Текст книги "Brain Dead"

Автор книги: Eileen Dreyer

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

"Served?" Ellen asked. "What does the lawyer say?"

Timmie tried hard to sound offhanded. "That this one may stick. He's going after Dad's house, since it was in my name all along. After all, we were divorced in a community property state."

The three of them started choking as if somebody'd let off a canister of tear gas.

"You joking!" Mattie accused.

Not wanting to compound her time in purgatory now that she was certainly destined for hell, Timmie said nothing.

Cindy immediately turned a bright shade of red. "Well, that asshole! It just figures. I swear, you give 'em an inch and they want to take your house! What can we do?"

"Nothing. I told you. I just need to sulk a little."

Cindy shook her head. "I'll stay. It's the least I can do."

"No." Timmie was sure she said it too quickly. Only Ellen looked her way.

"How about if Meghan comes to my house," Ellen offered. "My kids would be tickled. Besides, you don't want her here when you're this upset with her daddy. She wouldn't understand."

"I'll stay with her," Cindy offered. "I'm even beginning to like that miniature handbag she feeds."

"We'll work it out together," Mattie decided, eyes unwaveringly on Timmie. "Why don't you two go down and see if she'd like McDonald's?"

"We should stay," Cindy protested.

Timmie almost managed a smile. "Thanks anyway. Really. I just want time off."

The two of them eventually went, which left Mattie, who was neither as polite as Walter nor as passive as Ellen. "You gonna tell me the truth?"

Timmie could barely stand to look at her. "Not today."

Mattie just stood there, a seething energy behind sharp brown eyes. "You know, this may be a real unpleasant shock to you, girlfriend, but we do give a shit about you."

After everything, that was the thing that brought Timmie closest to tears. Only one other person in her life had offered unconditional support, and she'd just been contemplating killing him.

"Thank you, Mattie," she said anyway. "I know. And it'll be okay, I promise."

Another lie. This one easier to pass, because it was the one she most wanted to believe.

At least it soothed Mattie a little. With only a few more protests, she guided the flock to the door and left Meghan a moment with her mom.

Timmie sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Megs into her arms, reptile cage and all. "I'm sorry this has been so crazy for you, baby Do you know I love you?"

"Yes." Not as certain-sounding as Timmie would have wanted.

So Timmie hugged tighter. "I'm not going anywhere, Megs. Neither are you. But there's just a lot going on that you shouldn't have to worry about, so Mattie and Ellen are helping me make it easier on you. And the sooner I get this all resolved, the sooner we can really settle down and be country mouses."

Meghan looked up at Timmie, suddenly very hesitant. "You mean it?"

Timmie gave a brief thought to Traumawoman and then waved good-bye. "Yes, Meghan. I mean it. We're staying right here where you can see shooting stars and feed apples to Patty's horse. And when things settle down, maybe you and I can really be country mouses. Go camping or fishing or something. All by ourselves."

Meghan wrinkled her nose. "I hate fish. Besides, we can't go anyplace. There's Grandda."

Timmie was very proud of the fact that she didn't give herself away. "I know all about Grandda, honey. Don't forget, I met him a long time before you did."

"Okay, Mom. I'll see you tomorrow."

Timmie held her close. "Tomorrow, baby. Then everything will be fine."

That was, if she could get through tonight.

Chapter 21

"You haven't been to see your father today."

The voice was just as soft. Just as sinuous, a sibilant snake of temptation. Just the sound of it made Timmie's palms sweat.

"How do you know?" she asked, not daring to look over to where Murphy was listening in on the kitchen line.

"He didn't have a good day, I'm afraid. Not that he's sick, of course. He has the heart of a fifteen-year-old. But he's frightened, isn't he? He's frightened all the time now."

Timmie sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes and stopped the monologue cold. "No."

She was met by silence.

"Thank you for the offer," she said. "I know you only had his best wishes at heart. But I can't accept it."

She should get him to indict himself, she knew. She couldn't think that well. She couldn't even stay on the phone that long.

"Are you sure, Timmie? This is really what you want?"

No. She wasn't sure. If she'd been sure she would have spent the day ripping through this miserable excuse for a town finding out who was trying to coerce her into compliance instead of just sitting in the lotus position like a comatose yoga teacher.

