The Taint (22 page)

EIGHTY

“Put her in here,” Rachel said, holding the door for Jon to carry the child into a small treatment room.

He placed her gently on the gurney and stepped back out of the way, watching as Rachel ran her hands along the child’s arms and legs, examining scrapes and checking for further injury. Then she took a wet cloth and began cleaning the hands.

“How is she?” he asked after a minute.

Rachel looked up and nodded. “She’ll be fine. Why don’t you go tell her mother while I finish cleaning her up?” She returned her attention to a series of welts on the left wrist. Jon did not move.

When she had finished she looked up at him expectantly and was surprised by the look on his face. He had been watching her, not the child, and now he held her eyes.

“Rachel,” he began.

The door opened behind him and Emma rushed in.

“You’d better come quick, Tyler’s taken a turn . . .”

Wendall Tyler was rigid, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck were tense. He was bathed in sweat and was breathing rapidly.

Rachel moved to his side and grasped his head, attempting to turn it, trying to determine the cause of his rigidity.

“His blood pressure’s dropping,” Emma announced, and pulled the stethoscope from her ears.

“Set him up for a spinal tap,” Rachel ordered. “And ask Jon if he’ll give us a hand.”

Emma nodded and left the room.

“All right,” she said when Emma returned with a lumbar puncture tray and Jon. “I want you to get up on the bed and we’re going to turn him on his side. Then I want you to draw his legs up and push his upper body toward them.”

Jon complied and Tyler was forced into a fetal position.

Emma opened the tray and painted the lumbar region with betadine.

Rachel injected Xylocaine as a local anesthetic and then took the spinal needle. “Don’t let him move,” she said to Jon, and she carefully inserted the needle into the elongated space between the discs. She prodded, feeling the way, and was rewarded with an audible ‘pop’ as she punctured the spinal cord.

She took three small vials of spinal fluid, moving quickly and passing each in turn to Emma. Emma stood them in a small plastic holder.

She withdrew the needle carefully and placed it on the tray. She took a fresh betadine swab and wiped the back.

“You can let him go,” she said and stood away from the bed. She picked up the holder with the vials and held them up to the light.

“Well, the fluid’s clear, anyway. That’s a good sign.”

Emma adjusted the bed covers around Tyler. “Do you want me to begin cooling measures?”

Rachel nodded. “I’ll take these down and run them myself.” She looked at Jon. “Thank you.” Again their eyes held.

They walked toward the lab, Rachel’s white coat flapping behind.

“What do you think it is?”

“The rigidity in his neck and throat could indicate meningitis, or, except for the fact that I’m sure it isn’t, tetanus. I don’t know; the fluid is clear.” She shook her head. “I’ll have to run some tests, do a specific gravity, look at it under a microscope.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not too long, why?”

He didn’t answer immediately but when they arrived at the laboratory door he stopped and regarded her.

“I think we need to talk.” His face was serious.

She did not ask about what, just read the expression in his eyes and permitted herself a hint of a smile.

“Anytime,” she said.

She ran a routine spinal fluid analysis, including cell count, glucose and protein, as well as the specific gravity. All were within normal limits and for a minute she sat back, considering the medical alternatives.

It was possible that this was another stage of what she considered to be psychic shock. His body might still be reacting to the powerful influences of his subconscious mind. The fact that his neck was stiff, when his wife’s neck had been broken, might provide the connection.

If so she had to break through to him. She had heard of cases where people died following the death of a loved one, sometimes suddenly, sometimes wasting away despite the most vigorous treatment medicine had to offer.

She had to do something. If she was unable to heal his body she must try to soothe his mind.

As she started out the door she recalled an article she had read, about the suspicion that low levels of the brain chemical serotonin might be related to the incidence of suicide. Perhaps administering a dose of the chemical might help alleviate Tyler’s depression. She knew the definitive test was run on spinal fluid and she looked back at the remaining fluid in the vials.

It was not something she could do without consulting an expert, but she put caps on the vials and stored them in the refrigerator, just in case. Then she was off.

She got no more than ten feet up the hall when they arrived with the body of Amanda Frey. Earl Wagner spotted her and ambled toward her.

“How’s the little girl?”

