Thirteen West (32 page)

* * *

Simpson raised his head and listened. Quiet. He sat up and slipped the bottle from under the covers. He pulled off his pajama top and carefully wrapped it around the bottle, then slid out of bed. Bending over, he thunked it against one of the metal bed legs. The cloth muffled the sound, but also protected the bottle and it didn't break until his fifth try.

Simpson sat on the bed, laid the wrapped and broken bottle in his lap and carefully peeled away the cloth. He bent his head to peer at the shards of glass in the dim light, barely conscious of the reek of whiskey.

Too small. Not pointed enough. Possible. No, this one was better. At last he rejected all except one and rewrapped the rest, slipping the bundle under his pillow.

He raised a hand to the hollow of his throat, then shook his head. Not there. The big veins were to either side of his neck. He felt for them, the neck cords slithering under his fingers as he intoned the words of his grandmother in a half-whisper: "Orm lumballa Macardit..."

A sound from the next bed penetrated his concentration. He glanced over and saw the gleam of eyes. The man in the other bed watched him, the white man who shared his room. Simpson ceased his chant. What did this mean? Did Macardit reject his sacrifice? Surely the Great Black One wouldn't enter a white man.

The man stood and began to walk toward the door. Did he mean to go out and tell the others about the glass knife?

No!

Simpson leaped from the bed and slashed at Jacko, who fell writhing at his feet. Hurrying past him, Simpson peered up and down the empty corridor. There on the end was the bathroom the women used. The others wouldn't look for him there.

* * *

Margaret Flowers paused beside her bed—had she heard someone approaching? She listened carefully, but the sound wasn't repeated. Barefooted, she made her way across the room to the door and peeped out. No one. She nodded and slipped out into the hall. Best to flush the capsule down the toilet before morning. If they ever once found her with an unswallowed pill they'd know what she was doing.

She padded along the corridor. They'd hear the toilet flush and come and check the bathroom, but that was safe enough. Who could tell what went down the drain? Margaret smiled thinly.

She reached the women's bathroom, tissue ready in her hand. The door swung shut behind her. Heading for the first toilet, she paused in dismay when she noticed someone lying on the floor. A man? And was that blood?

Quickly she dropped the wad of paper with the pill into the stool and pulled the handle, then she hesitantly approached the unmoving figure, stepping over rivulets of blood. The man they called the Preacher. Reverend Jones. She stopped before reaching him, certain he was dead. Poor tortured soul.

Margaret glanced quickly behind her. Would they think she had anything to do with this? She retraced her steps, noting with sudden horror there was blood on her bare feet. Her head whirled and she staggered against one of the toilets.

Dead, he was dead, they'd never tie him down again.

But why had there been so much blood? She sat on the toilet seat and hunched forward, hands clenched to her mouth. Her teeth chattered and she shuddered. Fragments of thoughts roiled in her head.

I looked for some to take pity but there were none... The poor man. He knew the Psalms. He knew God... Sixty-ninth psalm...

Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul... She said Richard was dead...

Margaret closed her eyes, pressing a hand against the crushing pain in her chest. It seemed to her she could see Richard's hands reaching out to her. "Yes," she cried, "take me with you!"

* * *

Zenda was dumping Mousie's dirty linen into the container when she heard the toilet flush. She dropped the lid into place, unlocked the utility room door and shoved the cart back inside, making sure the door clicked shut, automatically locking.

Women's bathroom. She stood in the corridor waiting for the door to open so she'd know who had used the toilet. No one appeared. Zenda sighed and shuffled toward the bathroom to find out who was in there.

She was getting too old to work like this. She hadn't felt right since Dr. Fredericks made her tell him what she suspected about Willie. Not that she owed Willie anything, didn't even like the man. But tattling was something she'd never cottoned to.

"Ahhh..."

What was that sound coming from behind her? Zenda halted and turned. The hair on her nape rose as she saw a figure crawling out of the Preacher's room. She hurried toward the whimpering man.

"Joe!" she yelled. "Joe, I need help!"

By the time Joe got to her, Zenda had stretched Jacko out on the hall floor and was trying to staunch the bloody laceration along his neck and upper chest with his pajama top.

"Jesus!" Joe exclaimed before he turned and ran for the emergency kit in the med room.

On the way back, he snatched up the phone and told the operator to get Sal Luera to Thirteen West stat.

"I never saw so much blood," Zenda said as she pressed the gauze pads he handed her against Jacko's wounds.

"Don't think it hit an artery, though," Joe said. "Not pumping. He's be dead by now, if it had."

"What could have happened?" Zenda said, glancing around uneasily.

"Keep the pressure on," Joe ordered as he got to his feet. "I'll check on the Preacher."

He was back in a moment. "Not in his bed. Blood in the room. Whatever happened to Jacko was in there."

"Someone flushed a toilet in the woman's bathroom," she said. "I never did get there."

Joe sprinted toward the bathroom. He opened the door and stopped, speechless.