"And just so you know," she said, eyes still closed so she did this all on her own. "You're not going to kill any more people in that unit, and you're definitely not killing my father. I won't let you."

"How could you say that about me? I'm just trying to help."

"Oh, I know. But I don't think anybody wants your help anymore. Good-bye."

And that, after what she'd dreaded all day, was that. No confrontations, no protestations, no huge emotional rock rolling down on her head. She felt a little calmer, kind of like the moment she'd finally filed for divorce. The decision wasn't easy, but the uncertainty was over. At least until the next time somebody made the same offer when her father was even more frightened and old.

"So that's what that was all about," Murphy said quietly from the kitchen doorway.

Timmie didn't bother to look at him. "I appreciate your coming over to witness this, just in case there was a question."

"I also got the caller number," he said. "You want to know what it is?"

"No."

At least Murphy wasn't asking for explanations or demanding that Timmie share her reactions with him. Hell, he hadn't even told her that what she'd done was the right thing to do.

Probably why she'd asked him to be here instead of her friends. The last thing she needed right now was sympathy and understanding.

Murphy didn't look in the least sympathetic. He looked avid. "555-1230. Ring any bells?"

Timmie rubbed hard at her tired eyes. "Yeah. It's a hospital extension. Not a big surprise, I guess."

Almost a relief, really. She'd sure rather it be the hospital than quite a few of the private numbers she knew in town. Murphy reached around her to pick up the old black phone. "I take it you don't know just which hospital extension?"

Timmie grabbed the phone right out of his hand. "How about I do this?" she asked with a tight little smile. "I think it's safer."

Murphy almost slipped and let a flash of compassion through that wry expression. Timmie turned away just in time to miss it.

"Go right ahead," he said, his voice brisk and businesslike. "Just remember. I can find out myself whenever I want."

"I know you can, Murphy," she said, dialing the switchboard. "I just like to know first. It's a fault of mine."

"Then I guess that means we can't live together," Murphy said easily. "We'd always be fighting for the paper in the morning."

"God, Murphy," she protested. "Don't even suggest it. I have enough on my mind right now without you insulting me."

He chuckled. Timmie wanted to thank him. She didn't. She waited for the night operator to pick up. An ancient, Marlboro-puffing, Southern lady with the basal metabolism of a land tortoise, the operator had been known to take six rings to pick up the red phone that only called in code blues.

"The voice was familiar," Murphy was saying to himself.

"This is Memorial Medical Center," the sixty-year-old voice drawled in Timmie's other ear. "How may I direct your call?"

"Ginny?" Timmie asked at three times the speed. "This is Timmie Leary from the ER, and I can't find my listings. What extension is 1230?"

"Timmie?" Ginny echoed, delighted. "How are you, honey? How's your daddy? I got over to see him t'other day. He's just so sweet."

"He's fine, Ginny," Timmie said, twitching with the delay. Ginny always did this to her, like automatic doors opening too slowly. "What's the number?"

"Well, I can connect you, sugar," she offered, "but it wouldn't do you any good. Nobody's up there this time of night."

Nobody who wanted to be noticed anyway. "Where is it?" Timmie asked anyway.

"Well, I figured you might know, your daddy being in and all."

"It's late. I forgot."

"It's Dr. Raymond's office, honey. Why don't you call back tomorrow? I heard he was out of town tonight anyway."

Timmie white-knuckled the phone, trying to maintain her composure. "Thanks. I'll do that."

She hung up to find Murphy watching her with quite a bit less objectivity than he had had a minute before. "So, you don't have to call your friend after all?" he asked.

"It's not him," she insisted.

"Was it his office?"

"Yes."

"How many people would have the keys?"

Timmie snorted. "This is a hospital we're talking about," she reminded him. "Not a bank. Half the administrative staff, most of housekeeping, and all of security. Where would you like to start?"

"Do you think we need to make sure nobody's trying to get to Joe after all?"

Timmie frowned. "I don't know. If the offer is to kill him, would the threat be to kill him, too?"

"If you didn't want him dead."

This was way too complicated. And Timmie wasn't about to give Murphy all the truth just because he'd kept his mouth shut. So she dialed the phone and got her dad's night nurse.

