The Fever (11 page)

Where vxis he?

Would he be in California by now? Why hadn't he called to tell her he'd arrived safely and to give

her his new address and telephone number? She was glad he'd finally dumped his cranky uncle and whining aunt and that terrible, deadly shoe store. But had he put his best friend, Duffy Quinn, behind along with the rest of Twelvetrees, Maine? Off with the old, on with the new?

No. Kit wouldn't do that.

What would he say to her now, if she told him everything that had happened, and the things she suspected? Would he laugh it off? Tell her, as everyone else had, that she had an overactive imagination or was suffering from fever delirium?

No. He wouldn't do that, either. One of the reasons Kit hadn't been the most popular boy in school was the way he took everything so seriously. Always reading, always learning, taking in new information. He believed that life was not a laughing matter. No wonder, considering the household he lived in.

He would have taken her story seriously. And then he would have tried to help her figure out what to do.

If only she could talk to him now. . . .

Duffy began leafing listlessly through the rest of the newspaper. A name jumped out at her from one of the middle pages, starthng her.

Latham. Victor Latham^ she read.

Latham? Where had she heard that name before?

The man who had died before she arrived, "Old Man Latham," someone had called him. Her interest piqued, Duffy read the brief article.

A scholarship fund in the name of Victor Latham, a longtime resident of Twelvetrees and a member of the Community Hospital's Board of Trustees, has been established at the hospital for future medical students. Latham, 6J^, died recently after a brief illness. According to his daughter and sole survivor, Claire Bristol, Mr. Latham's primary interest in life was medicine. He felt it was important to keep young people interested in careers in the health field. And he was fond of the young people who worked at the hospital while he was ill. The scholarship is being established to return their kindness to him.

Duffy couldn^t help wondering which of the **young people" at the hospital had been kind to Victor Latham. Amy? Cynthia? Smith? Maybe even Dylan. Had Latham given any of them money in return for their kindnesses before he died? Was that where Smith, an orderly, had found the money to buy that fancy sports car he drove?

Anyway, that night . . . the night she'd heard the clanging of the curtain rings, the slap-slap of rubber soles, the clatter of the gumey wheels . . . that hadn't been the night Victor Latham died. So none of the sounds she'd heard had had anything to do with him.

And his death had nothing to do with her.

She let the newspaper fall into her blanketed lap.

Victor Latham must have felt very safe here, in the hospital he'd given so much to.

But he had died here.

The nurse came in then, armed with the little fluted cup, and briskly handed Duffy the two capsules.

Duffy took them without a word, obediently dipped them into her mouth, tucked them into the flesh of her cheek and prayed silently that the capsules wouldn't dissolve too quickly. She sipped the water handed her by the nurse and slid down beneath the covers, feeling a pressing need for an afternoon nap.

It worked. The nurse turned quietly and left . . . slap-slap, slap-slap. The heavy wooden door closed after her.

Duffy sat up and spat the soggy but still intact capsules into the palm of her hand. She wrapped them in a paper napkin and hid the folded napkin under her pillow. She'd have to make sure no one came near it to fluff it or change the pillowcase.

Without the pills, maybe she'd start feeling better.

She was disappointed to find that although dumping the pills gave her some slight feeling of control, she was still unable to relax. Where was Jane, anyway? What was keeping her?

Amy, as bright and cheerful as if the scene between Duffy and Dylan of the day before had never taken place, arrived before Jane. She came breezing into the room, every hair in place, a blue ribbon imprisoning her curls. She was smiling.

Duffy couldn't tell if the smile was real or phony.

"Have you heard?" Amy asked. "Did anyone tell you?"

'Tell me whatr

"Kit called last night. I just heard."

"What? What did you say?"

Amy poured a glass of water for Dufiy. "Kit called. To talk to you."

Duffy took the water gratefully. She forgot her suspicions about the cut on Amy's leg. She forgot her hatred for the ugly hospital room and her fear for her own safety. Kit had called?

But before she drank, she said slowly, "But I never talked to Kit last night. The phone didn't ring once. I was awake ... I would have heard it."

Amy leaned against the nightstand. "They wouldn't put the call through. He forgot the time change between here and California. It was only eight o'clock there, but it was eleven here. The switchboard doesn't put calls through to patients that late at night."

