Sisterhood (36 page)

“Will you calm down,” he panted. “She’s fine. She’s all right.” He started the motor. She was probably in Dr. Armstrong’s office right now, or even with Dockerty. All he had to do was cool down and get to Boston in one piece.

He glanced over at the revolver and thought about Rosetti’s admonition to him. How had he put it? Do it unto others if you even think they’re gonna do it unto you? Something like that. David shuddered, then cradled the gun in his hands. Had Joey died because he didn’t have the revolver when he needed it? The possibility
drained away what little spirit David had left. All that remained was anger. Anger and a consuming hatred. He would find Vincent, or whoever had murdered Joey. He would find them and either kill them or die trying. He clenched one hand, then squeezed it with the other until it hurt. Finally he worked the jeep into reverse and started down the driveway.

Concern for Christine diluted his anger with a sense of urgency. He tried accelerating, but the carburetor, choked on dust and sand, flooded. The idea occurred to him that a perfect thank-you gift for Joey would have been a tune-up and alignment for the jeep.

Would have been
. David shook his head helplessly, then glanced at the watch Joey had given him. It was after nine. Above, the frail overcast was showing the first signs of surrender to the autumn sun. He forced himself to loosen up and restarted the engine. By the time he reached the ocean road, he had mastered a rhythm of shifting and acceleration that was acceptable to the relic. His thoughts returned to Christine. Perhaps he should have called the police. If she didn’t have too great a start, at least they could detain her long enough for him to catch up. But who—the state police? Would she be upset if he involved them before she was ready? He turned the notion over in his mind. He had decided to stop at the first phone booth when he saw the flashing lights and barriers of a roadblock ahead.

A battered maroon pickup truck in front of him was struggling through a U-turn, its grizzled driver mouthing obscenities. David leaned out of the jeep and called to him.

“Hey, what’s going on up there?”

“Eh?” The man stopped the truck obliquely across the road, still several maneuvers from a complete U.

“Up ahead, what’s happened?” David tried again, this time shouting.

“Accident. Bad one too, damn it.” The old man’s
tone left no doubt that he was taking the inconvenience personally. “Two cars over the side. One they just hauled up. One’s comin’ from way at the bottom. Fifteen, twenty minutes more, they said. Probably be an hour, the way Mac Perkins works that old tow rig of his.”

Uneasiness took hold as David strained to see past the truck. “Did you see either of the cars involved?” he asked too softly.

“Eh?”

David groaned. “The cars,” he yelled. “Did you see either … Oh, never mind. Could I get by, please?”

“Sure, but you ain’t goin’ nowhere. An’ there’s no need for you to go snappin’ about it neither.” All at once David’s questions registered. “The cars, you say? Did I see the cars?” Totally exasperated, David nodded. “Only the little blue one,” the man called out. “Smashed to smithereens it is, too.”

David’s hands knotted on the wheel. A sinking terror deepened inside him. He closed his eyes while the old man worked his pickup out of the way. In that instant the photolike image of another accident appeared in his mind. The rain, the lights, Becky’s and Ginny’s faces, even their screams. He wanted to open his eyes, to end the horror, but he knew that when he did only a new nightmare awaited. He had no doubt that the blue car the old man had seen was Christine’s.

“Mister, road’s closed. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn around.”

David whirled toward the voice. It was a state trooper, tall and thin, with a high schooler’s face that made him look slightly ridiculous in his authoritative blue uniform. Before David could respond, his gaze swung past the spot where the truck had been to the cluster of police cars, tow trucks, and ambulances ahead. In the midst of them, resting on flattened tires, was the shattered, twisted wreck of Christine’s Mustang.

“Mister? …” The young trooper’s voice held some concern.

David’s face was ashen. “I … I know the woman who was driving that car,” he said in a remote, hollow voice. “She was my … friend.”

“Mister, are you all right?” When David did not answer, the trooper called down the road, “Gus, send one of the paramedics over here. I think this guy’s gonna pass out or something.” He opened the door of the jeep. As he did, David pushed past him and began a hobbling run toward the car, oblivious to the salvos of pain from his ankle. He stumbled the last five yards and hit heavily against the door. Gasping, he stretched his arms across the roof and held on. The car was empty. The windshield was blown out, and the engine had been smashed backward, nearly to the front seat. An ugly brown swatch of blood stood out against the soft blue seat cover.

