Family Practice (27 page)

No letup in the rain. She rattled down the garage door, with head bent splashed to the house, and got drenched fumbling the key in the lock.

As she groped for the light switch, something small flew at her in the dark. She flung up an arm and smacked at it, connected with a ball of fur, and sent it flying.

“Oh, shit.” She turned on the ceiling light, squinted in the glare, and looked around for the kitten. Perissa crouched under the table, fur standing on end, and hissed at her.

Susan shrugged off her dripping raincoat, slung it over a chair, and squatted to murmur apologetic noises. Perissa inched away warily. Susan duck-walked closer, hand outstretched. Just before her leg muscles gave out, Perissa decided Susan wasn't an axe-wielding cat killer after all and tippytoed toward her.

Susan scooped her up and cuddled her against her chin. Perissa clawed onto a shoulder and spoke loudly of hunger.

Susan opened a can, spooned fishy stuff in a bowl, and put it on the floor. Perissa fell all over herself getting to it.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Susan shed her clothes, pulled on one of Daniel's T-shirts and dropped face-down on the bed. She wasn't sure she had the strength to turn over. Jesus, what's the matter with me? Too old to pull an all-nighter? And it hadn't even been all night.

She was bobbling along toward sleep, when a horse galloped into the bedroom. Perissa swarmed onto the bed, stomped around on Susan's legs, and curled up in the small of her back. Rain pattered against the roof.

*   *   *

The phone rang, jarring her awake. She fumbled for the receiver.

The dispatcher at the department said, “Brookvale Hospital just called.”

22

S
USAN LEFT THE
pickup at the emergency entrance at Brookvale and raced through the rain to the sliding doors. She took the stairs two at a time. Outside Jen's cubicle, the medication cart stood shoved to one side for a portable EKG machine and a code cart, top littered with glass ampules and instruments and a black rubber resuscitator bag. Off to one side, trying to stay out of the way and looking angry and frightened, stood Officer Saylor, the cop who was supposed to guard-dog Jen.

Dr. Sheffield, solid and stocky in gray sweatpants, caught sight of Susan, broke off his conversation with the nurse, and hurried to her side. Chest and shoulder muscles bulged under a tight white T-shirt. Pugnacious jaw bristled with stubble. “It's all right,” he said. Even his voice had muscle. “Now. Looked pretty dicey there for a minute.”

Jen lay motionless, splotchy face red against the white sheets. The nurse was watching her cautiously.

“What happened?”

“That's what I'd like to know.” Sheffield clipped the words and aimed a look at the nurse. “The patient got an overdose of morphine.”

“What? How—”

“Ms. James was just following orders.”

Susan glanced at the nurse; the name pinned to her chest read “Nora James, R.N.” She looked about twenty-five, with short brown hair. She also looked very frightened.

Sheffield took a breath and spoke in a voice less damning. “At least she got on it right away.”

“Dr. Sheffield—” Susan began, voice hard.

He stomped—loafers, no socks—to the nurses' station, grabbed a chart, and opened it in front of her. She squinted at it, her heart still leaping around, adrenaline jagging through her system. He stabbed a blunt forefinger on the page. She bent over to read the squiggles.

He tapped the finger impatiently as though she were being exceptionally dense. She tried to focus and made out “3 squiggle squiggle q 4 h.”

She straightened. “You want to tell me just what you're talking about?”

“Dosage for medication,” he said. “It's been changed from one milligram to three milligrams.”

She peered closely and, now that she knew what she was looking for, could just make out that a broad-tipped pen had turned a one into a three. She straightened. “When was this done?”

He let go of a breath, rasped a hand over his jaw, shrugged, and shook his head. She felt rage build inside her.

“I don't know,” he said. “It had to be recent.”

“Q 4 h?”

“Every four hours.”

“That means this was done within the last four hours.”

“No. Ms. James gave her medication at midnight and again at four.”

“Twice? Jen was given triple the amount two times?”

