Nightway (17 page)

“It won’t take long for the water to boil,” Lanna promised, disappearing into the kitchen alcove.

Her high-heeled shoes seemed to add to her wobbly sensation, so Lanna kicked them off, the coolness of the tiled floor pleasant on the bottom of her stockinged feet. She filled a tea kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil, almost turning on the wrong burner. She turned toward the cupboard a little too quickly and had to grab the edge of the counter as a wave of dizziness swamped her.

“Did I tell you I ordered the wallpaper for the bathroom?” she called to John while she opened the cupboard to take down two cups. “It should be here next week. Do you want to give me a hand papering the bathroom next Saturday?” Something hit the floor with a heavy thump. “John?” Lanna turned to look across the breakfast counter. The chair where John had been sitting was empty. Then she saw his body slumped on the floor. She sobered up in an instant. “Oh, my God!” she whispered.

Years of professional training kept her from panicking. She hurried to the fallen man and turned him onto his back, struggling with his heavy frame. Loosening his tie, she unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and adjusted his head, clearing the breathing passages. Her fingers found the vein in his neck and felt the thin throbbing of his pulse. Absently, she noticed the opened box of pills and the white tablets scattered on the floor near him.

She left him long enough to go back to the wall telephone in the kitchen and dial the emergency number. Her voice was clear and concise as she gave
her name and address, and requested that an ambulance be sent immediately, advising them it was a heart attack. The phone call didn’t take more than a total of thirty seconds.

Assured that help and equipment were on their way, her mind divided into different compartments. One, guided by professional instincts, concentrated on her patient, while her hearing strained to catch the wail of the sirens. A third part was berating herself for not seeing the signs that should have forewarned her. John had probably taken care to conceal them from her so he wouldn’t spoil her birthday celebration.

It seemed ages before she heard the wavering scream of the ambulance outside the apartment building. Rationally, Lanna knew it had only been a matter of minutes, but it seemed much longer. Doors were slamming; footsteps hurried along the hall to her door; anxious voices issued questioning exchanges; then there was the sharp knock.

Lanna paused long enough to call, “It isn’t locked. Hurry!”

The door was pushed open and white-coated attendants rushed in, carrying their boxes of equipment and pushing Lanna out of the way. She stood back gratefully while they took over with swift efficiency.

One of the men began shooting questions at her. “Are you related to him?”

“No. We’re just friends.” She leaned shakily against the table, aware that the trembling came from shock.

“Name?”

“John Buchanan.”

“Age?”

For a moment, she drew a blank, then resolutely shook her head to get a grip on herself. “Sixty-three.”

“Do you know if he has a history of a heart condition? Is he on any medication?”

“Yes, he is. His pills are there on the floor. The prescription information should be on the box.”

The attendant grabbed it up and a few of the tablets. “It’s blank. Do you know if he took one of these?”

“No. I was in the other room,” Lanna explained. “I heard him fall.”

The second medic spoke up. “He’s stable enough to transport.”

“Please, may I ride with him?” she asked.

“Sure.” The permission was granted as the two men lifted the body onto a collapsed stretcher.

Lanna hurried into the kitchen for her shoes, pausing to turn off the burner and remembering at the last second to grab her purse. The men were wheeling the stretcher past a wide-eyed Mrs. Morgan in the hallway outside Lanna’s open door.

“What happened? Did he have a heart attack?” Her neighbor hurled the demanding questions at Lanna, who ignored both the questions and the woman in her haste to follow the ambulance attendants. “I knew something like this would happen. A man of his age just can’t take very much excitement.”

Lanna shut her mind to the implication of that statement and climbed into the back of the ambulance. The doors were slammed shut and the vehicle took off amidst the mournful wail of the siren and the rotating flash of light.

The arrival at the emergency ambulance entrance of the hospital started a procedure that was all too familiar to Lanna. Yet, in its familiarity, there was a strange unreality. The nurses and interns waiting at the door to wheel the stretcher-bound victim down the corridor, the clipped, hushed orders issued in calm authority, and the sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital became pieces of a nightmare. Lanna was kept from taking part in it by an admissions nurse.

