The Fever (8 page)

Duffy felt briefly ashamed, because she had often wondered what outgoing, popular Dylan saw in a girl who got upset if her library books were one day overdue. Knowing now what a nice, thoughtful person Amy was didn't ease Duffy's discomfort. And remembering how attentive Dylan had been since she'd become a patient didn't help. She wondered nervously if she had, innocently enough, had any-

thing to do with Dylan and Amy's breakup. She hoped not. She would hate that.

It was silly to think about stuff like that now, Duffy reminded herself. Right now, all she wanted was to feel better. And despite what everyone said, Duffy knew that a soothing, hot shower would help.

After all, it hadn't actually been the shower the nurse had objected to. Only the need for someone to accompany Duffy.

Well, I don't need any help, she thought, preparing to sUde out of bed. I can take a shower all by myself. I've been doing it for years.

The room spun wildly. She saw double, and her knees melted. Her stomach heaved. "Oboy," she murmured, clutching her stomach. This was not going to be easy.

Kit always said nothing worth doing was easy. And he should know. Nothing had ever been easy for him.

Duffy managed to slide her feet into her shppers, although looking down she saw four feet instead of two. The room spun crazily as she sUpped into her robe and stood up straight. But although she teetered dangerously, she remained upright.

"Great!" she whispered, and collected her shampoo, razor, soap, washcloth, and towel from the cabinet in her bedside table, Then, walking very carefully, she made her way to the door and peered out.

It was still very early evening, that quiet time after dinner when patients often nap before visiting

hours. The halls were empty, the nurses away from the station, eating their own dinner or busy dispensing medication in other rooms.

Duffy decided to risk it. Maybe she'd get lucky.

She did. Clutching the wall for support, she made it to the twin shower rooms at the end of the hall without being stopped. The first door was locked, but the second doorknob turned easily in her hand. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, Duffy slipped inside and flipped on the ceiling light, locking the door of the small, beige cubicle behind her.

She noticed with mild curiosity that this light, too, had a strange halo. Her head pounded anew, and her stomach did a dizzying dance. But there was the shower stall, so inviting in spite of the ugliness of the grim little room. A shower would make her feel better. Probably do more good than a thousand little pills.

The shower felt unbelievably good, like a drink of water after a long desert trek. The tension in her muscles melted away under the flow of the wonderfully hot water. Her skin responded with joy, and Duffy felt momentarily well enough to hum a tune as she lathered and rinsed. Still dizzy, she was careful to lean against the cold, clammy tile as she scrubbed.

She had just finished WTapping her blissfully clean hair in the towel and was in the process of awkwardly shaving her legs in the narrow tiled cubicle when she felt a sudden blast of cold air against her shoulders. She paused, lifting her head to listen.

Had the door opened? No, that couldn't be. She clearly remembered locking it.

As she straightened up, there was the cHck of a light switch and the room disappeared into a thick cloak of darkness.

Duffy was standing, soaking wet, in total, silent blackness.

Chapter 10

Duffy's first clear thought as she stood, wet and disbelieving in the shower stall, was that there had been a power failure. Cynthia had warned her that such failures were frequent occurrences in the old building.

But. . . that wouldn't explain why the door had opened, admitting that wave of cool air over the top of the glass shower door ... or the sound of the light switch being flicked off.

How could the door have opened? She hadn't heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

But the water had been running the whole time. The sound of someone turning a key would have been muffled.

Was there someone in the room with her now?

Beginning to tremble, Duffy listened, not breathing. She heard nothing. Not a sound.

With her only towel wrapped, turban-style around her wet hair, she grabbed her robe from the top of the shower door and threw it on over her water-slicked skin. Then, anxious to leave the

musty, pitch-black room, she turned to retrieve her shower supplies from the tiled ledge.

Suddenly, the shower door latch clicked open behind her. With only enough time to gasp in shock, Duffy was seized from behind and thrown bodily, facedown, onto the floor of the stall, where several inches of water had puddled due to the slow drain.