"Hi, Timmie," the nurse chirped. "We've been trying to get you all day. Everything okay?"

"Fine. How about my dad?" she asked, shoving the guilt aside for a more convenient time.

"Well, that's it. We talked to Dr. Raymond, and he changed your dad's Prozac dose. I think it's going to make a world of difference. He's already not nearly as afraid now. And the best part is, he's been asleep since nine. How about that?"

Timmie squeezed her eyes shut. "Yeah, how about that? Has anybody been by to see him tonight?"

"Good heavens, no. Nobody comes in here late at night."

"I need a favor, Cathy," she said, praying she was asking the right person. "I need to make sure you don't let anybody in that room but me till I get there and talk to you. Not even Dr. Raymond."

There was a polite pause of disbelief. "This doesn't have to do with what might be happening over on five, does it?"

"Yes."

"He wouldn't do that."

"I know. But it's safer for him if he isn't even considered, ya know?"

"Sure."

She didn't. Timmie could hear it in her voice. But Cathy would stand guard anyway, over both her father and her father's doctor.

"Okay," Timmie said, hanging up. "What next?"

"Call Raymond. See if he's home."

Timmie did notice that at least Murphy wasn't calling Alex golden boy anymore. She should thank him for that, anyway. She spun around as if Murphy's suggestion didn't scare the hell out of her. "Nope. I've been in the house all day. Let's go check on Dad."

"I suppose you want me to drive."

"Only if you want to find out what's going on."

"There's one other thing you might want to know before going over there," he said, not moving, his expression not quite as flippant as Timmie might have expected. It pretty much stopped her.

"The results on Alice Hampton's blood tests," he said.

Timmie guessed she should have known. "So spill it," she said. "I can tell you're dying to tell me."

"Barb said that the old lady's dij level was way high. That mean anything to you?"

At least he had Timmie thinking back along the lines of problem solving. Much less traumatic than responsibility and remorse. "Digitoxin," she said. "It's the generic name for Digoxin, which is a heart medication she was on. Great stuff for old hearts, but lethal as hell if you get too much. It's from the foxglove plant, which is one of the most toxic poisons around."

"Well, Barb thinks that's what probably killed her. Since she evidently wasn't sick first, Barb thinks she got it fast."

And since Alice had had only oral Digoxin in her locked nurse server, the dose she'd gotten had obviously either been deliberately pulled from stock and shoved in by Gladys fifteen or twenty minutes before the cardiac arrest, or substituted for one of the IV push medications Alice already had stocked in her nurse server, which meant that Gladys would have given it without realizing it.

Which led to two conclusions. If Gladys hadn't intentionally killed Alice, which from her reaction, Timmie didn't think she had, then anybody in the hospital with a key to the nurse server could have substituted those drugs any time in the days preceding old Alice's death. The field was wide open.

And if the killer thought nobody'd notice, maybe he or she had left fingerprints on the vials that sat in the evidence box Timmie had upstairs this very minute.

If this ever went to trial, the only way to keep the findings on those medications valid was to protect the chain of evidence. Which meant Timmie had to have that thing in sight until she handed it off to Conrad like a forensics baton.

She hoped Murphy wasn't waiting for an answer. She headed up the stairs instead.

Five minutes later, the evidence box tucked under her arm, Timmie jumped the bottom three stairs and headed for the front door. "Let's go," she said. "I have a chart to read and an old man to visit."

* * *

The only way to enter the hospital at that hour of the night was through the ER. Fortunately, only the secretary was sitting at the triage desk, and she just waved, perfectly comfortable with seeing staff wandering around at odd hours. Timmie guided Murphy past her and through the maze that led to Restcrest.

She stopped by her dad's room first. True to her word, Cathy was lounging in a beanbag chair doing her charting near the memory case that held Cardinals and Clancy Brothers. She smiled benignly when she saw Timmie.

"Quiet as a church," she said.

"Nobody's been by?"

"Nope."

Murphy waited outside while Timmie, needing visual confirmation that her father was still okay, crept into his room.

He was sound asleep. Flung out across the bed as if he'd just fallen there after a hard night playing rebel songs, he snored like a fighter. Timmie couldn't help but smile, kind of the way she did when she watched Meghan sleep. Somehow all the troubles and turmoil eased when their eyes closed, and only the softness remained.

