Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (34 page)

“I’m going to sue the dog’s owner and the city for allowing such a dangerous animal to run loose.”

“Oh, Mandy,” said the Mad Hatter’s mother wearily.

“You should join me, Eloise. Someone has to pay for what’s

happened to Jeff.”

“Whatever you decide to do, do it later,” Spink said in what

Samson called her Official Voice, “right now though, Jeff needs a

couple X-rays and probably half-a-dozen stitches. If Reece will let me have a quick look at his hand, I’ll know what more needs to be

done with him.”

[258] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

“You heard Doctor Spink,” said Samson, using his height to add

force to his words. “Let her take care of the kids, then you can decide on what’s to happen next.”

“I’m not letting Reece out of my sight,” his mother declared.

“I’m not asking you to,” said Spink.

The PA system announced three children arriving by ambulance,

suspected of being poisoned.

“Will you go deal with the new arrivals?” Spink asked Samson,

briefly looking up from Jeff’s injuries.

“If that’s what you want,” said Samson, ignoring the glare Mandy

shot at him, and the sigh of the older cop.

“Take them into Bay 3, in case,” she said, indicating she was

anticipating vomit and feces at the least. “Where’s Flanders when I need her?”

“I’ll see if Doyle’s heard anything,” said Samson as he left the

cubicle, bound for the ambulance entryway.

By eight o’clock, Spink had treated thirteen children, four of whom had been sent home, eight had been admitted for overnight observation, and one had been sent into surgery for multiple fractures that had nothing to do with Halloween; there was a thick file on the autistic girl’s so-called falls and clumsiness. The emergency room was unusually busy for all those on duty, what with a riot having broken out on the edge of a homeless encampment and a number of admissions for some kind

of unidentified flu, which was bringing sufferers to the ER at the rate of eight or nine a hour, coughing and running high temperatures. The hectic pace all this demanded was starting to tell on the staff.

“Flanders still isn’t here,” Samson told Spink as they stood near

the waiting room, each with a cup of caffeinated coffee to shore up their increasing fatigue. “I checked with Doyle about five minutes ago. The clerk at the desk called her house, but there was no answer.”

“I don’t like it,” said Spink.

“Who does? Smith and Flanders are important and we need them

tonight.” He drank more coffee.

“Another six hours,” said Spink as if she was reciting a prison

sentence.

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [259]

“Fewer kids than last year,” Samson observed.

“So far,” said Spink.

“Do you want a little time to yourself? Nothing much is happening

just now.” Samson kept his voice even, though he wanted to yawn.

Spink thought about it. “No. It’ll leave me groggy. I’ll do better if I’m a bit hyper.”

She saw Doyle coming toward her, fretting. “What is it?”

“Ambulance coming in, twelve-year-old on a bike clipped by a

car. The driver wasn’t drunk, but there were a lot of kids going door-to-door, and he couldn’t watch them all. A Batman on a bike was

hard to see. At least, that’s his story.”

“What do the EMTs say?” Spink asked as she tossed the last third

of her coffee into the nearest refuse bin.

Doyle said, “Better to talk to the cops than the EMTs about

that.”

“Let me know if the cops show up.” Motioning to Samson to

follow her, she went along toward the pediatric cubicles, saying to him over her shoulder. “Find Jenkins and tell him to set up for a kid.

Then check to see if he’s arrived. I’ll want you ready.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Not until I see the boy.” She waved him away, and went where

Doyle pointed out to her.

Samson gave a short sigh, took a last gulp of coffee, and went off toward The Canteen to find out if Jenkins were available. “Try the computer room,” one of the younger nurses recommended. Samson

took her suggestion and found Jenkins emerging from the men’s

room. “Spink has a kid hit by car while on his bike coming in.”

“Just one kid on a bike?” Jenkins asked as he changed directions.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got a machine available; the last of the pirates is gone. D’you think she’ll want a CAT scan?”

“No idea, and I won’t try to second-guess her. She wants you

standing by.” They went down a slight incline in the hall, a reminder of how two buildings had been cobbled into one almost twenty years before. Once they were in the larger portion of the building, they went to a sturdy double door that required Jenkins’ ID card swipe

to enter.

