think he might like that.”
Maggie started to smile just as Phil Martin appeared. He looked out of breath.
“I had to park about a mile away. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier, Mag. I was down in San Diego on the Langer matter. How’s Grant? Jesus,” he added before she could respond. He looked at Carl and then back at her.
“He’s going to be all right,” Carl said.
“I used to kid him about the dangers of being around mentally ill people and he would tell me I was in more danger defending criminals. Unfortunately, I was right, huh?”
Maggie shook her head.
“You were both right,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Because Grant’s been treating a mentally ill criminal,” she added.
“Oh? Oh, him,” Phil said, his eyes brightening with memory. He glanced at Carl just long enough for Maggie to catch the conspiracy of thoughts.
“Yes,” she said, rising, “him. Pardon me while I go do something about it.”
She seized her purse and hurried out of the waiting room.
“Where are you g
oing?” Phil called.
“To see the enemy,” Maggie replied, and stepped into the elevator. The door closed on both him and Carl gazing after her, both twin faces of confusion.
A little more than a half hour later, she pulled into the parking lot for the police station and asked the desk sergeant for Detective Hartman.
Hartman was crunched over his desk, his telephone receiver trapped between his shoulder and his ear. A cigarette burned in the glass ashtray blackened with soot and filled with butts, the tiny trail of smoke curling around Hartman’s head. He had his jacket off and over the back of his chair, and his heavy shoulders strained the threads of his thinning white shirt. The strands of hair at the back of his head were long and unruly, pouring over his shirt collar and curling to the sides. Maggie recalled him on the witness stand looking more like the defendant than the defendant did himself.
Hartman was scribbling notes on a pad rapidly as he listened. A good minute passed before he said a word. In the meantime, Maggie stood just to his left, a half a foot back, waiting.
“Anything else? You’re kidding! Jesus. His ankle? Is that it? All right, thanks.”
As soon as Maggie saw Hartman cradle the receiver, she pounced.
“Excuse me, Detective Hartman?”
Hartman turned slowly and then smiled as soon as he saw her.
“The patrolman on your husband’s case told me you would probably be stopping by. How are you, counselor?”
“I’m not exactly in the Christmas mood, if that’s what you mean, Detective.”
He nodded and sat back.
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t think this is an isolated incident involving one of my husband’s patients. I think it ties in to other things. What I’m about to tell you is ordinarily confidential, but—”
“So what happens after you tell me,” he snapped, “I make an arrest that gets thrown out of court?”
“No, this is different. I’m speaking to you off the record,” Maggie said. “My husband . . . my husband wouldn’t approve, but he’s not in any condition to make a sensible decision; he wasn’t, even before this attack.”
The Dark Page 16