Raney & Levine (14 page)

27


D
avid dropped to a bench, dropped his face in his hand
and closed his eyes. He was beyond exhausted. His knees hurt from standing so
long in the O.R. Behind his closed lids he pictured…bed, and Jill, her arm
around him even as she slept. The image warmed him, helped him feel alive
again.

A nurse passing him smiled sweetly and said, “Just heard you
saved that woman’s life.
Te felicito
.”

He smiled wearily at her as she passed.

Then got out his cell phone. Heard Jill’s first voicemail
and frowned. Righteous? A second meeting with someone usernamed Righteous on
top of the Ralph Nash meeting? He replayed the message, his frown deepening.
The cops were with her, but still…

Suddenly his phone dinged and there was Jill’s text and a
photo, sent seconds ago:
“SurroMom’s Righteous is Dara Walsh.”

His breath stopped. He stared at the angry blond woman’s
face in the photo.

Dara Walsh? Posting on SurroMom.com? His breath quickened,
his mind trying to figure, connect…

Another text dinged. From Jill: “We’re headed to St. Mary’s
now, crossing Tompkins Park. I’m wearing a bug, don’t worry, all’s well.”

He stared at his phone. Flipped anxiously back to the
mean-faced photo of Dara Walsh. At least it looked taken from across the
street. They were being extra careful.

But now? Headed for an alone-in-a-room with a
violent-sounding paranoid schiz? David’s fist clenched; he fought the
compulsion to text back and say No, don’t go!

With Nash, Jill
wouldn’t
be with Alex and Keri. What
damn good would a bug do if they were this time across the street or just
outside if Nash got hostile or worse…

His mind raced as his fingers raced across his phone’s
letters. What to text back? He felt guilty, crazy-helpless. He wanted to be
with her, visit psychotic Nash together. This was nuts. God, he worried, missed
her. Even when she was departments and floors away, she was still
here
,
in the hospital, under the same roof.

He started to punch keys:
Let the cops do it. It’s ten to
three, please, turn around now. Come back and let the cops do it-

The phone rang in his hand. It was Woody, falling over his
words.

“All hell down here in the ER. Woman seven months pregnant
just brought in, fell or was pushed off a fire escape, skull and bone
fractures, gonna be a crowded surgery table, and
we might be able to save
the baby
. Meet us in OR 6!”

David closed his eyes for a second. Inhaled. Deleted what
he’d started and instead shakily texted, PLEASE BE CAREFUL. I’M WORRIED. I LOVE
YOU.

He sent it and got to his feet. Turned back to the swinging
doors to go scrub in again.

They’d crossed Seventh Street and entered Tomkins Square
Park, keeping their heads down as they moved under trees and past people
reading, eating, exercising, break dancing. A stoned trannie with pink hair and
ROCK MY WORLD on his sweatshirt told them mournfully, “I’m so
done
with
him.”

Jill barely heard. She was checking her cell phone and found
David’s I LOVE YOU. Blinked at it. Wanted to cry. It was only the second time
he’d actually said it. The first time in high emotion too. The words looked so
rushed, frantic, as if typed running between one crisis and another.

She felt unaccountably guilty. She should be
there
,
not here clomping through some park past more guitars and bongos, dog walkers
and acrobats.

Then
DEVIL’S WORKSHOP DESTROYED!
flashed back at her.
And
same creep, he’s moving fast…

She felt so anxious, cold. Being with two cops didn’t help;
ahead Ralph Nash awaited in his room in an understaffed psychiatric
institution. She so wanted to be with David. Her mother never hugged her. David
hugged and comforted her. Always had his arm around her when they walked, was
there
for her, emotionally. She missed that so much…

LOVE YOU BACK, she texted him, tearing up, then flicked her
phone to the picture of him with Jesse sleeping on his shoulder. Smiled down at
it, nearly bumped into a man playing his saxophone.

“Oh! Sorry!”

His eyes smiled and he kept on playing. Stoned and happy.
Lucky guy.

“So,” Keri asked, wrenching her back as they passed a water
fountain. “What’s this about you almost becoming a cop?”