Duffy leaned back against the pillows, weak with disappointment. "Dam! I really wanted to talk to him. He must have read my mind." She smiled slightly. "He could do that, you know. Sometimes. He used to finish my sentences for me. Drove me crazy." She sipped the water slowly, struggling with the bitter news that Kit had actually called, had wanted to talk with her, and hadn't been able to.

**Who took the call?" she asked Amy. Maybe Kit had left a message for her.

Amy shingged and began straightening the litter

of tissues, hair supplies, get-well cards, and candy boxes that cluttered the nightstand. "Switchboard operator, I guess. One of the nurses told me about it. I thought it would cheer you up, but you don't look very cheerful. Maybe I shouldn't have told you."

"Yes," Duffy said quickly, "yes, you should have. I'm glad you told me." If Kit called again, she didn't want people afraid to tell her. At least now she knew he was okay and had made it to California in one piece. But she was so disappointed at missing his call.

"Thanks, Amy. I hope the operator reminded him of the time change so he won't make the same mistake again."

"I'm sure she did. Maybe he'll call back today." Amy paused and then added, "Dylan knows, Duffy."

Duffy lifted her head. "Knows what?"

"He knows that Kit called here. Everyone knows that some guy firom California called you at eleven o'clock last night. I saw Dylan in the hall a few minutes ago and he didn't look happy. He's jealous of Kit, you know. Always has been, even when he was dating . . . me. We argued about it a couple of times."

Before yesterday afternoon, when Amy got so angry with her, Duffy would have had trouble imagining Amy arguing with anyone. But not now.

"I'm sorry," Duffy murmured. "Really, Amy, I

am."

"I know." Amy's voice was as soft and sweet as it had always been. "It's okay, Duffy. Not your

fault. Look, can I get you anything before I get to work? I might not have time to stop in later. We're pretty busy. More flu cases."

There was something. "Amy, do you remember Victor Latham?"

Amy began fussing with Duffy's blankets. "We're not supposed to talk about him, Duffy. Everyone feels bad that he died. We all hked him. And he was getting better. And then ..." She shrugged.

*What happened?"

"I don't know. But he was old, and he had a bad heart. So . . ."

Old? The paper had said he was sixty-four. Was sixty-four that old? Duffy's grandmother was seventy-six and still healthy and active.

But then, she didn't have a bad heart.

"Gotta go," Amy said. "Jane'll probably be here in a minute to keep you company. See you later."

She was right. She had barely left the room when Jane hurried in, looking guilty.

**Where have you been?" Duffy cried. "I've been waiting all day for you."

"Sorry." Jane flopped into the bedside chair and put her feet up on the edge of the bed. "Had to run some errands for my father's wife." Jane always used that particular phrase to describe her stepmother, and she rolled her eyes toward heaven as she said the words.

**Well, I'm glad you're in a mood to run errands, because I have one for you," Duffy said. "And it has to be done right this minute."

Jane groaned.

Chapter 17

"Before you tell me what the errand is," Jane said, her lips sliding into a big grin, "I hear you got a telephone call last night. Didn't talking to Kit make you feel better?" Her dark hair was in braids tied with orange ribbon that matched her jumpsuit.

"I never talked to Kit," Duffy explained. "They wouldn't put the call through. Too late. How did you know he called?"

"Dylan told me." A bleak expression flitted across Jane's round, plain face. "He didn't seem too happy about it." She paused and then added, "He likes you, doesn't he?"

Duffy didn't know what to say to that. Yes, he probably did like her, but right now, that seemed so unimportant — except to Jane and Amy. Duffy Quinn had far more pressing matters on her mind.

During Jane's absence, Duffy's idea had taken shape. But she needed Jane's help. "Never mind Dylan," she said tersely. "About that errand ..."

Jane heaved a sigh. "I just got through running errands! Is it really, really important?"

"Do you want me to get better?" Dufiy asked sternly.

Jane flushed. "Of course I do, Duffy. Okay, what is it? Where do I have to go?"

"To the lab."

Jane frowned. **You mean Dean's lab?"

"Of course. I need a lab, and your brother works in one, so why would I send you to someone else's lab?"

