Race for the Dying (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

“
Helen Whitman will attend the ward at night for us,” Alvi Haines said without preamble. Thomas looked up from the nasty abscess that he was lancing deep in the crevasse between the cheeks of Pastor Roland Patterson's emaciated buttocks. Patterson didn't complain. A flow of nitrous oxide kept him blissfully unconscious.

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Thomas said. “And good morning to you.”

Alvi took a couple of steps into the examining room so that she could close the door, tilted her head, and looked critically at the mess on the preacher's posterior. “I've known Helen for years,” Alvi said. “She was employed at St. Mary's, and welcomes the opportunity to return.”

“You must have spoken with Zachary already this morning,” Thomas said.

“Yes.”

“When will Miss Whitman start with us? Yesterday is good as far as I'm concerned.”

“As early as next week.”

“No sooner?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Thomas glanced around at Alvi again, sensing that her tone was a bit more clipped than usual. But she was watching the surgery with interest. “You'll return to one-oh-one for dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “But I plan to return here afterward.” He leaned forward and squinted at the wound. “This is a bandaging challenge,” he said to himself, and he looked up at Bertha, who so deftly managed the cylinder of nitrous oxide. “It would be advantageous if Pastor Patterson can remain with us for the rest of the day. We need to keep this wound open and dry.”

“His wife is adept,” Bertha said quickly. “She has served as midwife any number of times in the parish.”

“She'd be willing, you think? This must be kept absolutely clean and dry. The opportunities for infection are legion with a surgical site such as this.”

“Of course she would be willing,” Bertha replied. “Shall I fetch her? They live just down the hill. Right beside the church.”

“She's not waiting outside?”

“No.”

“Does she know that her husband is here?”

“I suppose not.”

“Good heavens, how odd. Then of course we'll need to fetch her promptly. I want to talk to him when he's sensible. It would be helpful to talk with her at the same time.”

He pushed himself away, wheeled to the water cart, and washed his hands.

“Why did you risk the stairs?” Alvi said. She remained by the door, watching.

“Why? Well, I awoke at midnight after sleeping like the dead, and was so hungry that I thought about gnawing at the wainscoting. Who should come to my aid but nurse Auerbach, carrying with her the most wonderful meat pie you ever tasted. After eating like a glutton, I was so energized that I felt in the mood for an adventure.” He turned and grinned at Alvi. “I discovered that I could manage one stair at a time, the whole sixteen.”

“I hadn't counted them.”

“Well, I did, believe me. Anyway, call it curiosity. And I was amazed by what I saw. However”—he dried his hands thoughtfully—“that's a voyage I don't plan to make again any time soon, I can tell you.” He hung the towel on the cart's rail. “I have a number of questions, Alvi. They all can wait for this evening, at our leisure. You'll be there, surely?”

“For dinner, yes. For brandy and cigars in the library afterward, no. That time belongs to my father and Zachary.” She nodded curtly. “I can see from the waiting room that it's going to be a busy day.” She stopped at the door, hand on the knob. “Father probably won't be in this morning at all. Maybe after lunch. He was called out sometime after ten last night.”

“Ah. I'm sorry. What was the nature—”

“Robina Cleary. Father said it was a stroke. There was nothing he could do except try to keep her comfortable. A very sad time.”

“Mrs. Cleary?”

Alvi nodded.

“She passed away?”

“Yes. You'll need a hand with Mr. Patterson?” Alvi asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Stunned by the news of the woman's death, Thomas could only watch as Alvi and Bertha made short work of the transfer to the wheeled cot. As they maneuvered the cot out of the room, she added, “Constable Eastman would like a word with you, if you'll take the time.”

“Of course. And that's another thing,” he said. “I don't like taking patients, especially the indisposed ones, through the waiting room. What's everybody's business is really nobody's business, if you know what I mean.”

“Certainly,” Alvi said. “We'll talk about that.” Thomas rolled his chair to the door, nodding at the collection of strange faces. Every seat in the waiting room was taken, and a woman had taken to the floor in one corner, playing with two small toddlers.