He crossed his arms and rested a hip against the edge of the desk. “I've spoken with the nurse who administered the eight p.m. dose. It's charted here.” He jabbed at the chart. “She says one milligram. That's what she noted. But that's the dose she gave previously, at four p.m., and she knew the amount. So even though she looked at the chart first, she can't say if she looked that closely.”

“You're saying this could have been altered anytime within the last twelve hours.”

“Probably.”

“Who has access to these charts?” Even as she said it, she knew the answer. Anybody who walked up and slid the chart out of the slot. It would have taken only a moment. The charts were all clearly labeled with the patients' names.

“It would have to be somebody who looked like he belonged,” Sheffield said.

Yes. Or she. Nonmedical personnel would be noticed and challenged. A doctor. Possibly a nurse. Or possibly someone who looked like one or the other. Just possibly someone who chose his time carefully, when nobody was looking, and was quick. “This nurse, Nora James, was she unaware this dosage was three times the normal amount?”

He sighed. “We're understaffed. She's not experienced in working with children. She looked at the orders, did what they said. She only started to question them when the patient began showing signs of distress.”

Distress. Susan clamped her teeth. “Would this have killed Jen?”

“Hard to say. It might have. That's a lot of morphine for someone her size. She's all right now,” he hastened to add. “Just sleepy.”

The rage in the pit of her stomach flared up and spread like a forest fire through her chest with a hot, intense heat that just kept growing. Pure rage, she thought, beat heroin all to hell. She wanted to tear this place apart, batter Dr. Sheffield, pound the nurse, shred the cop who was supposed to prevent exactly this sort of thing from happening. She wanted to scream at everybody who was standing up and walking around. How dare they, when Jen was lying on that bed.

Fatigue, adrenaline, and jangled nerves all combined with rage to create a high, thin humming in her ears.

“She's okay,” Sheffield repeated.

Susan went to the cubicle and picked up one of Jen's hands. Jen opened her eyes for a moment, then sleepily closed them and settled into the pillow with a soft sigh. Susan chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. With a gentle squeeze, she replaced Jen's hand on the white sheet and left.

A doctor. Possibly a nurse. She didn't know a nurse who might want to harm Jen. But she had four doctors: Willis, Marlitta, Brent, or Carl. Any one of them could have pulled the chart, made a stroke, and replaced it.

She got on the phone and told the dispatcher to get hold of Parkhurst and have him call her. Three minutes went by before the phone rang. She snatched the receiver.

It took him ten minutes to get there. The two of them questioned staff: doctors, nurses, aides, orderlies, housekeeping, and anybody else they could find. They got nothing definite. Willis, Marlitta, Brent, and Carl were all familiar figures. Nobody could remember definitely seeing one of them looking at charts. Nor could anyone definitely say that one of them hadn't been there.

At seven-thirty they packed it in. She was so tired the only thing holding her up was the wall of the elevator.

“This brings us closer to the Barrington physicians,” she said. “Or Dr. Brent Wakeley.”

“Yeah. Except there's another physician, right handy, who could make changes on the chart in front of God and everybody.”

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, and they walked through the emergency section and out the sliding doors. Rain was still pelting down.

“Adam Sheffield,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“What's his motive?”

Parkhurst looked up and held out a cupped palm. “You think we might discuss this somewhere a little drier?”

Her mind darted from one thing to another, never catching hold of anything. She glanced back at the hospital and rejected that idea; hauling into the department seemed an unnecessary effort. The Coffee Cup Café opened at six but had cheery waitresses with curiosity. “My house,” she said.

He nodded and trotted off through the rain. Lightning forked across the sky as she kicked herself into a shambling lope to the pickup.

At home, she pulled into the garage, plodded flat-footed to the house, fumbled for the key, unlocked the kitchen door, and snapped on the light. She had time to change into a dry pair of black pants and a white sweatshirt, and start the coffee, before she heard a soft tap on the kitchen door.

Parkhurst dropped the square white box on the table and shrugged off his raincoat. “Doughnuts.”

She hung his coat over the shower rod in the bathroom and brought him a towel.