[260] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

“Kid, possible multiple fractures, en route in the ambulance,” he

said to the monitor on duty, hardly slowing his pace. “Probably be here in ten minutes or so.”

“Take Room 5," the monitor said, making an entry on the laptop at the end of the counter. Unlike most of the hospital, this facility lacked a waiting room, and there were no vending machines; there were chairs in a large alcove down the hall on the other side of the double doors where families and friends could wait. Just at present, the alcove was empty.

“Five it is,” said Jenkins, bound for a heavy door at the far side of the small lobby. “Come on, Samson.”

Samson paused at the monitor’s counter. “The patient is Doc

Swink’s. Notify her where they’ll bring the kid.”

“Will do,” the monitor said even as he punched in more

information on the computer and pressed a button to signal the ER.

Jenkins was in the X-ray control room—which was little more

than a bay in the corner—checking out the console. “Did you ever

see a flick called
Fire Maidens from Outer Space?”
he asked Samson.

“I can’t remember if I have or not,” said Samson.

“Oh, you’d remember this one. It’s
terrible
.” He grinned. “I usually watch it on Halloween. You want to come over and watch it with me

when our shift ends?”

“Why’d I stay up to see a bad movie?” Samson asked.

“You might get a kick out of it.” He shrugged and said, “You see

the Air Force said the UFOs were a hoax?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s bullshit.” He drummed his fingers on the X-ray table.

“How long do we have to wait, do you think?”

“Doyle seemed to believe the ambulance would be here shortly.”

“You know where it’s coming from?” Jenkins asked.

“No idea,” said Samson, and went silent.

“The kid with the dog bites was admitted? Jeff, his name is,” said Jenkins.

“Yes. Spink’s worried about shock, not just the bites on his

shoulder and thigh.”

There was a bang as the main doors were opened by a gurney

heading into the X-ray department, and less than a minute later,

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [261]

the gurney arrived at Room 5, an orderly pushing it with practiced speed. “You ready for him?”

Samson looked at the boy in his ruined Batman costume, his head

held in place by the neck collar the EMTs had put on him; though the room was dark, Samson could see the patient was badly injured. “We have to handle him carefully,” he told the orderly.

“I’m not a beginner,” the orderly said curtly. “The kid’s barely

conscious. Name’s Winston Bradley Harrison.”

Samson glanced at the papers clipped to the gurney. “Four foot

nine, eighty-seven pounds, broken bones for sure, possible skull

fracture.”

“So much for the obvious,” said Jenkins as he brought out the plastic foam bolsters to put the boy in place on the table. “Parents here?”

“Father. With Spink,” said the orderly. “Said it’s his custody

weekend. Mother lives in Easton; she’s driving in. Should be here in a couple of hours.”

Samson adjusted one of the bolsters, asking as he did, “Speaking

of here, is Flanders here yet?”

“Don’t think so,” said the orderly, handing a sheet to Jenkins to

sign. “Didn’t see her anywhere in the ER, nor Smith.”

Jenkins went into the control room where he kept his pen while

the orderly prepared to move out of Room 5. “Is there a bed for this kid?”

“Spink was arranging it as I brought him up,” said the orderly,

waiting for Jenkins to hand him the paper.

“Any orders beyond what’s on the paper?” Jenkins asked as he

emerged with the paper.

“Not that I know of,” said the orderly as he took the paper and got out of Room 5 and the X-ray department.

“Full body, spine, left arm, right shoulder, left knee-to-foot,”

Jenkins said. “I guess we better get started. I’ll need your help on this one.”

The boy coughed once, and foamy blood spread on his lips as he

began to spasm.

“Better tell Spink to hurry,” said Jenkins.

˜ ˜ ˜

[262] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

Things had slowed down a bit by ten-thirty, when Winston Harrison’s mother arrived, pale yet outwardly composed, and went in to see

Spink, leaving Samson to put himself at the service of whomever

might need an extra nurse, which is how Samson was one of the first to hear that there had been an accident and that Smith and Flanders had been involved.

