Rude Awakening (24 page)

Jean thanked her father profusely and hung up, then dialed the Cleveland number. She had to leave a message for Sister Mary Mark, but then she only had to wait less than half an hour. She'd told DeSandra that she needed to be interrupted if the call came in. She was with a patient, a truck driver who was having trouble juggling his wife, his career and two out-of-town girlfriends, when DeSandra knocked and came into Jean's office.

‘I'm sorry, Doctor, but that phone call you were expecting . . .'

‘Thank you, DeSandra,' Jean said. Then she turned to the truck driver and said, ‘If you'll excuse me for just a minute. I'll add the time at the end of your session,' then she left for DeSandra's desk outside her office.

Jean picked up the phone. ‘Jean MacDonnell.'

‘Dr MacDonnell? This is Sister Mary Mark at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows Medical Center in Cleveland, Ohio. I had a message here to call you,' the voice said, with a mild German accent.

‘Yes, Sister Mary Mark, thank you so much for returning my call,' Jean said. ‘I'm afraid this is a rather personal call and might be uncomfortable for you, so if you're not somewhere you can talk comfortably, I can call you back—'

‘I'm fine, Dr MacDonnell. What is this about?'

‘Emil Hawthorne,' Jean said. There was an immediate silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Jean said, ‘Sister Mary Mark? Greta? Are you there?'

‘That's a name I haven't heard in a very long time,' the nun finally answered. ‘Either Emil Hawthorne
or
Greta.'

‘Were you aware of Emil's coma?' Jean asked.

‘Yes,' Sister Mary Mark said. ‘I prayed for him daily.'

‘Well, your prayers worked, Sister. He came out of the coma about eight or nine months ago.'

‘Praise God,' the former Greta Schwartzmann Nichols said, so sotto-voiced that Jean had to question the sincerity of those prayers.

‘Unfortunately, he was shot and killed yesterday,' Jean said.

‘I'll pray for his soul,' Sister Mary Mark said with the same inflection she'd used to praise God for Emil's recovery.

Taking a deep breath, Jean plunged in. ‘May I ask where you were yesterday, Sister?'

‘Here,' Sister Mary Mark answered. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I know there were some . . . bad feelings . . . between you and Emil Hawthorne,' Jean said, treading carefully. ‘We're looking at anyone who might have had a motive . . .'

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. ‘You think I killed Dr Hawthorne? Dear Lord!' she said, and laughed again. ‘It's true that at one time in my life I hated him, but since finding God, I've replaced all hate with love. I'll admit it's been very hard to love Emil Hawthorne, but I've tried very hard to do that. I can't say it won't be easier to pray for his soul, though, rather than his living, breathing body.'

‘You mean you're glad he's dead?' Jean interpreted.

‘I mean, I'm glad, since he's out of his coma, that he can't hurt people anymore.'

‘Did he hurt you?' Jean asked.

‘Isn't that why you're calling?' Sister Mary Mark asked.

‘I know Emil Hawthorne had a bad habit of seducing his interns,' Jean said.

‘Yes, he did,' Sister Mary Mark replied.

‘And that you were one of those,' Jean said.

Sister Mary Mark was silent for a long moment. Then she said, ‘It wasn't my finest hour.'

‘I saw you, the semester after you were his intern,' Jean said. ‘The two of you were arguing in his office. The blinds were open. You seemed to be pleading with him.'

‘I could say I don't remember the incident; that could be true. But it isn't. I remember it precisely. It was the turning point of my life. I came to him because I was pregnant, and I thought he would do the right thing.' Sister Mary Mark laughed. ‘He wasn't even that shocked. More disgusted than anything else. He actually reached in his pocket and brought out his checkbook and asked me how much.' She let out what sounded somewhat like a laugh. ‘I was crushed. I confess that I thought about suicide. God punished those thoughts by giving me a stillborn child,' the nun said.

The psychiatrist in Jean wanted to leap into the fray, console this wounded woman, let her know that God didn't work like that. But would a woman who'd chosen a life with God over a life with a husband and children believe or even care what Jean said? Could this wounded bird have made a life outside the rarified air of the Church?

