Whistleblower and Never Say Die (27 page)

B
arely a minute after Cathy left the hospital, a man walked into the emergency room, sweeping the smells of a stormy night in with him through the double doors. The nurse on duty was busy with the new patient’s admission papers. At the sudden rush of cold air, she looked up to see a man approach her desk. He was about thirty-five, gaunt-faced, silent, his dark hair lightly feathered by gray. Droplets of water sparkled on his tan Burberry raincoat.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, focusing on his eyes, which were as black and polished as pebbles in a pond.

Nodding, he said quietly, “Was there a man brought in a short time ago? Victor Holland?”

The nurse glanced down at the papers on her desk. That was the name. Victor Holland. “Yes,” she said. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m his brother. How is he?”

“He just arrived, sir. They’re working on him now. If you’ll wait, I can check on how he’s doing—” She stopped to answer the ringing telephone. It was a technician calling with the new patient’s laboratory results. As she jotted down the numbers, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that
the man had turned and was gazing at the closed door to the trauma room. It suddenly swung open as an orderly emerged carrying a bulging plastic bag streaked with blood. The clamor of voices spilled from the room:

“Pressure up to 110 over 70!”

“OR says they’re ready to go.”

“Where’s that surgeon?”

“On his way. He had car trouble.”

“Ready for X-rays! Everyone back!”

Slowly the door closed, muffling the voices. The nurse hung up just as the orderly deposited the plastic bag on her desk. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Patient’s clothes. They’re a mess. Should I just toss ’em?”

“I’ll take them home,” the man in the raincoat cut in. “Is everything here?”

The orderly flashed the nurse an uncomfortable glance. “I’m not sure he’d want to…I mean, they’re kind of…uh, dirty….”

The nurse said quickly, “Mr. Holland, why don’t you let us dispose of the clothes for you? There’s nothing worth keeping in there. I’ve already collected his valuables.” She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope labeled: Holland, Victor. Contents: Wallet, Wristwatch. “You can take these home. Just sign this receipt.”

The man nodded and signed his name: David Holland. “Tell me,” he said, sliding the envelope in his pocket. “Is Victor awake? Has he said anything?”

“I’m afraid not. He was semiconscious when he arrived.”

The man took this information in silence, a silence that the nurse found suddenly and profoundly disturbing. “Excuse me, Mr. Holland?” she asked. “How did you hear
your brother was hurt? I didn’t get a chance to contact any relatives….”

“The police called me. Victor was driving my car. They found it smashed up at the side of the road.”

“Oh. What an awful way to be notified.”

“Yes. The stuff of nightmares.”

“At least someone was able to get in touch with you.” She sifted through the sheaf of papers on her desk. “Can we get your address and phone number? In case we need to reach you?”

“Of course.” The man took the ER papers, which he quickly scanned before scrawling his name and phone number on the blank marked Next of Kin. “Who’s this Catherine Weaver?” he asked, pointing to the name and address at the bottom of the page.

“She’s the woman who brought him in.”

“I’ll have to thank her.” He handed back the papers.

“Nurse?”

She looked around and saw that the doctor was calling to her from the trauma room doorway. “Yes?”

“I want you to call the police. Tell them to get in here as soon as possible.”

“They’ve been called, Doctor. They know about the accident—”

“Call them again. This is no accident.”

“What?”

“We just got the X-rays. The man’s got a bullet in his shoulder.”

“A
bullet?
” A chill went through the nurse’s body, like a cold wind sweeping in from the night. Slowly, she turned toward the man in the raincoat, the man who’d claimed to
be Victor Holland’s brother. To her amazement, no one was there. She felt only a cold puff of night air, and then she saw the double doors quietly slide shut.

“Where the hell did he go?” the orderly whispered.

For a few seconds she could only stare at the closed doors. Then her gaze dropped and she focused on the empty spot on her desk. The bag containing Victor Holland’s clothes had vanished.

“Why did the police call again?”

Cathy slowly replaced the telephone receiver. Even though she was bundled in a warm terry-cloth robe, she was shivering. She turned and stared across the kitchen at Sarah. “That man on the road—they found a bullet in his shoulder.”

In the midst of pouring tea, Sarah glanced up in surprise. “You mean—someone
shot
him?”

Cathy sank down at the kitchen table and gazed numbly at the cup of cinnamon tea that Sarah had just slid in front of her. A hot bath and a soothing hour of sitting by the fireplace had made the night’s events seem like nothing more than a bad dream. Here in Sarah’s kitchen, with its chintz curtains and its cinnamon and spice smells, the violence of the real world seemed a million miles away.

Sarah leaned toward her. “Do they know what happened? Has he said anything?”

“He just got out of surgery.” She turned and glanced at the telephone. “I should call the hospital again—”

“No. You shouldn’t. You’ve done everything you possibly can.” Sarah gently touched her arm. “And your tea’s getting cold.”

With a shaking hand, Cathy brushed back a strand of damp hair and settled uneasily in her chair. A bullet in his shoulder, she thought. Why? Had it been a random attack, a highway gunslinger blasting out the car window at a total stranger? She’d read about it in the newspapers, the stories of freeway arguments settled by the pulling of a trigger.

Or had it been a deliberate attack? Had Victor Holland been targeted for death?

Outside, something rattled and clanged against the house. Cathy sat up sharply. “What was that?”

“Believe me, it’s not the bogeyman,” said Sarah, laughing. She went to the kitchen door and reached for the bolt.

“Sarah!” Cathy called in panic as the bold slid open. “Wait!”