Jill fingered the medallion around her neck. David’s text
and walking under trees, seeing people having fun, had unwound her a little.

Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Like I said, my
mother was a prosecutor, an ADA.” She hesitated. “Absentee, divorced,
ambitious…not cold but just… too busy when I was growing up. Some things got me
her attention, though – good marks and following her cases, talking to her
about them, asking questions. And the apartment had lots of cops visiting.
Detectives in huddles with her, trying to figure if they had a case.”

She saw Alex testing the medallion bug in his ear pod. “The
connection’s good,” he said. “You’re coming in loud and clear.”

“Great, I’m two feet away.” It came out a bit acerbic, but
both cops cracked smiles.

Jill came back to Keri’s question, and let herself smile
too. “I really loved the cops. They were funny. The harder The Job got, they
more they cracked jokes, told incredible stories. Mom would let me listen in,
and I loved it. I even learned how to wire the old way.” She fingered her
medallion again. “Boy, if they had these gizmos then…”

Alex asked, “Who did you know? I might recognize the names.”

“Wakely, Tomicelli, Reiser, Joe Connor-”

“Joe Connor?”

“Yeah. Joseph Francis Connor. I was at his funeral. I was
fourteen. I cried so hard they thought I was a member of the family.”

Keri looked questioningly at Alex, who told her somberly,
“Joe Connor was shot. Trying to save a baby in a drug bust.”

They all fell silent for moments. Jill finally inhaled and
said, “So that’s when I decided to become a cop.”

Keri had been checking out people they passed. “So what
changed your mind?”

“When my mother got cancer. Ovarian cancer gallops, she was
metastasizing in months. It was a double shock because I realized that I’d
never
had
her as a real mom. Don’t think we
ever
had a
heart-to-heart. And then with all the crying, it hit that I needed,
wanted
,
an antidote to sorrow. A college friend was planning on med school and OB, and
I thought…babies! Families! Hugs, smiles, flowers! Well it’s mostly that, thank
God, but there are tragedies too, and couples fighting, divorcing, custody
threats going on right at the new mom’s bed…not to mention” - she breathed in –
“the other half of OB which is GYN-”

She stopped short, staring ahead. “Oh please don’t tell me
that’s Dara Walsh again.”

They followed her gaze. Thirty yards north, just passing the
next water fountain, was indeed Brian Walsh’s wife, moving fast.

“Must have entered at Ninth Street,” Alex said low.

They watched her leave the pedestrian path and head briskly
up Avenue B.

“Headed where we’re headed.” Keri frowned; and Alex,
tight-lipped, said, “What the hell…?”

They left the park, and at a good distance followed Dara
Walsh the four remaining blocks to St. Mary’s.

Which Dara
passed
.
Walked right past
the old
red-brick pile, then passed the yellow police barriers and the closed church
behind them, and disappeared around the corner.

Alex radioed to have her followed. He then stood eyeing the
two shadowy service alleys on both sides of St. Mary’s. The one on the left was
wrought-iron-gated. The one on the right, between St. Mary’s and a brownstone,
was open. “We’ll be in there,” he told Jill, gesturing to the right. “Hugging
the building, just yards away.” He put his ear pod back in.

Keri subtly slipped in hers too. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Jill’s heart started banging. She pulled out her
syringe for both of them to see. “Valium. Works fast. Big help unless I get
jumped from behind.”

They didn’t look reassured.

“Keep your voice steady,” Alex said. “If we hear the
slightest alarm in it, we’re in there in a second.”

Jill nodded numbly, swallowing. Stood there on the sidewalk
and watched them duck into the alley.

Then looked up at the building. Four stories and brooding,
its red bricks looking ready to crumble. She could imagine the
creaks
coming
from its old wooden floors and doors. ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL read the faded
carving on the lintel.

It was five minutes past three. She pulled in a deep breath,
checked her Mace under her sweater sleeve and the Valium in her pocket again.

Then climbed the few steps and went in.

28


T
he lobby was small, dark, and smelled old. Jill asked
the receptionist for Ralph Nash.

“Christine Connor,” she said. “He’s expecting me.” She’d
planned on another last name. Joe Connor’s just came to her.