“We'll be with you all in a moment,” he said cheerfully. “Constable Eastman, if you please?”

Eastman, who had been standing by the door talking to someone outside, ducked his head and plodded across the room, ignoring the seated patients.

“I won't be but a minute,” he said, and made sure that the examining room door was closed behind him. “Ward Kittrick got away from us early this morning,” he said, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Before dawn.”

“I confess that I don't recall—”

“Kittrick. The man who killed Charlie Grimes.”

“My God. He escaped, you say?”

“He did. My jailer has a sore neck and a lump over his left ear the size of a goose egg. Damn lucky not to be dead, or stretched out on your operating table.”

“However—”

“I'm still workin' on that. I wasn't there, nor Aldrich. Jailer was by himself. Could have happened any number of ways, not that it matters now.”

“Where did Kittrick go?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn't be here, Doctor. I just wanted you to know. You'd best keep a sharp eye peeled.”

“Why would he come here?” Thomas asked. “Is he hurt?”

“Wish to God that he was. But I did a stupid thing.”

“How so?”

“I've known the Kittricks for years. Hardworking boys. Tend to enjoy the bottle, but I can't hold that against 'em. Like to fight, but there again. Anyways, I was talking to Kittrick last night after I arrested him. He didn't fight me, and I appreciated that. I told him so. But I told him that it was a stupid thing he did to kill the Grimes boy, and then to go and boast about it to some of his drinking buddies.”

“I still don't see.”

“He said I wasn't about to prove anything against him, and I says just wait. We can prove that it was his knife did the cutting. See,” and he looked apologetically at Thomas, “I figured maybe he'd see the way of things, and say why he done it. Go easier for him.”

“Ah.”

“So now he knows you're the one that can put the rope around his neck, Doc. I knew the minute the words came out that I shouldn't have let it slip. But I did, so there we are.”

“Surely, you don't think he'd come here.”

“I don't know what he'll do. I don't know where he'll go, except he's got kin down in Tacoma. Or maybe north. On into Canada. He knows I can't comb the timber for him.” Eastman heaved a sigh. “But he'll show his face sooner or later. I just wanted you to know.”

“Well, thank you, Constable. If he walks into this room ten minutes after you leave, I don't know what I propose to do about it.”

Eastman grunted a laugh. “Nope, you sure as hell ain't runnin', and I doubt there's much fight in you at the moment. A good poke in the ribs would do you in.” Thomas winced at the thought. “You own a gun?” Eastman asked.

“Well, I did,” Thomas said. “I had one in my shipping chest. That and everything else is being enjoyed by someone else at the moment.”

“Then stop by Lindeman's and buy you another,” Eastman said. “Couldn't hurt.”

“I'll think about that,” Thomas said. “Of course, he's not going to try anything while I have a waiting room full of patients as witnesses.”

“There's times when the waiting room is empty,” Eastman said. “You plan to go to one-oh-one this evening?”

“I had planned so.”

“Then fetch me or Aldrich. We'll make sure you get there.”

“That's hardly necessary.”

“Well, you can't be too careful with a man like Kittrick, desperate as he is now. And I've heard stories about you already, Doctor. We'd kind of like to keep you around for a while, now that you're here and getting on.”

Chapter Thirty-six

The drive of a few blocks from the clinic to 101 had been a revelation to Thomas when he discovered that he could support himself on his crutches and swing his right foot up to the step, then push up and pivot to land on the cushioned seat with his right hip. Immediately, visions of something as simple as a hot bath and then drives around Port McKinney had swirled in his head—until Horace had snapped the reins. The carriage's hard narrow wheels jounced through the ruts of Gambel Street at speeds no more than a sedate stroll, all of it torture. Once back at 101, the idea of a hot bath was more appealing than the reality of achieving it. Determined to shed clothing that now felt like a second, smelly skin, Thomas eschewed offers of help from Horace, from Dr. Haines—even from Alvina. The high-laced shoes were the most frustrating impediment, but Thomas stubbornly fussed and fumed until he discovered that he could actually flex his left knee sufficiently to reach the laces with the tips of his right fingers.

