Thirteen West (33 page)

"What the hell for?"

"I called him about the first death. We've had another since I last talked to you."

"Since when do you take the responsibility of notifying the superintendent?"

"I knew you'd be busy with the injury," Sal said. He started to explain about the second death but Crawford slammed the phone down.

Insolent bastard. Couldn't trust those Mexicans—smile at you while they're knifing you in the back. The spurt of adrenaline from his anger carried him out the door and into his car.

* * *

"I suppose I'll get blamed for this mess," Joe said, looking at the broken glass he'd found under Simpson's pillow. "How the hell did the Preacher get that glass?"

"Smells like it was a whiskey bottle," Sal said. "Yeah, here's the label on this piece. Better leave it here in the bed where you found it since the fuzz are coming. The room's empty. It'll be safe enough with the door locked."

"I sure as hell didn't bring a bottle to work and neither did Zenda." Joe dropped the pillow back. "Ward's got only one patient with a grounds pass—Sven Taterson. But days shook him down for some reason and didn't find anything."

"Any visitors lately?"

"Not that I know of." Joe snapped his fingers. "Wait, I remember
Alma
saying Dolph stunk of whiskey. They couldn't figure where he got the booze. Maybe that's the empty the Preacher found."

"Dolph's the evening shift DOA? Yeah, now that you mention it, Frank said something about it too. You think maybe this Taterson brought booze in?"

"If he did, days didn't find it on him. Beats me where it came from. But one thing for sure—nights'll get blamed, as usual."

* * *

With Sal's help, Joe was filling out an incident report about Jacko and the Preacher when they heard the click of a key in the outer lock.

"Dr. Fredericks, I presume," Joe said to Sal. "He's going to ream my ass. I know it."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"That won't matter," Joe muttered, watching the door swing open.

Dr. Fredericks strode briskly onto the ward. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "just what has been going on here tonight?"

* * *

Jeff Townsend, the charge nurse on A East, shook his head in disbelief as he watched Dr. Greensmith drop the second needle. "Careful, Doctor," he warned. "You're contaminating your gloves again."

"When I want your opinion I'll ask for it," Crawford told him. "If they made decent gloves this wouldn't happen. Damn things never fit right."

And if your hands weren't shaking you might get that laceration sewed up before noon, Jeff thought. "Shall I unwrap another pair of gloves?" he asked.

Crawford glared at him. "You're an RN, I take it?"

Jeff nodded.

Crawford peered at his name pin and seemed about to speak when a tech appeared in the doorway.

"There's a call for Dr. Greensmith from Mr. Luera," she said. "Dr. Fredericks is on Thirteen West. Also, Mr. Luera wasn't sure he'd made it clear there've been two deaths on that ward tonight."

"What are they doing over there?" Crawford demanded. "Is he still on the phone?"

"Yes, sir."

Crawford peeled off his gloves. "I suggest you take over with this, Mr. Townsend." He nodded his head at the suture tray. "Since you obviously believe you can do a better job."

"Doctor, I'm not allowed—"

"Do it, Mr. Townsend—that's an order. I've been summoned by the superintendent." Crawford started out, paused and added, "All you male nurses are frustrated doctors anyway. See what it's like."

Kitty Evans, the tech, waited until he was out of hearing. "Are you going to do what he said?" she asked Jeff. "What's with him anyhow?"

"Go show him where the phone is," Jeff told her. "Chances are he might not even be able to find that."

"But are you?"

"I wasn't a Navy corpsman in
Nam
for nothing. Hell, I can make a neater job of this than old Greenie could do stone sober. Which he isn't."

"I'll come back and help," Kitty said. "This I got to see."

* * *

Crawford walked across from the
Administration
Building
to Thirteen West in the needle chill of pre-dawn. That son-of-a-bitch Luera called Nellie, he thought. Nellie's waiting over there. He'll watch every move I make, examine every word I say, waiting to put the hatchet in.

He remembered Luera telling him some patient had stabbed himself but hadn't a clue what the second death was. Have to cover his ass somehow on that.

He could hear Dr. Fredericks damn high-pitched voice now. Just why did this suicide occur, Doctor? Have you an explanation?

Go fuck yourself, Nellie.

To hell with all of them. Smartass nurses smirking when I drop a needle, hassling me when I don't leap out of bed and race over here like an Olympic sprinter the minute a patient coughs. For what? To keep this warehouse full of crackpots and imbeciles functioning?

The remaining packet of white powder in the copper pitcher burned in his mind. Not now, no time now. Wait. Be nice to have a nose tube like the redhead used. Ivory, carved with Indian symbols. Status. Find a supplier. Stay away from barbs then. Killers. Foul up your liver. Convulsions on withdrawal. Bad scene.

Cocaine didn't have all those side-effects. Ruin your nasal septum if you sniffed enough but must take a lot to do that. Moderation was the key. He'd have to keep that in mind.

* * *

Jeff finished tying the last knot and stood up. He examined the suture lines critically. Fantastic, except at the top where Greenie had messed up.

"Hey, all right," Kitty said.

