The Taint (8 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

Rachel placed the stethoscope on Peter Thomas’ chest, listening to his heart. No murmurs. Strong, steady beats. She shifted it, listening to the lungs. Good exchange of air, no rales or signs of congestion.

He was sleeping and she didn’t want to disturb him so she carefully rebuttoned his pajama top, pulled up the covers and left him alone.

“His mother’s gone home,” Emma told her. “Her youngest has come down with the flu.”

“Maybe that’s what he has.” She tapped her pen on the chart.

“Maybe. He sure got sick in a hurry, though.”

“Kids do. And they can get better in a hurry, too.” She looked at the closed door to the boy’s room. “I think he’s through the worst of it.”

Emma nodded. “His temp is down to ninety-nine six.

“Good.” She picked up Wendall Tyler’s chart. “I’m going down to my office—call me if you need me.” She found the textbook on hypnosis among the medical books and opened it, smiling. It hardly seemed possible that she had finally finished with school, after so many years of concentrated effort. Her name and student ID number were printed on the title page and she could almost remember doing it. Every semester, the long lines in the bookstore, and then the ritual of labeling her books. The first hectic days of classes, waiting to find out if the instructors were of this world.

She sat behind the desk, flipping the pages of the book. Underlined sentences, notes in the margins. Assigned reading, and she was always behind. But she’d wanted to finished college in three years, to get into medical school as quickly as possible. The best years of your life, her counselors told her. What a depressing thought.

All she wanted was to get out, get her MD and come back to Jon, who was managing to control himself.

Hypnotism. She returned her attention to the book.

Nathan was at the door, a paper bag in his hand. “I brought you a sandwich.” He put it on the desk in front of her and looked to see what she was reading. “Any good?”

“I’m refreshing my memory on theory.”

“And practice?”

“It’ll come.” She closed the book and took the bag, opening it and looking in. “What is it?”

“Bacon and avocado.”

“Avocado? All the way up here?”

“Do I detect a note of city snobbery?”

“Not at all. I’m thrilled.” She opened the sandwich. “Real avocado.”

“Eat your lunch; we’ve got work to do.”

Nathan pulled the culture dishes out of the incubator, handing her one. “Look at it.”

The bottom of the plate was covered by whitish organisms.

“What is it?”

“Haven’t identified it yet. Look.” He handed her another dish, sectioned off for sensitivities, each section with a tiny white disc. The organisms covered the discs. Three other dishes, similarly prepared, identical results. “It’s not responsive to any of the common broad-spectrum antibiotics. In fact, it rather likes Erythromycin and Tetracycline.”

“Whose is this?” Her eyes widened. “Not the Thomas boy . . .”

He shook his head. “No, it’s Wendall Tyler’s.”

“Tyler?” She looked at the plate. “But he has no symptoms of infection.”

“And, his blood count and chemistry are normal.”

“Do you think this blood sample was contaminated?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He put the dishes back into the incubator. “I have some other tests to run, some specialized chemical levels. Long shots.” He shrugged.

“It’s very curious,” Rachel remarked.

“But an indication that there
might
be something physically wrong with him . . . it might not be a psychosis.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

Nathan wiped a small spot off the countertop with the sleeve of his lab coat. “I can hardly wait to really use all this equipment.”

“Well, you’re going to wait. You promised to take tomorrow off.”

“I think maybe I should delay my fishing trip until we have a better idea what we’re dealing with here.”

“Nothing is critical right now, Tyler is stable. Peter’s improving rapidly.”

“There’s Nora . . .”

“Until they find her there’s not much you can do.”

“And Amanda Frey is coming in Sunday night for a blood transfusion . . .”

“Nathan . . .”

“And you’re not even settled in yet. I’d hate to abandon you. It can get hectic.”

“What can happen in one day?” She smiled. “Do it for me.”

TWENTY-SIX

They expected her to go home. They expected to find her as easily as that.

Nora Samuels walked determinedly toward safety, back from the road, her movements hidden by the dense trees. The ground was not level and she had to be careful but she was making progress.

They’d watch the house, probably, as if she would be fool enough to go in it. Everything she needed she had hidden long ago in the cabin. They didn’t know about that.