Warm, soapy water filled her mouth and nose. She choked, gagged, spat, and struggled to pull herself upright, out of the foamy water. But a knee in her back pinned her down, rendering her immobile.

What . . . what was happening?

She was too tall for the tiny space. Her legs, cruelly bent at the knee, were crumpled up against the cold, wet tile. A fist pressed down painfully on the back of her neck. She was completely helpless, her mouth and nose submerged in warm water, unable to move ... to scream ... to make a sound . . . unable to cry out for the help she needed.

Her mind, stunned and shaken, reeled in an effort to think clearly. All it could manage was a shocked, terrified. What is happening?

But as she struggled desperately to free herself of the deadening weight on her back, to lift her head out of the soapy water, her mind cleared, and began to race frantically.

/ can't breathe. I mill drovm in this tiny little bit of water if I don't do something . . . something. But what? What can I do?

Then she realized that her razor was still clutched in her right hand. A small pink plastic grooming

tool, she was afraid it could do no harm to her attacker. It was designed specifically not to do harm.

But it was all she had.

Desperate, she slashed backward, hard.

A harsh, guttural scream of pain echoed in the stall... a whispered curse . . . the fist left the back of her neck.

Duffy threw her head up out of the water, gasping for air.

The whispered, angry cursing above her continued as bright red droplets of blood began plopping into the soapy puddle surrounding her.

The little pink razor had come through for her.

Duffy lay in fear, her head stiffly held up out of the water at an awkward, painful angle. Had her desperate slash made her attacker angrier with her? Would the next attack, when it came, be even more vicious? She had no strength left to fight . . . how could she hold her head up out of the water if another attack came?

She waited . . . not breathing . . . her heart beating wildly against her chest, tears of terror stinging her eyelids.

With one final, whispered curse, the weight left her back. Another whiff of cool air entered the stall as the shower door was flung open.

And then came the blessed, beautiful sound of the wooden door to the room opening and ferociously slamming shut.

She was alone again.

But someone was very, very angry with her.

Duffy lay on the floor of the stall, sobbing tears

Si

of fear and relief for what seemed like a long, long time, cradling her head on her arm to keep it up out of the water.

When she felt her legs going numb, she used the palms of her hands pressed against the clammy tile to pull herself to her feet. Unsteady, her head screaming in pain, her stomach lurching, she swayed and had to lean against the wall for support.

Her white robe was soaking wet. The towel wrapped around her head had been dislodged in the struggle; cold strands of sodden hair chilled the back of her neck.

She began trembling violently and although she tried to still her shaking limbs, nearly biting through her lower lip with the effort, her body refused to obey her.

It was so dark ... so dark and damp. . . .

Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the glass shower door, peering into the velvety darkness for any sign of a threat.

What if her attacker hadn't really left? Suppose it was a trick — slamming the door shut to make it seem as if Duffy were safely alone? Suppose he was hiding, there in the darkness, waiting for her to emerge from the shower stall?

Her bones paralyzed with fear, Duffy listened anxiously.

But the tiny room was utterly still. No sound of angry breathing broke the silence.

Finally sure that she really was alone, Duffy emerged from the stall, still shaking and unsteady, and moved toward the door.

Kshe could make it to the door, pull it open, step out into the hall, away from the horrid musty smell, the chilly dampness, the unbroken darkness, she would be all right. She would. The shaking would stop and someone would come to help her. She would be safe again.

Wouldn't she?

But the minute she stepped out into the dimly lighted corridor, she was blinded by the strange halos around the overhead lights. Shielding her eyes with her hands, she sagged against the wall. The full horror of what had happened to her flooded over her in an enormous wave, nearly knocking her off her feet.

This time there was no question of an accident. Someone had tried to kill her. She didn't know who, or why she only knew that they had.

And they had almost succeeded.

Chapter 11

There was no one in Duffy's end of the corridor, but she could see white uniforms scurrying about in the distance.

"Help," she whispered, shaking violently. "Somebody please help me."

No one heard or noticed her.

