The Taint (9 page)

THIRTY

“I got here as fast as I could,” Rachel said, coming up to the nurse’s station. “Where is he?”

“Dr. Adams is in with him now, room one oh eight.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Only that his housekeeper found him on the bathroom floor, covered in blood.”

Rachel hurried down the hall and into 108. Nathan was standing beside the bed and Franklin Dunn lay still as death, his eyes closed.

“Nathan,” she came to his side. “How is he?”

“Holding his own.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “He’s been unconscious since they brought him in.”

She lowered her voice. “Do you think he attempted suicide?”

He didn’t answer, adjusting the flow rate of the plasma being administered.

“Are you going to report it?”

“Not until I have a chance to talk to him.” He looked at his friend. “He has no reason to . . .” his voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“If his housekeeper hadn’t found him, he probably would have bled to death.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve worked on someone this close to me.” He looked at her ruefully. “I’m afraid I lost my professional objectivity.” He put his arm around her. “I’m glad you came in.”

“How is Peter?”

They left the room and walked toward the station. The hall lights were dim and all was quiet.

“I think he can go home in the morning.”

“And Mr. Tyler?”

“I haven’t seen him. I was just about to go in when Franklin arrived. But the progress notes indicate that he’s about the same.”

Rachel stopped opposite Tyler’s room and looked through the observation window. “It doesn’t even look like he’s moved since I last saw him this afternoon.”

“Laura.” Nathan addressed the relief nurse. “Anything we should know about before we leave?”

“No. Mr. Hunter’s family picked him up at seven; he was feeling fine and anxious to get home. Tina Cruz’s mother is asleep in the chapel; I think she’s praying in her sleep.”

“If Mr. Dunn’s condition worsens, call me immediately. Check his vital signs every half hour. And thank you; you did a marvelous job helping me sew him up.”

“Good night,” Laura said and watched them walk down the hall.

Laura Gentry made her rounds at ten p.m. as was her custom, taking vital signs on all patients, dispensing sleeping medication to Brown and Nelson, giving Peter Thomas his fourteenth glass of water and simply staring at Wendall Tyler. She checked Mr. Dunn’s IV lines and checked his wounds for oozing blood. Both hands were warm and pink; Dr. Adams had restored circulation completely.

She went back to the nurse’s station and sat down, graphing the vitals and making notes on Dunn’s IV sheet. The paperwork did not take long with only six patients and when she was finished she went back to stand in front of Tyler’s door.

There was something about him. As she watched him she became aware that her left hand was itching. While she’d been helping Dr. Adams sew up Dunn’s wrists she’d accidentally nicked her palm with the scalpel blade used to excise the wound edges. It hadn’t bled much, or she thought it hadn’t, it was hard to tell with all of Dunn’s blood all over her. Now it itched like hell. She would wash it with antiseptic, and get a tetanus shot, or gamma globulin, or . . . She could not take her eyes away from him.

Shortly before Joyce Callan arrived for the night shift, Laura Gentry slit her wrists with a bloodied scalpel.

THIRTY-ONE

The house was dark and silent and Rachel inched her way down the stairs to the kitchen. With everything that had happened, she had never gotten around to eating, and now she was hungry.

There wasn’t much in the refrigerator, but she found a hard-boiled egg and her favorite, cold macaroni and cheese. She stood for a moment in front of the refrigerator, eating the macaroni delicately with her fingers before deciding to take it upstairs.

It was time. She had to read Kelly’s letters. She took her fortification and went back to her room.

She checked the postmarks on the letters and opened the first one, dated ten days after her disappearance. It was thick, five full pages and she settled back to read.

Undying love and devotion. Confusion. Hurt. Not a word of anger.

How could he not be angry with her? She had lived with him for eighteen months and was minutes away from becoming his wife only to walk out on him, leaving him standing, in front of friends and family, without a word. Not even goodbye.

She hadn’t answered his letters. She told his friends that if he came to South Africa, she would refuse to see him.

But how could she tell him? That everything they had was a lie? That she’d never loved him?

She did care for him, and for the first few days, when she cried, it was for him, at how he must feel. She thought of him alone, in their apartment, the empty rooms, the silent phone. She did not like to think of him, alone.

It had always been Jon. Since the first day, when he walked up the drive alongside Tim. Tall, slim, striking in the dress uniform. He stood at parade rest while Tim introduced them, smiling politely, and she knew, in an instant, that this was the one. She was obsessed, as only an adolescent female can be, and he was oblivious.

