Thirteen West (31 page)

She very carefully avoided thinking of what had disturbed her in the first place, upset her enough to bring the head nurse in with the pill.

* * *

"Everything's quiet," Lew told
Alma
as the door closed behind the gurney. All asleep except Tate and he's okay— just nosy."

"I hope you're right," she said.

Lew shrugged. "I didn't want to wake everyone up to be sure, but I went into all the rooms and took a good look."

Alma
managed a brief smile. "Thanks."

Sally got up from the desk where she'd remained all through Dolph's removal. She staggered into the door of the med room when she tried to walk.

"I feel funny," she said, clutching at the door knob. "The Valium..." Her voice trailed off.

Alma
closed her eyes briefly. What else could go wrong? Why had she given Sally the pill?

Helping Sally back into the chair, she watched uneasily as the girl's head drooped down onto the desk. "You still with us?" she demanded.

"Sort of," Sally mumbled. "Can't walk right. Head's fuzzy."

Alma
jerked the PDR off the book shelf. The gold letters stared up at her. Physicians' Desk Reference.

Coming on shift, Joe Thompson walked into the ward. "What's with her?" he asked, jerking his head toward Sally.

"Valium,"
Alma
told him. "I'm looking up the side effects. Report'll have to wait a few minutes."

"Ataxia," she said after a moment. "Drowsiness. Fatigue."

"She's got ataxia all right," Lew put in. "Did you see how she staggered?"

"All that on just five milligrams,"
Alma
said with a sigh. "What are we going to do with her?"

"I'll help you get her home," Lew offered.

David said nothing. If he offered to do anything he'd be late again and the roof would fall in. Let the others take care of her. Let big-deal Frank worry about her.

* * *

Crawford pulled on his pants, feeling more alert by the minute. Not only alert—sharp. Fine-honed. Wonderful.

Flit over to A East and take care of that little problem. Minor detail. The adrenaline had probably cured the guy already.

Paradox. The word flashed red as a neon sign in his head. Paradoxical reaction. Thorazine. Adrenaline. A no-no. Jesus. Had he told Frank to give the patient adrenaline? Not in an overdosage of Thorazine. Made the central nervous system depression worse, acted in the opposite manner than what would be expected. What the hell had he said to Frank? Well, he'd take care of that, too. The way he felt, he could handle anything.

* * *

Frank rode over in the ambulance van, sitting in the back with Dolph, who now had oxygen running into his nose per cannula.

"Bad luck to have it happen at the end of your shift," the driver called to him.

Frank grunted in lieu of an answer. Dolph no longer had an obtainable radial pulse and the one at the temple was very faint. He wasn't going to make it.

Where had Dolph gotten the whiskey? And why had no one noticed anything until so late? Those were the questions Dr. Fredericks would want answered.

Frank leaned his head against the side of the van. He couldn't go on much longer without sleep. If there was any use in going on.

He followed the gurney into A East and watched them transfer Dolph's limp body to the exam table.

"Jeez, Frank, you could have kept this one," the charge nurse said, lifting his head and taking the stethoscope out of his ears. "I don't hear beat one." He proffered the scope.

Frank inserted the earpieces and put the diaphragm to Dolph's bared chest. He heard nothing—no heartbeat, no breath sounds.

"Should we start CPR?" the charge nurse asked. "This isn't a no heroics case, is it?"

Frank moved away from the table toward a phone. "Go ahead with the CPR. I'll see what's keeping Dr. Greensmith."

"I'm just on my way," Crawford said into the phone. "Be there shortly. They are? No apical pulse at all? Well, don't let them give him any adrenaline. Levophed's okay." Frank conveyed the order to the A East charge nurse, scribbled it as a phone order on Dolph's chart and left. Nothing more he could do, anyway he was dead on his feet. Dolph was dead all the way, poor bastard, but at least he had no more worries.

* * *

Sal Luera, the night supervisor, met him just outside the ward door. "What's this emergency I hear you're leaving me?" he asked.

Frank gave Sal a brief change-of-shift report.

"You look like hell," Sal informed him. "Get out of here and hit the sack."

* * *

Alma and Lew succeeded in getting a wavering Sally up the steps and inside her apartment. While Lew propped her up,
Alma
hurried into the bedroom and turned down the covers. As Lew let Sally sag down onto the bed, he said, "Just made it. You going to need me anymore?"

Alma
shook her head. "Thanks for helping."

"That's okay. I'd stick around, only my wife—"

Alma
waved her hand. "Good night, Lew," she said.

After he went out,
Alma
sat on the bed and felt Sally's pulse, relieved to find it regular. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like I'm not inside me at all," Sally mumbled.

"Ever have a drug reaction before?"

"Only to penicillin. Never took Valium till now."

