Thirteen West (15 page)

She heard him move and, when she saw his dim outline rise until he stood beside her bed, she caught her breath.

"Sally," he said softly, "I'm very attracted to you. I'd like us to have some kind of relationship."

"Please go." Her voice trembled as she spoke.

He sighed. "I'm sorry I frightened you, but I can't help how I feel any more than you can. Good night."

Her breath whooshed out when she realized he was actually leaving. Not until she heard the front door open and close, though, did she stumble out to put on the chain, returning to collapse onto her bed, shaking all over. Fragments of thoughts tumbled in her mind. Rape? She'd never been raped. What did he mean? Attracted to her? How could she ever bear to face him at work?

Eventually the trembling ceased and she began to relax. Poor David. He'd been so embarrassed. Humiliated, even, the word Frank had used. She hadn't meant for that to happen. What she'd wanted to do was help him and he'd wanted that too. They liked one another. When he kissed her he'd seemed to be aroused, but then...

With Em it had been so easy, why did Em have to get uptight and jealous? She'd never been afraid of Em, not even that last horrible night with the gun. She wasn't afraid of David, either. Frank was a different matter altogether. David and that man. J. Bates. What she'd been told about what went on between men seemed disgusting to her. How could David bear to—to do it with him like that? Or maybe J. Bates was the one who—

No, she didn't want to think about it. She wouldn't.

No matter what David did or didn't do, she liked him.

Laura Jean with her nightmares—the lab had proved they were nightmares, wasn't that true? Nobody would force a patient to have sex, not a person trained to help the mentally ill. There'd been no sperm. Surely a man wouldn't be cold-blooded enough to plan ahead of time, to bring condoms to work with him so he could do it to Laura Jean and not get caught. That was worse than sick. They wouldn't hire anyone like that.

God, what awful thoughts. It was all Frank's fault for coming here uninvited and unsettling her. She'd never fainted before….except in those childhood tantrums her mother used to tell her about. She didn't remember them, had outgrown them by the time she was eight and they'd moved west. She wondered why her mother had moved. Maybe she ought to recall why, but she didn't.

* * *

Barry Jacobs drove back from
Jade
Beach
with the moonlight turning the blacktop in to a pale river where he felt he was heading upstream, away from where the current should be taking him. Away from the ocean, away from
Alma
and back to Luba.

He'd told Luba he was on call these last two nights, but she was so involved with her own internal maunderings that she hardly listened. Did she even care? Why did he bother to lie to her?

He thought of
Alma
's smooth skin, the lemon fragrance that intoxicated him. He couldn't go on like this, something would have to be done about Luba. He was beginning to wish her dead.

* * *

Simpson Jones lay awake in the moonlight and waited for Macardit. Calm now, no longer struggling against his bonds, he waited for the black form to appear and claim him, possess him so they would be as one. Three in one. He, the white girl and Macardit.

He'd seen the Black One take the girl, entering into her by sexual union and had been afraid and worshipful at the same time. While he'd struggled with opposite urges to run or prostrate himself, Macardit had snarled and waved him away. Simpson was sure he'd be dead by now if the Black God had turned those terrible red eyes on him. Macardit hadn't, which meant Simpson E. Jones must be patient, for his choosing would come at another time.

Would it be now? Had he been tied for the sacrifice? "Aiee, Great Black One," he called softly. "I await you." He began an ancient chant, one of his grandmother's, made up of words he'd never understood until now when their glory shone like the full moon.

Time for the sacrifice.

* * *

 
W.W. Weebles took a green sleeping pill every night about ten. He knew it was chloral hydrate, really the way people acted in this place—as though one was an utter fool. A half hour after he swallowed the capsule he was asleep for the night. Usually.

He woke suddenly, thinking someone had called his name. But as he waited, listening, he realized he'd been roused by the old black man they called the Preacher, shouting from another room.

W.W. sighed and turned over, closing his eyes, trying to blot out the sound.

"...blessed are those who wash their robes...the river of the water of life, bright as crystal—precious fruit of the earth—I am poured out like water—my heart is like wax...my strength is dried up like a potsherd...dogs are round about me...I can count all my bones..."

Dogs around me is right, W.W. told himself, hoping the man would run down soon. Despite its hoarseness, the Preacher's voice continued, now and then rising to a shriek. "Macardit!"

W.W. opened his eyes and sat up. Really, this was too much. A rustling came from the other bed in his room, from the poor wretch who slept there. W.W. glanced at him, quickly averting his eyes. Ghastly. Jay-Jay was all twisted in one of his seizures, blood oozing from his mouth. The bed rattled with the intensity of the attack.

"I can't be expected to remain in this room," W.W. said aloud and rose. His door was never locked. He opened it and eased into the corridor. No one was about so he slipped quietly down the hall and into the men's bathroom where he perched uneasily on one of the toilets. Not the best arrangement but he knew some of the help were sleeping in the day room.

How would his letter best be begun? Dear Pat? Or the aloof approach, Honorable Sir? The latter would better indicate his considerable annoyance with conditions here.

