Thirteen West (16 page)

Wonderful to be able to think so clearly, a gift from heaven, indeed, to be transferred to this new ward where the nurses didn't crush up your pills and serve them in a spoonful of applesauce like they did on the old people's ward. Over there, she'd had no way to avoid swallowing the drugs. But now she could slip the pill between her gum and her cheek, remove it when the nurse left and flush it down the toilet later. No doubt her nephew was responsible for the pills.

Her mind grew sharper each day and she could walk steadier, too. If only she dared ask Sally to locate Richard for her. Nice as the girl was, though, better not trust anyone just yet.

Margaret paused, listening. What was troubling that man so? She'd heard them call him the Preacher, much in the same way they called her the Duchess. She continued on to the woman's bathroom and relieved herself, but when she was on her way back he was still carrying on.

"...the end has come—behold, it comes. Your doom has come to you..."

Poor old man.

Margaret stood shivering in the hall, expecting to see someone look along the corridor because flushing the toilet almost always brought a nurse.

"Aiee!" The Preacher shrieked.

Margaret started at the unexpected high-pitched cry.

He must be suffering. She looked up and down the corridor but none of the nurses were in sight.

Of course, it was none of her business. Still, it would harm no one if she looked in on the man. If he was merely having an incoherent spell as these poor souls she lived among often did, she'd not disturb him or worry about calling a nurse. But what if something was actually wrong with him? Margaret crept silently to his room and tried the door. Unlocked, so she eased open.

"Oh dear!" She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her involuntary exclamation, but the Preacher had heard her and stopped chanting, his gaze fixed on her face. Why, in heaven's name had they tied him in such an inhumane fashion? All his blankets were on the floor—no doubt he was freezing. "Are you in pain?" she asked softly. "Cold?"

He made no reply.

"I'll help you if I can," she promised.

"Must find Macardit," he mumbled.

Could that be his wife?

"Saw Macardit pass," he said. "Passed me by. Going to the girl..." His voice trailed off and he twisted in his bonds.

"Oh, dear," Margaret said again. She picked up his blanket and laid it across him. How could she leave him tied so cruelly? Yet if she untied him would she be safe? She sighed in indecision.

"Beloved, do not believe every spirit...," he intoned, "...it is the last hour..."

The last hour. Margaret pressed her lips together firmly. She would not leave him tied so helplessly. With some effort she knelt by the side of the bed and applied herself to the knot that held his right wrist restrained, then rose and went around to the other side to release his left wrist.

"There, Reverend," she said. "I do not know your name, but I can tell you are a man of God. Nevertheless, I have left your feet tied for my own safety. If you sit up and slide down in the bed, you should be able to reach the knots. Good night to you, Reverend."

Margaret hurried from the room, carefully closing the door behind her and returned to her own bed. Better to err on the side of too little—all her life she'd done the opposite. Reaching under the pillow for her booties, she slipped them onto her icy feet.

Oh, Richard, Richard, she prayed silently. When will you find me? Make it soon because it is almost the last hour.

* * *

Simpson lay without moving. Reverend, the old white lady said. He didn't remember any old white lady in his church. Reverend Jones.

Simp, the bad voice in his head said. Simple Simon. "No!" Simpson sat up and tried to get out of bed but found his feet tied. He scrunched down and picked at the knots with numb fingers.

* * *

Dolph unzipped the zipper once again and slid his hand into the jacket pocket. Nothing. Had there really been a bottle inside, the way he remembered? One bottle got broken but Ron hadn't found the second one, he was almost sure. He looked at the unmoving figure in the bed next to him. The man's back was to him. Who was he? Could it be Ron?

Getting up, he slid the jacket on over his hospital gown and crossed to that bed. "Ron?" he said tentatively. His voice came out rusty. He leaned over and grasped a shoulder. "Ron!" he said, louder.

Tate turned over and opened his eyes to find Dolph peering into his face. "Hey, get away from me," he cried, sitting up and shoving at Dolph.

Dolph staggered back, staring uncomprehendingly at the stranger, falling back against his own bed so that he had to sit on it. Where was Ron?

"Look, buddy, why don't you just go back to sleep?" Tate said.

Dolph didn't move, huddling into his jacket as he continued to stare.

Tate narrowed his eyes. "That's my jacket," he accused. "You take it off right now."

Dolph shook his head.

"Damn it", Tate said, getting out of bed, "give me back my jacket."

Dolph shrank away, "Vera!" he cried. "Ron!"

"Shut up. What the hell's got into you?" He bent down and jerked Dolph to his feet, trying to peel the jacket off him.

Faced with losing his jacket, Dolph went berserk, screaming and striking out wildly. Tate yelled for Joe Thompson as he tried to fend off the attack.

Willie heard him and scrambled to his feet, yanking up his pants. In the darkness he stumbled into the step stool, knocking it over. He kicked the stool aside and made for the door, opening it to come face to face with Simpson Jones. Willie recoiled, then pushed him aside.

"Get the shit back to your room," he ordered as he hurried toward the commotion.

Simpson stared after him. Not Macardit. Black, but only a man. He gazed into the darkened room. Was the Great Black One inside with the white girl? He stepped into the darkness.

