The Second Time Around (17 page)

T
he halls of the hospice wing of St. Ann's Hospital were softly carpeted, and the reception area was comfortable, with a windowed wall that looked out over a pond. There was an air of serenity and peace about the place, totally unlike the hospital's center building and the other wing where I'd visited Lynn.

The patients here arrived with the knowledge that they would not leave. They came to be relieved of their suffering, as much as was humanly possible, and to have a peaceful death surrounded by their loved ones and by dedicated people who would also be there to comfort those they were leaving behind.

The receptionist was surprised that I asked to see the director without an appointment, but she agreed, and there's no question that mentioning
Wall Street Weekly
will open doors. I was promptly escorted to the office of Dr. Katherine Clintworth, an attractive woman in her
early fifties who wore her sandy hair long and straight. Her eyes were her dominant feature—they were winter blue, the color of water on a sunny January day. She was dressed in a casual knit jacket and matching slacks.

By now my apology for unscheduled visits followed by my explanation that I was contributing to a cover story for
Wall Street Weekly
was well practiced. She dismissed it with a gesture of her hand.

“I'll be happy to answer your questions about Nicholas Spencer,” she said. “I admired him very much. As you can well understand, nothing would please us more than to have no need for hospices because cancer has been obliterated.”

“How long was Nicholas Spencer a volunteer here?” I asked.

“Since his wife Janet died over five years ago. Our staff could have taken care of her at home, but because she had a five-year-old child, she thought it better to come to us for those last ten days. Nick was very grateful for the help we were able to give, not only to Janet but to him, his son, and Janet's parents as well. A few weeks later he came back and offered his services to us.”

“It must have been pretty hard to schedule him, given how much he had to travel,” I suggested.

“He gave us a list of his available dates a couple of weeks ahead of time. We were always able to work around it. People liked Nick very much.”

“Then he was still a volunteer at the time of the plane crash?”

She hesitated. “No. Actually he hadn't been here for about a month.”

“Was there a reason for that?”

“I suggested that he needed to take time off. He seemed to be under tremendous pressure in the weeks before then.”

I could see that she was weighing her words carefully. “What
kind
of pressure?” I asked.

“He seemed nervous and high-strung. I told him that working on the vaccine all day and then coming here and working with patients who were begging him to try it on them was too heavy a psychological burden for him to carry.”

“Did he agree?”

“If he didn't agree, I would say that at least he understood. He went home that night and I never saw him again.”

The implication of what she was
not
saying hit me like a ton of bricks. “Dr. Clintworth,
did
Nicholas Spencer ever test his vaccine on a patient?”

“That would have been illegal,” she replied firmly. “That's not what I asked. Dr. Clintworth, I'm investigating the possibility that Nicholas Spencer may have met with foul play. Please be honest with me.”

She hesitated, then answered. “I am convinced that he gave the vaccine to one person here. In fact, I'm positive he did, even though that patient won't admit it. There is someone else who I believe received it, but that, too, has been emphatically denied.”

“What happened to the person you're certain received the vaccine?”

“He's gone home.”

“He's
cured?
”

“No, but I understand he has had a spontaneous remission. The progression of the disease has slowed dramatically, which does happen, but only rarely.”

“Are you following up on his progress or lack of it?”

“As I said, he has not admitted that he received the vaccine from Nicholas Spencer, if indeed he did.”

“Will you tell me who he is?”

“I can't do that. It would be a violation of his privacy.”

I fished for another card and gave it to her. “Would you mind asking that patient to contact me?”

“I will, but I'm very sure you won't hear from him.”

“What about the other patient?” I asked.

“That one is only a suspicion on my part, and I cannot confirm it. And now, Ms. DeCarlo, I have a meeting to attend. If you want something from me to quote about Nicholas Spencer, this is my statement: “He was a good man, and driven by a noble purpose. If he somehow got lost along the way, I am sure it was not for selfserving reasons.”

H
is hand was throbbing so much that Ned couldn't think of anything but the pain. He tried soaking it in ice water and putting butter on it, but neither helped. Then, at ten of ten, Monday night, just before closing time, he went to the hole-in-the-wall drugstore near where he lived and headed to the section where over-the-counter burn medications were displayed. He picked out a couple that sounded as if they might do the job.

Old Mr. Brown, the owner, was just locking up the pharmacy. The only other employee there was Peg, the cashier, a nosy woman who loved to gossip. Ned didn't want her to see how bad his hand looked, so he put the ointments in one of the little baskets that were stacked at the entrance, hooked it over his left arm, and had his money ready in his left hand. The right one he kept in his pocket. The bandage on it was
messy even though he had already changed it twice that day.

There were a couple of people on line ahead of him, and as he waited, he shifted from one foot to the other. Damn hand, he thought. It wouldn't have been burned, and Annie wouldn't be dead, if he hadn't sold the house in Greenwood Lake and put all their money in that phony Gen-stone company, he told himself. When he wasn't thinking about Annie and picturing those last minutes—her crying and hitting his chest with her fists, then running from the house, followed by the sound of the car smashing into the garbage truck—he thought of the people he hated, and what he would do to them. The Harniks and Mrs. Schafley and Mrs. Morgan and Lynn Spencer and Carley DeCarlo.