Only once had she ever managed to break through his reserve, and she still wasn’t sure if it was because he had been drinking. Whether she was an available body. It was because of that doubt that she’d stayed away once she was in school. She didn’t want to come back for the summer and be a fling for him. She didn’t want to be torn away if they were together. She couldn’t afford not to play for keeps.

And Kelly? He was a moment of weakness when she was feeling sorry for herself. He was a physical attraction. And if she was very honest, it might be that he was to make Jon jealous. Which hadn’t worked.

In her fantasy, Jon came to the city for the wedding. He politely greeted Kelly and wished them luck. And, as she walked down the aisle, radiant and beautiful, he stood up, grabbed her, and ran.

He didn’t come to the wedding. So she ran off without him.

But how to tell Kelly this? She needed to convince him that there was no hope for them. And she knew that she would have to see him.

She finished the last of the macaroni and put the container on the floor. Kelly’s letters went back on the dresser and then she turned out the light and got under the covers, shivering at the cool sheets.

That was all there was to it. She would ask Kelly to come up to talk, and she would tell him the truth. He would get over her, get married and have kids. She would pine away after Jon and sleep on cold sheets.

“And I thought life would be simple after I got my MD,” she said to the silent room. “But then, I’ve been wrong about everything so far . . .”

THIRTY-TWO

“Are you feeling better now?” Joyce Callan asked, handing Laura Gentry a cup of black coffee.

Laura took the cup and held it in both hands, looking again at her bandaged wrists. Then she nodded slowly.

“I don’t know what happened to me.” There was no self-pity in her voice, just confusion. She looked up at Joyce. “Thank you for not calling Dr. Adams . . .”

“He’d understand, you know.”

“I don’t understand. I really don’t.” She lifted the cup to her mouth with trembling hands.

“You don’t remember cutting your wrists?”

Laura shook her head. “I don’t even remember walking from the hall into the utility room. The last thing . . . I was standing in front of Tyler’s room, and . . .” She frowned. “That’s all.”

“And you haven’t been upset?”

“I’ve seen too many suicide attempts to want to try one of my own. And I’m not fond of pain.” She looked at her wrists. “I certainly didn’t do a good job of it, anyway.”

“Well, you’re lucky the wounds were so superficial, or I would have had to call Dr. Adams.”

“But don’t you think that I would know if I were suicidal? I mean, it’s supposed to come as a surprise to the family, not to the victim.”

Joyce smiled. “You’re right, and I’m sorry if I’ve been implying that you’re off the deep end. You said you were outside Mr. Tyler’s room, watching him.”

“There’s something about him . . .”

“I agree with you there. Do you remember what you were thinking? While you looked at him?”

Again she shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s all a blank.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Go home and get some rest.”

“That sounds like a very good idea.” Joyce stood and finished her coffee. “Looks like I’ll be wearing long sleeves for a while.”

“Listen,” Joyce hesitated, “if you think of anything, remember anything, that happened tonight, I want you to call me. Or if you just need to talk.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“But most of all, I want you to know, that no matter what happened, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever happened, I’m on your side.”

“Thank you.” She put on her sweater and gathered up her purse and keys, starting down the hall. She stopped and turned back. “Joyce? Do me a favor. Don’t get too close to Mr. Tyler . . . don’t stay in there too long.”

THIRTY-THREE

Candy Burroughs giggled softly, crawling on her hands and knees in the dark. It was after midnight and the ground was damp and cold but she didn’t care. David was willing to play spy.

Somewhere in the dark, he was looking for her.

She had already captured him twice, springing out of the dark to surprise him. If she caught him again . . . he would pay the price.

It was her favorite game.

Once he had been caught for the third time, he was at her mercy. He had to do whatever she said. The penalty for spying was total subservience. She knew she was going to win.

But then, he liked her to win.

When they’d first met, she could tell that he thought her little games were silly, but he’d gone along because it was the easiest way to get her into bed. Now, she could tell, he liked it.

She stopped, listening. The brush was rustling over near the fire. Was he over there?

Her lower lip pouted. She didn’t like to catch him in the light. It was much more exciting to get him in the dark, and stand above him in the shadows, ordering him to do what she liked. It was better in the dark.

She waited. It was going to be her way, or no way.

He was making enough noise to raise the dead.

He must want to get caught very badly to make that much noise. He was not playing fair. He was not supposed to make it that easy for her to win. Maybe he still didn’t understand why she played the game.

