The Fever (15 page)

Her voice was completely cold, matter-of-fact, unfeeling. Cynthia ... so kind, so helpful, so dedicated . . . Cynthia . . . not Dylan, not Smith, not Amy ... it had been Cynthia who had tried to kill her.

But why'f

Kit . . . something to do with Kit, who was in California now.

How could it have anything to do with Kit?

Duffy's eyes searched frantically for a way out of the white room. But the only means of escape was the door through which she had entered.

And Cynthia was barring the way.

"Duffy," Cynthia said softly, leaning closer to her prisoner as she withdrew her hand from her pocket, "don't you want me to refresh your memory about Kit?"

Duffy's eyes, wide with alarm, were on Cynthia's emerging hand. Teeth clenched tightly to keep them from biting her tongue in half, she shook her head vigorously ... no. No!

"Shame on you, Duffy. Kit was one of your best friends. I would think you'd be more concerned about him than that."

The hand wasn't empty, as Duffy had known it wouldn't be. Her terrified eyes remained fastened on it as it slipped from the edge of the pocket.

Cynthia's fingers were wrapped around a long, nasty-looking hypodermic needle.

Holding the wicked-looking needle high in the air, Cynthia smiled and said, **Well, I'm going to tell you about Kit, anyway." She glanced around the room. "I think it's very appropriate that I tell you in this room." Her cold smile widened.

"Because this is where I brought him after I killed him."

Chapter 24

"I killed him, Duffy," Cynthia repeated when Duffy made no sound. "And I brought him here."

Duffy had made no sound because sound wasn't possible. Her voice had abandoned her, left her body the second that Cynthia's flat, emotionless statement registered.

KiUed him? Killed Kit?

No. No, that wasn't true. It couldn't be.

But Duffy saw the look on Cynthia's face — cruel and sharp and mean.

Kit ... Kit wasn't in California, registering for film school? He wasn't thinking about calling her, writing her a long letter telling her all about his coast-to-coast trip?

Kit was . . .

Kit was . . . dead*f

Duffy's mouth opened wide and her piercing, anguished scream split the air.

"No," she cried, facing Cynthia, tears pooling in her eyes. "No, you couldn't have. You wouldn't. Why would you? Why?"

Cynthia had flinched at Duff/s scream and taken an involuntary step backward. Now, she pressed closer again. "Because he knew," she said calmly.

Duffy couldn't stop crying. Kit . . . Kit dead? "Knew what? What did he know?"

"He knew it was my fault Latham died."

Duffy shook her head, trying to clear it. "Latham? Victor Latham?" The newspaper article. "You killed him, too?"

Cynthia's voice lowered to a nasal whine. "I didn't kill him, Duffy. It was an accident. But that wouldn't have made any difference to the hospital board." Her thin lips twisted angrily. ^They'd have seen to it that I never saw the inside of a medical school. Never mind that Fve studied my head off, that I'm a good worker. All they would have focused on was that their precious benefactor was dead and it was all my fault. My whole life would have been ruined. Forever!"

*What did you do to Victor Latham, Cynthia?" Duffy forced the words out. Dizzy and sick, she couldn't bear to hear another word. But she had to know.

"Nothing. I swear, nothing!" The whine droned on: "I was just reading his chart one day. I know we're absolutely forbidden to touch them, but I knew how important Latham was to the hospital. I thought his chart might give me a clue about getting close to him, getting on his good side. I knew if I did that, he'd put in a good word for me at any medical school in the country." The voice became sullen. "And it would have worked, too, because a

note on his chart said he wasn't allowed to smoke, rd heard him complaining about how he missed his cigars, so I figured Fd buy some and sneak them into his room. That would have made me his friend for life."

The pale blue eyes filled with rage. "But just then Kit came along. He was delivering a pair of nurse's shoes to that twit with the ponytail. He made some comment about me being too nosey for my own good, and I tossed the chart back into place. But not before Kit saw the name on it."

" Tatham?' " he said. " 'Isn't that the big shot who has that mansion out on River Road?' "

Cynthia stamped one foot, momentarily snapping Duffy out of her shocked daze. "He noticed the warning sticker, too."

"Warning sticker?"

"Latham was allergic to penicillin. The hospital uses a little round red sticker on a patient's chart for dangerous allergies. Kit saw it. I knew he'd put two and two together when Latham's death made the news."