The small carry-case was getting heavy and she stopped to rest, setting it on the ground. The strap had worn a welt on her wrist and she rubbed at it. When she started walking again she just dragged it along the ground behind her. Looking back, she was pleased; it wiped out her footprints.

Not that they’d look for her in this direction.

Just because she was dying they took her for a fool. Dying only simplified things—it hadn’t made her helpless. Without distractions—details, the future, decisions—her mind worked with total clarity.

All she wanted now was a peaceful death. Let the cancer grow to strangle her quietly in her sleep. Some pills for the pain, but nothing else. Nathan Adams understood; that’s why she’d gone in the hospital in the first place. Just for the pain.

But now it wasn’t safe there.

She was nearing town and she stopped again to rest. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, pushing this hard. There was still a long way to go.

An occasional car passed on the main road, sunlight glinting off metal and glass, sending prisms of color among the trees. She lowered herself to the ground, watching the road.

She needed a pain pill and she dragged the carry-case to her. The bottle was hidden in her underwear and she twisted the cap off, spilling the pills into her hand.

If she took them now, she would never make it to the cabin. She hesitated. The ache was not as bad as it had been before. But knowing how much worse it could get was not pleasant.

Reluctantly she rolled the pills back into the bottle. It was a struggle to get back to her feet but she did and started on her way. She crossed behind the small general store when she got to town and headed for the trees. No one saw her, but when she looked back she saw the Sheriff’s truck pull up beside the store, not five feet from where she’d been.

Then she turned her back on the town and went to hide.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Calvin Price was sorting mail into cubbyholes when Jon entered the general store.

“One minute,” Calvin called out, not looking up from his chore.

“It’s just me, Calvin.” The wood floor creaked as he crossed the room.

“Don’t break my concentration,” Calvin warned. The letters shot into the slots. When the last envelope was in he turned and nodded. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You know Nora Samuels?”

“Everybody knows Nora,” Calvin said dryly.

“Well, she’s walked out of the hospital . . .”

“Don’t blame her. Not that I have anything against the doc, but hospitals . . .” he shuddered.

“We’ve been looking for her all afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out, mention it to your customers.”

Calvin gestured at the empty store. “What customers?”

“Anyone who comes in, then.”

The door opened and Earl Wagner entered the shop. Calvin looked at Jon.

“You figure he knows?”

“He knows.” He turned to Earl. “Had any luck?”

“Not a sign of her all afternoon.” Earl opened the lid of the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Pepsi.

Calvin nudged Jon. “You want your mail?”

Jon held his hand out and looked back at Earl. “You’d think someone would have seen her. She can’t have vanished into thin air.”

“Don’t know . . . Nora’s a pretty sharp old lady.” Earl put his head back and let the bottle empty down his throat.

“She’s also a pretty sick old lady. I wonder what made her decide just to take off like that?”

Calvin cleared his throat. “Probably they were going to try some experimental medical hocus-pocus on her. Drugs and x-rays.” He nodded knowingly. “Torture, I call it.”

Jon considered. “Maybe I’d better go talk to Nathan.”

Earl selected another bottle from the cooler. “It’d be just like Nora to take off to the hills if they came after her with something new. I never saw anyone more suspicious of progress in my life.”

“As long as you’re heading out toward the hospital,” Calvin began, taking a stack of envelopes from their slot, “you might as well take their mail.” At Jon’s look he continued: “Since I’m doing your work for you, and all, looking out for Nora Mae.”

Jon took the mail without answering.

“Nathan’s not at the hospital,” Earl said, digging in his pockets for change. “I passed him on my way to town; he’s probably home by now.”

Calvin took back the hospital mail and handed Jon a smaller stack. “Personal.”

“Thank you, Calvin, for everything.” He waved at Earl and went out the door. He stopped at the house to take a quick shower and put on a clean shirt. He’d only managed a little over four hours of sleep but the water revived him and he felt almost human.

He checked in with dispatch. Still no call from the San Diego police, who were looking for Louisa Tyler’s relatives, and no sign of Nora. The official typed report on the Cruz autopsy had arrived, and was waiting on his desk.

