Maddy's Floor (15 page)

Drew blinked.
Say what?

"That's why we can't accept just everyone here. And why the next six months will be tough on all of us with so many new patients coming in. The best scenario would be one new patient a month and even that can slow the healing progression for everyone. Adding a new person is adding a lower element every time. The other patients have to adjust to the shift in energy." She sat back. "I have to adjust, too," she admitted.

She spoke as if pondering the chances of having The Haven administrators change their plan. Fat chance. Drew knew 'money' people. If they managed to squeeze an extra dollar out of something, they'd try for two. Not that it would help here. He didn't understand exactly what she'd said and the only thing that had registered was that the people here were healing.
Healing?
These people were dying – weren't they?

The question refused to stay quiet. "When did your last patient die?"

Her mouth drooped. "Until Jansen, it had been just over eight months."

"That long? And how many patients do you have?"

"Over sixty."

"Over sixty and only one death. Holy crap. These people are in seriously bad condition before they come to you, aren't they?"

She nodded. "Yes, they're all terminal. They all need to have a life expectancy of at least six months to join the floor or it damages the energy. Even worse, a death will have a big impact on the other patients, particularly a bad death. Death can be a positive experience for those that have been ill for a long while or it can be a negative experience. Jansen's death affected everyone in a very negative way. We're still working through that."

Drew shook his head. "What's to figure out? Of course, everyone is upset. Someone who appeared to be getting better – something they were all hoping to do – died. And unexpectedly at that."

"It could be that. Or it could be something else." Maddy stared down at the frosted glass table, her finger tracing some invisible pattern. "I don't know."

"That sounds odd coming from a doctor."

She raised her face to the sunlight, a lopsided smile on her face. "Really? Well, I don't know that all doctors are black and white. Besides, like I said, I'm a medical intuitive and a doctor."

"What does that mean? I'm not sure that I've even heard that term before."

She didn't answer immediately. "The term can have a different meaning depending on the level of skill the medical intuitive possesses."

"I don't want to hear about anyone else. How does the term pertain to you?"

"I see the human body in terms of energy. By looking at different angles and layers, sometimes I can see inside the body and check what health issues exist and the possible contributing causes. More than that, I see the energy that flows through the body and where it's blocked."

"Sometimes?" It all sounded bizarre to him. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of someone being able to see under his skin.

"Most of the time."

Drew didn't know what to say. He searched her candid gaze. She was telling him the truth, as she knew it. "To do something like this on a small scale is hard enough, but on a large scale, like the scale of your floor, well…that has to be close to impossible."

"I hope not." She smiled gently. "Otherwise, I've wasted the last few years of my life. And as I plan to expand to help people before they become terminally ill…"

"Has everyone shown an improvement after arriving on your floor?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" He knew he sounded like a parrot repeating himself. He couldn't help it. Her success was unbelievable.

She nodded. "Everyone has improved since they've arrived. Although some have died eventually, we extended their lives and gave them a better quality of life. In the next phase, we'll work toward catching those diagnosed, but not so far along. The results should be faster. I'd be working on it now, but…money, the medical system, people's belief systems, you know. People do get better with good care to begin with and we can help that along."

The implications blew his mind. "You do realize the significance here, don't you? If people on your floor are healing, they could potentially go home again…as in cheat death. Right?"

Maddy pulled back and frowned. "Of course, although that's an odd way to look at it. Several people have gone home, younger ones. With our older ones, we really only expect to extend their lives for a bit."

He shook his head. "You're saying that some of your patients arrived with only six months left to live and walked out of here healthy?"

"On their way to being healthy, yes. We haven't seen instantaneous healing, except with a couple of children. For all the others, we've seen definite turns for the better with continued improvement."

"How many?" He had to know. He wondered if his uncle knew. Shit, of course the old bastard did. That's why he'd fought so hard to get in. And how the hell had he done that anyway? He'd been given less than six months, not more. According to Maddy, that should have made him ineligible.

"Twenty-one are continuing to improve at home."

"Out of sixty?"

"Roughly. We didn't have quite so many beds before." A confused frown settled on her face as she studied his face. "Why is that so shocking?"

"That's what – more than thirty percent? That's nuts."

"I'm quite proud of it." She flushed. "I know we can do better and we will as time moves on and I can pull the energy into better circulation. The results would also be more impressive if I had more children on my floor. They always seem to do well."

"Always?" Did she have any idea what she was suggesting here? If she did, why wasn't she working at the children's hospital? Oh yeah, because she'd heal everyone and shut down the center, putting hundreds of people out of work. Drew shook his head at his own sarcasm. But still, was she blind to the implications?

"Always – at least so far." Pride beamed from her face and her voice.

And she should be proud. He couldn't get his mind wrapped around the potential. No wonder Gerard worked to get as many patients under her care as possible. The patient-to-doctor ratio sucked, yet considering the doctor involved, not one patient would care.

A horrible thought crossed his mind. It had to be from too many years in law enforcement.

"You do realize what a premium bed space goes for on your floor."

"Actually, I don't. Gerard handles that stuff."

Drew nodded. It went along with what he'd heard from others about Maddy. She was all about her patients. "I wonder how hard it is to get a bed on your floor."

Maddy frowned and shook her head gently, sending her dark hair flipping around her shoulders. "Not hard. After all, it's just an application form."

"How many people know about the new wing on your floor?"

"We've tried to keep it quiet. There's already a huge waiting list. More beds means helping more people, but Gerard doesn't want the news to get out or he'll be inundated with new applications."