Finally he stood naked beside the tub, his body a spectacular array of colorful bruises. Laying the crutches across the tub, one behind him and one in front, he sat gently on the rim between them, put his weight on his right arm with his elbow resting on the rear crutch, and maneuvered his right leg over the rim.

He gasped as the water touched the sole of his foot, then shifted his weight until he could balance, right foot on the bottom of the tub, both hands holding his weight on the crutches.

Holding his breath, he lowered himself until his knees touched the bottom, and stopped, head pounding. For several minutes he knelt, arms folded on the crutch in front of him. By the time his rump hit the tub bottom and he could sit with legs stretched in front of him, he was panting from the exertion…and was thoroughly impressed with himself.

A knuckle rapped on the door, and Alvi Haines didn't wait for an invitation. She cracked open the door, and Thomas groped wildly for the towel. It was out of reach.

“You're all right?” she asked.

“I am,” Thomas said. “And indecent.”

“Oh, good,” she said, and Thomas heard none of the reserve that had marked the young woman's mood earlier.

She opened the door and slipped into the room. “Gert wants to know if you need more hot water.”

“I don't think so. I don't want to get the dressing on my ribs wet.”

“It would be best to remove that so you can wash the rest,” Alvi said. “Then we'll fix you up a fresh one. Let me get a scissors.”

She disappeared before Thomas could protest, and he took the opportunity to reach out for the nearest towel with the crutch. He hadn't managed the task when she returned. She cocked her head.

“The towel?”

“Yes. Please.”

She handed it to him. “You're really rather beautiful, you know. In an artist's palette sort of way.” She laughed gently and watched him spread the towel across the platform of crutches.

“The whole town will talk,” Thomas joked. He lifted his arms so she could unfasten the rib dressing.

“Do you think so?” she said. “Are they all lined up outside the window, watching lasciviously?''

“Watching me get into this tub would have made a side show, I suppose.”

“Which brings to mind another question,” Alvi said, unwinding the bandage. “Hold the dressing for me, please.” As her arms encircled him, Thomas breathed in her unique fragrance, and wondered what it was that she bathed in. “How are you going to get out?”

“I prefer not to dwell on that,” Thomas said. A fraction of an inch at a time, she pulled the bandage loose from his ribs. Without being asked, Alvi handed him a mirror, and he carefully inspected the wound. It appeared to be scabbing well, with only a small halo of inflammation around the deepest gash.

In a moment the head bandage was removed as well, and Thomas held up the mirror. His eye was bloodshot, the lid swollen and grotesque, and the stitches along the wound pulled a little at the swelling.

“How is the vision?”

Thomas closed his left eye and peered through the swollen window of eyelids. He looked around the room, and then at her. One long strand of her auburn hair curled down past her left eye, touching her cheek. “Fine enough.”

“You're really going back to the clinic this evening?”

“Yes. I have to. We have patients in the ward. I'm not about to ask Bertha to remain all night. It's enough that she agreed to remain at the clinic until I return.”

I was surprised to see you in the carriage,” she said. She reached down and swirled an index finger in the water. chasing a soap bubble. “We haven't had a chance to talk about last night,” she said.

“Nor anything else, for that matter.”

Alvi nodded. “Zachary says that you may have reservations.”

Thomas mulled several ways he might respond. “I find it difficult to obtain straight answers from him,” he said. Alvi withdrew her hand and folded her forearms on the edge of the tub staring at Thomas. Her eyes roamed his face, and she tilted her head and examined the way the long row of stitches curled up into his hair, then looped back down to his right ear.

“Answers to what?” she said at last.

“Well, for instance. Tell me about the two physicians I've never met. Doctors Tessier and Sorrel.”

“What would you like to know about them?”

“Let's begin with the most simple thing. Do they exist?”

