He waved it away. “I asked you to bring me something else. Did you?”
“Damn you, Will.” She reached into her purse and handed him the black leather case. Inside was his badge and identification card. “I shouldn’t have done this. Julius will be…”
“Thanks.” He spoke in a rough monotone. Then he violently wheeled around to face the city, provoking his back to spasm with pain, the one reliable in his new life. Night poured down on the city and lights pierced the puffy blackness. She spoke to his back. She had made plans for him. She was always good at planning. But Will wasn’t really listening. For a long time after she left he just sat there, watching the city lights, knowing he was past due for his pain meds, not moving. He slid his wedding band off for the last time—Cindy had kept it during his surgery—and dropped it into his fanny pack. He thought about pawning it, or just walking out on the Roebling Bridge and letting the river take it away.
Chapter Ten
Cheryl Beth stood in the wide doorway into the solarium, watching the man. His back to her, he was framed by the darkness of the lonely broad windows, his posture rigid with pain. His shoulders heaved slightly. She knew he was crying and thought about checking on him. This was in character for her, checking on strangers, with or without a referral. She had the run of the hospital, something she thrived on. She loved to help people. Andy had said it was actually a character flaw, a selfish compulsion to be needed—those had been his words—not so much to help anyone as to feel secure herself. But he had only said that toward the end, as they were spiraling into the place where every sentence was an accusation, every phrase the quicksand of further estrangement. It was odd that the words still stung her, so many years later.
She watched the man in the wheelchair and almost went to him. He seemed too young and vital to be here, to be in that chair. But something in her hesitated. She hated that it was getting dark so early, that her home seemed almost violated by the footprints she had seen. She felt off her stride, Christine’s bloody face and mutilated hand still hovering in her thoughts, deep footprints in her flower beds—she looked down at her own shoes as if to reassure herself that she wasn’t standing in Christine’s blood…Ah!
“I’m sorry. Everybody’s jumpy right now, and you have the most right to be.” The hand on her shoulder and the voice in her ear belonged to Dr. Jay Carpenter, the chief of general surgery. He was tall and rumpled, as usual the only neat thing on his body seemed to be the expertly knotted bowtie he wore. It was amazing how many docs still didn’t realize their conventional ties could fall on a patient or a surface, picking up bacteria to be deposited elsewhere. Dr. Carpenter always wore a bowtie. Above it was a goatee of gray and brown, setting off a creased, craggy face, all topped by thinning white hair. His voice was always ready to assume its distinctive thundering tone. He was a notorious and highly successful ladies’ man.
“Any Christmas plans?”
“I guess I’ll go see my brothers in Kentucky.”
“Walk with me, Cheryl Beth.”
Visiting hours were coming to an end, so the halls were emptying out.
“Were you in the ER for the shooting du jour?”
She had been called in. The aftermath of gunshot wounds could be especially painful. The patient was a fifteen-year-old with a stomach wound. As usual, poor and black. As usual, from the violent ghettoes that separated downtown from the hospital district on Pill Hill.
“It’s going to be a pain grenade,” she said. “You know he’s probably not opiate naïve.”
“Not with all the addicts in that neighborhood.” They knew the drill: a patient with a history of addiction didn’t respond to doses of painkillers that would work in a normal, or “naïve,” patient.
“So there’s a good chance he won’t be adequately medicated,” she said. “I’m going to go back and check on him, post-surgery.”
“That’s good,” he said, pausing to lean against a wall, his voice assuming its full freight-train tone. “If his doc isn’t doing the right thing, you do what you need, and you have my verbal orders.” He looked around and spoke more quietly. “The last thing we want is to have another African American kid screaming in pain in this hospital. Lord, this city is so tense. They won’t admit it, of course. Everybody is so nice in Cincinnati.” He paused. “They could have used you in peds today.”
“I can’t do peds.” She spoke quickly.
“I know.” He gave a gentle smile. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Me? I’m all right.”
“I know, you’re the tough one. But your job can get pretty lonely. Why don’t you come up with me to the stroke floor? They’re having their Christmas party tonight.”
“Maybe I will, if I’m not persona non grata. Stephanie Ott is out to get me.” Cheryl Beth said it lightly but the words still sounded dark. She sighed. “Things aren’t right.”
“With Stephanie?” He gave his trademark rumbling laugh. “Nothing is ever right with Stephanie. Don’t worry about her. I’ve got your back.”
“It’s not just that. Someone was digging through my desk. The whole vibe here seems different. And I found footprints in my flower bed, right by my window.”
“Maybe it was the meter reader?”
“No, the meter is in back. And they only appeared in the last couple of days.”
“It wasn’t me.” He winked. “It’s probably nothing, Cheryl Beth. Still, you ought to talk to the police.”
“It was the first thing I did!” She heard her voice rising and slowed herself down. “They blew me off. They wouldn’t even come out, just said call if I see a prowler. Damn it, they think I killed Christine.”
“No.”
“Pretty damned close.” She slumped against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “They say I could be ‘a person of interest.’ Isn’t that what it means? I always hear that on TV and those are the people who end up being the killers.”