His fingers hadn't hurt much when the fire caught him, but now they were so swollen that the slightest pressure hurt them. Unless they got better, he wouldn't be able to hold his rifle straight or even pull the trigger.

Ned watched as the man ahead of him picked up his package. As soon as the man moved, he put his basket and a twenty-dollar bill down on the counter and looked away as Peg totaled his items.

He thought about how he knew he should go to the emergency room and get a doctor to look at the burn, but he was afraid to do that. He could hear what the doctor might ask him: “What happened? Why did you let this go so long?” These were questions he didn't want to deal with.

If he told them Dr. Ryan at St. Ann's had treated it, they might ask why he hadn't gone to have him look at
it again when it wasn't getting better. Maybe he should go to an urgent care place somewhere, like in Queens or New Jersey or Connecticut, he decided.

“Hey, Ned, wake up.”

He looked back at the cashier. He had never liked Peg. Her eyes were too close together; she had heavy black brows and black hair with gray roots—she made him think of a squirrel. She was annoyed just because he hadn't noticed that she'd taken his ointments and put them in a bag and had his change ready. She was holding out his change in one hand and the bag in the other, and she was frowning.

He reached for the bag with his left hand and, without thinking, pulled his right hand out of his pocket and held it out for the change, then watched as Peg stared at the bandage.

“My God, Ned. What were you doing, playing with matches? That hand's a mess,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”

Ned cursed himself for letting her see it. “I burned it cooking,” he said, sullenly. “I never had to cook before Annie died. I went to the doctor in the hospital where Annie used to work. He said to come back in a week. It's gonna be a week tomorrow.”

Immediately he realized what he had done. He had told Peg that he saw a doctor last Tuesday, and that was something he hadn't meant to say. He knew that Annie used to talk to Peg when she bought stuff at the drugstore. She said Peg wasn't really nosy; she was just curious in a friendly kind of way. Annie, who had been raised in a small town near Albany, said that there was
a lady in the drugstore there who knew everybody's business and that Peg reminded her of that woman.

What else had Annie told Peg? About losing the Greenwood Lake house? About all the money he'd put in Gen-stone? About how he would drive Annie past Spencer's mansion in Bedford and promise her that she would have a home like that someday?

Peg was staring at him. “Why don't you show your hand to Mr. Brown?” she asked. “He might have something better than this stuff to give you.”

He stared back at her. “I said I'm seeing the doctor in the morning.”

Peg had a funny look on her face. It reminded him of the way the Harniks and Mrs. Schafley had looked at him. It was a look of fear. Peg was afraid of him. Was she afraid of him because she was thinking about all the things that Annie had told her about the house and the money and driving past the Spencer mansion, and because she had put it all together and figured out that he was the one who set the fire?

She looked flustered. “Oh, that's good that you're seeing a doctor tomorrow.” Then she said, “I miss Annie coming in, Ned. I know how much you must miss her.” She looked past him. “Ned, sorry, but I have to take care of Garret.”

Ned realized there was a young fellow standing behind him. “Sure, sure you do, Peg,” he said, and moved aside.

He had to go. He couldn't just stand there. But something had to be done.

He went outside and got into the car, immediately
reaching into the backseat and taking the rifle from under the blanket on the floor. Then he waited. From where he was parked he had a clear view of the interior of the store. As soon as that guy Garret left, Peg emptied the cash register and gave the receipts to Mr. Brown. Then she rushed around, turning out the lights in the rest of the store.

If she was going to call the cops, she apparently was going to wait until she got home to do it. Maybe she'd talk it over with her husband first, he thought.

Mr. Brown and Peg came out of the store together. Mr. Brown said good night and walked around the corner. Peg started walking quickly the other way, toward the bus stop down the block. Ned saw that the bus was coming. He watched her run to catch it, but she reached it too late. She was standing alone at the bus stop when he drove up, stopped, and opened the door. “I'll drive you home, Peg,” he offered.

He saw the look on her face again, only this time she was really scared. “Oh, that's all right, Ned. I'll just wait. It won't be long.” She looked around, but there was no one nearby.

He threw open the door, jumped out of the car, and grabbed her. His hand hurt when he slapped it on her mouth to keep her from screaming, but he managed to hold on. With his left hand he twisted her arm, dragged her into the car, and shoved her on the floor of the front seat. He locked the car doors as he took off.

“Ned, what's the matter? Please, Ned, what are you doing?” she wailed. She was on the floor of the car, holding her head where it had hit the dashboard.

He held the rifle in one hand, pointing it down at her.

“I don't want you to tell anyone that I was playing with matches.”

“Ned, why would I tell anyone?” She was starting to cry.

He headed toward the picnic area in the county park.

Forty minutes later he was home. It had hurt his finger and hand when he pulled the trigger, but he hadn't missed. He'd been right. It was just like shooting squirrels.