Race for the Dying (4 page)

Chapter Five

Thomas dozed fitfully. The opiates prompted bizarre, troubled dreams, often of the
Alice
floundering. After one such episode, he awoke to an oddly textured gray sky. Then he realized he was staring, not at an expanse of sky, but instead at an expanse of waistcoat. He focused on the watch chain that decorated the spread of tweed. The individual gold links formed an interesting pattern against the vest.

“How's the nausea? I was called out, and when I returned Alvi reported that you'd had a bit of a bout.”

“I don't remember,” Thomas managed. Neither the nausea nor Alvi. He reached down and worked the thin linen sheet up toward his chin.

“Well, that's good, then. Unpleasant things are best left unrecalled.” Haines bent over the bed, scrutinizing the white bandage around Thomas' skull. “Let's take a look, now.”

The physician took off his jacket, and once again Thomas smelled the rich combination of tobacco, alcohol, and pharmacy. “I've sent a telegram to your father,” the physician continued. “I thought that he should know the particulars.”

“He'll just worry,” Thomas whispered.

“Ah, he will. But that's his due, I think. I promised to send him a complete report on a regular basis. Perhaps if you wanted to compose something, I could include that. Paper and pencil.” He pointed at the table beside the bed, within easy reach.

“I think I can get up,” Thomas said.

“No, you can't,” Haines countered. “Not yet, anyway. Let's have a look, now. You took a fearsome rap on the head, my boy. That's my major worry at this point, along with those nasty rib fractures. The rest of you is one big bruise, but bruises will heal.”

He clipped the end of the bandage and with a light touch unwrapped his nurse's handiwork. A little tug brought a flash of pain, and Thomas winced.

“Ah, those stitches,” Haines said, “but that's getting to it now.” He fussed some more, humming to himself. “You want to examine?” he asked, pulling back. “Of course, you do. Professional curiosity, if nothing else.” In a moment he returned with a large looking glass. With an odd mix of eagerness and apprehension, Thomas stared at the apparition in the glass.

His right eye was swollen shut. A patch of hair the diameter of a teacup had been shaved forward from his right ear. The sutures nestled in a path of black and blue that began just over his ear, arching upward and then down to cross along the ridge of his right eyebrow, finally curling upward toward his hairline in the center of his forehead. The sutures secured a large flap of his scalp that had torn free. Haines brought the mirror closer. The sutures were magnificently tiny and uniform. Still, it would be impossible to judge the scar until the swelling and bruising subsided. He was a purple and black mess.

“My guess is that your hard skull took most of the force of the blow. Now, whether there's a fracture, we won't know.” The physician laid the mirror back on the dresser. “Let's get a fresh dressing on this,” he said. He cocked his head as if measuring his patient's hat size, then fashioned a neat, light pad that he deftly held in place with two strips of gauze around Thomas' head.

“We'll want to guard against sepsis, but there's no point in turning you into an Egyptian mummy,” Haines said, and flashed an engaging smile at the young man. “But you know that, I'm sure.” He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “Headache?”

“Nothing that I wouldn't expect,” Thomas replied.

“Ears ring?”

“No.”

“Any throbbing in that eye?”

“Some. Mostly in the rest of my head.”

“That's good, then.”

“I need to get up.”

“Ah, well, you shouldn't, you know,” Haines said. “Give it another day or so. Just for the sake of the head and the ribs. There's nothing to be gained by rushing things. For one thing, you won't have the balance of a two-year-old for a while after a rap like that. Your hip took a nasty wrenching as well. So, indulge in our hospitality, Thomas. Let yourself be pampered. Then, when you're fit, working twenty-four hours a day will be the norm.” His beard bobbed. “We need your help here, you see. No doubt about that. I can't tell you how eager we've been, anticipating your arrival. Perhaps not such a spectacular arrival as you provided, but…” He shrugged and thrust his fingers into the small pockets of his waistcoat. “You're here now. Take the time to heal properly. Before you know it, you'll be up and about.”

The door behind the physician opened just far enough to allow Gert James to peer into the room.

“Dr. Haines, Dr. Riggs wondered what time you'd be by the clinic.”

“Ah,” Haines said. “Well,” and he turned back to Thomas, “as you can see, life goes on, my young friend.”

“And Mr. Schmidt wanted to stop by. I invited him for dinner at eight,” Gert added.

Haines grinned affectionately at the angular woman, then winked conspiratorially at Thomas. “She rules my life, you see. Soon enough, yours, too.”