She's right, Duffy thought in a daze, Kit would have. And he would have gone to Cynthia and asked her questions.

"What did you do to Mr. Latham?" she repeated in a whisper.

"I put his chart back in the wrong place. It was Kit's fault," Cynthia said sullenly. "He got me all rattled, sneaking up on me like that, and I just dropped the chart into the chart table."

**You put the chart back in the wrong spot?"

Duffy shook her head, uncomprehending. "But you told me yourself the nurses always check the names on the charts, so how could that hurt Latham?"

Cynthia's upper lip curled in a sneer. "They're supposed to," she said, her voice hard and unforgiving. "But sometimes when things get really busy, they don't. I accidentally put Latham's chart into Mrs. Creole's slot. She was on penicillin. For an infection. The order's right there on her chart. The night Latham died, we had a couple of nurses out with the flu so two nurses came up from the city. They weren't familiar with the patients. One of them gave Mrs. Creole's penicillin to Latham. It killed him. He was so much better that he wasn't on any monitoring equipment. By the time someone checked on him, he was abeady dead."

"And . . . and Kit said it was your fault," Duffy breathed.

"But it wasn't!" Cynthia cried. *The nurse who had Mrs. Creole's chart must have dropped it into the only empty slot when she brought it back, without checking the room number. That empty slot was Latham's. So later, she gave him Mrs. Creole's penicillin, and left the room. She never saw what the penicillin did to him. She got blamed for what happened."

Duffy, knowing it well, said, "Kit wanted you to tell someone about the chart mix-up, didn't he?"

"He said I had to go to Dr. Crowder, the head of the hospital, and tell the truth. Get that nurse off the hook, was the way he put it.

"But of course I couldn't do that," Cynthia con-

tinued matter-of-factly. Her eyes widened. "I mean, how could I? Telling the truth would have ruined everything. I would have been fired for handling the charts, and I never would have got into medical school, not ever." Her eyelids drooped sadly. 'Without medical school, I wouldn't have a life. I tried to tell your precious Kit that, but he wouldn't listen. And the hospital's being sued by Mr. Latham's survivors. So I'd be blamed for that, too. Everyone here would hate me."

Duffy, watching in awe as Cynthia's expression changed from anger to injured innocence thought, Oh, God, she's insane. She's as crazy as everyone in the hospital thinks I am.

"Cynthia," DufEy whispered, "where is Kit?" Eyes wide with fear, she glanced around the room. "Is he here? Somewhere?"

"No. I couldn't leave him here, Duffy. Why, my goodness, somebody would have found him! I had to get him out of here." There was great pride in Cynthia's voice as she announced to a white-faced Dufiy, "I put your friend and his car in the old quarry."

Chapter 25

"The quarry?" Duffy's voice was barely audible. Imagining her friend lying deep in the quarry's cold, muddy water, she shuddered.

"Um-hum." Cynthia's gaze centered on a spot somewhere above Duffy's head and took on a dreamy expression. "It was so easy. He really was leaving town, Duffy. Dylan wasn't lying about that. Kit's car was all loaded up and he was ready to take off for CaUfomia. Only he stopped off here first, to tell you good-bye and," bitterness seeped into her words, "to warn me that if I didn't promise to go to Dr. Crowder with the truth, he'd go for me, as soon as he'd seen you." Her gaze returned to Duffy's face. "He was going to rat on me, Duffy," she said in a hurt voice. "I couldn't let that happen, could I?"

"What . . . what did you do?" Duffy, her heart bleeding for the loss of Kit, knew there was no way she was going to be allowed out of this room alive. She had to stall, keep Cynthia talking until she could think . . . think . . . how could she think when her

whole mind was still wrestling with the horrible fact that Kit was dead?

"I told him I would go see Dr. Crowder, but first I would take him to your room. And that's what I did." Cynthia smiled. "But I grabbed an empty syringe when I left the nurses' station. I knew exactly what to do with it," she said proudly. "I read a lot of medical books, you know. There's this spot on the back of the neck — "

"I don't want to know!" Duffy screamed. "Don't tell me!" She began crying again. Kit. . . she would never see him or talk to him again. How could that be?

Her left hand involuntarily bumped up against the latch of one of the metal doors. The tables inside the cabinet were designed to slide out. Dylan had said so. Did they slide slowly? Or did they whiz out, like sleds on an icy slope? There was no way of knowing. Could she take a chance? It was so hard to think ... so hard to plan. . . . But she wanted to live. And this wild-eyed, pale-faced maniac in front of her didn't want her to.