He was soft. Always had been. But it had taken Timmie a long time to figure it out. She'd always thought of him as larger than life. Mountains and thunderstorms, when he was in the mood. Now that she was an adult and he was old, he should have looked smaller, shrunken with the decline of his power. He still looked massive to her. Untamed, unquieted, his only concession to the disease that ravaged that quixotic brain of his the sudden, terrifying detours that sent his thoughts skidding off into space. He was still the man who'd held her above the world to see Bob Gibson and Timmie McCarver and Mike Shannon riding through downtown St. Louis in flashy convertibles and World Series rings. He was the man who insisted, no matter what her mother said, that Timmie was magic. He was the man who would forget her for hours while singing in the pub and then, suddenly, lift her in his arms and proclaim her his fairy child.

God, she wanted him back. Every drunken, wild word. Every silly generosity. She wanted to sit at his knee again and listen to him weave his words into living things and feed on the delight in his audiences' eyes.

She wanted him to never be afraid or lost again.

She'd known since she was five years old that her father was really her responsibility. It was only since the moment she'd been given the chance to permanently hand that responsibility off that she'd accepted it.

"Do not go gentle, Da," she said, hoping that someday soon she'd really mean it. And then she turned around and walked away before the doubts could creep back in.

She didn't even make it to the door. Just the sound of her voice, evidently, was enough to call him back tonight.

"Timmie?"

Timmie all but held her breath. "Yes, Da?"

He smiled. A beatific smile that Timmie hadn't seen in months. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, reaching out for her hand.

She gave it to him, even less sure of herself. He knew it was her. The contact was there, that indefinable something in his eyes that clicked so rarely now, and Timmie knew she had him back.

"What for, Da?"

His smile widened. Damn near glowed, so that Timmie was sure that even Murphy saw it and smiled back. "You're such a good daughter... you always have been... but... did you know there's a bird on your shoulder?"

And damn it if she didn't look.

Timmie smiled until he went back to sleep. Then she walked out the door, sat down in one of the chairs, and burst out laughing. Murphy would probably tell her she was an idiot, but she considered it a sign from God that she really had done the right thing. Which made her laugh harder, until there were tears in her eyes and the nurse started casting nervous little looks at her.

"Feeling better, Leary?" Murphy asked dryly.

Timmie wiped her eyes and laughed some more. God, it felt so good. A cliché, but like water in the desert. She'd been parched for it. "That's why he has to hang around," she said. "Nobody else in this town is as nuts."

Murphy snorted. "I wouldn't put any bets on it."

"Okay, they may be nuts. But they're not as much fun."

He nodded. "You got me there."

It took a second, but Timmie pulled herself together again. Then she got to her feet, straightened herself, and reclaimed her box. "All right, kids. Let's kick some angel-of-death butt."

Amazingly enough, Cathy jumped to her feet as if Timmie had just called the troops to order. "Thank heavens. What can we do?"

So Timmie told her. And then, Murphy trailing behind like an aide de camp, she headed over to find out just what she could about Alice Hampton's death.

It wasn't Gladys who was staffing unit five this late at night, but her compatriot Penelope, a softer, rounder woman with mocha skin, grandma's eyes, and a slow walk, who couldn't quite keep her gaze away from the rectangular box under Timmie's arm.

"You the one went up against Ms. Arlington, aren't you?" she asked Timmie when she'd introduced herself. "Gladys told us."

"Do you know if Alice's chart is still here?" Timmie asked, shifting the box against her hip like a baby.

"Sure. We kinda haven't been able to find it as fast as the review committee wanted. 'Specially since Dr. Raymond hasn't seen it yet, and since Gladys said you might want to take a look at it."

She seemed to glide over to the wall shelves, where all the research books sat, and reached behind the PDR and Merck's to pull out a thick wad of paperwork in a familiar manila folder. Timmie smiled her thanks. Penelope's answering smile was much brighter and more telling. Another big fan of Mary Jane's. What a surprise.

"You really don't have any suspects in mind?" Timmie couldn't help but ask.

Penelope shook her head in frustration. "Weird, isn't it? Most times you know damn well who's the problem."