“She’ll be all right; her mother’s taken her home.” She indicated the body. “I never would have believed that she was capable of killing a child.”

“You should have seen her on that hill; she looked like a crazy woman.”

Rachel pulled back the tarp, revealing the peaceful features. She looked frail and somehow pitiful, streaks of dirt on her pale face.

“Take her down to the morgue,” she instructed, and then watched as they rolled her away.

She continued down the hall, heading for Tyler’s room.

Emma was at the bedside, hooking up the fluid-filled mattress which was used to reduce body temperature.

“How high?”

“A hundred four point four.”

Emma connected the last hose and plugged the machine into the wall, circulating cooled liquids through the mattress. A steady hum filled the air.

Rachel palpated his neck and along the spine. “He’s a lot less rigid.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so stiff that their back began to arch,” Emma observed.

Rachel eased him over until he was lying on his back, and lifted one arm clear of the bed, letting it drop. “Very strange. Fifteen minutes ago he was inflexible and now he’s flaccid.”

“What does it mean?”

“It supports my impression that what’s wrong with him is
not
physiological.” She pulled the sheet up to cover him, leaving the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Now I’m going to take a look at Amanda Frey. Call me if his condition changes.”

She realized that, more than any other time, she was dreading going into the morgue.

They had brought the body of the boy earlier in the day and now he and his killer lay, only a few feet apart, waiting for her.

She was beginning to wish that Nathan was here. It was never pleasant facing the aftermath of death but it was always worse when it was a child.

There was nothing she could do about him yet; his body was still contorted into its frozen shape.

And there was Amanda. Even with the body of her young victim close at hand, she was a human being and she had died a violent death. Whatever she had done, for whatever reason, her last moments were filled with pain. The gunshot wound disfigured her upper torso.

Rachel began the exam, concentrating on the chest. The bullet had entered at an upward angle, right between the ribs, through the right ventricle and exiting beneath the pulmonary artery. The bullet continued its upward path, not deflected by bone, until it passed through the left scapula and exited the back.

Very quick, lethal shooting. An instant of pain, and awareness, then death.

She noticed the almost healed puncture wound from the blood transfusion and multiple small abrasions and contusions. She looked again at the face, surrounded by matted hair.

A thin trickle of blood ran from the left eye. She moved to the head of the table and lifted the left eyelid.

The pupil of the eye bulged.

She frowned and lifted the right lid. The second pupil was also distended. She returned her attention to the left, looking for a source of the blood. Folding the lid back she searched for a nick or scratch but found none. She took her penlight and examined the eye.

The pupils were fully dilated but when she flashed the light she could discern fluid beneath the anterior chamber. She straightened and turned to a tray of instruments, selecting a clean scalpel.

She made a tiny incision, applying the smallest amount of pressure possible. Thick blood oozed from the eye. She took a moistened swab and pushed on the conjunctiva. Blood welled, gelatinous clots of it.

The other eye yielded the same result.

She stood back, still holding the scalpel, and slowly turned. The John Doe they’d found had blood in his eyes. Was there something else she hadn’t seen?

The refrigeration part of the morgue was a walk-in unit rather than the sliding drawers preferred by bigger hospitals, and the body of the unidentified man was nearest the door. She pushed the stretcher back into the examining area and pulled the sheet down, looking at him intently.

The body was covered with a layer of grime, making it look even grayer than normal. As she bent closer she heard the morgue door open behind her.

“Dr. Adams,” Emma said, “I think you’d better come and look at Mr. Tyler again.”

“Is he worse?”

“I think he may be having a seizure.”

She left John Doe behind, running down the hall after Emma.

Susan Donlevy was in the room with Tyler and she looked up when they entered. Tyler was in the throes of a minor convulsion, his legs and arms jerking spasmodically.

“What’s his temp?”

“Still one oh four.”

“Let’s pack him in ice, I think it’s his temp that’s doing this. But in case he has a history we don’t know about you’d better draw up some Dilantin.”

Susan nodded and rushed from the room while Emma went after the ice.

Rachel stood at the head of the bed, ready to protect his head should he begin more severe thrashings. She put her hand against his face and thought his temperature might be higher than they knew; his skin was desperately hot. His eyes opened for a split-second she thought she saw him in there, the real Wendall Tyler.