“God damn it,” he cried softly. “God damn it … God damn it!” Louder and louder until he was screaming.

Several men rushed toward him just as the trooper took his arm.

“Mister, please calm down,” he said in more of a plea than an order. He led David to the side of the road and helped him lean against the trunk of a half-dead birch.

After a minute, David managed to speak. “Wh … where’s her body?” he stammered.

“What?”

“Her body, damn it,” he screamed. “Where have they taken it?”

The young man broke into a relieved grin. “Mister, there isn’t any body. No dead one, I mean. Not from this car anyway.”

David sank to one knee and stared up at him.

“Passerby found the lady wanderin’ down the road,” the trooper explained. “Pretty battered up, with a nasty
cut or two, and probably a broken arm, but nowheres near dead. Now, can you calm down enough to tell me who you are?”

Kensington Community Hospital, a twenty-minute drive according to the trooper, took thirty-five in the jeep. David had stayed at the accident scene for a short while, learning what he could. Christine’s survival was miraculous. A couple had come upon her, bloodied and incoherent, wandering along the road. Later the rescue team found her Mustang wedged upside down against a tree fifty feet down the rocky slope and nearly half a mile from where she was picked up.

David remained long enough to watch with total dispassion as Leonard Vincent’s mangled corpse was pried from his car and transferred to an ambulance. He left during the commotion that followed discovery in the wreckage of a silenced revolver and a variety of knives. Throughout his drive to the hospital he sensed renewed hatred building—hatred no longer directed at Leonard Vincent, but at those who had hired him.

The hospital was fairly new and very small—fifty beds or less, David guessed. He paused momentarily inside the front door, trying to develop some feel for the place. The lobby was deserted save for the ubiquitous salmon-coated volunteer behind the desk, rearranging the contents of her purse. To her right an impressive brass board listed the two dozen or so physicians on the hospital staff. Beside each name was a small amber bulb that the physician could switch on when he was “in the house.” Only one had a glowing amber light. No one could accuse Kensington Community Hospital of being overstaffed, he thought sardonically.

The emergency wing was labeled with black paste-on letters above a set of automatic doors. As they slid shut behind him, David heard the volunteer say, “Can I
help you, sir?” He shook his head without bothering to look back.

The physician on duty, an Indian woman with dark, tired eyes, met him hallway down the corridor. She wore a light orange sari beneath her clinic coat and had a White Memorial Hospital name tag that identified her as Dr. T. Ranganathan.

“Excuse me,” David said anxiously, “my name is David Shelton. I’m a surgeon at Boston Doctors. A friend of mine, Christine Beall, was brought in here a short time ago?”

“Ah, yes, the automobile accident,” she said in sterile English. “I saw her only briefly before Dr. St. Onge arrived and … ah … took over the case. She has a fractured wrist and possibly some fractured ribs on the left side. Also two scalp lacerations. However, at the time Dr. St. Onge dismissed me she seemed in no immediate danger. You will find her in there.” She pointed at one of the rooms.

In addition to St. Onge, three others were in the room with Christine—an orderly, the lab technician, and a second nurse. David ignored them all and rushed to the examining table. “Dr. St. Onge, I’m Dr. David Shelton,” he said looking only at Christine. She was lying on her side, sterile drapes over her head. A large patch of hair had been shaved away from her left ear. The drapes surrounded an ugly, three-inch gash that was nearly sutured shut.

“David?” Christine’s voice was the empty whimper of a lost child.

He knelt by the table a safe distance from the sterile field. “Yeah, hon, it’s me.” The reassurance in his voice belied the anger and sadness inside him. “You’re doin’ fine. A few dents, but you’re doin’ just fine.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she said weakly. The few words were all she could manage.

“And who the hell are you?” St. Onge was obviously
not satisfied with David’s introduction. He was a heavy man, barrel-chested with thick hands. His tan was still midsummer dark and his clothes custom made. David guessed him to be about fifty.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, backing off a step. “My name is Shelton, David Shelton. I’m on the surgical staff at Boston Doctors. Christine is a … close friend.”