*What do you need a lab for?"

"You're stalling, Jane. Quit asking questions just so you won't have to leave this room. I need my pills analyzed, and Dean's just the person to do it." She handed Jane the capsules she hadn't taken, still wrapped in their paper napkin. *Take these over there, right away, and ask Dean what they are. Then come straight back here and tell me."

Jane's frown deepened. **Why don't you ask your doctor what they are?"

DuSy glared. **Because my doctor doesn't know what they are. I mean, he thinks he does, but I think he's wrong. I think someone screwed up and gave me the wrong stuff, and Dean can tell me if I'm right. So hurry up, okay? This is important."

Something in her voice sent Jane to her feet. She took the napkin, then hesitated. "Duffy, I can't believe someone would make a mistake like that."

"That's because you aren't a patient in this hospital." Conscious of the minutes passing rapidly, Duffy urged, "Jane, just do it, okay? Trust me. I know what I'm doing. I promise, I won't ask you for another single favor as long as I live."

"Yes, you will. And I'll probably give it to you." Jane grinned weakly. "I want you to know Tm only humoring this bizarre request because you're my best friend and I miss you and I want you out of this place so life will be back to normal again. But I'll bet you anything you're wrong about the medication being screwed up, Duffy." She shuddered. "I can't believe someone could make such a mistake."

Duffy shuddered, too. Because she wasn't at all sure it was just a "mistake." She wasn't sure of that at all.

"I'll hurry," Jane said quickly, noticing Duffy's shudder. "I'll tell Dean it's for you. He's always liked you, Duffy." She bent to give Duffy a quick hug. "I'll be right back, I promise."

When Jane had rushed out of the room, Duffy wondered just who she would tell if it turned out that the pills contained the missing digoxin. It would have to be someone she trusted completely. Names flitted through her mind and were rapidly discarded.

The list of people she trusted completely was getting shorter all the time.

A nurse coming in to give Duffy a back rub nearly collided with Jane.

**Where's your friend going in such a big hurry?" she asked amiably as she uncapped the bottle of lotion.

"Gee, I don't know," Duffy fibbed. She wasn't telling a single soul in this place where Jane was

going, or why. Not until she was sure of who she could trust.

"You feel hot again," the nurse said as she rubbed Duffy's muscles, so tense with fear and uncertainty, they were cramping between her shoulders. "Your temperature must be up."

Duffy knew it was because she wasn't getting the antibiotics she needed. But untilJane returned with the lab report, she wasn't about to tell anyone she'd quit taking the capsules.

The nurse was leaving when Dylan arrived, mop in hand.

And when he bent to kiss her cheek, Duffy was shocked to find herself recoiling. She didn't do it on purpose. It was strictly an involuntary movement. But she knew it was stimulated by fear.

Fear of Dylanl

That really was crazy, Dylan hated hurting people. In grade school, he hadn't done well in football because he was so afraid of hurting someone when he tackled them. He'd got over that in high school and was on the varsity team now, but the coach was always yelling at him for "holding back," not "giving his all." Duffy knew it was because he was still a little afraid of breaking bones. Someone else's bones, not his own.

It would take something really powerful to overcome Dylan's reluctance to hurt people.

And she couldn't think of a single thing powerful enough to do that.

But neither could she bring herself to return his

kiss, or even smile as if she meant it, not until she felt completely safe — if she ever did again.

How long would Jane's "errand" take?

Frowning, Dylan asked gently, **You okay? Taking your pills?"

Wearing a frown of her own, Duffy remembered that this wasn't the first time Dylan had asked that question. Why was he so preoccupied with her medication?

Maybe, she thought, her stomach twisting in revulsion, maybe he knew something about those pills. . . .

"Yes," she snapped, "Fm taking them."

Could Dylan, who seemed to like her so much, be the one who wanted to hurt her? What reason would he have?

If Kit were still around, maybe jealousy would make Dylan act weird, do strange things.

But Kit was in California. He wasn't a threat to Dylan. Not that he ever had been, but Dylan didn't know that. Maybe he was the sort of person who didn't believe girls could have male friends. Like Jane, who had always had a hard time believing that Dufiy and Kit weren't in love.