“Take a look for yourself.” Sarah opened the door. The kitchen light swung across a cluster of trash cans sitting in the carport. A shadow slid to the ground and scurried away, trailing food wrappers across the driveway. “Raccoons,” said Sarah. “If I don’t tie the lids down, those pests’ll scatter trash all over the yard.” Another shadow popped its head out of a can and stared at her, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Sarah clapped her hands and yelled, “Go on, get lost!” The raccoon didn’t budge. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” At last, the raccoon dropped to the ground and ambled off into the trees. “They get bolder every year,” Sarah sighed, closing the door. She turned and winked at Cathy. “So take it easy. This isn’t the big city.”

“Keep reminding me.” Cathy took a slice of banana bread and began to spread it with sweet butter. “You know, Sarah, I think it’ll be a lot nicer spending Christmas with you than it ever was with old Jack.”

“Uh-oh. Since we’re now speaking of ex-husbands—” Sarah shuffled over to a cabinet “—we might as well get in the right frame of mind. And tea just won’t cut it.” She grinned and waved a bottle of brandy.

“Sarah, you’re not drinking alcohol, are you?”

“It’s not for
me.
” Sarah set the bottle and a single wine glass in front of Cathy. “But I think
you
could use a nip. After all, it’s been a cold, traumatic night. And here we are, talking about turkeys of the male variety.”

“Well, since you put it that way…” Cathy poured out a generous shot of brandy. “To the turkeys of the world,” she declared and took a sip. It felt just right going down.

“So how is old Jack?” asked Sarah.

“Same as always.”

“Blondes?”

“He’s moved on to brunettes.”

“It took him only a year to go through the world’s supply of blondes?”

Cathy shrugged. “He might have missed a few.”

They both laughed then, light and easy laughter that told them their wounds were well on the way to healing, that men were now creatures to be discussed without pain, without sorrow.

Cathy regarded her glass of brandy. “Do you think there
are
any good men left in the world? I mean, shouldn’t there be
one
floating around somewhere? Maybe a mutation or something? One measly decent guy?”

“Sure. Somewhere in Siberia. But he’s a hundred-and-twenty years old.”

“I’ve always liked older men.”

They laughed again, but this time the sound wasn’t as
lighthearted. So many years had passed since their college days together, the days when they had
known,
had never doubted, that Prince Charmings abounded in the world.

Cathy drained her glass of brandy and set it down. “What a lousy friend I am. Keeping a pregnant lady up all night! What time is it, anyway?”

“Only two-thirty in the morning.”

“Oh, Sarah! Go to bed!” Cathy went to the sink and began wetting a handful of paper towels.

“And what are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

“I just want to clean up the car. I didn’t get all the blood off the seat.”

“I already did it.”

“What? When?”

“While you were taking a bath.”

“Sarah, you idiot.”

“Hey, I didn’t have a miscarriage or anything. Oh, I almost forgot.” Sarah pointed to a tiny film canister on the counter. “I found that on the floor of your car.”

Cathy shook her head and sighed. “It’s Hickey’s.”

“Hickey! Now
there’s
a waste of a man.”

“He’s also a good friend of mine.”

“That’s all Hickey will ever be to a woman. A
friend.
So what’s on the roll of film? Naked women, as usual?”

“I don’t even want to know. When I dropped him off at the airport, he handed me a half-dozen rolls and told me he’d pick them up when he got back. Guess he didn’t want to lug ’em all the way to Nairobi.”

“Is that where he went? Nairobi?”

“He’s shooting ‘gorgeous ladies of Africa’ or something.” Cathy slipped the film canister into her bathrobe pocket.
“This must’ve dropped out of the glove compartment. Gee. I hope it’s not pornographic.”

“Knowing Hickey, it probably is.”

They both laughed at the irony of it all. Hickman Von Trapp, whose only job it was to photograph naked females in erotic poses, had absolutely no interest in the opposite sex, with the possible exception of his mother.

“A guy like Hickey only goes to prove my point,” Sarah said over her shoulder as she headed up the hall to bed.

“What point is that?”

“There really
are
no good men left in the world!”

It was the light that dragged Victor up from the depths of unconsciousness, a light brighter than a dozen suns, beating against his closed eyelids. He didn’t want to wake up; he knew, in some dim, scarcely functioning part of his brain, that if he continued to struggle against this blessed oblivion he would feel pain and nausea and something else, something much, much worse: terror. Of what, he couldn’t remember. Of death? No, no, this was death, or as close as one could come to it, and it was warm and black and comfortable. But he had something important to do, something that he couldn’t allow himself to forget. He tried to think, but all he could remember was a hand, gentle but somehow strong, brushing his forehead, and a voice, reaching to him softly in the darkness.

My name is Catherine….

As her touch, her voice, flooded his memory, so too did the fear. Not for himself (he was dead, wasn’t he?) but for her. Strong, gentle Catherine. He’d seen her face only briefly, could scarcely remember it, but somehow he knew she was
beautiful, the way a blind man knows, without benefit of vision, that a rainbow or the sky or his own dear child’s face is beautiful. And now he was afraid for her.

Where are you?
he wanted to cry out.

“He’s coming around,” said a female voice (not Catherine’s, it was too hard, too crisp) followed by a confusing rush of other voices.

“Watch that IV!”

“Mr. Holland, hold still. Everything’s going to be all right—”

“I said, watch the IV!”

“Hand me that second unit of blood—”

“Don’t move, Mr. Holland—”

Where are you, Catherine?
The shout exploded in his head. Fighting the temptation to sink back into unconsciousness, he struggled to lift his eyelids. At first, there was only a blur of light and color, so harsh he felt it stab through his sockets straight to his brain. Gradually the blur took the shape of faces, strangers in blue, frowning down at him. He tried to focus but the effort made his stomach rebel.