On the way over he glanced at the letters. One was from a familiar name, for Rachel. Kelly Hamilton, her almost bridegroom.

What kind of a name was Kelly?

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Jon,” Nathan held the door open wide. “Come on in—can I get you a drink?”

“I’m technically on duty.”

“Aren’t we all. A small one won’t hurt, for medicinal purposes.”

“If you insist.” Jon held out the letters. “I’m delivering the mail now as well.”

“That settles it, then. Mailmen are notoriously heavy drinkers.” He looked at the letters, took one and thrust it back into Jon’s hand. “You give it to Rachel when she comes down. I’ll make the drinks.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Rachel came down the stairs wearing a robe and with her hair up in a towel, hesitating only slightly when she saw him standing in the hall.

“Where’s Nathan?”

“Making drinks.” He handed her the letter and watched her face as she looked at it.

“I’m going to need one.” She put the letter into the pocket of her robe. “Have you found Nora Samuels?”

“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. Was Nora having any medical treatment that she might have wanted to avoid?”

Nathan came through the kitchen door carrying a tray of drinks. “What’s this?” He handed Jon a glass and offered one to Rachel.

“Nora’s medical treatment,” Jon repeated. “Was there anything painful or . . .”

“Not in the least.” Nathan said. “Come on in and sit down, I’ve got a fire going.”

“I hate to be dense,” Rachel said when they were seated, “but what does her medical treatment have to do with finding her?”

“There’s a difference between just walking out of the hospital for no reason, and wanting to hide to avoid being found. And it appears to me that she’s hiding. I’d like to know why.”

“Well, it isn’t her treatment,” Nathan said, “because she isn’t having any. I put her in the hospital to adjust her pain medication—it was making her groggy—and to make sure she was eating right. Malnutrition is often a contributing factor in cancer deaths.”

“Unless she’s hiding because of the Cruz thing,” Rachel said. She looked at her uncle. “She told Tina Cruz that her husband was dead, sometime in the middle of the night. But, I still don’t know how
she
found out.”

“Nora knows things,” Nathan said.

Jon and Rachel exchanged a look. “How do you mean?”

“She claims to be a psychic.” He sipped his drink. “She’s always been a little spooky.”

“Then why run away?” Rachel asked.

“And where did she go? She hasn’t been to her house, and no one’s seen her.”

“She’s lived up here for a long time,” Nathan said. The phone rang and he stood to go answer it. “If Nora doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find her.” He left the room.

“This is all very strange.” Rachel finished her drink and got up, walking slowly back and forth in front of the fire. “Why would she want to hide?”

Jon watched her, keeping his eyes from the glimpses of bare leg which showed as she paced.

Nathan came back into the room. “I’ve got to go back to the hospital,” he announced. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, Jon? I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve got to get back out there. Got a lot to do.” He looked at Rachel who was standing in front of the fire. She smiled.

“Another time, then.” Nathan walked over and kissed Rachel on the cheek.

“Another time.”

She was still standing there when he glanced back as he followed Nathan out the door.

TWENTY-NINE

Another time.

Jon drove along the old timber road, his eyes scanning the trees. The sun was setting and he turned on the headlights but it wasn’t yet dark enough so he pushed the knob back in with more force than he had intended. He realized that he was afraid. Of being alone, there in that room, where it had happened before. With Rachel.

He pulled on the wheel, making the turn onto the ridge road, and gunning the engine. Clouds of dust rose in the rear-view mirror, looking ghostly in the fading light.

The road dead-ended twenty yards from the boundary of the state park and he cut the engine. The dust settled.

Another time.

He’d been staying at the house while Nathan was in Houston at a medical convention. Rachel was seventeen. It was all right at first; he was working a lot and she was busy with school and getting ready to go to college.

But Friday night he was off, and she was down the hill at a spring dance. He sat in the living room, in front of the fire, and began to drink, slowly, steadily. After a while he got up and turned out the lights, then sat, staring into the flames, watching time burn.

Much later he heard a car door slam and he got up, drink in hand, and went to the door. He could see her walking up to the porch with Eric Wilson, whom he’d never liked. She was smiling and laughing and the boy took her hand, pulling her toward him.