A slight smile touched her mouth. “In the minds of desperate patients, they are as real as you or me.”

“So they're inventions, then.”

“I prefer to call them advertising techniques,” Alvi replied.

“Techniques? Like the book's engraving of the enormous clinic that exists only in our dreams?”

“Think about what can be, Thomas.”

“Oh, I am, I am. Right now, we have a solid three-story building—I haven't found my way to the third yet—and not a proper ward for patients. Not a proper surgery. We wheel patients from the treatment room through the waiting room, no doubt to the horror of those waiting. With Bertha, we do have more staff than a country doctor, but hardly that of a grandiose clinic and research center.”

He stopped when he saw that Alvi was smiling at him.

“What? You find all this amusing, I take it?”

“I find your umbrage amusing,” she said. “How long have you been seeing patients at the clinic?”

He didn't reply, unsure of what she meant. She outwaited him, however, and he finally said, “I have completed my second day.” That sounded foolish, and he felt the cursed blush wash up his neck, knowing exactly what she meant.

“We have an additional nurse who will arrive in a matter of days,” Alvi said. “Jake Tate agreed to work for us if need be to renovate the clinic to suit you. Mr. Schmidt has given him permission.” Her eyebrows rose as she reached out to push a strand of his hair away from the stitches. “Those are things that not only can be, but will be. And sooner rather than later.”

“I fail to understand how letters from fictitious physicians who promise the heavens with their personal and prompt attention constitute merely an advertising ‘technique,' Alvi. The patient must read those and believe that the entire resources of an enormous clinic and its distinguished staff are working on their behalf.”

“There's something wrong with that surge of hope?”

“Certainly there is. It's all illusion. What do the world-renowned physicians actually do for the patient?”

She didn't answer, and Thomas nodded. “Just so. A bit of patent concoction, no doubt laced with opiates to keep them coming back for more. Their hopes are raised, only to be dashed.”

“If anything dashes their hopes, Thomas, it is the dreadful disease—not anything we do.” Her gaze was unflinching, but no smile now softened her features.

“Let me ask you something,” Thomas said. “What does your father think of all this? I mean what does he really think?”

“You would have to ask him,” she said with a sigh. “I know that he thinks highly of Zachary, as we all do. Zachary's work makes many things possible, Thomas. Like your nurses, and the carpenters, and everything else you're planning to ask for in weeks to come.” She nodded at him. “Think on that.” She pushed herself to her feet. “In point of fact, without Zachary's efforts, you would be but a country doctor, with the country doctor's limited resources.”

She walked behind him. “Now let me wash your back so we can get to dinner. If Gert's roast grows cold, I'll never hear the end of it.”

Thomas started to protest, but the young woman ignored him. In a moment, he had to admit that the attention felt wonderful. Halfway down his spine, she paused. “Are you going to do something about the dog?”

“The dog? You mean Prince? You know, I didn't see him when we drove up from the clinic.”

“That's because he can hardly get up, Thomas. I stopped by the Mercantile and saw him lying by the stove. A pitiful wreck, Mr. Lindeman called him.”

“He has an abscess on the inside of his leg that's going to kill him,” Thomas said. “I must find a way to take him down to the shore so he can be cleaned up a bit. Charlie Grimes had agreed to do that.”

Alvi was silent for another few swipes of the cloth. “A horse trough won't do?”

“Better than nothing, but I thought the salt water might be soothing…and far easier just to walk the beast into the water and have at it.”

“And then?”

“Then the ether,” Thomas said.

“He'll let you do that? The smell is awful.”

Thomas flinched as her strong hands scrubbed the small of his back, working too close to his left hip. “With enough morphine, I think he will,” Thomas said, gritting his teeth. “I can see it in his eyes.”

She laughed and stood up. “I'll see to his washing,” she said.

“Be careful.”

“Oh, I shall,” she said. “But he'll let me do it.” She smiled again. “I can see it in his eyes, you know.”

She left the bath, and once more Thomas had that odd sensation of being in a room far emptier than before.