The Master (5 page)

Soon Santa was completely unconscious, and the man's trachea crushed easily in Qasim's fist, making a sound a bit like someone eating potato chips with his mouth open. His head flopped to the side, his neck like a broken stalk of corn, when Qasim dropped him on the ground. The thud of his head hitting the cement floor sounded like a cantaloupe breaking.

Which reminded Qasim, he hadn't had any lunch. Maybe he'd stop by the pizza place and have a quick snack before he went back to work.

Or . . .

Qasim looked down at his victim, his eyes narrowing.

He'd better not. The body might be discovered soon. Murder was one thing, but a victim who was half-eaten would really agitate the masses—and he didn't want that. Not yet.

Fine, so pizza it was. He'd have the all-meat one with extra cheese.

Qasim picked up the body, stuffed it in the janitor's rolling bin, which was half filled with paper towels and wheeled it into a closet, which he closed with a convenient padlock. Out with the old, in with the new. There was a new broom sweeping out the mall. One everyone would soon know.

He dressed in his stolen suit, not hurrying, and even swaying slightly as he pulled on the red coat that only reached three-quarters of the way down his arms. The hallway slowly filled with an eerie humming that sounded a bit like someone playing “Santa Baby” on an out-of-tune violin.

The kittens watched all this closely and listened with pricked ears, but they didn't leave their nest or make the slightest sound. Humans might not know that death walked among them, but the kitties did— oh, yes! And they were wise enough to fear him.

“Doctor? There's a new patient in four.” Nurse Larkin added softly, “A child, age five. It isn't
so
bad.”

Dr. Nicholas Anthony sighed. “Fracture or extraction?”

“Extraction. It's another light bulb.” The nurse grimaced and handed over the chart. She was new but had already learned that he had no patience for certain types of injuries.

“Where is it lodged? Ear canal?”

“No, nasal cavity. I haven't heard the whole story, but it seems to involve an older brother and a dare.”

“It always does. What does the brother say?”

“That it isn't his fault. He's using the Darwin defense.”

“I see. Well, he may be right. Some people really are too stupid to live. This is a small twinkle light, isn't it? Not a large outdoor one?”

“Of course, Doctor.” The nurse was shocked.

“There is no
of course
about it, Nurse Larkin. You'll learn that soon enough.”

 

“Doctor? I'm sorry.”

Dr. Anthony's eyes narrowed.
I'm sorry
was a clue. They only said that with a certain kind of injury.

“Yes?”

“We have a compound fracture coming up from X-ray. He's being taken to six. I'm afraid he's very verbal.”

“I see. Roof?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly.

“Lights or Santa Claus?”

“Santa—they already removed the costume,” she added hastily.

“Santa. So there is alcohol involved?”

“Um, yes. Quite a lot. But he's been sick several times, so much of it has been purged. The only lingering effect is that he won't stop cursing.”

 

“Doctor, we have a child, Jeff Santos, in one.” The nurse's face was a study in blankness.

“What's wrong? Not a car accident?” That was his greatest dread, seeing the small bodies crushed and lacerated because forgetful parents hadn't used child safety seats.

“Oh, no! Nothing as bad as that. He's just swallowed a bell, and his mother is tired of listening to him jingle and wants us to, uh . . . make it stop. Apparently this has happened before.”

“I see. Perhaps I'd better have a word with Mrs. Santos about what constitutes an appropriate diet for a child.”

 

  “Doctor, we have a slight problem in number seven. It's a potential facial trauma.”

“Potential?” Nicholas raised an eyebrow. He didn't usually see accidents before they happened. At least, not in the ER. People weren't that farsighted about planning their emergencies.

“Well, Mr. Cleary was having trouble keeping his beard on at the Christmas party and asked one of the ‘
elves
' to bring his facial adhesive. Only the child couldn't find the makeup kit, so instead he brought some superglue. The tubes looked the same so . . .”

Dr. Anthony sighed.

“This is why people should always wear their glasses.”

“Mr. Cleary forgot those, too. He was running late. This is a very busy season for rent-a-Santas.”