“Ah Christine, yes, he told me.” The receptionist looked
delighted. He had a thin but affable face, thinning pale hair, and looked maybe
forty. “My name is Will,” he said proudly. “I’m not really a receptionist, I’m
a patient.”

“Oh?” A medicated patient. No real receptionist. “Good for
you,” Jill said a bit awkwardly.

“Good for this great place that helped me.
Terrible
its funding is drying up, staff let go. My disorder’s been under control for
weeks
.”

“That’s awesome.”

Will wanted to talk more about his bipolar disorder, the
neighbors complaining about his vacuuming at 4 a.m., but when Jill just stood
there, saying little, he sighed, smiled again, and pointed to a set of swinging
double doors. “Ralph is on the first floor in room 12. Six doors past the
stairway. Careful, don’t trip over the threshold. It’s broken, the wood pops
up. They’ve even had to lay off the maintenance people.”

Jill thanked him, took a deep breath, and pushed through the
swinging doors. A darkened hall stretched ahead. On her right were winding
wooden stairs with dusty banisters, and on her left was a small waiting room with
magazines on a table. No television. Were there any TVs in this place? Likely
not, come to think of it. TV news and violent shows would upset the patients.
Will’s eyes had shown no glimmer of recognition from the media.

Jill started walking, looking up and around. There seemed to
be no security cameras. She touched her medallion. “I’m in,” she whispered.
“Entrance is swinging doors to the left of reception.”

The medallion gave an almost inaudible beep.

Plaques outside each closed door marked the room numbers.
She crept past several, soundless within, and reached number 12. Belatedly it
occurred to her to switch her cell phone onto “record.”

Then she knocked.

Inside, a chair scraped. The sound of footsteps came
closer and a male voice said, “Christine?”

Jill breathed in, her heart thudding. “Yes, it’s me.”

The door opened, revealing a different-looking Megaphone
Man. He looked neater, in laundered jeans and a frayed white shirt. His eyes
were an overly bright brown, and his graying dark hair was combed. The red,
angry face that they’d seen outside the hospital was pale now that there was no
crowd hassling him. He looked to be in his mid forties.

“Come in,” he said eagerly, his bright eyes fixed on her.

The room was tiny, with a bed, a crucifix over it, a small
desk, a chair before it and another chair by the window. Papers covered with
large, handwritten scrawls littered the desk, the floor, and the bed. The chair
by the window afforded a view of the closed church’s tan blank wall.

“Do you mind keeping the door open?” Jill asked primly. “I’m
not accustomed to being alone in a room with a man.”

“Because you are a decent woman,” Nash said approvingly. “Of
course.”

Jill opened the door wider and stood there awkwardly. She
kept her jacket on. Nash did not offer to take it.

“Please, have a seat.” He motioned her to the chair by the
window as he fumbled through his computer and assorted jumble on his desk, took
an old transistor radio into his arms, and sat stiffly facing her on his bed.

“I am so glad you came,” he said, hugging his transistor,
his eyes lit with magnetic neediness. That made it easier to respond.

“Of course.” Jill was facing the open door and the hallway.
It was so quiet out there. Not a sound. “When you wrote about your woes with
the police I had to.”

Nash shuddered and hugged his transistor. “You’re not afraid
of
them
?”

“Should I be? Please tell me.” She kept her voice level.

“They’re after me, spying on me. Told Sister Meg about my
website, and she told me to shut it down. But I
won’t
. Is this still a
country of free speech?”

“Last I heard.” Jill forced an earnest look, though her
heart was throbbing. “Why should the police be spying on you?”

“Because of my website. It contains truth, and an urgent
alert that Satan is among us.” Nash spoke with a creepy intensity. “That
Madison hospital – you saw the name on the website?”

“Yes, yes.” She leaned forward with an expression from a
revival tent.

Nash leaned forward too, lowered his creepy voice. “They’ve had
the arrogance to take the place of the Creator, and
that child up there is
Satan’s son. The world must be saved from him.”

He fixed intently on Jill across the tiny room. “And you
agree, yes?”