Joe got to Dolph before Willie. By the time they pulled him off Tate, Zenda was in the room, too.

"Want me to get a shot ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," Joe said as he and Willie jerked the struggling Dolph into position so he could get his arm across Dolph's neck to choke him out.

When Zenda brought the Thorazine back in a syringe, Joe jabbed the temporarily unconscious Dolph in the right deltoid.

"What the hell got into him?" Tate asked. "He stole my jacket, then he took after me for no reason. Get the jacket off him, can't you? It's mine."

Joe shrugged as he peeled off the jacket and handed it to Tate. "Who knows why," he said.

"I don't like it over here," Tate said. "I don't belong with the crazies. I'm not staying in this room with that nut. You give me another room."

"We'll strap him down for the rest of the night," Joe said. "You can talk to days about getting transferred to another room."

Joe and Willie left Dolph sedated, with Zenda Poseying him.

"Took you long enough to get there," Joe said to Willie as they walked toward the nurses' station. "You're supposed to stay awake when it's your turn."

"Yeah, well, I sat down in the lounge," Willie said. "Must have dozed off. Sorry."

"Looks like we better make rounds, then, see what else is wrong. I'm not getting my ass in a sling—you better watch it, Willie."

"Yeah, okay, we'll split the hall. I'll take—"

"No way. I'm awake, I'll look at all of them." Joe glanced at Willie. "You come with me."

They went down the corridor room by room. "A wonder they're not all climbing the walls," Joe said, "with that noise from the Preacher and then Dolph screaming."

"Yeah."

"Where's W.W.?" Joe asked. "His bed's empty."

"Probably went to the can."

They entered the room and glanced around. "He's not in here at any rate," Joe said, then looked over at Jay-Jay. "Damn. Blood."

They both realized at the same time that Jay-Jay wasn't merely snoring, he was having respiratory difficulty.

"Work on him, Willie, while I call the supervisor," Joe ordered. "He needs a doctor."

* * *

Crawford thrashed his arm about searching for the alarm. On and on the ringing went. The clock crashed to the floor and still the shrill bell continued. He opened his eyes to darkness and the confused realization the telephone was ringing.

"Hello," he mumbled and cleared his throat.

"Who? Where? Oh, Thirteen West." Crawford shook his head in an effort to clear the muzziness.

"Grand mal? How long between seizures? Of course I think he's in status—what else? Doesn't he have a sodium luminal order? Valium? How long ago did you give it? Well, repeat the dose stat. What? Will I okay an order to what? Yes, go ahead, suction him as necessary.

"The tech gave what? Not to the epileptic, I hope. Oh, you're talking about another patient. Go ahead and write a PRN order. No, I'm not coming over—sounds like you have things under control."

Crawford fumbled the phone back into the cradle and pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the time. Four-thirty. He groaned and slipped down in the bed, pulling the covers up.

Status epilepticus—continuous convulsions. He tried to recall the toxic amount of Luminal per body weight but couldn't focus his mind. Sleep tugged at him with heavy fingers, dragging him under.

* * *

Sal Luera, RN, the night supervisor, turned to Joe Thompson. "So do the best you can," he said. "Dr. Greensmith isn't about to get out of his warm bed. The suction order is okayed, also the Thorazine you had to give to the other patient—what's his name? Benning?"

He hesitated a fraction of a moment. "Look, Joe, you've got to remember to check for an order before you zap someone—or at least call and ask me first. You can get stranded on shit creek real easy."

"Yeah, I know, but what the hell you expect me to do with the guy fighting wild, two of us holding him?"

"I realize that. Just reminding you."

"Jay-Jay doesn't look good," Joe said.

"The epileptic? No. I told Greenie we thought he'd aspirated blood from his bitten tongue. Even then I had to ask for the suction order. He wants you to repeat the Luminal. Stat."

"But I just gave Jay-Jay 325 milligrams."

"So repeat it, he's still in status and you got a doctor's order. Don't worry—Greenie must know the toxic dosage."

Zenda, who'd been hovering around the nurses' station, spoke up. "Joe, uh, Mr. Thompson, you better come down to Laura Jean's room. The night light was out in there and when I tried to turn on the bright, it was out, too. I used the flashlight and she was on the floor and the Preacher—you know, Mr. Jones—was in her room. I got him back to bed but Laura Jean..." Her voice trailed off. "You better come." She glanced at the night supervisor. "You, too, Mr. Luera." Spotlighted in the circles of two flashlights, Laura Jean lay sprawled on the floor, naked from the waist down, her legs apart, eyes staring at nothing.

"I thought she was dead at first," Zenda said, "but there's a pulse."

Joe and Sal Luera knelt beside the girl.

"Laura Jean?" Joe said. He repeated her name loudly, shaking her shoulder.

She didn't respond in any way.

Finally, the two men lifted her onto the bed and covered her up.

"There was a male patient in here?" Sal asked.

"Simpson Jones," Zenda said. "Just wandering around like. He wasn't touching her or nothing. He seemed pretty groggy—could hardly stay on his feet when I walked him back to his room."

Sal Luera took Joe's flashlight and scanned the room. "What's that step stool doing in here?" he asked, walking over and setting it upright. He flashed the light at the ceiling. "That cover's crooked. Someone changing a bulb?"