From the list Timmie had gotten from Conrad, absolutely true. Taking half an hour to skim it while waiting for her call, she'd been amazed at the suspects everybody had fingered for possible serial murderer in their hospital and nobody had been able to reel in. It had been rarer that no suspect was named than vice versa. Which was why Timmie still thought that whatever was happening at Memorial was a conspiracy rather than a lone act. Lone actors tended to get recognized in hospitals. At least by the nurses.

"You haven't seen Dr. Raymond tonight?" Timmie asked as she sat down and began flipping through the chart.

"No. He's not due back till tomorrow."

"Seen anybody interesting?" Murphy asked.

Penelope's eyes widened. "On nights? In an old folks home? Who you expect, honey, Madonna?"

Timmie took that as a no and concentrated on her reading.

Around her the patients rustled and whimpered and snored. The lights were dim, with the occasional monitor glowing green in the dark and IV pumps whirring in tidal syncopation.

Timmie had always hated places like this. Too quiet, too final. Much too real. For the first time Timmie could remember, though, the sights and sounds calmed her. It was as if she were finally seeing how this place was choreographed to soothe the end-stage patients toward sleep. Toward rest and peace and finality. They'd had their fireworks. It was time to shut off the lights and ease away.

"Here," Timmie said, pointing to the medication schedule. "Gladys bolused her with eighty of Lasix ten minutes before the arrest."

"Alice had bad kidneys," Penelope said. "We'd been upping the dose for a while. That couldn't'a killed her, though. She hadn't even had a chance to make pee yet."

"Not Lasix," Timmie said with a considering look at her evidence box. "Dij. I'm hoping there's a Lasix multidose vial in there that's chock-full of Digoxin. And since Lasix comes 10 milligrams a cc, that would make 8 ccs of Lasix. Make that 250 micrograms of Digoxin per cc instead, and that means Gladys ended up bolusing Alice with 2000 micrograms of Digoxin, which is about eight times the loading dose.... And here's Alice's dij levels at 1.85, which means she was bumping right at the top of therapeutic anyway..."

Penelope looked appalled. "It would have dropped her like a rock. Oh, my God, that poor thing."

"Not a word," Timmie warned. "Not till we've proved this."

"Whatever you need," she said, her placid eyes sparking sudden rage. "Nobody does that to my little old people."

Timmie almost cried. She felt like Lot trying to find one just man, and actually succeeding with three seconds to brimstone. "Thank you, Penelope. We'll do it. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to do some perfectly illegal copying of this chart before anybody with less altruistic objectives can get hold of it."

"It's not Dr. Raymond," Penelope insisted.

Timmie smiled. "I know. But it's somebody."

Timmie copied the pertinent sheets and passed them to Murphy, who tucked them in the inside pocket of a twin of that ratty jacket he always wore. Then it was time to check for possible surprise visitors. Since the only way they could have gotten in was the same way Timmie and Murphy had gotten in, they both headed back to the ER.

The secretary was no longer sitting in the triage area by the time Timmie and Murphy made it back there. Instead, Ellen and Cindy were perched on the desk, clad in identical hospital greens, their backs to the front doors. A sure sign that the place was empty. Not only that, the lights were down and the monitors off, leaving the place looking spectral.

Timmie and Murphy had almost reached the desk before either of the nurses looked up. "What are you doing here?" Cindy asked.

Perched next to her, Ellen straightened like a shot. "Timmie, what's wrong? Are you okay? Is it your daddy?"

"I'm fine," Timmie assured them. "I was just up seeing my dad. Why are you still here, Cindy? Weren't you on evenings?"

Cindy shrugged, her attention torn between Timmie and Murphy. "Just visiting. You know me."

Timmie did, actually. Cindy rarely went home right after her shifts, much preferring to stay with the staff than face her apartment. It was why she showed up at friends' houses so much.

Actually, once Timmie had thought enough to realize she was going to have to stop by the ER, she'd counted on Cindy's habits. That way she could kill two birds with one stone. Or two phone calls with one question.

"You don't see your dad this late," Ellen all but accused.

Oh, well. It was as good a time as any. Never would have been better, but Murphy had raised a question that needed answering.