“We’ll need some information, Miss.” The white-uniformed figure with a white cap perched on gray-brown hair blocked her path; a hand laid gently but firmly on her arm.

Lanna stared after the stretcher, reluctantly tearing her gaze away when it disappeared through a set of swinging doors. Dazed, she tried to remember what the nurse had just said.

“Yes, of course,” she remembered and followed the woman into a small office cubicle, where she was seated in a straightbacked chair. Threading her fingers together in her lap, Lanna repeated the sketchy information she had already given the ambulance attendants.

“Do you know where Mr. Buchanan lives? His address?” The businesslike tone held no sympathy, its briskness designed to obtain the needed statistics without arousing an emotional reaction.

“He lives here in Phoenix.” As she mentally clawed through her memory, Lanna raked her fingers through her hair, dislodging a comb. “I don’t know the address.”

“What about a home phone number?” the nurse questioned.

“I don’t know it.” Lanna shook her head.

“Does he have any immediate family? Someone we might contact?” The voice remained unruffled, helping Lanna to hold onto her composure.

“He has a wife. Her name is Katheryn,” she remembered and felt the brief, speculative glance the nurse gave her, but the glimmer of curiosity was quickly masked. “He mentioned she had gone out of town … north somewhere on a visit. John said their daughter-in-law and grandson had accompanied his wife.”

“His son? Perhaps you know where he might be reached?” the nurse suggested.

“No. John said he had an engagement this evening.
I’m not much help, am I?” Lanna sighed as the teeth of the hair comb bit into her palm. Then her head jerked up. “Wait. John works for Falcon Construction. He’s a night watchman on one of their sites—the new medical building. They’ll have his records on file.”

“There, you see, you did know something, after all,” the nurse declared with an encouraging smile.

In the hospital corridor there was a sudden flurry of activity. Low voices carried a disturbed note that Lanna was quick to feel. A nurse came bustling into the cubicle to hand the packet containing John’s personal possessions to the admissions nurse. A bright flame of agitation burned in the eyes of the nurse facing the desk.

“All hell’s broke loose out there.” Her voice was sharp with criticism, savagely low. “The next time, you tell those ambulance attendants not to write down half a name. That’s John Buchanan
Faulkner
we’ve got in there!”

The name slapped at Lanna. “There must be some mistake,” she protested.

The nursed turned, as if noticing her for the first time. Lanna had encountered looks like that before—the icy steel gaze of a head nurse that would tolerate no nonsense.

The admitting nurse identified her. “This is Miss Marshall. She was with … the victim when he suffered his attack.”

“He’s John Buchanan,” Lanna reasserted. “I’ve known him for months. He’s a night watchman, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know where you got the idea—”

“From his wallet, Miss Marshall, when I checked it for any medical advisories it might contain. After I saw his identification, I recognized him as being J. B. Faulkner.” Her gaze swept over Lanna’s face and the pale amber dress that so classically draped her curving
figure. “I’m sure you had reasons of your own for wishing to conceal his identity.”

Lanna’s cheeks flamed red at the insinuation, but she answered back, “You are quite wrong, Nurse. I knew him as John Buchanan; therefore, that was the name I gave you.”

“It’s immaterial now who was misled.” The nurse turned away from Lanna to address her subordinate. “There are several emergency numbers listed. You had better start trying to reach someone.” Pivoting, the nurse swiftly left the cubicle, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound. There was only the soft rustle of her uniform.

Lanna looked at the admissions nurse and repeated her assertion in a controlled voice. “I didn’t know.”

The woman’s mouth curved in a distant smile, but she made no direct response to the statement. “If you’d care to sit in the waiting room, Miss Marshall, I’ll advise you when there is something to report on his condition.”

“Thank you.” Lanna rose, subdued, her presence superfluous, and retreated to the empty lounge area near the emergency entrance, consigned to the nerve-wracking task of waiting for word.

Lanna sat hunched forward in the lumpy chair covered with plastic vinyl. Her hands were clasped around a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee—its contents remained untouched. Someone had brought it to her more than an hour ago. Straightening, she ran a hand over the silky thickness of her brown hair and sighed.

