Hands of the Traitor (18 page)

"Sure have, ma'am. Do you have a
patient here called Mr. Alec Rider?"

"But..."

"Why, I knew you did. Do you think I
could meet the old fellow?"

She hesitated. "He may be
asleep."

"If I could just sit by his
side."

Sister Ewing collected her wits at
last. It was not often that elderly Canadians turned up at the
hospital at nine-thirty at night, demanding to see a patient.
Hospital chaplains were normally more considerate. "My name is
Marjorie Ewing. I'm the sister in charge. We have regular visiting
hours. It's so much easier..."

"Why, ma'am, you surely wouldn't
deprive one of your patients of some spiritual
nourishment."

"I suppose not." She realized she was
being taken off guard by a man with considerable skill in dealing
with people. "However, the specialist..."

"Of course you're right to be worried,
ma'am. Especially if you're keeping the patient heavily sedated. I
believe you do that in England. Perhaps I can make an appointment
for tomorrow morning."

Her professional principles
were being threatened. "Mr. Rider has
not
been sedated. He's on prescribed drugs,
and at the moment his mind is improving. You know him?"

"A long time ago, ma'am. In the war.
He confided in me after his..." The man hesitated. "I was his
padre. Let me just say that he once had a problem and I helped him.
Apparently he's been asking for me."

She broke out into a broad smile. "How
silly of me; you were his chaplain. Mr. Rider's grandson, Matt, has
been trying to find out exactly what happened to his grandfather in
France."

"I heard something about that,"
replied the visitor coldly. Then he smiled. "A good grandson by the
sound of it. Does the old fellow remember much about the
war?"

"I think so, sir." Marjorie Ewing
decided that a man of the cloth deserved some respect, especially
if he'd come all the way from Canada. "There was a young woman he
met in France in the war. He thinks he ... well, he thinks he hurt
her."

"Very tragic, ma'am. Has Alec Rider
talked a lot since he came here?"

"I can't rightly think..."

"Has he said anything about German
rockets?"

"German rockets? Why German
rockets?"

"It was all part of his past. All part
of his problem." The Canadian visitor knew how to turn on the
charm. "I realize it's late, Sister, but if there's any chance of
me looking in on the patient I would treat it as a great honor. The
man was a war hero, you know."

"So his grandson says, sir. I'll take
you up to his room, but we really shouldn't disturb
him."

The door to the room was secured from
the outside. All the patients had to be out of harm's way at night.
She opened the door cautiously to reveal a steel-framed hospital
bed. Alec Rider lay there awake. She knew from the excited look in
the patient's eyes that the latest memory-assisting drug had caused
this hyperactive state.

"I think I'll get a little something
to help him sleep," she said, going to a locked cupboard on the
wall.

"Not just now, ma'am. I'd love a few
words with my old friend first." The man motioned towards the door
as though he wished to be left alone.

But Marjorie Ewing was not going to
concede too much ground. "Don't worry, Padre, it will take twenty
or thirty minutes to make him drowsy. You'll not be wanting to stay
too late I'm sure. Not with all the other visitors long
gone."

"Quite right, ma'am. I only need a few
minutes alone."

"I'm sorry, the hospital rules say I
have to stay."

"Oh, ma'am, I'm sure you can make an
exception this time. I promise to call for help if there's a
problem." He pointed to the red emergency button. "I do a lot of
hospital visiting."

"Perhaps ... yes, I think I can trust
you both to behave yourselves." She forced a laugh and pulled Alec
Rider forward to slip an extra pillow behind his back. Then she
watched while he put the small white tablet in his mouth and drank
the water. Satisfied that her patient was being properly cared for,
she left the room.

"Alec Rider, I wonder if you remember
me. I'm your padre. I want to talk about your accident in
France."

The old man in the bed nodded. "Padre?
I can't see you properly against the light. There's a chair over
there. Bring it to the bed."

"I won't stay long. Sister will be
back soon. Damn!"

The chair slid from his hand and
tipped noisily onto its side on the polished floor. He looked round
anxiously but the Sister had gone.

"It's this wretched right arm of
mine," he explained. "A wartime injury, just like yours." He bent
down and picked up the plastic stacking chair, then dragged it
close to the bed.

The old soldier showed a faint sign of
recognition on his face. "Are you really Fergus Hawkins?" he asked
in a voice that seemed to hold fear. He reached out for the red
bell push.

The visitor caught his arm in a
powerful left hand grip. "My, that's a mighty interesting looking
gold ring you have there, my friend. Too tight to get off, so I
read in the paper. No, don't try to get up. Do you remember me,
Captain Rider? We met a long time ago. In France. On a Nazi missile
site."

Chapter
14

"I'LL BE OFF now, Sister. It's nearly
ten o'clock and the old soldier has fallen asleep." The large man
smiled reassuringly. "I've locked the door to his room."

"Thank you, Padre." Marjorie Ewing
returned the smile but felt distrustful. "I'll just pop back
upstairs and check he's all right."

"Oh, he's all right, ma'am. Sleeping
like a baby. So glad of the opportunity to look him up
again."

"Come up with me, Padre. I insist.
There's something in Mr. Rider's room you should see."

"It's kinda late now, Sister ma'am.
Perhaps it will keep until I come back another time?"

"I want you to come now." Marjorie
Ewing was insistent. Insistence was part of her training; almost a
qualification for the post. "You'll be glad you spared the
time."

"Sure thing, ma'am. I just didn't want
to disturb the old fellow again, that's all. But you lead right
on."

The door was secured on the outside,
just as the visitor had said. She opened it to reveal Alec Rider
lying in bed, his mouth open, his eyes staring at the
ceiling.