"Right. So the real question is – would someone kill off a patient in order to free up a bed so they
could
get on your floor?"

He knew she didn't understand. Confusion clouded her beautiful eyes. Then they widened in horror. "Oh, no."

***

Doris shifted uncomfortably in her hospital bed and tried to adjust her covers to suit. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt good enough to sit out on one of the many decks and enjoy the sunshine. She stared at her neighbor furtively. She was consumed with the mystery of her. How was she managing to look better every day? Turning to face forward, Doris studied the other two women in her room. They seemed the same as always. A little older, more worn, more tired. Not her neighbor though – she positively glowed.

Sniffing in the schoolteacher way she'd learned years ago, she tried to not care. Still it was hard. She wanted the same healing for herself. She tried so hard to do everything right. She used hand lotion, she drank lots of water, and tried to follow a beauty regime she'd gotten from a magazine years ago, but nothing made a difference. Then, for no apparent reason, her neighbor perked up and appeared better each day – as if she'd found the fountain of youth. And damn, she'd forgotten to ask her doctor about the woman's medications.

Getting on Maddy's floor would help. At least then, she'd get a fighting chance to heal. She shifted again, pulling her blankets up higher. The weather had to be warmer outside than in this room. With another surreptitious glance at her neighbor, she admitted it to herself. Fine, okay. Yes, she was jealous. She wanted to be as good as her neighbor. Surely there wasn't anything wrong with that?

***

The temperature in Stefan's large home studio was normal, yet sweat rolled off his face. Stripping off a layer wasn't an option. Neither was slowing down. Grimly, he hung on as paint flew in all directions, globules of red splotched on his smock, the canvas before him and the linoleum beneath his feet where it joined puddles of black and blue that had gone before.

Stefan's arm ached. How long had he been painting? His shoulder said it had been hours. Chances were it was less than one.

If he was this exhausted after years of experience he could only imagine how Kali was doing with her psychic paintings. He'd been working with her to develop her skills, and as they were both artists, painting was a natural medium for them to use.

He swabbed the palette with his paintbrush, picking up more red before pounding down on the canvas. He moved to some silent demonic orders. Painting as demanded, refusing to stop – or maybe he was not able to stop – until the demon was exorcised from his mind.

Stefan didn't see what he was painting. Instead, he was gripped by one of the psychic visions that ruled his world. The canvas was there, but he didn't have the vision as a clear image in his mind.

When his arm lifted again, he groaned. He'd need a painkiller after this session. He closed his eyes, letting the energy flow through him. It would anyway. Resistance caused pain. If he relaxed, the pain would ease.

His arm dropped. The force gripping his body drained down to his feet and out through his toes. He shuddered. It was over – for now.

He bent forward, catching his breath from the fury so recently released from his soul. His hands rested on his knees. Finally, he straightened to study his paint-spattered fingers and pants. He frowned. He painted with only one hand. Why were both hands covered in color?

Stepping back, Stefan washed his hands, taking care to thoroughly scrub them. Now to look at the picture – not that he was eager to do so. The picture could be a geometric disaster or it could be a detailed masterpiece. Some of his paintings hung in galleries around the world.

Then there were the paintings that he instinctively knew this one was. Ones that revealed haunted visions that tormented the soul and terrified the mind forever. Mostly they were vicious outpourings of violence.

Gearing himself for what was to come, he turned to view his latest creation, and immediately closed his eyes again. Please not. Slowly, hoping he'd been wrong, he peeked from behind partially closed lids and groaned softly.

Death himself had created this painting.

Still, it gave him a good idea of how he might help Maddy.

***

Drew was walking down the stairs toward his aunt's ward when his cell phone rang. He frowned at the number. Memorial Hospital, the one attached to The Haven. Not good.

"Hello?"

"Detective Drew McNeil?"

"Yes, that's correct. What can I do for you?"

"We have a patient here who has been asking for you. A Scott Durnham."

Scott, the husband of the diary writer. "I know of him. What happened?"'

"He's suffering from a concussion due to a head injury inflicted as he tried to get in his car."

"Was he alone?" Drew frowned. "Was his vehicle stolen? His wallet? ID?"

"I don't have those details. You'd need to speak with Officer Dale Hansford. He's the one that called for the ambulance to pick up Mr. Durnham."

"Right. I'll do that. Was there a small diary or journal among his personal effects?" It would be too much to hope that Scott had the missing diary on him at the hospital. Not that they'd found anything of interest in the other diaries. But he'd be interested to read the diary written around the time of the boy's death.

He waited. There was a pause and a rustling of papers before she said, "No, only car keys and a mint."

So where was it? Scott had planned to drop it off at the station today. "Fine. I'll follow up with the officer. Is Mr. Durnham going to be okay?"

"He's with the doctor right now. So it's too early to say."

"Thanks, I'm at The Haven already. I'll walk over in a few minutes. I'd like to speak with him, if possible."

Hanging up, Drew called the precinct, looking for the officer.

"Dale Hansford here."

Drew identified himself. "Can you fill me in on the particulars of Scott Durnham's case?"

By the time Drew walked through the front doors of Memorial Hospital, he'd gotten as much information from the officer as was available. He stared at the gleaming corridors, the smell of disinfectant chasing him. Drew realized that regarding work and family, he spent way too many hours in medical centers of one kind or another. After getting directions, he strode down the hallway toward Scott's bed. Dinner was being served, people were eating and in some cases trays were already being collected.