‘I'm so sorry,' was all Jean said.

‘As am I,' said Sister Mary Mark.

‘Do you know of any other women—'

Sister Mary Mark laughed. ‘Oh my goodness, yes. Any other women involved with Emil? Half the staff at the hospital and definitely any intern who worked closely with him. There was a rumor about a woman the year before me. I never met her, but it seems Emil got taken by her, which I can only assume very rarely happened. If ever. One of the nurses said he was actually in love.' Sister Mary Mark sighed. ‘Although I doubt seriously Emil had the capacity to love. Lust, though, is another matter entirely.'

‘Do you know who the woman was?' Jean asked.

‘Dr Johnson is all the nurse said. I don't remember hearing her first name.'

‘Well, thank you, Sister. You've been a big help. And if you ever want to talk about what happened to you with Emil—'

‘I have God for that, Dr MacDonnell. Good day,' the nun said and hung up.

Jean went back into her office and finished her session with the truck driver, giving him the extra minutes the phone call had taken from his session. He was the last patient of the day, so she went immediately to her computer and back to the graduating classes at her alma mater. Assuming ‘Dr Johnson' would have graduated one to two years before – if she had attended the same medical school and hadn't transferred her internship from another school – she checked the years before her class. Looking at both years, there were four Johnsons. Only one was a woman. Annie Johnson.

Jean turned off her computer and headed to pick up her son.

Dalton drove Holly to the ritzy part of the county, the township of Bishop, explaining that this was where the sheriff's sister lived, as she was married to a man who owned eight car parts yards in their part of Oklahoma and was a very rich man indeed.

‘But he's real down to earth,' Dalton told her. ‘Just a regular guy. And the sheriff's sister and her kids are real nice, too.'

‘That's nice,' Holly said absently as she looked at the huge houses in Bishop. The newer subdivisions had semi-mansions with half-acre plots and yard signs saying they were protected by this or that security company. Coming closer into town, the old streets boasted beautifully refurbished faux Victorian and Georgian homes, some private homes, some law offices or tax offices or real estate offices.

It was all fine and dandy until they hit the downtown area with its quaint boutiques and specialty shops, tearooms and theater.

Theater? Holly sat up and took notice. Right there on Main Street! The Main Street Playhouse! Live productions. Open auditions in two weeks, the sign said.
Open auditions!
The theater! Where she really belonged!

‘Stop!' she yelled at Dalton. Dalton slammed on his brakes.

‘Huh?'

Holly jumped out of the car and ran up to the box office that was currently closed. But there were playbills and ads for past and future productions, as well as numbers to call for auditions. At first, she just stared, absorbing it all.

‘Gosh, I wish I could go in there!' she breathed.

‘Well, sure, if you wanna,' Dalton said.

Holly turned toward him quickly. ‘You can get me inside?'

Dalton pulled at a retractable metal chain from his pocket on the end of which dangled more keys than Holly wanted to count. Each one was labeled, though, and Dalton found the right one, inserted it and they walked inside.

The building had originally been an old movie house, and the lobby reflected that. Old linoleum covered the floor and at the back of the lobby was a bar behind which was a popcorn machine and soda fountain. Glass cases full of Jujubes, Butterfingers, malted milk balls and other chocolatey delights were below the bar.

New dark red velvet curtains separated the lobby from the theater. Inside, it was dim until Dalton flipped a switch, bringing on the house lights. New red carpet with an abstract design covered the two aisles that separated the theater in to three sections: two small side sections and one large section in the middle. The walls of the theater were made up of a three-dimensional village scene, with lights glowing in the little shops and thatched-roof homes. There was a balcony hanging over the back half of the theater, with ornate, polished brass railings to keep people from falling over.

Up on the stage, Holly noticed that the screen was still there. She found the steps that led up to the stage and bounded up them.

‘They play some old movies in the summertime,' Dalton explained, following her on to the stage, ‘and they did this one play one time and used the screen to show backdrops. It was kinda cool.'

‘How many plays a year do they do?' Holly asked, a little breathless.

‘About four or five, I think,' Dalton answered.