"It's Sister Ewing and your old
padre." She made her voice sound reassuring, although the patient
remained silent. She beckoned to her visitor. "This is what I
wanted you to see. It's a photograph of you and Mr. Rider, taken in
the war."

"Why, bless me, ma'am." The visitor held
it to the light. "Well, it sure is some padre or other, but it's
not me. The hair is quite different. And he's certainly not as tall
as me." He laughed loudly.

"I'm sure I don't know." The negative
response surprised her. "He said it was his old army chaplain. I
think he's still awake. Let's ask him about it."

The big man shook his head. "Seems a
shame to disturb him now."

Alec Rider half raised his head and
murmured something indistinct about Fergus Hawkins. The words
sounded slurred and were impossible to understand. The tablet had
already taken effect.

"Perhaps in the morning,
ma'am?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll hang
it back on the wall. I wonder who it is."

"He moved about a lot in the army,"
said the visitor with a smile. "That will be one of his other
padres."

"I expect you're right."

Marjorie Ewing locked the door as they
went out.

*

NURSE OGDEN knew she'd be in trouble. She
was late for work again, and fussy Sister Ewing was on night duty
-- probably standing in the entrance hall with a watch in her hand.
Rosie Ogden knew she should have been ready for duty at ten, on the
dot, and it was now just after midnight. Sister Ewing was very
particular about her night staff being punctual. Stupid old bat.
That woman didn't have two teenage sons to tend to, and she didn't
have to make mortgage payments on the house that often exceeded the
family income.

Rosie paused at the gates to the
hospital grounds. With a bit of luck she could slip through the
side door by the car park and pretend she'd been in the hospital
for the past two hours. It was worth a try.

Her foot caught something soft, and
images of a rat or some other hairy creature made her gasp. Human
wounds and human blood were one thing; her spell in the theatre at
the General had helped her to cope with human blood. Furry
creatures were something else. Whatever this was, it was clearly
dead. Warily she kicked the object into the glare from the car park
security lights.

"
Oh my God!
"

The human hand had been neatly severed at
the wrist, and the middle finger was missing. An object like this
on the operating table was bearable -- lying out here on the damp
tarmac the hand looked repulsive. She gave a startled scream,
though no one came running.

The darkness seemed to close in. The
grounds fell silent. Had someone dropped the hand after an
operation? No, that would be impossible: the South Memorial
Hospital hadn't done surgery since the local health authority
turned it into a secure unit.

In her mind she had a sudden vision of
the Black Puma roaming the countryside at night, making small furry
creatures irrelevant. Her scream this time was longer and louder.
Sister Ewing came running, and so did the other nurses.

*

"IT'S FROM someone old." Sister Ewing held
the hand under the security light. "We'd better go in." She spoke
to the nurse hovering anxiously by her side. "Nurse Alison, get the
police. It looks as though one of our..."

"Yes, Sister?"

"He's been out of his
room!"

"Who has, Sister?"

"Mr. Rider did this." It was obvious
what had happened. "I never checked him again after the chaplain
left. I expect he just acted drowsy. Probably never even took the
tablet; just kept it under his tongue. That man is dangerous. Have
any of you been into Mr. Rider's room in the past two
hours?"

No one admitted to the
offence.

"You do realize, don't you, that the
man is a potential killer? My God, he got hold of a knife at Saint
Monica's. Which one of you went to his room after the chaplain
left?"

The staff stayed quiet. Rosie Ogden
felt some relief that she'd come on duty late. "I've only just got
here, Sister," she piped up.

"Well, don't just stand there, Nurse
Rosie. Go up and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

"I'd like someone to come with me
please, Sister."

The thought of the man wandering
through the hospital with a knife struck fear into the small team
of nurses.

Marjorie Ewing tried not to be drawn
into the developing hysteria. "Have you contacted the police yet,
Nurse Alison?"

The nurse nodded.

"Find Paul Jenkins for me, Nurse
Rosie, and stop making those silly noises. The rest of you stay
here."

At least one male nurse had to be on
duty at all times. It was a requirement of the local health
authority. There was no need to look for Paul Jenkins: the
excitable voices in the reception area must have disturbed his
extended break. The laundry room was normally a quiet
area.

"Something the matter,
Sister?"

"I want everyone to stay here until
the police arrive." Marjorie Ewing fought the terror threatening to
inundate her. "Except for you, Nurse Jenkins. Go upstairs with
Rosie Ogden and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

"Why me, Sister?"

"Why you, Nurse Ogden? I'll tell you
why. Because you came to work late. Don't argue."

"Pig!" Rosie Ogden said the words too
quietly for Sister to hear. She turned to Paul Jenkins as they
climbed the stairs. "I wish he'd started by chopping up Sister
Ewing."

"You'd better keep close or you'll end
up the same way." Paul's advice was chilling.

"Go on then, Paul, try the
door."

The male nurse pressed down the door
lever and pushed gently. The door was secure. "It's definitely
locked, Sister!" His voice calling down the stairs broke the
spell.

"Then open it and see if Mr. Rider is
still in there, Nurse."

Paul Jenkins turned on the main light. He
stared, but said nothing. Rosie Ogden peeped over his shoulder and
shrieked.

Sister Ewing ran heavily up the
stairs, followed closely by the small group of panicky
nurses.

There was certainly someone in the
bed. The heavily bloodstained bedclothes all but covered the
occupant. Sister Ewing pulled the bedding back with a practiced
skill, revealing the body in a sea of clotting blood. The right arm
caught the edge of the sheet and jerked upwards. It fell back,
hanging over the edge of the mattress, blood dripping from the
stump below the wrist where the hand had been severed. Enough of
the mutilated face remained to enable recognition.