Thirteen West (29 page)

He blinked.

Feeling she'd found the way to go, Sally added, "You picked the wrong girl, David. That's the real mistake."

"I never thought of it that way."

I can't keep this up, she thought. Too little with David; too much with Frank. She felt hysterical laughter rise in her.

"I need to pee," Laura Jean said, startling them both.

"She's talking again!" Sally exclaimed.

"Some first words," David commented.

* * *

In his room, Tate pulled out the jacket and slipped his hand inside to unzip the pocket. He'd get under the covers and...
 
What the hell? He shook the bottle. Empty? Impossible. He unscrewed the top and tilted it over his mouth. A few drops trickled out, no more.

Damn that Dolph! Tate sat on the bed and contemplated the empty bottle morosely. He couldn't even complain to anyone.

After a time he got up. Had to ditch the damn dead soldier—wouldn't do for them to find it in his possession. His thought had been, when he finished the bottle, to stash the empty back in the zip pocket and wear the jacket outside tomorrow and get rid of the bottle on the grounds. But maybe they weren't going to let him go out tomorrow. And what if they found Dolph drunk tonight? Might do a ward shakedown. Shit.

No good hiding place in the room and they kept an eagle eye on the bathrooms—always knew who went in and how much time he took. Too hard to get at the locked up trash containers and the dirty linen bags were already off the ward.

Maybe he could sneak the bottle back into Dolph's room without anybody spotting him. Wouldn't do to be caught pussyfooting around. They'd put two and two together on account of that lousy day tech reporting him. Hope to hell his balls rot off.

Tate slipped the bottle inside an outer pocket of the jacket and put it on over his pajamas. Just an innocent stroll to the bathroom with the jacket to keep off the chill. He started down the hall.

"...thither shall ye bring your burnt offerings, and your sacrifices..."

Tate jerked back, startled as the Preacher came out of his room, eyes staring, his lips foam-flecked.

"Beware!" he exhorted. "The hour approacheth..."

One of the techs was sure to pop up to collar the Preacher. Tate hesitated, then darted into the Preacher's room. He flicked a glance at Jacko. In bed with his back to Tate—good. He slid the bottle under the mussed covers of the empty bed, then hurried back to his own room. Best he could do. At least no one had seen him except the Preacher, who never made sense anyway.

* * *

David led the Preacher back to his room, warning, "You stay here or next time you'll wind up four-pointed— understand?"

Simpson lay down and drew up the covers. The time was not yet. He must wait.

I'll go back to school, David told himself as he left the room. When I get my RN things'll be different. I will do it. He touched the side of his face and grimaced.

* * *

"I'm sorry I'm late," Sally said to the Duchess. "I'm slow tonight."

"That's quite all right, dear," Margaret said. "I know you wouldn't forget me. You're not that kind of person. In many ways you remind me of Richard—so gentle, so caring. I hope someday you'll be able to meet him."

"Oh, but..." Sally's words trailed off.

"But what, dear?"

Sally took a deep breath. Frank had advised her not to tell the Duchess but after what had happened, why should she believe anything he'd said? He was wrong. She knew he was. "I—I tried to call Richard for you," she told the Duchess.

Margaret sat up very straight. "And who told you that you might do so, if I may ask?"

"Well, I—I wanted to help you," Sally faltered.

"I consider it interference. You had no right—"

"But I wanted to help you!" Sally cried. "I'm sorry I made the call because now I have to tell you what I found out."

"I don't wish to know." The Duchess had never sounded more imperious.

"You don't understand—" Sally began.

"I'll thank you to leave my room immediately!"

"But I have to tell you Richard is—he's no longer alive. I talked to his sister and—"

"Richard has no sister. You obviously made a terrible mistake. Snoopers usually do."

"I wasn't—I didn't—please, you must listen to—"

Margaret put her hands over her ears. "I've heard too much from you already. To think I considered you a friend. Get out of my room. Out!"

Sally retreated. I shouldn't have said anything, she thought as she went to find
Alma
. The Duchess will never forgive me. Tears sprang to her eyes. Everything I do is wrong.

* * *

At the nurses' station Connie was speaking Spanish into the phone. Her face was strained. Her fingers clutched the instrument tensely.

"Immediatamente," she said and hung up without saying goodbye.

"It's my baby," she told
Alma
. "Maria's only five. Ramon—my husband—says she's out of her head with fever. I told him to call the doctor but he—well, he wants me there. I told him to give her the fever medicine, but..."

"Do you want to go home?"
Alma
asked.

Connie hesitated, glancing at the clock. "I think I'd better," she said finally. "Ramon may have trouble getting a doctor this late and that emergency room is always busy."

"Everything's quiet—why don't you leave? Lew can make your last rounds. No point I can see in waiting and worrying."

"Thank you." Connie hurried into the lounge to get her coat and purse.