“Well, someone has to,” Miss James sniffed. She withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

The physician pointed at the paper and pencil. “Write your father, if you feel up to it, Thomas. I'll see that it's wired promptly. He'd like to hear from you.”

Alone in the room after they left, the silence exacerbated Thomas' impatience. As his vision cleared a bit, he examined his surroundings, from the lace curtains to the brocaded wall covering that stretched from the walnut wainscoting to the white plaster ceiling. A single cabinet with glass doors stood in the corner, a small bureau against the far wall. More of a guest bedroom than an examining room, it was the perfect place to tuck an invalid—out of sight, out of mind.

With care, Thomas moved his right foot a fraction, easing it toward the edge of the bed. The ache in his left hip was instant and deep, but he clenched his teeth and gained another inch. The light blanket pulled with the movement, and he turned it down a bit, grateful that his right arm worked passably well. He held the arm up, cocking his head for a clear look. Other than a dark bruise just below his elbow, the arm was intact. Like a man hanging from an invisible trapeze, he lifted his left arm and held it parallel with his right. A cast locked left wrist and thumb, leaving four fingers free.

Using his right hand, he lifted the blanket away and saw that he was wearing only a pair of red flannel bottoms. A wide swath of bandages bound his ribs, and as he ran his fingers along the field of cotton, he found the tender spot centered over his fifth and sixth ribs.

He could not pinpoint the source of the deep, dark ache in his left hip, but when he tried to move his left foot, the ache turned into a trident, skewering him from shoulder to toe.

Relaxing, he tried to slow his breathing. He could hear the traffic of the village outside, and each sound beckoned him. “This is absurd,” he said aloud. He found a purchase in the flannel fabric above his right knee and began to pull, trying to flex his right leg at the knee. An inch at a time, he was able to draw his right leg up until his foot rested flat on the mattress. He would be able to rest the pad of paper on his thigh. If nothing else, he could spend his time writing and studying. Sometime within the month, his trunk of books and materials would arrive, shipped overland. Within a month. He groaned, unable to imagine lying helpless in bed for so long.

Laying his right leg flat again, he shifted and tried to roll on his side. That was impossible, and he lay back, sucking air in little gasps, furious.

The door opened again and Gert James reappeared. One eyebrow shot up as she saw the linen blanket pulled aside. Thomas hadn't the strength to cover himself, and Miss James accomplished the task with a casual flip of the coverlet.

“I heard you thrashing about,” she said. “You oughtn't to do that.”

“I can't stay here like this.”

A raspy, dry chuckle greeted that pronouncement. “I don't see many choices at the moment,” the housekeeper said. “Maybe something to eat is in order.”

Thomas stared at the ceiling, aware now of an urgency in his bladder that promised all manner of complications. Gert James moved closer to the bed and gazed down at him. As if reading his mind, she bent slightly and with just the tip of her finger flicked the enameled metal bedpan that rested on the sheets within easy reach. Thomas hadn't seen the pan, and he nodded in both relief and resignation.

“If you're needing help, you'll have to say so,” she said. “I'll be back in a few minutes with some nourishment.”

“Thanks, Miss James.”

“‘Gert' is fine, Doctor.” She squeezed his foot and turned to leave.

“Maybe you'd help me sit up,” Thomas said.

“That I can do.” She opened the armoire in the corner to the left of the bedstead and drew out three large pillows. “Now then,” she said, and paused at Thomas' bedside. “What hurts the most?”

“Every bone in my body.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense. Here now.” She piled the pillows on the bed within easy reach, then returned to slip a hand behind Thomas' shoulders. She was surprisingly strong, and Thomas couldn't contain a gasp as his hip and ribs protested. Gert hesitated long enough to reach for one of the pillows and slide it down behind him. “Far enough?”

“Once more,” Thomas panted. He could smell the fragrance in her wiry hair as she bent close, wrapping both angular arms around him.

“Just relax now,” she said. “Let me do it.” He sucked in a breath as his hip once more flexed, and his head pounded anew. “There.” Gert said with satisfaction, and patted the stack of pillows. “Is that better?”

“
Torture
is the word I would have chosen.”

She had rescued the bedpan and held it out. “Give you something else to think about.” Thomas laughed in spite of himself, and instantly regretted it. “I'll be back,” Gert promised.

“You need to tell me about this place,” he said.

“Oh, I can do that, all right,” she said, nodding with approval. “Take care of things, and we'll see.”