* * *

Sven Taterson covered his head with a pillow but the hoarse chant of the Preacher came through. He decided to get up and try to scrounge another sleeping pill from Joe Thompson. He shivered in the night chill of the ward and reached into his clothes cupboard for the green jacket Harry had traded him, slipping it on as he opened the door.

In the corridor the Preacher's chant was louder.

"...he took a knife and...divided her...into twelve pieces..."

* * *

In the other bed in Tate's room, alarm shrilled inside Dolph Benning. The words that flowed about him were no longer safe. He opened his eyes and slowly uncurled.

"...and they cried aloud and cut themselves...till the blood gushed out..."

Dolph raised his head and looked about apprehensively. Where was he? Who was speaking of knives and blood? Danger! Hearing footsteps approach, he cowered in the bed.

"Okay, Tate, try again," Joe Thompson said. "I'll see what I can do to hush up old Simp." He stooped at the door as Tate reentered his room.

Tate took off the jacket and tossed it on the bed before climbing under the covers. "Wasn't ever like this on Twelve East," he grumbled.

"I'll see what I can do," Joe repeated, closing the door to the room.

Tate. Knives. Blood. Dolph's heart pounded in his chest. Someone was in the room with him, he could hear the breathing. He shifted cautiously until he could see another bed. The man pretended to sleep but Dolph knew better.

* * *

"Hey, Simp, let's have a little quiet. What's the matter with you?" Joe stood over the spread-eagled man.

Didn't sound like Macardit. Simpson focused his eyes with an effort.

"If you don't quiet down I'll have to teach you how. You know what I mean, Simp? Shut up, now."

A man in white. A white man. Simpson blinked. Wrong. "...let fire come down...and consume you..." he intoned.

Joe hesitated, his head swimming with fatigue. Too early by a couple of hours for another dose of Thorazine.

The way Simp was going, he sure needed it now. Could choke him out but he'd probably come to chanting so that wouldn't do a hell of a lot of good. Shoot him with the stuff now, then chart it as if given when it was due sounded like a better idea.

Better make rounds now on the way back to the nursing station, at least on this side of the ward. Willie could do the other side after he woke him up.

In the day room, Willie Rhone sat up, yawning. "How's it going?" he asked, then stood, stretching. From the chair in the corner, Zenda snored loudly.

"I checked the even side," Joe said. "Don't give Simp any more Thorazine, he's ahead as it is. Tate got an extra chloral hydrate."

"Yeah, okay."

Joe dropped into his usual setup of chairs. "Take it easy," he said, closing his eyes.

Willie slanted a look back over his shoulder. What was that for? Old Joe warning him off?

Down the odd side. All asleep, even little old Laura Jean. Dreaming about him and here he was. Wasn't she lucky. Standing by her door, Willie hesitated. Maybe he should walk on down and check the rest, give Joe a chance to go under good. He glanced again at Laura Jean, blond hair streaming across her pillow. Aw, shit, do her first. He needed it.

He inserted a key in the mop closet door next to her room and took out a folding step stool. Carrying it inside, he climbed up and removed the protective cover over the lights, then partially unscrewed first the unlit bulb, then the dimmer bulb of the night light. Darkness shrouded the room. He eased the door shut, scooped Laura Jean from the bed and laid her on the floor next to the wall, yanking off her pants. She moaned, but when he spread her legs apart they were limp and she made no resistance.

"You little cunt," he whispered, "you like it, don't you?"

Chapter Twelve

In the room W.W had vacated, Jorge Jiminez, Jay-Jay, choked and stopped breathing as he arched into another grand mal seizure. Almost a minute passed before he sucked in air and it rattled in his chest.

* * *

Dolph raised himself on one elbow, his gaze never leaving the man in the next bed. Who was he? If he really was sleeping, this was a chance to escape before the knife appeared. Dolph sat up and put his legs over the edge of the bed. When he stood he staggered backward in sudden dizziness. Chill air struck his bare legs and he shivered, for the first time realizing all he had on was one of those hospital gowns that tied in the back. He didn't understand why.

Damn, he was cold. He stared at the man in the other bed and noticed a jacket lying at the foot. Green. Wonderingly, he picked it up and examined it, turning it over in his hands.

My jacket. They had my jacket. That man had it, the bastard. He clutched it to him. Where was Vera? Ron? He looked about the room. Hospital? He couldn't be sure. A dim memory of driving with Ron in the pickup came to him. A bottle. He'd hidden a bottle. He sat down on the bed and fumbled at the zip pocket of the jacket, forgetting the man in the other bed.

* * *

Margaret Flowers eased herself onto her feet. The floor was cold and uncomfortable but she had to use the bathroom. She hadn't slept at all well with that man shouting all those disjointed Bible verses. He was quieter now, though she could hear him muttering once she stepped into the hall.

My, the floor was like ice! Her warm booties were under her pillow, that young nurse—Sally, wasn't it?—had bought them for her. A thoughtful girl. But her bare feet had better purchase on the floor than with the booties on. If she wore them to walk around in, she might slip and a fall could mean a broken hip. These hospital floors were slippery even with shoes on. She couldn't afford to risk a broken bone. That's why she so often used the wheelchair.