“Well, right now she’s my patient,” St. Onge growled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t take too kindly to someone barging in on your work. Even if he was a fellow surgeon.”

David swallowed what he really wanted to say, backed off another step, and mumbled, “I’m sorry. Could you tell me how she is?”

St. Onge rummaged through his set of instruments, found a needle holder, and returned to the cut.

“She has another gash I’ve already closed above this one. She’s got a busted arm that Stan Keyes will probably have to reduce in the operating room. That is, providing he doesn’t capsize and drown in that stupid regatta he’s racing in today.”

David tightened. “Is he the only orthopedist available?”

“Yup. But don’t worry. Fortunately, he’s a damn sight better orthopedic surgeon than he is a sailor.” St. Onge chuckled. “The arm will keep until he gets back.”

David turned his attention to the bank of four X-ray view boxes on the wall across from the litter and studied the views taken of Christine’s chest, abdomen, ribs, forearm, and skull. The forearm fracture was a bad one, with multiple fragments, but fortunately did not involve the joint space. The function of her hand would likely be unimpaired. He thought about the superb orthopedic staff at Boston Doctors and began wondering if a transfer there would be possible.

St. Onge finished Suturing the laceration as David was snapping the four films of Christine’s skull into place. The man whipped off his gloves with a flourish,
letting them fall to the floor. “Use one of my standard head-injury order sheets, Tammy,” he said. “Keyes will probably want to transfer her to his service anyway when he does the wrist. Any questions, Dr.…”

“Shelton,” David said icily, brushing past him and kneeling by Christine. The sterile drape had been discarded and David could appreciate for the first time the extent of the battering she had absorbed. Despite some attempt to clean her up, patches of dried, cracking blood still remained over her face and neck. Almost the entire left side of her scalp had been shaved, exposing the two angry gashes. Tiny diamonds of glass sparkled throughout what hair remained. Her upper lip was the size and color of a small plum.

“Christine,” he said softly. “How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, David …” Her words were agonized, tearless sobs. David’s fists tightened against his thighs.

“Dr. St. Onge, has a radiologist gone over her films?” He rose with deliberate slowness and turned toward the man.

“Why, no. The radiologist has left for the day. On call, if necessary, but I didn’t see any reason to call him in for findings as obvious as …”

“Excuse me, miss,” David cut in, “could I have an otoscope please. And, while you’re at it, an ophthalmoscope.” The woman had a bemused expression on her face as she handed the instruments over. St. Onge was speechless.

David slipped the otoscope tip in Christine’s left ear. At that moment St. Onge found his tongue. “Now you just wait one goddamn minute,” he said. “That woman is still my patient, and if you …”

“No!” David snarled the word. “
You
wait one goddamn minute. This woman is being transferred to Boston.”

“Why you have your fucking nerve!” St. Onge was
crimson. “Ill have you up before the medical board for this, big city credentials and all.”

“Do that, please,” David begged. The marginal control he had maintained disappeared completely. “And while we’re there, we’ll ask why you were too arrogant to call in a radiologist to look at these films. We’ll ask why you missed the basilar skull fracture in two of the views. We’ll also ask how you overlooked the blood behind her left eardrum caused by that fracture. Okay?” The silence in the room was painful. He lowered his voice and turned to the nurses. “Could one of you call an ambulance for us, please?”

The nurse, Tammy, hesitated, then with an unmistakable glint in her eye said, “Yes, Doctor,” and rushed out. St. Onge looked apoplectic.

David turned to the remaining nurse. “I’m going to need some meds and equipment for the trip. I’ll send the stuff back with the ambulance. Meanwhile, could you hang a Ringer’s lactate I.V., please? Fifty cc’s per hour.”

“I’ll have your ass for this, Shelton.” St. Onge hissed each word, then stalked away.

David used the phone at the nurses’ station to call Dr. Armstrong. As he was dialing, he heard giggles and a muted cheer from the staff in Christine’s room.

“David, I’ve been worried sick about you,” Dr. Armstrong said. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Armstrong. Really,” he said. “But Christine Beall isn’t. Do you remember her? A nurse on Four South?”