"Yeah, but the patient doesn't look so great otherwise." Jeff pulled off his gloves and fitted a scope in his ears. "Still shocky," he said several moments later. "Could probably use some blood, like I mentioned to Greenie. I'll have to call Thirteen West and try to get him to order some." He glanced at his watch. "Getting on for five—too bad we can't let this shit run over into the day shift."

* * *

Sally sat up in bed, heart pounding. She hugged herself, shivering. A nightmare, that's all it was. A bad dream of Daddy Keith lying dead and her nursing instructor telling her she'd have to give him postmortem care—wash the body, plug the rectal orifice, tie the penis closed. Terrified she'd sidled up to the hospital bed, expecting him to open his eyes any minute and grab her. But he was really dead, mottled and cold to her touch. Then she realized he wasn't Daddy Keith at all but Frank and it was her fault he'd died, like it was her fault Em had died and maybe Daddy Keith, too....

A sound from the living room made her freeze until she remembered
Alma
was spending the night to keep an eye on her because of the weird Valium reaction. That's why the light was on in the bedroom, so
Alma
could look in on her and make sure she was all right.

A terrible dream. Sally shook her head, trying to clear away the unpleasant shards. Her stomach felt hollow—maybe she'd get up and drink some milk.

She stood up, waiting to see if she felt dizzy, but she seemed all right. Bending to put on her scuffs, she saw a fragment of paper on the floor. Curious, she picked it up and read: "...car...can't go on...hate me...Frank."

Sally stared at the words, vaguely recalling
Alma
handing her a note that she'd immediately torn up. She fell to her knees, searching for more of the paper, found it, fitted the pieces together and read the complete note.

"No," she whispered.

Scrambling to her feet, she ran into the living room, crying, "
Alma
, wake up. We've got to do something before it's too late."

Alma
sat up, blinking.

"Hurry, we've got to find Frank." Sally thrust the pieces of the note at her.

Alma
waved them away. "Read it already." She yawned and glanced at her watch. "He's had four hours to get lost. You tore up his note to begin with—why the sudden concern?"

"I dreamed he was dead. I don't even remember reading the note earlier, but it says right in it that he's planning to kill himself just like Em did."

"Whoever Em is, Frank isn't him or her. I don't think Frank's the type to—"

"That's what I thought about Em. You don't know. I do. We have to get to wherever he is and stop him. Do you know where he lives?"

Alma
shook her head. "Don't have a clue. Why don't we try calling him? Where's your phone book?"

"I don't have one. Maybe Information—?"

Frank's number turned out to be unlisted.

"We have to do something," Sally wailed.

"Yeah, you're right,"
Alma
said. "I didn't like the tone of that note myself. I'll try calling Sal Luera. He's the only one at Calafia Frank seemed to be somewhat close to."

* * *

On Thirteen West, Dr. Fredericks welcomed Crawford onto the ward with, "Well, Doctor, we seem to have a problem here. What are you intending to do about it?"

"I haven't seen either casualty yet," Crawford said carefully.

"I've pronounced them both dead and notified the authorities. A shame about Miss Flowers, especially since it seems she may have been the only witness to tonight's carnage. How is Mr. Serrion?"

With difficulty Crawford managed to sort this out. Why ask what he intended to do if it had already been done? Evidently Miss Flowers, no one he knew, had been the second corpse. Serrion must be the laceration.

He opened his mouth to answer when the phone rang and the charge tech announced it was for him. As he took the phone, the door buzzer sounded and Luera hurried to the door. "Serrion?" Crawford said. "What's the trouble now?"

"Not doing well?" Dr. Fredericks asked, standing over him.

"Start 1000 c.cs 5 D/W intravenously," Crawford told A East. "Get a type and cross match for blood. I'll stop by in a few minutes."

"We wouldn't want Mr. Serrion to make a third death," Dr. Fredericks said. "I've just found out from Mr. Luera that another patient from this ward died earlier this evening. An overdose?"

"I don't think so," Crawford said. "They told me he'd been drinking—you could smell whiskey on him."

"Alcohol and Thorazine, Doctor, can be a fatal combination. Where did the whiskey come from?"

"I have no idea."

"Oddly enough, neither has Mr. Thompson or Mr. Luera. Though they tell me a glass shard from a smashed whiskey bottle was the instrument Mr. Jones used to slash Mr. Serrion and also for his own suicide."

A man in a green uniform came through the door with Sal Luera. "Deputy
Jordan
," he said. "Are you Dr. Fredericks?"

"I am. Sorry as we are to need your services, your prompt response is appreciated. The dead man is this way if you care to see him before getting the details."

Crawford trailed along and stood in the doorway of the bathroom staring in at the gory mess. Must have sliced through both carotids and sprayed his entire blood volume out in a matter of seconds. The smell of that bloody death made Crawford slightly ill.

"Someone walked through this with bare feet," the deputy said. "And another with shoes.

"Yes," Dr. Fredericks acknowledged. "The first was an old woman who, unfortunately, suffered a fatal heart attack, quite possibly from the shock of seeing Mr. Jones here."