What to say now? Oh jeez…Jill licked dry lips. “The truth
shall prevail,” she said, wondering where that interpret-any-way cliché came
from. Then she sidestepped as a question came to her. “You are skilled to have
put up that website by yourself.”

A modest smile crept across Ralph’s face. “I didn’t.”

Jill cocked her head, let her confusion show.

“God did,” he said.

God built his website?

“Oh,” Nash said brightly. “Rick showed me that free web site
place, and gave me a lesson. It’s easy. Rick and Sister Meg were so pleased
that I’d found something I liked” – a slow, unhappy headshake - “until they
found out what it was. Now they’re letting the Devil Police intimidate them and
telling me to take it down.”

“Who’s Rick?”

“One of the only two nurses left. Gary is the other nurse
and Sister Meg is St. Mary’s director.” Nash looked up at the ceiling. “They
must be with patients upstairs.
They’re
too sick to merit being on the
first floor,” he said proudly. “I moved down nine weeks ago, when they started
transferring patients out, and because I was…happy on my medication.”

Nash smiled again, and glanced briefly out the open door.
“There are empty rooms on this floor too. It’s so sad. The Archdiocese has no
more money, but that’s the work of the devil too. Taking their money.”

Time to steer him back. “You said God put up the website?”

Nash patted his old transistor. “God speaks to me through
this. He told me what to say.”

Jill blinked uncertainly. She’d never had experience in
psych. “Oh, how wonderful,” she managed. “Will God speak to me too?”

A slow, sorry headshake, another modest smile.
“Unfortunately, no. Only I am the chosen one to bear witness. Besides, God
speaks to me
just at night, and only at a certain frequency
. I cannot
divulge what it is.”

Uh, great, now what? Jill frowned a little, turned, and
peered out the window to the service alley. It stretched between this building
and the closed church. Trash bins had been pushed right up to the front wrought
iron gate. Odd. For easier access to collect garbage or…for climbing over? She
noticed too that the window latch, once cemented closed, had been broken open.

Inhaling, she turned back and moved her chair away from the
window, then said with fake anxiety, “Do people look through that window?”

“I don’t think so.” Nash blinked placidly and glanced at his
watch. “The gates are locked at both ends.”

Huh? Paranoia about police spying on him but not looking
through the window?

“But those gates are
low
,” Jill said. “Only four
feet.” She rubbed her hands together. “When I came you … asked if I was scared
of the police. I’m not yet, but I
am
afraid of that murderer…”

“Murderer?” Nash looked politely confused.

Genuine or good acting? “Yes. It’s been in the papers. There
have been murders of pregnant women. They were beaten to death and left with
snakes wound around their necks.”

“Snakes! Oh how horrible!” Nash’s whole body contorted in
revulsion and he almost dropped his transistor.

No reaction to the murdered women.

There was a sound in the hall. Footsteps and someone
knocking on another door.

Nash glanced out and then back. Jill did too.

“So maybe that’s why the police don’t like your website,”
she went on, still faking anxiety. Nash seemed distracted again by sounds in
the hall, voices talking. Jill craned for his attention. “Because these women
were pregnant by IVF, do you know what that is?”

She saw him blink. “Of course.” He turned his head back to
her, his voice whispery soft. “It’s a sin. It violates the place of the
Creator,” he said again. “Even fundamentalist Protestants deem it adultery.”
His hand swept the sprawl of papers littering his room. “This is what I study.
Why I work so hard to restore God’s will.”

Does restoring God’s will include murder?

“The newspapers also said these women were surrogate
mothers,” Jill blurted.
Let’s see this reaction
, she thought.

A male voice yelled down the hall. Another male voice
placated. Jill’s glance darted again to the hall, saw no one.

Then saw that Nash’s eyes had turned hard, venomous.
“Surrogates? Then those women were prostitutes. They took money for their
adulterous, God-defying service. What they did is a mortal sin. And the snakes,
though horrible, signify their evil.” He lifted his chin importantly.
“Galatians 6:7: ‘As ye reap, so shall ye sow.’”