“Are they all right?” Doyle asked the cop who had brought the

news. “Where are they?”

“They’re at the fourth precinct giving statements.”

“You mean they aren’t hurt?”

“They’re shaken up, but no blood showing,” said the cop.

Samson ambled over to the admissions desk. “What happened?”

The cop regarded him suspiciously. “And you are?”

“Samson. I’m a pediatric nurse; I often work with Flanders.” He

leaned against the counter, minimizing the impact of his size; it

worked with kids and it worked with the cop.

“Huh,” said the cop. “Well, Smith was driving, so the fault is hers, but Flanders says the guy—he was in a dark costume, something

like a wetsuit, but with a kind of
creature
head, something like a hadrosaur’s top-knot—stepped out from between two cars, where

the staff parks. There was a light, but it was out. We checked, and it was—had been for a couple of days.”

Samson was amused that the cop knew something about

dinosaurs, and decided he must have kids.

“Are you telling me that Smith ran into someone?” Doyle asked,

his voice rising half an octave.

“Looks that way. She was going pretty fast.” The cop shook his

head, going on as if he wanted to figure it out for himself. “The two women stayed with the guy after they called 9-1-1. They gave some

first aid, put a blanket over him, put a light bandage on his leg where it was bleeding, but didn’t move him. They were out on Golden Hills Country Club Road; they’d dropped off Smith’s kids for a party; her ex lives out there, in one of those yuppie mansions. Smith said they were running late so she was speeding. Says she didn’t see him at

all until the right front bumper tossed him in the air. They had real trouble getting bars enough to call 9-1-1. Flanders walked almost a CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [263]

mile before she could get through. And then dispatch took over an

hour to get an ambulance to them; there’re a lot of them busy picking up what’s left of the rioters, and it took more than half an hour to free one up to go get the guy in the costume. It’ll be coming in here in about twenty minutes. I can tell you right now, he’s gonna need X-rays and maybe surgery. You’ll have to undress him; that costume of his really is skintight and tough; the ladies didn’t want to mess with the costume. Really sophisticated. Probably cost a bundle. The EMTs didn’t want to try to cut it off him either.”

“Why?” Samson asked. “Because it’s expensive?”

“They wanted to move him as little as possible. He’s pretty banged up, and getting something that tight off—” The cop gave a sketchy salute.

“What was he doing out on Golden Hills Country Club Road?”

Doyle was baffled. “What’s out there for trick-or-treat?”

“That’s another thing,” the cop said. “The guy’s not a kid. Maybe a little short, but in good shape under his costume. Got real muscular legs, and thick arms. He could have been lost if he was looking for a private party, or he could have been up to no good—you know,

putting on a costume so he wouldn’t be noticed? It happens. There

are some pricey homes with some valuable things in them in that

development behind the country club. If the guy pulls through, we’ll have some questions for him.”

Doyle was still taken aback by this news, and so said nothing to

the cop as he turned to leave.

“Thanks,” said Samson, and decided not to interrupt Spink with

this news, not while Spink was explaining to Winston Harrison’s

parents the likelihood that their son had suffered brain damage and would need long-term therapy when he woke up, if he woke up at

all. Out of habit, he wandered into The Canteen, where four nurses were gathered in front of the TV, and made himself a cup of tea. He had just sat down away from the television when Wadley came into

the room, looking haggard.

“You hear about Smith and Flanders?” He saw Samson nod.

“Doyle just told me they hit someone driving in.”

“That’s what I heard,” Samson said.

“What an awful thing to happen.” Wadley poured some well-

[264] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

stewed coffee into a large mug. “I’m glad we’re on the down-slope

for our shift. We’ve admitted sixteen rioters so far, and treated fifty-three. I hope that’s the last of them.”

“You hope,” said Samson, remembering that they could be kept

over the end of their shifts if they were needed for an emergency.

“You’re on overtime already,” said Wadley. He, too, sat down,

choosing the chair opposite Samson, one that enabled him to watch