He waited for a moment after the door latched behind the housekeeper, and tried to cope with the awkward shape of the bedpan. One leg he could move in tiny increments, the other was a dead log. Eventually he managed, and as he lay with his eye closed, trying to relax enough to accomplish a simple bodily function, he became aware of voices that drifted in through the open window. Outside—perhaps across Gambel Street at the Mercantile—the voices rose in argument, and were punctuated now and then with loud thumps and a dog's heavy, insistent barking.

A still louder crash was followed by a howl of pain, another flurry of barking, and then a report, flat and muffled. Something struck the side of the house below his window, and then another shot pealed out.

He slid the bedpan out from under the blanket and set it on the bed instead of reaching for the nightstand. More voices babbled outside, and the dog's barking grew wild. Thomas managed to swing his right leg to the edge of the bed, and then, dragging his left leg with both hands, he let gravity do the work. In a flash of panic, he realized that the bed was higher than he had expected. The pillows cascaded off the bed, and Thomas fought to regain his balance.

With a cry, he crashed from the bed. His head cracked the edge of the nightstand and bright lights danced across the wood floor. He lay absolutely still, crumpled on his right side, trying to breathe. He could feel a warm, wet trickle running down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. For an instant, he imagined that the bedpan had upended, but then the coppery taste told him otherwise. He reached out his left hand and grasped one of the pillows, hugging it to his ribs. He rested his head on one corner of the pillow and closed his eyes, letting the throbbing sink into the goose down.

Chapter Six

Well, for heaven's sake,” the voice said, and Thomas Parks awoke with a painful start. “How did you manage this, old man? Ah, now look at that. You've done a workmanlike job of it.” Thomas' vision was blurred, but the pillow appeared to be wadded partially under a piece of furniture.

“Here, fetch Alvina,” the man said, his speech touched with a light accent. As he bent close, his powerful cologne wafted ahead of him. “How do you feel, my good man? It looks like you've cracked the old pate open.”

Thomas mumbled something, disoriented by his odd position. He could see one of the lower legs of the mahogany nightstand and the little curl of dust wrapped around its back foot. Equally obvious was an ugly, dried puddle on the oak flooring and a stain that spread across the crumpled pillow.

“There must be more comfortable places to take one's rest,” the man observed. “Ah, here we are.”

“How did we manage all this?” a feminine voice said. Thomas tried to turn his head, but two powerful hands held him in position.

“Just wait a moment,” the man said, then added, “I'm afraid you're not going to appreciate this, old man.” From floor to bed was a mere thirty-six inches, but it seemed miles and hours as hands lifted him up from the floor and into the bed.

Once more flat on his back, Thomas forced himself to lie absolutely still, trying to find his wind as skilled fingers fussed with the bandage on his head. “You don't want to do that again,” the girl's voice said, her tone a simple statement of fact.

“You won't need me, then?” the man asked. “I'll be off.” Thomas opened his left eye and saw only the broad tweed back as the burly figure left the room.

As she worked, the young woman's face was inches from his own, her forehead furrowed with concentration. “Do something useful and hold that,” she said. Her breath was lightly touched with peppermint. She guided Thomas' right hand up. “Right there,” she said. He held the bandage pad in place as she fussed with the gauze binding. “You nearly ruined my stitching.”

“I'm sorry.” He didn't have a clear view of this girl, but her hands were strong and deft. “You're Alvina,” Thomas whispered.

“Last I looked. What exactly were you trying to do? Are you one of those mountain men who is more comfortable sleeping on the floor than in a perfectly fine bed?”

“I heard something out in the street. A ruckus of some kind.”

“And you got up to see what it was,” Alvina said, and touched the side of his face lightly, just a casual, informal stroke of affection. “Don't do that again.” She was Thomas' age, dressed entirely in white linen, her figure compact, even stocky. She regarded Thomas critically, and he felt naked to her gaze. After a moment, she reached out and pulled the sheet up a bit.

“What happened outside?” Thomas asked. “I heard a gunshot.”

Her lips pursed thoughtfully. Her eyes were a brilliant blue flecked with sea foam green, set wide in a face with a flawless complexion and broad, pleasant features.

“It's my understanding that Mr. Lindeman had some trouble with one of his customers. Other than that, I couldn't tell you. I was down at the clinic, and have only rumor on which to rely. I didn't suppose any of it was my business.”

“I heard shots,” Thomas persisted.