“I see. And does Mr. Cleary have any real beard, or is he clean-shaven?”

“He has a beard.”

“Then he is a lucky man.”

“You know how to get superglue out of hair?” the nurse asked hopefully.

“No. But it shouldn't be any worse than a waxing.”

“But that kind of hair removal is very painful,” the nurse pointed out.

“Not as painful as having your skin ripped off,” Nick replied.

 

“Doctor? Number eight is next. It's a dog bite.”

Nick put down his fork. He hadn't had a hot meal in two days. Still, it was better than being home, where he lost all track of time and only knew what day it was by counting the number of coffee cups accumulated in the kitchen sink.

“Nurse, you sound apologetic. What were they
doing
to the hapless canine to provoke such an attack?”

“They were dressing the dog up in their infant daughter's Christmas dress.”

Nick exhaled slowly. “People never seem to learn that just because an animal is small and cute—”

“It wasn't,” she interrupted. “I mean, it wasn't small. Mr. Maxwell was trying to stuff his mastiff into his six-month-old daughter's dress. He hadn't been neutered and . . . well . . . the dress was very tight. I guess the dog took exception to the rough handling.”

“And it's only one bite? How forbearing of the animal.”

“Yes—and not even a very bad one.”

“Mr. Maxwell got off lightly.”

“That's what Mrs. Maxwell said before she dumped her coffee all over him. I'm afraid he has a nasty burn, too.”

 

“Nurse?”

“Yes, Dr. Anthony?” Her voice was reluctant, and she only barely stepped into the room. There were just two more hours on her shift and then her suffering would be at an end.

“What is that commotion?” Nicholas asked gently.

“Nothing to worry about. One of the patients just got tired of waiting.”

“What is he waiting for?”

“Crutches.”

“And why does he need crutches?” Nicholas asked patiently. “I don't want to appear authoritative and hung up on procedure, but shouldn't I at least have a look at him before treatment is prescribed? After all, many fractures are subtle, and leg pain can be indicative of other problems.”

“There's nothing wrong with him—truly. He's an amputee, and his prosthetic leg got stuck in a tree. He needs a loan of crutches until a new limb can be ordered from Skelton Orthopedics.”

“His leg got stuck in a tree. An accident that could happen to anyone, I'm sure.” Nicholas leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Except you are looking guilty, Nurse Larkin. 'Fess up. How did the amputee's leg get stuck in a tree?”

“It was a sledding accident,” she admitted. “The sled overshot the road and ended up wedged in a stand of trees in the gully on the other side. The prosthetic leg was broken. The foot is still stuck in the tree.”

“And was the amputee dressed as Santa Claus?” Nick guessed.

“No, he wasn't,” Nurse Larkin said crossly. “And he wasn't drunk either. At least, not then. I'm afraid he's had a nip or two while he was waiting.”

Nick raised a dark brow. “Out with it, Nurse. There may not be a Santa suit involved, but this is another Christmas accident, isn't it?”

“After a fashion,” she admitted, though clearly it galled her to do so. She didn't like this holiday bondage with Dr. Anthony. No one did. They drew lots to see who would have to take the last shift with the doctor. It was when he was at his crabbiest.

“And?” his gentle voice prompted.

“If you must know, Mr. Timmons was being a reindeer. He had antlers tied to a hat, but because it was so heavy the ties came loose and it fell down over his eyes. He hit the dip at the bottom of the slope and flew a lot farther than he meant.”

Nick nodded with grim satisfaction.

“I knew it was another Christmas accident.”

“Don't you ever get tired of being right, Ebenezer?” the nurse grumbled as she backed out of the room.

“You have no idea,” Nick answered softly. He wasn't smiling.

 

“Doctor, you're needed in seven. It's a concussion.”

The nurse's eyes slid away.

“And . . . ? ” Nick asked gently.

“And hypothermia.” She stared at the ceiling.

“And . . . ? ”

“And a bad case of gravel rash.”

“And . . . ? ”

“And he got it while being dragged by a giant balloon in a Christmas parade. It was a freak accident— it could have happened to anyone.” She huffed the last statement and left the room hurriedly.