Well, she wasn’t going to fall for it. The only way she could really enjoy it was if she won fair.

She settled more comfortably on the ground; her knees still hurt from when she’d fallen on them last night. Strange how she’d almost forgotten about it.

Finally the rustling stopped. It was very still now and she turned her head, trying to determine which way he had gone.

It was quite a while before she heard another sound and then, surprisingly, it came from directly behind her.

She smiled. So, he wanted to play. To capture her once, or even twice, so that the final time would be more . . . interesting. Or maybe . . .

The second time he had played spy with her, a long time ago, he had suddenly pounced on her, ripping her clothes off and forcing her down. She was mad as hell, he had broken the rules, but it had been as good as she could ever remember it being.

Maybe David was going to break the rules again.

She moved stealthily along the ground. She had to make it worth her while. The longer it took him to catch her, the more heated he would be.

And. She began to unzip her pants. She would show him a thing or two about frenzy. She sat down and began to work her tight pants down her legs. Then she folded them very neatly and put them under a bush. The dirt was very cool on her tender knees.

The blouse next, since it cost thirty dollars and she didn’t want it ripped.

Now she was ready. For whatever he had in mind.

Twigs snapped behind her and she waited for him to come closer, tensing her muscles, planning to spring at him in all her glory, making him have to take her down hard.

Very close now, she could hear him breathing.

She turned and looked over her shoulder.

And opened her mouth to scream.

THIRTY-FOUR

Hudson stepped over the body of the woman and looked at the man, nudging him with his boot. It was strangely satisfying to see them there, dead.

They did not belong in his woods. Nor did the others.

They were ignorant.

They came, loaded down with the trappings of their other lives; radios, microwave ovens, refrigerators, miniaturized versions of what they claimed to leave behind. They brought dissonance into the natural tranquility and could not see what they had done. They sought a sanitized wilderness yet they soiled it with their very presence.

They could not co-exist—they had to conquer.

They respected no boundaries and left their mark on the land, and deluded themselves with meaningless challenges, hoping to feel strong. But they were not.

In their excesses they were worse than ignorant—they were dangerous.

He was strong. And he alone.

He looked around the campsite, trying to remember. He had come here for a reason . . .

He kicked out the dying camp fire, shoving mounds of dirt over the flames and then without a look at the bodies at his feet, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

Sunday

THIRTY-FIVE

“What do you make of it?” Malloy asked.

Jon squatted down, examining the bodies. “I’m not a doctor, but I’d say they both were strangled.” The faces were dusky and the features distorted. Both had dirt in their mouths.

“Where’d the blood come from then?”

“Maybe the killer.” He stood, brushing his hands on his pants. He turned to the ashes. “He put out the fire . . .”

Malloy was staring at the woman’s body. Reluctantly he turned his attention to the sheriff. “How can you tell?”

“Blood in the dirt covering the ashes.” He bent down and carefully ran his knife blade along one of the blood stains. “Maybe the man cut him.”

“I hope so.”

They both looked up as Earl pulled up, lights flashing in the early morning air.

“Got here as soon as I heard,” Earl said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His face looked puffy and half-awake. His eyes widened as he took in the bodies. “Wow,” he said. “Two of ’em.”

“I want you to back the truck down here,” Jon said, pointing to a spot about ten feet from the campsite. “And bring the camera with you; it’s under the front seat.” He handed Earl the keys to the Bronco.

As Earl trudged back up the hill, Jon turned to Malloy, who was again staring at the woman.

“Something wrong?”

Malloy bit his lip and nodded slowly. “She stopped me, yesterday afternoon, and told me some wild story about being chased the night before, somebody tracking her in the woods. I thought it was wishful thinking on her part, she talked like she was trying to turn me on . . . kept playing with her buttons, running her hands over her ass . . . you know the type. Making him jealous, maybe. Playing a game.”

“And now you think it was true.”

“That and something else . . . Friday morning a family checked out, I’d have to look up their name, the wife was very nervous. She said she heard someone prowling around their trailer.”

“And?”

“Well, it was obvious to me that her husband didn’t believe her, he was pretty pissed off; they had reservations through the week-end. But she was determined to go and she was scared. This was their campsite.” He looked down at the bodies. “And now this.”

“It would appear that we have a killer prowling about the park.”

“And Cruz? Do you think the same one got him?”

Jon didn’t answer.

They loaded the bodies into the back of the truck after taking photographs of the scene. Earl found the woman’s clothing under a bush and they collected the other items at the campsite. The sun was fully in the sky and other campers were beginning to move about.