Alma
turned to Sally, who'd been hovering. "That's the trouble with having kids. Problems. I don't think I could stand any more problems than I already have."

"I—I've made the Duchess angry and she won't let me help her to bed," Sally told her.

Alma
raised her eyebrows. "You? What on earth happened? I thought you were her confidante."

"I told her Richard was dead."

"You did what?"

"She gave me his full name, well, not gave me exactly—I coaxed it out of her. So when I was off yesterday I called information in
L.A.
and—anyway, he's dead. The Duchess refused to believe me. She thinks I made a mistake. But how many Richard Ardith Szolds could there be?"

"The mistake you made was telling her,"
Alma
said. "Why didn't you ask me first?"

"I'm sorry," Sally said, tears filling her eyes again. "I—I asked Frank and he said don't tell her. I shouldn't have. I don't seem to do anything right."

"I'll look in on her,"
Alma
said. "She may need a sleeping pill."

* * *

Crawford shut the door to his apartment and threw himself on the bed. Christ, he'd been running his tail off since eight this morning. All those extra wards and every damn one with a problem. Then he'd hardly had a chance to sit down to supper when Ten East called about some woman who'd drank a bottle of hydrogen peroxide—what the hell was it doing where she could reach it?

So he'd had to talk to poison control and it took an hour to wash her out, always a nasty mess.

By the time he'd finished, C West had called about a non-epileptic patient with a fever and convulsions. Good thing he'd decided to take a look at the kid. A subdural hematoma. Of course, no one admitted to having seen the boy fall. Had to ship him out for possible brain surgery. Surgery to save a gork who'd be better off dead, for Chrissake. But old Nellie got uptight at a death, so no choice.

"I don't want to be called again unless someone is actually dying," he'd told Frank Kent. "Pass that along to the night supervisor, if you please. Tell him to sit on anything until morning."

Get some sleep. He'd still have half Barry's wards tomorrow and he'd promised
Taylor
a tennis game.

Crawford glanced at his watch. Almost twenty-three hundred hours. He got up and changed into pajamas, but when he flipped the light off and slid under the covers he couldn't relax. His muscles felt like someone had hooked him up to the ECT box—in tonic contracture.

He let the thought of a Seconal drift across his mind. Though he wouldn't even feel one, it might blunt the tension so he'd slide under. Maybe two? Not Nembutal, he'd be too groggy if he got called later.

No, don't think about being called. Everything that's going to happen tonight already has. Take the barbs. Sleep. Crawford rose and plucked the flowers from the copper pitcher.

* * *

Alma
returned to the nurses' station after soothing the Duchess into bed and insisting she take a chloral hydrate to help her sleep. She sat down to finish the charting but heard noises from the lounge and sighed. Why did Sally have to pick tonight for her emotional overflow? With Connie leaving early, they were already one short and she was in no mood to comfort anyone. Nor did she have time.

Frowning, she got up and went into the lounge.

David was standing awkwardly over the sobbing Sally, collapsed onto the settee.

"I don't know what's wrong with her," he told
Alma
, obviously relieved to see someone else. "Maybe you can find out."

"Make her rounds, will you, please, David,"
Alma
said. "I'll take over here."

David went out and she bent over to lay her hand on Sally's shoulder. "Why don't you let me give you something?" she asked. "A Valium might help."

* * *

David walked down the hall, looking into each room.

Most of the patients were asleep—Laura Jean, Dolph, even the Preacher had his eyes closed. He met Lew at the far end of the ward.

"Don't go in the lounge," he advised. "Sally's all upset."

"Heard she went out with Frank," Lew said. "Surprised the hell out of me."

"Frank and Sally?"

"Yeah—when you were off. Never knew old Frank to take up with anyone from here. Or any girl, for that matter. You talk to her a lot—what's she really like?"

"Sally's okay," David mumbled.

Frank Kent of all people, he thought. Did they—had Frank made it with her? Frank was a big guy—hung, too, you could tell. Conscious of a stir of desire, he turned away from Lew.

"Got to finish rounds," he said.

* * *

David wasn't bad for one of them, Lew told himself as he walked toward the nurses' station. Not too la-de-dah. Personally, he couldn't understand what one guy could see in another. No tits, just another male body. He shook his head. He preferred Becky, headache that she was.

Two days off after tonight, then he'd be on day shift. Even if he had to watch ECT it'd be worth it to be sure of Becky. Lucky the ward was quiet his last night.

Wonder what Frank saw in Sally. She might be nudging twenty but she looked and acted younger. No tits to speak of. Alma Reynolds now—there was a build. He'd miss having her as charge nurse. She didn't have it in for men like some on the bitches he'd worked with.

The new woman was sitting up in bed when Lew went into her room. "Mrs. Cobb? Everything all right?"

"Who are you?" she demanded.