Jon finished the drink.

The boy caught her other hand and held it behind his back so that she was up against him, and he leaned down, kissing her on the mouth.

After a few seconds Rachel pushed away and the boy attempted to pull her back but she freed her hands and reached for the doorknob.

Jon turned and went back into the living room, refilling his glass before sinking down on the couch. He heard the door open and the murmur of voices. Then the door closed and in a moment she came into the room.

“Jon?” She stood on one foot, removing her left shoe, and then the right. “What are you doing in the dark?” She moved toward the lamp.

“Leave it off.”

She looked at him. “All right.” She reached up to let her hair down, loosening the clips. She ran her fingers through the twists and then turned a circle on her toes. “I could have danced all night.”

“Where have I heard that before.”

“Cynic.” She continued to move, dancing lightly. She neared him and put her hands out. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance.” He took a drink.

“Everybody dances. Come on.” She grabbed his free hand and pulled. “I’ll teach you.” She took the glass out of his hand and put it on the table.

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “I’m lucky if I can walk, Rachel.”

“I’ll hold you.” She put one arm around him and took his hand, placing it on her waist. Then she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. “Dance with me,” she repeated.

Incredible gray eyes, he thought.

They danced very slowly, barely moving. Rachel sang softly, but it was an old song, a love song . . .

“. . . finally found . . . somebody who . . .”

Without knowing that he was going to, he lifted her off her feet and spun around, in slow motion, and felt her perfumed arms which were somehow around his neck.

And he put her down.

“I have to sit down.” He sank onto the couch, reaching automatically for his drink.

She sat beside him, tucking her bare legs beneath her. “Can I have a taste?” She put her hand out for the glass.

“No.” He put the glass on the table.

She leaned across him and picked up the glass. Her hair brushed against his arm. “I’m not a child.” She raised the glass to her lips and tasted it.

He watched her mouth and thought of Eric Wilson. Then he took the glass back from her and emptied it. And poured another.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head and looked at her, at the firelight reflected in her eyes. She glowed, her skin golden and soft and fragrant. He reached up to touch her face. Her eyes began to close and he moved his fingers toward her temple and then into her hair. Her lips parted and he kissed her, gently, just brushing her mouth with his.

He started to move back but she followed and he felt her hands clench in his hair and the flick of her tongue as she kissed him. He put his arms around her and pulled her across him, answering her insistence with his own. Then he released her, and got to his feet, slightly unsteady.

“Jon.” She was in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She just stood there, looking up at him, her mouth looking bruised but very young and he leaned down, unable to stop himself from kissing her. Her arms snaked around his neck and the full length of her body pressed against him. He ran his hands down the curve of her back, feeling the heat of her through the thin dress. She arched her back and stood on her toes, her mouth still hungrily searching his. He tried to think.

She bit his lower lip and then ducked her head and began to kiss his neck and he felt her fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head back, and bent to kiss her while his arms went under her knees and he picked her up.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice husky and urgent.

He covered her mouth with his, not wanting to talk now, not wanting to think anymore about what he was doing. Just the incredible heat of her and the taste of her mouth, there was nothing else.

Except the sound of a car coming up the drive, and the shine of headlights flickering through the front windows.

He put her down. “Nathan’s home,” he said.

Nathan wanted him to stay the night, but he had to get out of there, get away from her, so he could think clearly.

By the time he got home, he knew every reason why it was wrong. And there were so many reasons. Nathan’s trust, his own role as surrogate brother to her, her age, his strong belief in the law.

He made a point not to be alone with her after that night and when she left to go to college he was almost relieved. He gave her a brotherly kiss goodbye.

If it took a while before he could forget the taste of her mouth . . .

He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that he’d been parked on the ridge for over an hour. It was completely dark now and he was hungry. He started the engine and put the Bronco in reverse, backing up slowly until he got to a place wide enough to turn around.

It was still there, though.

He was more in control now, fascinated but able to control that fascination. Time had helped him insulate his feelings. They could be friends. The only thing he had to watch out for was proximity; if she got too close he might not be able to turn away again.