"Your friend Kit was in such a hurry to see you," Cynthia continued. "Followed me to your room like a puppy. Right straight to your room. You were dead to the world." Cynthia giggled. "Excuse the expression. You were sound asleep, and he didn't want to wake you. He said he wasn't in any big hurry and he'd just sit on the other bed and wait for you to wake up." Cynthia sniffed in disdain. "He said he couldn't leave town without telling you goodbye. Wasn't that sweetV Contempt laced her words.

The thought of Kit sitting on a bed in her room, patiently waiting for her to wake up, Cynthia about to pierce the back of his neck with a needle full of air, made Duffy sick with anguish. If only she could have stopped it somehow, if she could have pushed the call button.

"But he saw the needle," Cynthia went on harshly. "It was dark in there, but he could still tell what I was about to do. He was sitting on the other bed, and I came up behind him. He saw me lift the needle in the air and he made these noises ..."

Duffy gagged and closed her eyes.

"I missed the first time." There was regret in Cynthia's voice. "Clumsy me! For a minute there, I thought he was going to get away." Then she brightened visibly. "But he didn't. I tripped him," she said cheerfully, "and he went down on his knees. He sort of whimpered then." Cynthia mimicked Kit's deep voice: " 'Please, no, don't!' But I got him!" Her voice was triumphant, almost jubilant.

That joy stirred something in Duffy. Anger began to replace her fear, slowly at first, then more quickly, coursing through her body until it became a rage as red hot as her fever. Cynthia was glad she had killed Kit! And she was about to kill again.

Duffy screamed. "No! No, no, no!" echoed around the room, and her arms came up and pushed, with all of her might, shoving a surprised Cynthia backward, where she teetered off balance, her mouth open.

But she didn't fall. And she didn't drop the syringe.

Still, her surprise gave Duffy just enough freedom to dart away, running to the desk to search frantically for a weapon: a letter opener, a pair of scissors, anything'. . .

There was nothing. A box of paper clips, a lamp, piles of notebooks and leaflets, and a scattered puzzle of pens and pencils . . . nothing the tiniest bit lethal. But there, in the comer, behind a tall, thick medical book standing on end ... a can of bug spray. Maybe . . .

Duffy turned to face her captor. Behind her, her hands closed around the can.

"Relax, Duffy," Cynthia said calmly, her balance restored. She began to advance slowly, her eyes cold and determined. **You're going to have a little accident," she said, "and it won't be my fault. All Vm going to do is be kind enough to give you a ride home. Isn't that nice of me? Of course, / won't be hurt. But you ..." She shook her head. "You'll end up in a ditch by the road in a fiery car crash. I'll tell everyone you grabbed the wheel out of my hands, that you missed Kit so much you conmiitted suicide. They'll believe me. Everyone thinks you're nuts, Duffy. And I'll say that since I'm not crazy like you, I had the good sense to jump out before the car burst into flames." She raised the needle higher. "And no one will ever be able to tell that you were dead before the car ever went off the road."

Her eyes never leaving Cynthia's face, Duffy moved sideways, back to the wall of steel cabinets. She backed up against them, her hands behind her. This time, she found a latch and opened it. It made no sound.

'Wasn't it nice of Kit to decide to leave town?" Cynthia went on, as if they were two friends having a casual chat. "There was his car, all loaded up. . . . After I killed him, I wheeled him down here in the gumey and then later, when everyone was gone, I wheeled him out to his car and drove out to the quarry." She sighed happily. "They'll never find him or his car. The water's too deep." After a minute, she murmured, "Sank like a stone. Took me forty-five minutes to hike back to town. Boy, was I beat!"

Duffy, her hands hidden behind her jeaned hips, held the bug spray can in one hand. With the other, she lifted the latch on a metal door. The door opened easily. It made no sound. She tugged gently. The door moved forward an imperceptible fraction of an inch.

"You're crazy," she told Cynthia, her voice shaking. If she kept talking, she hoped Cynthia would continue to watch her face instead of wondering what her hands were doing behind her back. "You're sick. You need help. Why don't you let me go now?" she begged, fastening her eyes on Cynthia's. 'We'll go up and talk to Dr. Crowder. He'll see that you get the help you need."