When they saw the two police vehicles and the ranger’s jeep they formed a silent line along the road, watching, hoping for a glimpse of something even if they didn’t know what.

Jon was relieved when they were finished with the death site and were ready to go. He did not consider murder a spectator sport.

Dispatch had notified the hospital and Emma Sutter was waiting by the morgue entrance when they arrived. She watched as they unloaded the bodies.

“Is Nathan here?” Jon asked when they had finished.

“No, but Rachel’s on her way. She’s actually gotten him to take a day off and go fishing.”

Jon grimaced. “Then she’ll have to do these.”

Emma held his eyes. “She is a doctor. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I’m not questioning her ability . . .”

“And it’s a good thing; from what I’ve seen and from what Nathan’s told me, she’s as good as they come. Maybe better, because she’s always having to prove herself . . .”

“. . . to people like me,” Jon finished for her. “I know. I don’t like to think of her having to deal with something this ugly.”

Emma smiled, her eyes knowing. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

“Never mind.” Rachel was pulling into the parking lot in her little Porsche, and Emma gestured in her direction. “You just do your job, Sheriff, and let Dr. Adams do hers.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Jon to look after her.

He watched her circle the bodies where they lay on the stretchers.

“I see you’ve bagged their hands,” she said and looked up at him. “Very nice work.”

“Standard procedure.”

“In the city, maybe, but small town police department?”

“You can take the cop out of the city, but not the city out of the cop.”

She smiled. “I’ve noticed that.” She gestured at the bodies. “Do you want to observe?”

“Why not?”

He remembered why not as soon as she picked up the scalpel. Then she put it down again.

“May as well do the hands first.” She removed the plastic bag from David Burroughs’ right hand, her own hands in sterile gloves. She turned the hand over. “There are no contusions or abrasions and no swelling. I don’t think he was able to strike whoever attacked him.” She picked up a curved instrument and began to scrape underneath the fingernails, carefully putting the scrapings into a glassine envelope which Jon held for her.

“Look like anything?”

“Not to me.” She paused. “You’ll need a microscopic exam to be sure.” She finished the right hand and gently put it down. “Let’s do the other.”

He followed her around the table.

“Same story here. Nothing to indicate that he fought his attacker. At least, not with his hands.” She looked up. “Like Randy Cruz?”

“Could he have been tied up, maybe, and the rope removed after his death?”

“I don’t think so. Again, there are no marks on his wrists, no edema in his hands.” She looked at him. “Just nothing.”

“What about drugs?”

“Maybe. Although I’m not familiar with any drug which would make someone allow themselves to be killed. Strangulation is not pleasant.”

She finished with the second hand and returned to the right side of the table. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead.”

She opened the chest with a long clean stroke.

He swallowed.

Her hands moved quickly, laying open the chest, retracting the ribs, each accomplished with a minimum of effort.

“Well, he was alive when the dirt was stuffed into his mouth; it’s aspirated into the lungs.”

“This gets nastier every minute,” Jon said.

“A lot of power exerted on the throat. Massive edema, the trachea is crushed, what a mess.”

“Was it manual strangulation or did the killer use something—some leverage on the throat.”

“Clear indications of both. Impressions of fingers, externally, but also a straight edge.”

“Jesus.”

She returned her attention to the internal organs and began to remove them, measuring and weighing each in a scale that reminded Jon of a butcher shop.

She took samples of the stomach contents, fluid from the lungs and urine from the bladder. When she was finished, she straightened and looked at Jon.

“You see this?” She pointed to some discoloration along his sides and ribcage.

He was momentarily disjointed; he’d been concentrating on the internal examination since she’d opened the body.

“What is it?”

“Soft tissue swelling, hematoma. On both sides, at approximately the same location.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I’d say these marks were caused when his attacker straddled him and strangled him.”

“And?”

“Look.” The largely emptied chest cavity glistened. She pointed along the rib cage. “Fractures. Dozens of them, on both sides. One, these fractures were inflicted while the victim was alive and must have been incredibly painful, yet we still don’t have any indication that he made any attempt to defend himself. He just lay there, on his back, and let someone kill him. And two, very few people have leg muscles which would be able to exert this kind of pressure. Inward pressure.”

“So we’re dealing with . . .”

“A madman. Superhuman strength.” She looked down at the body. “And helpless victims.”

The woman’s body was on a stretcher and had to be transferred to the table. She took up a great deal less space than the man had.