Jill faked more torn by doubt and squirmed dramatically.
“But murder…that
has
to be why the police are involved. Oh, I do want to
help you, but what if they think
we both
have something to do with the
murders? Suddenly…I guess I
am
afraid.”

Nash looked down at his transistor, his eyes hooded, seeming
deep in thought. Then he looked up appraisingly. “But you agree with me? In my
beliefs and in my horror at what is being done against God’s will?”

Jill floundered for an answer, her gaze sweeping the floor
and desk. “I must study, understand more. Can I have a copy of one of your
papers you’ve written?”

“Of course.” Nash reached to the floor for a scrawled-on
paper and handed it across to her. Fingerprints! She took the paper by a corner
he hadn’t held, folded it carefully and put it into her pocket not containing
the syringe.

Nash smiled aggressively. “I asked you a question. Do you
agree with my beliefs-”

Footsteps and a knock on the door jam saved her.

“Time for your pills,” said a male nurse entering. Rick?
Gary? He was lanky with short dark hair in white pants and a white shirt open
at the collar. Looked in his late thirties.
Looked familiar
, too. Jill’s
lips parted and she racked her brain.
Where had she seen him before?

Nash looked displeased with him. “What you gave me is still
working.”

“That was four hours ago. It’s wearing off
.
Time for
more.” The nurse looked at Jill and smiled. “Hi, I’m Rick.” His nametag read
Rick Burrell. He had friendly brown eyes and small features in a pleasant face.
On Nash’s desk he placed a tray laden with small white paper cups and a plastic
water pitcher.

“You must be Christine,” he said affably, pouring some water
into one of the cups. “Ralph told me he was having a visitor.”

Jill smiled at him, and then it hit. Burrell was Nash’s
nurse?
He was also the guy they’d seen trying to deal with him screaming
into his megaphone. He’d been Nash’s handler!
Looked different now with
short hair and dressed in his whites.

She looked anxiously at Nash. His medication was wearing
off?

Burrell approached him, one hand carrying a cup of water,
the other a paper cup containing pills.

Nash stiffened on his bed, clutching his transistor more
tightly. “I’m not taking them.”

“C’mon Ralph, you want to upset Sister Meg again?” Rick
stretched his hands out and held both cups closer.

Nash tightened his lips and ducked his head away from
Burrell’s hands.

“Ralph?” Burrell got serious. “I’m going to stand here and make
sure you take these.
And
swallow them. No spitting them out after I’m
gone like you been doing.”

“The church.” Nash’s words came out like a hiss. “
The
rally
and it’s almost 3:30.”

“’Fraid not, Ralph. Sister Meg says no more outings until
you take that website down. Then you can go and I’ll go with you-”

“I don’t need you always chaperoning me!”

Nash’s fist flashed up and sent both of Burrell’s cups
flying. Water splashed, pills flew. Jill jumped up, her hand going to her pocket.
Saw Nash leap up with his fist smashing Burrell’s face, the blow knocking him
backward onto the floor with a crash. Nash jumped onto his chest, his hands
grabbing Burrell’s throat.

“Gary!” Burrell managed as Nash clenched his throat tighter
- until he felt the stinging jab through his jeans, and glared up to see Jill
over him, her thumb pushing down on a glinting syringe.

“Whore!” he screamed, trying to thrash away. “Lying devil
whore like all the others!”

Jill scrambled away from him, breathing hard.

“All’s well,” she gasped low into the medallion. “It’s all
over.”

No signal.

“Really,” she whispered. “Valium’s in, patient’s subdued.”

Hesitation, then:
Beep.

Commotion as another male nurse, big and muscular, rushed
into the room. “Oh Jesus!” The second man bent, pulled Nash half-collapsed off
Burrell who was gasping and clutching his throat. Jill pulled in a huge breath,
pocketing her syringe. Burrell would have been dead by the second nurse’s
arrival.

Greg Clark, his nametag read. He got Nash back onto his bed
still fighting him weakly, and sweet talked him as he got woozier. Must have
figured that his fellow nurse had subdued him.

Nash grew limp but his eyes bulged furiously. He was
fighting the drug. His hand went out and he pointed at Burrell, now in a
sitting position on the floor, head bent.