She raised her voice. "Help me!" It stunned her that people in the hospital could continue to go about their business as usual, after what had happened to her. Couldn't they see? Couldn't they teU? Why didn't someone rush to her aid?

And then hysteria took over. Completely losing control, Duffy opened her mouth and a scream came out. "Help, help!" she cried and lurched away from the wall, breaking into a staggering run. Still screaming, she moved down the hall, hands against the walls for support.

And the white figures in the distance stopped what they were doing to stare at her.

Her sodden robe hung open, her damp hair hung limply against her face, her bare feet slipped and

slid on the cold tile as she staggered on. "Help me!" she sobbed, her voice hoarse with fear, "somebody help me!"

At the other end of the hall. Smith Lewis broke into a run.

When he reached her, she fell against him, gasping, still shaking violently.

"Help," she whispered, "please." And then, giving in, she slumped against him and her eyes closed.

When Duffy awoke, she was lying in her bed, covered with a sheet. She was surrounded by two nurses. Smith Lewis, Dr. Morgan, and Amy Severn. Smith and Amy looked worried. The older nurse was removing a blood pressure cuff, the younger one holding out a tiny paper cup, and the doctor was frowning down at his patient.

It took Duffy a few moments to remember exactly why they were all staring down at her. When the shower scene returned, in full graphic detail, she gasped and began moaning softly, "Nono-nono. ..."

Smith was the first to speak. * What, Duffy? What happened?"

Duffy closed her eyes. "Someone . . . someone tried to kill me," she whispered. "In the shower..."

When she opened her eyes, what she saw shocked her. There was total disbehef in every face peering down at her.

The two nurses exchanged a glance that clearly

said, "delirium." Smith and Amy looked doubtful, and the doctor regarded his patient as he might a lab specimen, gazing down at her with detached curiosity.

"Fve checked you over thoroughly," he told her, "and aside from some nasty bumps that are probably going to turn black-and-blue on your back and neck, you're okay. Took a bad fall, did you?"

"I . . . no, I didn't fall," she managed. "I didn't. Someone ... I was attacked. In the shower ..."

"Attacked? In the shower?" the older nurse repeated, in the same way that she might have said, "You say you have a fairy godmother at home?"

Duffy clenched her teeth. She had never expected that she wouldn't be believed. Not this time. Would she look the way she did if she hadn't been attacked? Couldn't they see?

"I know it sounds crazy," she cried. "But I'm telling you the truth! I was taking a shower and someone came in and knocked me down on the floor and sat on my back and wouldn't let me go, and there was water in the bottom of the shower and I almost drowned ..." She stopped. She had never faced such disbelief in her life.

And that terrified her. If she couldn't convince anyone she was telling the truth, who would help her? What if the attacker wasn't finished with her? She needed someone on her side.

"You've got to believe me!" Duffy struggled to sit up in bed, but she was too weak, too nauseated. Sinking back against the pillow, she tried again.

"Please, it did happen. I wouldn't make up something so crazy/' Her eyes appealed to Amy. "Amy? You believe me, don't you?'*

Amy flushed and took a step backward.

"Of course you wouldn't make up such a story," the older nurse said soothingly. "It's the fever, dear. This kind of thing happens all the time, doesn't it, doctor?" As she turned away, Duffy heard her mutter under her breath, "Shouldn't have taken her off the IV. Too soon."

"I didn't imagine it!" Duffy shouted, her eyes flying from face to face in a search for understanding. "I was in the shower, and the door opened, and the Ught went off. . ." Tears of frustration spilled from her eyes.

"Didn't you lock the door?" the ponytailed nurse asked gently. "My goodness, Duffy, you should always lock the door."

"Of course I locked the door," Duffy protested. "I did! I locked it! I remeynber locking it."

"Well, there you are," the older nurse said cheerfully. "If you locked the door, how could anyone possibly have gotten in?" She smiled. "I don't think anyone around here can walk through walls, Dorothy."

Duffy wanted to scream. "Don't talk to me as if I'm two years old," she sobbed angrily. "I did lock the stupid door and someone got in anyway. They must have had a key."