‘Do they pay the actors?' she asked.

Dalton shrugged. ‘I dunno.'

‘Probably not,' Holly said, mostly to herself. ‘I'll have to get a job somewhere. But I can do it. I can.'

‘Do what?' Dalton asked.

‘Become a star,' she said softly, standing on the stage and looking out at the 100-seat audience that wasn't there – yet.

I was headed home on Highway-5 when my cell phone rang.

‘Sheriff Kovak,' I said, in my serious sheriff voice.

‘Sheriff, this is Mindy at John's day care—'

‘The hospital?' I asked.

‘No, Sir, this is his morning day care. Rosie's Garden?'

‘Yeah, Mindy, what can I do for you?' I asked.

‘Well, Sir, I've been trying to call Dr MacDonnell, but she's not answering at either number,' Mindy said.

‘What's the problem? Johnny Mac get in trouble today?' We'd been working on his behavior but he wasn't what you'd call consistent.

‘No, Sir, it's not that. The deal we have is John is here half days and goes to the hospital day care at noon when Dr MacDonnell picks him up. They go to McDonald's most days—'

‘Yeah?' I said. I knew this. The hard way, remembering Friday's fiasco.

‘She didn't pick him up today, and it's almost our normal closing time, and I still can't get hold of her . . .'

My stomach turned over and I thought I was gonna throw up, except I don't do that. Throw up. I did a 180 on the highway, pissing off a few people, then put the bubble light on the roof of the Jeep and headed back into town at the Jeep's top speed. I needed a tune-up so the top speed at this point was only around ninety.

‘Tell Johnny Mac I'm on my way,' I said and hung up.

I used my CPB radio to call the office and got Emmett. ‘Jean never picked up Johnny Mac at noon,' I said. ‘Go to the hospital; see if you can find her. Get Anthony to put an APB out on Jean's car. I'll get Johnny Mac and take him to Jewell Anne's. I'll call you when that's done.'

‘What the fuck, Milt?' Emmett said.

‘Yeah,' I said and clicked off the radio. Pushing the Jeep up to ninety-five.

Emmett took a squad car, lights and sirens blazing, and headed the five miles to the county hospital where Jean worked in the afternoons. He stopped the car smack-dab in front of the main door and ran inside, immediately finding security guards on their way to tell him to move his car.

He flashed his badge and said, ‘Do a lock down and start searching every nook and cranny for Dr Jean MacDonnell. Five foot ten, brown on brown, leg braces and crutches.'

‘Yeah, we know Dr MacDonnell. Good woman,' said one of the older guards.

‘Then find her,' Emmett said and raced to the elevator for the fifth floor and Jean's office.

Since Jean worked on the psych ward, there was a locked door right in front of the elevators. It took Emmett precious minutes to get someone to answer his knocks and yells. Finally, an orderly, an African-American man in his mid-fifties, wearing the white scrubs that signify the psych ward, came up to the gate.

‘What?' he said, his tone belligerent.

Emmett showed his badge. ‘Let me in,' he said, his tone brooking no argument.

‘Under whose authority, Deputy?' the orderly said. ‘We don't just let somebody in here 'cause they show a badge.'

‘Is Dr MacDonnell here?' Emmett said.

‘Ha! That ain't gonna do you no good! Dr MacDonnell hasn't been here all day.'

‘You sure about that?' Emmett persisted.

‘Yes, I'm sure! Do I look like somebody who ain't sure? I'm doing a fuckin' double today so I know the woman ain't been here all day, 'cause we had a reason to want her to be here around three this afternoon, and I paged my finger to the nub and she never answered, now did she?'

Without answering, Emmett hit the elevator button, and when the car didn't come immediately, he spied the exit sign by the stairs and ran down them.

Johnny Mac was waiting for me in the front room of his day care. It was after six in the evening and the Mindy who had called said, ‘I'm so sorry, Sheriff, but I'm going to have to charge you extra for today. Not only do I have to charge you for the afternoon, when he normally isn't here, but we close at six and there is a severe penalty for not picking your children up by six. A dollar a minute. And it's . . .' She looked at the clock and tried to do the math.