She understood it to be a plea for help.

“Well,” Emma said, a half hour later when his condition had stabilized, “nobody’s having any iced tea tonight.” She looked at her watch. “It’s after four, I’d better get going.”

“Is it that late?” Rachel looked at her own watch.

“You should take some time to eat,” Emma said, “I know you didn’t get lunch.”

“Who could eat? But I will sit down and give Nathan a call, see how he’s doing.” She picked up the phone.

“Oh, the phones are out,” Emma said over her shoulder. “Since about two. But don’t worry; I reported it to the sheriff’s office by radio and they were going to look into it.”

“Ah, well.” Rachel replaced the phone in the cradle. “Maybe I will eat something after all.”

She unlocked the door to the small kitchen and cafeteria and went into the back. The cook, and there was only one, came at mealtimes and left right afterwards, so she was on her own.

She found some sliced cheese and an apple and took one of the small cartons of milk expressly reserved for patients only and went to sit down along the window that looked into the courtyard.

It was blessedly peaceful.

The late afternoon sun softened the sky and it was difficult to imagine dying on a day like this.

After a while she got up, mindful of the work she still had to do. The patient load was down, and Tyler was the only complicated case but she wanted to finish in the morgue and, if the phone was fixed, call Craig Johanson in Washington and see what he could tell her about serotonin.

EIGHTY-ONE

There was the problem.

Jon stood along the shoulder of the road, looking up at the dangling telephone wires. They were tangled among the tree branches and at first he thought they had just snapped, but as he moved closer he realized that he was wrong.

The insulated cable had been cut. The edge along the break was smooth and the casing showed no signs of wear or stress.

Someone had climbed up the pole and severed the wire on either side of it.

He walked back down to the telephone pole and examined the ground beneath it. The loose top soil was unmarked; no footprints or scuffmarks. How on earth? The packed dirt, where someone could reasonably stand without leaving marks, was a good three feet back. And the first metal rung up the pole was itself forty inches off the ground.

He looked back at the forest, feeling, suddenly, that he was being watched. Absolutely still, he waited. Nothing.

The sun would be down soon and he needed to report the downed wires. The only solution was to drive down the hill and make radio contact with county communications. He turned and went back to the truck.

He drove slowly along the road, noticing that the general store was closed and there was no traffic to be seen.

People were scared.

Most of the summer people had gone, now, and even the locals were shipping off the kids to family down the hill. Others were just staying in their homes, behind locked doors.

He couldn’t blame them. Murder was never pleasant but senseless, brutal slaughter was incomprehensible. If anything, people were even more upset by Amanda Frey’s death. If she, a minister’s wife, could do such a thing, then who among them could not? Neighbor looked at neighbor, wondering.

He increased his speed as the buildings receded in the rear-view mirror.

Other things. Rachel.

He needed to talk to her. He wasn’t sure that he believed Hamilton, but . . .

There was something between them, something he felt whenever he was near her. Something he had always evaded.

It was not an easy issue.

She was Tim’s little sister, and he had intended to come and take Tim’s place. That did not include carrying her off into the night. It would be a betrayal of trust.

He could not deny his attraction to her but it wasn’t as simple as that. He had convinced himself that her feelings for him were nothing more than an adolescent crush. The night of the dance she had been taken with the magic of the music and he had just been the one who was there when she wanted to be in love. He had never thought that she’d meant it—just that they both were drunk, she on romance.

But now? Years had passed and she was no longer a child. If, as Hamilton had said, she had come back for one last try . . .

He would not let her go away again.

All of a sudden there was no road ahead.

He pulled hard on the wheel and the Bronco veered to the left, going over the embankment as the rear of the vehicle swung sidewise.

It only took seconds.

Everything was still. He sat behind the wheel, waiting for the dust to clear. His right ankle had cracked into the floor gear shift and he rubbed it absently.

Then he opened the door and climbed out of the truck which was facing up toward the road.

Favoring his ankle, he moved up the embankment and walked to the edge of where the road used to be. And looked down at a precipice thirty feet across. An entire section of the road had collapsed, leaving a sheer cliff face.

There was no way to get across. They were cut off.