Margaret opened her eyes and raised her head. "He's dead," she said. "Richard is dead."

Joe let out his breath. Jesus. Congealing blood covered half the bathroom floor. He couldn't avoid stepping in it as he bent over to touch the Preacher's already cooling face. A bloody dagger of glass protruded from the gaping neck wound. Dead. Joe straightened and looked at the Duchess.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Richard is dead," she repeated, pressing her hands to her chest. "The girl was quite correct."

"This isn't Richard. This is Simpson Jones. Did you see what happened in here?"

"Richard's coming for me," she said, her words coming in little gasps. "It's time for me to go."

She slumped over and Joe was barely able to catch her before she slid off the toilet onto the floor.

Sal Luera burst into the bathroom. "Christ!"

"Help me get her to bed," Joe said. "She's fainted."

"I told the operator to get hold of the doctor," Sal said as they carried Margaret into her room. "Now I'd better talk to him about this before he gets here. We'll have to notify someone in Administration. Shit, I'd better call Dr. Fredericks myself."

They lowered Margaret onto her bed. Joe felt her wrist. "Wait," he called to Sal, who was halfway out the door. "I can't get a pulse on her."

Sal rolled his eyes. "She better not go out on us— things are bad enough already."

Leaving Margaret temporarily, Sal and Joe got Jacko into his bed. "Stay with him," Joe told Zenda. "I got to check on the Duchess."

"What happened?" she asked apprehensively.

"Can't stop. Tell you later," he flung over his shoulder as he hurried out.

Chapter Twenty-One

A church bell rang, tinny instead of melodious.

Crawford felt it was appropriate for his wedding to Louise— the shrillness matched her voice. He'd be a damn fool to go on with the wedding, tying himself to a woman who cared nothing for his comfort...

The bell went on and one, endlessly, forcing out the church and the minister, blotting out Louisa. Crawford opened his eyes.

Night. Telephone. He grabbed for it.

"Dr. Greensmith?"

"Um."

"This is Sal Luera calling from Thirteen West. There's been an accident here. One patient is dead and another badly injured. Shall I send the injury to A East by van? He needs suturing and maybe some blood. Or do you want him sent out?"

"A death?"

"Looks like one of the patients stabbed another and then killed himself."

"Oh, God."

"Doctor? Do you want the injured man sent to A East?"

Crawford focused his eyes with great difficulty on his lighted watch dial. Ten minutes to two. He'd been asleep only a half hour.

"What kind of injuries?" he asked.

"He has a shallow laceration of the neck and a deeper one of the upper chest. It doesn't appear any vital structures are involved. We've controlled the bleeding, but he's lost a lot of blood."

Crawford hung his legs over the edge of the bed and switched on the light, closing his eyes against the sudden glare.

"I'll be there," he said. Had to get outside, maybe the cold air would clear his mind so he could function. For Chrissake, didn't they do anything but slice themselves up?

"Do you want the patient transferred to A East?" Sal repeated.

"Yes, of course. Use your head." Crawford dropped the phone into the cradle.

"I finally got hold of him," Sal said to Joe. "The operator said she rang for five minutes with no answer. He was acting a little weird around midnight when he came in to see the other DOA Frank sent over to A East. Old Greenie was flying high."

"You better check the Duchess for me," Joe said. "I can't get a heartbeat. Maybe it's just 'cause I'm kind of rattled."

"Let's hope." Sal grabbed the stethoscope Joe handed him. "You go ahead and call the van for transfer to A East— I got the authorization."

****** * *

Crawford fumbled with the copper pitcher. No, better not take anything else. The coke had him feeling so right for a while—have to see about a regular supply—but he'd come down hard.

Sew up a laceration. He screwed up his face, opening and shutting his eyes. Fuzzy. But he could do it. Get dressed first. No, he had on his pants, went to bed with his pants on. He giggled.

Watch it. Get as silly as hell on barbs. Put shoes on. Grab a jacket. Thirteen West. No. A East first. Been there tonight already. Running a damn night clinic, that's what.

**** * *

"Bad news, Joe," Sal said as he came back to the nurses' station. "She's gone." He picked up the phone.

"Dr. Fredericks?" he said. "This is Sal Luera, sorry to bother you."

The superintendent listened to Sal's explanation. "So, you believe the dead man is a suicide?. Don't move him. I'll have to notify the sheriff's office. What about the woman? You say she was a witness."

"Angina is listed as one of her diagnoses, Doctor," Sal said. "She may have died of a coronary."

"Possibly. I assume Dr. Greensmith is taking care of the injured patient on A East?"

"I called him, sir."

"I'm coming over to Thirteen West. Would you notify Dr. Greensmith?"

"Yes, sir."

**** * *

Crawford came out of the bathroom and picked up the phone. "Now what?"

"The patient is on his way to A East," Sal told him. "Dr. Fredericks asked me to tell you he was coming over to Thirteen West."