“And it does, at least once a season,” Nick muttered. “And people say there are no such things as jinxes. They should just admit the fact that the parade is cursed.”

 

“Doctor? We have a man in nine who's going to need stitching. We've already irrigated the wounds and gotten out the glass and glitter.”

“Glass and glitter?”

“He was rough-housing with his son and accidentally fell on a snow globe he had in his pocket.”

“In his pocket? I see. Not the most prudent place for a breakable object, but at least it wasn't deliberate.”

“Deliberate? You mean you treated someone who sat on a snow globe on purpose?” The nurse was appalled.

“Not a snow globe, actually. An ornament. It was at a party, and they had run out of balloons to pop.”

“Doctor, I just can't imagine that.”

“No? But then, in spite of your silly Christmas uniform, you are really quite rational.”

 

“Dr. Anthony? We have a kidney bruise. Mr. Mc-Queen here got kicked, and a nasty hematoma is forming,” the nurse whispered. Her eyes were sympathetic, as a good nurse's should be.

“Kicked?” Nicholas Anthony sounded less compassionate, but he carefully lifted the patient's red-and-white-striped shirt and looked at the ugly mark on Danny McQueen's back. In spite of the bruising, the hoofmark was very clear. “You certainly did get kicked. A reindeer was it, Mr. McQueen? A buck?”

“Yeah,” the man admitted, trying not to wince.

“You were at the Central Park Christmas display, weren't you?”

“Yes.” Mr. McQueen sounded surprised. “How did you know that?”

“Because every year someone gets the bright idea of trying to ride the live reindeer in Santa's stable.” Nicholas lowered the shirt gently. “And every year someone gets kicked. Be glad you weren't gored as well. I'm going to send you down for X-rays now. The nurse will help you ride the wheelchair. And don't worry; unlike reindeer, she rarely kicks anyone.”

 

“Doctor? I'm sorry to wake you again.” It was a different nurse. The last one had apparently delivered enough bad news and had sent in a less senior replacement. “I know it's only been fifteen minutes, but we have a burn victim with smoke inhalation, and another fracture. They're in two and three.”

“Burn victim?” he asked groggily, and then with more interest: “Burns in December? How bad? Not a flaming Christmas tree?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The nurse paused, taking a deep breath.

Nicholas Anthony's eyes narrowed. “Tell me that it isn't a child who was playing with candles? Or another Christmas-light electrocution?”

“No—not a child. It's the father. And his brother. And it wasn't the tree or the lights this time.”

“I see.” Nicholas sat up. He didn't curse at anyone, not even silently, but he wasn't happy. He'd known about the forty-eight-hour days when he'd taken the job. Usually he didn't mind. It was just this time of year. . . . “Give it to me straight: What were the fools doing?”

“Well, they'd had a little too much eggnog—”

“Don't blame the eggnog, Nurse Gwynn. My grandmother, while she lived, made eggnog every year at Christmas, which we drank. I assure you, no one broke or burned anything because of it.” That might have been because no one could swallow much of the vile brew, but Nicholas didn't add that; it was disloyal to her memory to bring up her Christmas culinary disasters. Even all these years later, the family was careful not to mention the Christmas cookies that had broken Uncle Albert's back molar, or the cranberry relish made with those bitter, uncooked cranberries. Or the year that everyone contracted salmonella from an under-cooked turkey.

Nicholas took the chart from the nurse.

“Well, the eggnog was only part of it,” she explained. “The two men placed a wager that the skinnier one couldn't fit down the chimney. . . . They apparently forgot that there was a fire in the fireplace. Fortunately, Mr. Anderson didn't get very far. And he was wearing heavy boots, so it isn't as bad as it might be.”

“The burns are explained. And the fracture?”

“Well, naturally his brother hurried to call the fire department as soon as Mr. Anderson got stuck, but he had his hands full with the video camera, and there was a large sleigh near the ladder.”

“And he and the sleigh fell off the roof. Probably the sleigh landed on him and that's what broke the leg. I hope he at least gets on one of those home video shows.” Nicholas headed for the door. “How bad is the burn? Should we arrange a transfer to a burn unit?”