“Yes, no doubt you did.” She reached out and rested the back of her fingers against his right cheek. “But you're nice and cool,” she said. “If we can convince you to behave yourself, you'll heal nicely.”

“Was anyone hurt?” he persisted.

“Apparently so. I'm told a fatality. I didn't see the incident.”

Thomas emitted a loud, groaning sigh of frustration. “I can't just lie here all day. I'll go insane.”

“Well, now,” Alvina said, and she folded her hands on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps ‘convalescence' was included in your curriculum at university?”

Gentle as it was, the taunting surprised him, coming from this girl whom he had just met. Her tone turned serious. “Father is concerned about your right eye, Dr. Thomas Parks.” Moving down the bed slightly so that he could see her without effort, she touched the margin of her own eye at the end of a shapely blond eyebrow. “He thinks that there might be a fracture of the orbit itself. There's no displacement, but he's concerned that there might be bleeding and pressure. It would be most helpful if you'd let things mend a bit before you indulge in any more heroics.” The eyebrow rose like a schoolmarm's silent discipline.

“It wasn't a question of heroics,” Thomas said. “I didn't travel three thousand miles to lie abed like some invalid. I want…”

She reached out and patted the back of his right hand and he stopped abruptly, embarrassed at sounding like a petulant child.

“I'm sorry,” he said lamely.

“This evening, Mr. Schmidt would like to call. Do you think you might manage a visitor?”

“Of course. He's—”

“Mr. Schmidt owns the sawmill on the point. Where you were headed Saturday.”

“Ah.”

“Perhaps about eight,” Alvina said. “If you're awake.”

“I shall try to be.”

She regarded him fondly for a moment. “When we heard you were coming to join Father's clinic, we all were delighted. In just a few days' time, you'll be working so hard you won't remember this misfortune. But give yourself those few days, Dr. Parks.”

“Thomas, please. And believe me, I will welcome the work.”

“Dr. Thomas, then.”

“The sooner that I can be of use, the better.”

She hesitated, and he saw the speculation in her eyes. “Suppose I bring you something to occupy your mind, Dr. Thomas? How would that be? You might find some difficulty reading, but we'll see.”

“Even a journal or two,” he said. “I'd appreciate that, Alvina.”

“Alvi.” This time she smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Give me a moment.” She gave his arm a final pat and left the room.

Alvina Haines. The young woman took command as a veteran nurse might, Thomas thought. He lay with his eyes closed, and gradually the walls closed in once again, the room growing stuffy. True to her word, less than ten minutes passed before she returned. Thomas felt an odd surge of relief as she entered the room, this time carrying a newspaper that she placed on the nightstand.

“Let's elevate you just a bit more,” she said, and in short order and torture he was propped up, cradled by fluffy feather pillows. “How's that?”

“Better.”

“Is the pain troublesome? If you can manage without sedation, we think it best to keep it at a minimum. Perhaps later this evening we'll give you something to help you sleep.”

“I'll be fine.”

Satisfied, she patted his knee again and nodded at the newspaper. “I'll leave this on the nightstand at your right.”

“I neglected to ask,” Thomas said. “The gentleman who so deftly moved me from floor to bed? We haven't met.”

“Well, my apologies,” Alvina said. “I'm sure he'll be in to chat with you when you're feeling more like yourself. That's Dr. Zachary Riggs. He works with Father and me at the clinic.”

“Ah.” Then she was a nurse. He reached out to pull the newspaper closer.

“It arrived in the post on Friday,” Alvina replied.

“I thank you,” he said. He saw the San Francisco banner on the paper.

“Well, it's a start,” she said. “Don't strain your eyes.”

A young woman with a good deal of self-confidence, Thomas thought, guessing that she was in no way intimidated by the physicians who orbited around her.

“I'll check back from time to time,” she said, and nodded toward the nightstand. “If there's an urgency, someone will be within hearing.” She reached across and lifted a short, fat tumbler that was half full of liquid. “Father left you brandy,” she said skeptically. “But let me suggest that it be sipped only enough to taste it on the tongue. Otherwise, it's apt to make you cough, and you don't want that.”

“No, I don't,” Thomas agreed. “Really, I'm fine.”

“That's good. Gert will have some light dinner for you in a little bit. I should imagine by now you're about inside out with hunger, but just take your time. Your body needs time to adjust, and you'll find chewing painful.”

For a few minutes after Alvina had left the room, Thomas lay still, his left eye closed.