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face and vigorously toweled his hair. In a tired sort of way, he looked rather handsome, rugged, damp, unshaven, in jeans and a denim shirt open at the throat.

She took down two mugs from the cabinet, filled them with coffee, and handed him one. As he took the mug, his hard eyes did a fixed, impenetrable surveillance of her face. All of a sudden, he seemed too close. She felt herself take a breath. Hail clattered on the roof, smashed against the window.

The kitten galloped into the kitchen, saw a stranger, and fell all over herself skidding to a stop. She arched her back and hissed. He laughed, crouched, and held out a hand.

“Uh— I don't—” she began.

Daintily, Perissa minced up to him, sniffed his fingers, then rubbed herself against his hand. He picked her up. She clambered up his shirt and bit his chin. He jerked his head back. “Hey.”

Ripping her from his shirt, he set her on the floor, and she skittered away. He looked at Susan a little uncertainly and rolled up his sleeves.

She felt awkward and uncomfortable, took a sip of coffee, then realized maybe they could sit down. Get your mind in working order. Fatigue and worry had thoughts scattering like glass falling on concrete.

“Have a seat.” She got plates and napkins, sat down across from him, and selected a doughnut.

“The kid's all right.” He snared a doughnut, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “You all right?”

She nodded. Light from the ceiling fixture glinted on his damp hair and angled across his nose and cheekbones, emphasizing the tiredness around his eyes.

“Piling on guilt,” he said. “Too much of that garbage and you can't move for the weight.”

“I know that.”

“Your fault? You're responsible for the actions of this scumbag?”

“In a way.”

“Susan—” His tone crackled with irritation.

“If we'd caught the bastard, this attempt on her life wouldn't have happened.”

“That's as rational as bat shit.”

She waved that aside. “Motive for Sheffield?”

He eyed her a moment as though assessing her mental state. “We don't have to prove motive.”

“I'm aware of that. I'd still like to see one. For Dorothy's murder. Motive to snuff Jen is obvious. She saw the killer.”

“Did she?”

“She can't remember, and she's too sick to question closely, but memory might come back. Bits and pieces. Or even all of it.”

“Ellen's not a doctor. You suggesting we leave her out?”

Susan pressed a fingertip against a glazed sugar crumb and stuck it in her mouth. “No. She's been around medicine all her life, would know enough to change one milligram to three milligrams.”

“I'd say that goes for anybody.”

“Yeah, Taylor too. But it would be riskier for either of them.”

“I don't think our killer shies away from risk. He walked into an office building Saturday afternoon, shot Dorothy with a witness at hand, and walked out. What could be riskier that that?” Parkhurst got up to refill his mug and refilled hers while he was at it.

“If.” He sat back down and reached for a doughnut. “And I'm just playing along with your fancies here. If Vicky was a homicide, why was she killed? Why now?”

Susan sat back, cradled the mug in her lap, and rubbed a thumb over the rim. “To give us an answer,” she said, trying to get thoughts to come together. “Realized we weren't going to stop until we had one. Realized the drug-addict explanation wasn't going to fly. Okay then, here. Murder and suicide. All wrapped up. Take it and go away.”

She raised the mug with both hands and peered into it.

“Or?” he said.

She took a sip. “Or Vicky said something when they were all together that alarmed our quarry.”

“What?”

She smiled sourly. “That's the hard part. Vicky said she wasn't so stupid she didn't see things. Would that make you nervous if you'd shot your loved one?”

“It's your fairy tale.”

“She said money buys things.”

“That probably wouldn't put me in a panic.”

“She knew you wear a raincoat when it rains.”

“I can ask each one of them if he or she ever went out in the rain without a raincoat,” he said. “Slap cuffs on whoever did.”

“You're not helping me here.” With a loud scrape, she shoved out the adjacent chair and propped both feet on it.

“Good. I hate to feed illusions.”

“Vicky said when people meet on a country road it's not to pick wildflowers. Brent, with a becoming show of reluctance, suggested that meant Taylor and Holly Dietz.”

“Love in an empty pasture?”