Her gaze sought the nurse on duty at the window, silently questioning. The woman shook her head, indicating there was nothing to report yet. John’s condition was unchanged. John—who was J. B. Faulkner. The full impact of that still hadn’t sunk in yet. John or J. B. Faulkner, her only concern was for a friend she had brought here, regardless of his name.

She clung to the fact that he was still alive. That, in itself, gave hope. There was no doubt that he was receiving the best of care. There was no lack of staff, equipment, or specialists to monitor his condition, an indication of the influence the name J. B. Faulkner wielded.

The ring of the telephone drew Lanna’s attention again to the nurse on duty. She strained to hear the one-sided conversation, poised motionless in her chair.

“Yes, Doctor. We were able to locate Mrs. Faulkner by telephone nearly two hours ago,” the nurse was saying. “She was at their ranch in northern Arizona. She’s flying in immediately by private plane.” There was a long pause. “His son? No. His housekeeper said he had gone out for the evening and she didn’t know where he could be reached. We have left a message for him to contact the hospital as soon as he returns.” Silence. “Yes, Doctor. I will.”

When the nurse replaced the telephone receiver, Lanna set the cold cup of coffee on the table among the tattered magazines and rose quickly to cross the waiting room to the desk. Anxiety shimmered in her searching gaze.

“That was the doctor, wasn’t it?” Lanna queried. “How is John? What did the doctor say?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Marshall. His condition is still listed as critical. I can’t give you any more information than that,” the nurse replied.

“But surely you can be more specific,” Lanna insisted. “Is he conscious? Have they—”

“You must understand, Miss Marshall,” the nurse interrupted firmly, “until Mr. Faulkner’s family is apprised of the situation, we cannot give out any details. Perhaps it would be best if you went home. There isn’t anything you can do here.”

“No.” Lanna rejected the suggestion with a quick shake of her head. “I’ll wait.”

Turning away, she retraced her path to the green plastic chair. Her head was pounding and her stomach felt quesy. Lanna didn’t know how much of the stress was due to her nerves and how much was caused by the alcohol in her system. She rubbed the spot between her forehead with the tips of her fingers, the pressure bringing little relief.

“Please, God. Please,” she whispered a wordless prayer, her soft voice catching on a sob.

Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, Lanna struggled to get a hold on her emotions. The waiting and feeling of uselessness were tearing at her poise, but nothing would be gained by allowing them to overwhelm her. She wished for someone to talk to, something to divert her mind from dwelling so exclusively on John’s condition. As a nurse, Lanna knew these next few hours were a crisis period. She lifted her gaze, trying to concentrate on something else.

A couple entered her vision to claim her attention. She focused on the marked contrast between the man and the woman. It was more than just an age difference; it was much more subtle than their obvious difference in age.

The years had treated the woman kindly. Her youthfully slim figure was still intact, fashionably clad in an apple-green skirt and matching bishop vest, complemented by a floral silk blouse. The outfit gave the impression of height to the woman’s petiteness, an effect aided by the slender heels of her shoes. They made an imperious click when she walked, demanding attention. Her light brown hair, coiffed in a sophisticatedly simple style, had been permitted to acquire an elegant frost. It was the regalness of the woman’s carriage, more than anything else, that insisted she be noticed first.

By contrast, the man appeared almost unassuming. Noiseless like a shadow in the night, he walked abreast of the woman. His stride was smooth, each movement flowing naturally into the next. The way he seemed to glide alongside the woman led Lanna to expect his posture would be slouched. Yet his shoulders and back were straight, although there was nothing of the
exaggerated military bearing about them, and his head was tipped at an angle that couldn’t be described as subservient. His air of pride was understated, attempting to impress his importance on no one, while being sure of it within himself.

The man wasn’t competing with the older woman to be the center of attention, which was why she commanded it, even though he was head-and-shoulders taller. His clothes, too, seemed chosen not to draw attention, but the plain brown slacks and pale tan shirt could not hide the superb fitness of his lean, male body. There was a vague, unrelenting quality to his hawklike profile, his features bluntly sculpted from darkly sunbronzed skin. His hair was jet-black and waved thickly across his forehead in a careless kind of order.