"I got a phone call tonight," Timmie said, leaning against the open doorway into the desk area, the box still at her hip and Murphy standing guard at her back. "Somebody offered to kill my father if I'd just stop investigating the murders up in Restcrest."

Well, she'd been hoping for a reaction. She got it in stereo. Ellen blanched and Cindy gaped.

"He wouldn't do that!" Ellen protested.

"Of course he would," Cindy immediately disagreed.

"Who wouldn't do that?" Timmie asked, and Ellen paled even more.

It took her a moment longer to actually speak, and by then she looked like she was going to faint. Timmie just waited her out.

"I'm sorry," Ellen all but whispered, shooting Murphy a frightened glance. "I did what I could."

Timmie wanted to hit her. Actually, she just wanted to cry. "You called Murphy to warn him about what was going on."

Cindy was staring now. "I called," she protested.

Ellen answered as if she hadn't even heard. "I didn't know what else to do. You saw Alice die. You saw how sudden it was. She wasn't even sick! That's been happening all summer, Timmie. What could I do?"

Timmie struggled to hang on to her respect for Ellen, who hadn't had the courage to help her patients any more, in the end, than she had herself. "Call the police?"

Ellen shook her head, a frightened, ineffectual woman. "Do you know what would have happened? I would have been fired from the only hospital in town. I had to raise my children."

"You didn't even tell anybody until a couple of weeks ago."

"I called him!" Cindy insisted. "Because I knew who it was."

Timmie didn't even look her way. "Who?"

"Landry, of course. He's a lying, cheating, money-hungry piece of shit who'd do anything to get his way!"

Well, at least she hadn't called him a nigger. Timmie couldn't help noticing that her fury was out of proportion to the discussion they were having.

"Cheating?" she asked.

Cindy's eyes welled with tears of distress. "I hate him."

"And Mary Jane?" she asked, remembering the recent accusation.

Cindy didn't say a word, just glared. Oh, good Lord, Timmie thought. She needed a scorecard. Praying for patience, she turned back to Ellen, who at least made sense.

"You're my friend," she said. "Why couldn't you come to me?"

"Because you love him."

Timmie stopped. "I love who?"

Ellen couldn't look at her anymore. "I don't have proof," she protested. "Not really."

Timmie's stomach had just hit her shoes. "Alex?" she all but shrilled. "You think Alex is doing this?"

"It's Landry," Cindy insisted on a whine.

"It is not Landry," Timmie informed her. "He hasn't been here long enough."

"Well, it sure as hell isn't Alex!" Cindy insisted. "I would have been able to tell."

"How's that?" Murphy asked, whether Timmie wanted him to or not.

"Because I worked in a hospital where this happened before. Alex just isn't the type."

"You did?" Murphy asked.

"In Chicago, before John died."

"We'll compare notes later," Timmie suggested, knowing that the very last thing she needed right now was Cindy one-upping the situation they were facing. "Ellen, why did you think it was Alex?"

"He and Dr. Davies talked about how badly they needed the material for research. He always seemed right there when one of his people passed."

"He's always there anyway," Cindy insisted.

"Was he here tonight?" Timmie asked.

Both of them looked at each other. "No. Why?"

"Because whoever called me, called me from here."

"I saw Landry earlier, by the elevators," Cindy insisted. "He was wearing a black sweat suit."

"Uh-huh. Thanks."

Timmie was ready to head down the hall toward the elevators to blow that theory out of the water when Ellen grabbed her arm. Timmie turned on her friend, still angry with the deception.

"I'm sorry," Ellen said. "I'm just not as strong as you are, Timmie. I tried."

Timmie almost laughed, kind of the way Barb had when she'd discovered her ex-husband on her treatment table. Sometimes it was the only thing you could do. Timmie was blaming Ellen for doing exactly what she'd spent the day wishing she could have done.

"It's okay, Ellen," she said as calmly as she could. "We know now. And whatever's going on, we'll stop it."

Ellen smiled.

Cindy frowned. "I still say it's Landry."

Timmie didn't listen, though. She was already on her way to the executive suites.

"Boy," Murphy said as they walked. "Once you get going you don't waste time, do you?"

"Shut up, Murphy."

"There's just one question you haven't answered tonight."

"What's that?"

"Who do you think offered to kill your father for you?"