Thirteen West (34 page)

"Dead, you say? Is it conceivable she had anything to do with this?"

"There was no blood on her anywhere except her feet," Dr. Fredericks said. "In addition, she was frail and elderly and this is the women's bathroom."

"I take your point," Deputy
Jordan
said.

"The shoes were Mr. Thompson's when he found the body and confirmed the man was dead."

"Any witnesses other than the old lady?"

"A Mr. Serrion was stabbed in the room he shared with Mr. Jones. He was found by ward personnel as he crawled from the room into the hall. We believe Mr. Jones stabbed him before killing himself in the bathroom."

"How seriously injured is this Serrion?"

"We have him on our acute ward, A East, receiving treatment." Dr. Fredericks looked at Crawford.

"He wasn't conscious when I left," Crawford said, fighting down an urge to gag. "He's in shock from blood loss."

"Will Serrion be able to give any account of what happened when he comes out of it?" Deputy
Jordan
asked.

Dr. Fredericks looked at Crawford, who shrugged.

Sal, at the fringe of the group, spoke up. "The charge tech on the ward here says Mr. Serrion never talks to anyone, neither patients nor staff."

The deputy grimaced. "Great. Just great. Who was in charge here when this happened? I need to talk to him."

"Mr. Thompson is at the nurses' station," Dr. Fredericks told him. "Mrs. Holm was also working at the time. Mr. Luera will bring her to the nurses' station for you."

While waiting for everyone to assemble at the station, Deputy
Jordan
called his headquarters to ask that an investigative team be sent to Thirteen West. He then established that the wounded Jacko had been found by Zenda before Joe had discovered the dead body in the bathroom. Sal had arrived immediately thereafter, in time to help Joe carry Margaret Flowers to her bed.

The phone rang. Sal, the closest, picked it up. "Speaking," he said. "Frank? No, sorry, I don't know his exact address. Best I can do is tell you he lives over in the
Pacific Grove
apartment complex." He hung up frowning then dismissed
Alma
's call to concentrate on the matter at hand.

The deputy wanted to know if anyone had handled the glass fragments under the Preacher's pillow.

"Joe and I looked but didn't touch," Sal told him.

"I understand alcohol's forbidden here," Deputy
Jordan
said. "So how did the whiskey bottle get on the ward?"

"Apparently it may have been brought in by Mr. Taterson, a patient who has a grounds pass," Dr. Fredericks said.

"Is he rational?"

"Pretty much so," Joe said.

"Do you object if I question him, Dr. Fredericks?" the deputy asked.

"Not as long as I'm present to monitor," the superintendent said.

Tate sat up in bed when the brights went on. He'd slept very little, getting up to peer into the hall each time someone went in or out. Something big had happened. He didn't know what, but he feared it was going to lead to trouble for him. He'd noticed the deputy sheriff enter the ward with marked apprehension.

"Mr. Taterson," Dr. Fredericks began as he came into the room.

Tate looked past him to the deputy, "I don't know anything about it," he said. "You ask that little creep who used to be in my room. Dolph's his name, you ask him. They wheeled him out of here drunk as a coot. You ask him."

* * *

Once they were in her VW,
Alma
said to Sally, "Since neither of us have any clue where these
Pacific Grove
apartments are, we need to find something open in town where we can ask."

Sally said nothing, her hands twisted together over her churning, roiling stomach. He'd be on his bed like in her dream, cold and mottled. They were late, hours too late. She might hate him, but she didn't want Frank dead.

"I don't need all this, you know,"
Alma
said as she pulled out of the hospital grounds. "Sure as hell I'm not living right, what's happened to me lately." She launched into an account of the debacle at her
Jade
Beach
cottage.

It was too much for Sally to take in. Dr. Jacobs stabbed? Willie, the night tech on Thirteen West in the local hospital?

Alma
slammed on the brakes. "Was that an all-night gas station? Look alive, girl. Was it?"

Sally craned her neck to look. "I don't—yes, I see it. It's open."

Making an illegal U-turn on the highway,
Alma
swung into the station. "I'll do the asking. You stay in the car."

It seemed to take forever before
Alma
returned. "Town full of idiots," she muttered. "Can't even give decent directions."

"Did you find out?" Sally demanded.

"Maybe. We're supposed to go down a mile or so till we see a Seven-Eleven, turn left there, turn right at the first light we come to, then two lefts and we can't miss it. Or so he said. Not the dumb-ass clerk, some other guy who was hanging out there who didn't look too sharp either. You keep an eye out."

"He's dead," Sally muttered.

"Shit, no, don't you go saying that."

Alma
, exceeding the speed limit, screeched her brakes when Sally spotted the convenience store almost too late for the turn.

The VW negotiated all the proper turns but they drove quite a ways before the car headlights illuminated a sign saying Sierra Grove.

"Okay, now we get creative,"
Alma
said. "Frank's car's a Corvette, right?"

"A red Corvette."

"Let's hope he's got the only one. If we can find it and the carports are numbered according to the apartments we've got it made. That is—if he's home."