"Maybe I'd better call a doctor,"
Alma
said, wracked by guilt for giving her the stuff in the first place.

Sally sat up. "No, please don't. I'll be okay."

"No doctor, then. Lie down and take it easy. You'll probably just sleep it off, but I'll stay here tonight to make sure."
Alma
yawned. "You got extra pajamas?"

"In the dresser. Sorry to be trouble. I'm always trouble."

Alma
helped Sally into pajamas and found a nightgown she could get into.

"Never looked like that on me," Sally said. "I'm not sexy." Tears overflowed.

"Come on, don't start crying again."

"Why does Frank think I'm sexy?" Sally wiped clumsily at her wet face.

"Does he?"
Alma
said, handing her a box of tissues. "Then you don't have anything to cry about."

"I can't help it. He—I can't tell you what he did."

Alma
shook her head. "Look, Sally, tonight isn't the best time for trading confidences. I had a rough time yesterday and last night and I'm out on my feet. I'm going to grab one of these blankets and curl up on that settee in the other room."

"He raped me. In this bed."

Frank?
Alma
thought incredulously. Old granite face? Was Sally hallucinating?

"You don't believe me."

"You've got to admit the idea's a shocker,"
Alma
said.

"That's why I was upset tonight and behaved so badly, not rechecking Dolph, upsetting the Duchess and falling apart like I did." Sally's eyelids drooped.

"Better go to sleep now. We'll talk again in the morning. Okay?"

Sally didn't answer and
Alma
saw she'd slipped into sleep. She stayed a few minutes longer to be sure the sleep seemed natural.

On the settee, blanket wrapped about her, Alma considered what Sally had told her. Who'd have thought it of Frank—if it was true, that is. She shifted position on the settee, aware she felt more annoyed than anything else. What—bent out of shape because Frank hadn't raped her?
Alma
smiled wryly.

What did Sally mean by rape? Frank wouldn't stop when she wanted him to? Hardly possible Sally was still a virgin at nearly twenty....

She jerked alert as someone rapped on the apartment door. As she stared toward it, a piece of white paper appeared, slipped through the crack between door and sill. "Who is it?" she called.

No answer.

Alma
rose and unlocked the door to peer out the crack afforded by the chain. Nobody there. She relocked the door and picked up the paper.

"Sally," she read. "I'll wait in the car for five minutes. If you want to see me, come down. I can't go on knowing you hate me. Try to forgive me for what happened. Frank."

Alma
let her breath out with a whoosh. Now what? Obviously Sally was in no condition to go anywhere.
Alma
tried to decide if she should go down and tell Frank about the Valium. No, better not get involved in this thing, whatever it was. She had enough problems of her own.

She reread the note. Shit. What did he mean he couldn't go on? She'd better try to rouse Sally.

"Uh," Sally mumbled. "Go 'way."

"Wake up, Sally, come on."

"Be good girl, Daddy Keith," Sally wailed, opening her eyes. She stared in bleary-eyed confusion at
Alma
.

"Look, Frank left you a note. I read it. Here."
Alma
thrust it at her.

Sally struggled to a sitting position, blinking as she focused on the paper.

"What's he mean?" she asked.

"How should I know? You want me to go down and tell him you're sick?"

Sally shook her head, setting her jaw so she looked like a sulky child. "Let him suffer like I had to." She tore the note in two and let the pieces drift onto the bed and the floor. "I'll hate him forever, even after he's dead, dead, dead."

Alma
shrugged. "It's your affair, not mine," she said, turning away.

What was the Daddy Keith business? Sally saying she'd be a good girl? Was it merely the Valium or had she just never noticed Sally was a tad weird?

* * *

Joe Thompson sighed and stretched out on his two pulled together chairs in the day room. Willie wouldn't be replaced for a couple more days so he and Zenda were alone. He'd be lucky to get more than a couple hours sleep. That Willie—told him and told him to watch his ass. The grapevine had it one of the doctors was mixed up in Willie's knifing—Dr. Jacobs, who was also rumored to be laid up with stab wounds. Seemed like a strange combination. Alma Reynolds was a sexy enough piece—but she had class. What would she want with Willie? Easier to believe she and the doctor had a thing going. Still, with all this soul brother and sister jazz, you never knew.

* * *

Zenda stood by Chester Mausser's bed. "You could've waited till morning," she scolded.

"What're you talking about?" he demanded. "Hey, leave me alone."

"Turn over, Mousie. Don't give me none of your sass. I got a good mind to let you lay in this crap all night."

"I didn't do that. Those others wait till I'm not looking and—"

"Oh, shut up and turn over." Zenda gave him a shove onto his side.

"Don't you take liberties with me, woman."

"You old creep—who'd want you?"