“I need to know . . . if she’s been raped.”

“I hope I can tell you. With sexually active women, it’s often impossible to tell.”

She began the dissection as before, the organs much smaller this time, the results much the same.

“I’d say this one was with the hands only,” she paused in her examination of the throat, pointing with the scalpel at the marks on the skin. “And, by the looks of the bruises, he kept letting her go, letting her breathe, and then he’d get another hold. There appear to be four areas here, four sets of marks.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“Probably wanted her to live for a while. Maybe for a sexual reason, maybe just to make her suffer.”

Jon stepped back, ran his hand through his hair. “Damn.”

She opened the trachea. “The swelling alone could have killed her . . .” She sighed. “But it wasn’t that easy.”

Jon was pacing now, not looking at the body.

She watched him for a moment and then returned to her work.

Later, when she had finished, she washed up and went to her office where he was waiting.

“So?” he said when she came into the room.

“So. We have the same rib fractures. She also had aspirated dirt in her lungs. She had engaged in sexual relations just prior to her death. There were numerous small contusions . . . vaginally.” She looked at him. “I’ve collected swabs, done a vaginal wash, and so on. Essentially a complete rape exam.”

Jon was quiet, nodding slowly.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go look for a killer.” He met her eyes. “How is Tyler doing?”

“The same, why?”

“I think he killed his wife right before the accident.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing. I’m just thinking out loud. Cruz disappeared about the same time as Louisa Tyler was killed.”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with Cruz’s death, do you?”

“Maybe Randy came upon Tyler as he was killing his wife. And Tyler knifed him . . .”

“I think you’re stretching it.”

“Let me finish. He’s catatonic, supposedly, and he’s crazy. He sneaks out in the middle of the night, when the nurse is busy, and kills two more people. Then back into the hospital.”

“I think it just snapped. I don’t believe you really think that’s what happened.”

“Nothing has happened in this town in years. He shows up, and now four people are dead.”

“May I remind you, I came home the same day. Or am I a suspect too?”

“All right. But I think he killed his wife. The odds on another killer showing up at the same time, same place . . .”

“The odds on a catatonic patient being able to remove his restraints and go out to kill everyone in sight are a little long, too. Why go out to the forest? There are people in the hospital, other patients, the nurses. Me.”

Jon turned to face her. “I’m going to get a deputy down here to guard his door.”

“Look, we’ll go down to his room and take a look at him. If he’s been out, he’ll have dirt on him, and you said you thought the killer was bleeding. There’ll be evidence. Not supposition.”

Tyler was in his bed, restraints in place and with no visible cuts. His hands were clean and unmarked. “Are you satisfied?” They were walking back down the hall toward her office.

“I still think he killed his wife.” When they got to the office, he held the door open for her. “And he’s hiding, right in front of our eyes.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon.” She sat on the edge of her desk, rubbing her neck.

“How will we find out?”

“I’m going to hypnotize him.”

“What?”

“Hypnotherapy, to bring him out of it.”

“Now wait a minute.” He stood only a few inches away, his look incredulous. “You’re going to bring a probable killer ‘out of it’?”

“It’s a very valuable therapeutic tool,” she began.

“The man may be crazy.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s a judicial problem, my problem is keeping anyone else from getting hurt.”

“What if . . . he only saw his wife get killed. What if he saw your killer. He might be able to tell us . . .”

“And he might just snap your neck for you.” He was shouting now.

“He’s in restraints . . .”

“I’ve seen people do things you wouldn’t believe . . .”

“You think you have a corner on experience, don’t you?”

“I don’t think your college and medical school can compare to the streets. Oh, you see them in here, in your antiseptic little rooms, but you don’t find them in the alleys, they don’t die in your arms . . .”

They stared at each other, the silence deafening.

“You’re thinking of Tim, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft.

“People kill other people. And some people die because they don’t expect it. They’re not on guard. They take chances.” His face was pained. “I don’t want you to take any chances.”

She slid off the desk and stood in front of him, searching his face, drawn into the deep green of his eyes. She put one hand on his arm, her pulse quickening. “Why?”

He did not answer.

Her phone rang. She made no move to answer it, wishing desperately that it would stop, that she could go on, to drown in his eyes.

Then he stepped back, reached and picked up the phone, handing it to her. She took it and listened to the voice at the other end, not taking her eyes from his face, thinking only that she had to make him stay.

As he left she agreed to wait until Nathan was back before she attempted to hypnotize Wendall Tyler.