Sally's heart plummeted. They had no way of knowing where Frank was, not really.

Alma
parked and jumped out. "Come on, help me look," she told Sally.

They ran up the driveway to the carports behind the buildings and began looking, each taking a different side. "Here's a red one,"
Alma
said. "No, damn, it's a Porsche."

Minutes later, Sally called, "I think I've found it."
Alma
joined her and they stared at the red Corvette. "I'm almost positive it's Frank's 'cause I remember there was an EM on the license plate," Sally said.

"K3's the number on the carport,"
Alma
said. "Now let's hope he'll let us in."

K3 turned out to be on the ground floor. The door was locked. Repeated doorbell ringing and knocking brought no response.

"Now what?'
Alma
asked.

"We've got to get in." Sally began checking the windows. All were closed except a small one, rather high up, open a crack. She pointed it out.

"Who's going to wriggle through that little space?"
Alma
asked. "Always supposing we can get up that high to begin with."

"I'm skinny enough," Sally insisted. "But I need something to climb on."

"Think I saw a trashed chair by the garbage bins,"
Alma
said. "I'll go get it."

The aluminum chair was missing some of its webbing but Sally managed to stand on what was left,
Alma
steadying her. With the VW car keys she rammed a hole in the screen, got her fingers inside and yanked at it.

"Can't find the catch," she muttered.

"Shit—rip the thing out. Hurry up, we're bound to attract attention. A miracle if someone didn't call the fuzz already."

Sally yanked at the screen and it came away, nearly toppling her off the chair. It hit the ground with a clunk. Shoving the window all the way open, she grasped the edges and tried to pull herself up.

"Too high, I can't make it," she wailed.

"Ssh!"
Alma
climbed on the chair, too, which wobbled and shifted. She caught Sally under the buttocks and shoved upwards as hard as she could, then jumped down as the chair collapsed, leaving Sally dangling from the window. Holding her breath,
Alma
watched her wriggle her torso inside. When Sally finally disappeared from view she let out her breath with a whoosh of relief.

"I'll go round to the door," she called, heedless now of noise.

Sally took so long opening the door for her that Alma began to worry that she'd gotten hurt climbing in. But finally the lock clicked and the door swung open.

"He—he's—I told you, he's dead," Sally sobbed.

Alma
slammed the door shut and thrust past Sally, heading for where it looked like the bedroom was. There were two, one used for storage. Frank was in the other, lying naked across the bed, head dangling, face down. The rank stink of vomited whiskey tainted the air.
Alma
stepped over the pool of vomitus and yanked Frank's head up by his hair. "Frank!"

"It's no use," Sally said hopelessly. "I touched him. He's cold."

"He's naked—what do you expect? Help me get him straightened out. No, wait, don't step in that crud."
Alma
grabbed a shirt and threw it over the vomitus. "Come on, Sally, shove. Shit, he's a big bastard. Countdown: One, two, three, heave."

They managed to get him onto his back and straight on the bed.
Alma
checked for a radial pulse, frowned and laid her head on his chest. "Damn near dead, but his heart's still ticking. Probably vomited a lot of what he swallowed and that saved him. Call an ambulance."

Sally stared at her.

"Snap to, damn it, girl. He's alive." Getting no response from Sally, she muttered, "Guess I get to call them myself," and hurried out to find a phone.

Sally sat on the bed and picked up Frank's limp hand. "Don't die," she whispered. She pulled at the spread until it covered his nakedness. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I'm no good at forgiving. But I don't want you to die."

He lay without moving. Sally put her ear to his chest as
Alma
had done. Thud. A pause. Thub-dub. Sally counted long seconds. Thub-dub. "Keep beating," she begged.

Alma
returned to bedroom and stood beside the bed.

Crazy pair, she thought. Old Charlie was straight arrow compared to the kinks in Frank. Sally owned one messed-up head, too. No future she could see for the two of them, even if Frank managed to survive this.

Nothing, but nothing, was worth killing yourself over. And nobody. No way would she ever waste herself—even for Charlie.

"The ambulance is on the way," she told Sally. "They'll be taking him to the ER at
Community
Hospital
."

"I'll go with him," Sally said.

"You will not. I'll drive you over. Don't interfere with the paramedics—you'll only get in the way. We'll follow the ambulance."

Same place they took Willie,
Alma
thought. Nothing going to kill that sucker until they hang him. Nothing going to make him behave like other people in the world had rights, either. Willie was for Willie and nobody else. Never want him even on the fringes of my life again, that's for sure. Ever see him again, it'll be once too often. Just like Willie to have been fucking poor little Laura Jean all along, the bastard.

Once at the hospital, Sally refused to leave the ER.
Alma
brought her coffee and a roll from the cafeteria and made her eat. "Look," she said at last. "It's almost eight I've got to go home and get some rest before I go back on duty this afternoon."

"I'm staying here."

"Okay, I'll tell the hospital neither you nor Frank will be in. Want anything?"