An Educated Death (27 page)

A peculiar lassitude overtook me, flowed through me like honey, thick and slow, easing the pressure in my lungs. I started to drift, to watch the strange fuzzy shapes of the lights, the odd misshapen heads that floated above me. Voices became background, a steady hum of high-and low-pitched tones. I stopped caring about the awful things they were doing. Stopped being embarrassed about throwing up on everyone. Stopped caring if I lived or died. I imagined someone else sitting in my chair back in my little room at the Bucksport School, trying to find out what had happened to Thea Kozak.

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

Waking up was no picnic. I felt like I'd been trampled by a whole herd of cattle. All my muscles ached. My chest felt like I'd coughed for a week and busted all my ribs. My stomach seemed to have stopped a few punches and I knew what that felt like because I have stopped a few, which is not something every woman can say. I tried to remember what had happened. I'd gotten a bad case of flu, that was it. So bad I couldn't even remember coming home and going to bed. In the dim light, my room looked funny. While I was sleeping someone had come in and rearranged the furniture and my bed had shrunk. Maybe it was that rotten little prick of a tenant. Maybe I still had a fever and was delirious. Once I got some water and took some aspirin things would seem better.

I pushed back the covers and sat up. I felt odd and lightheaded so I rested at the edge of the bed before getting up. What was going on here? My reindeer sheets were gone, my soft old nightgown was gone, and someone had taped plastic tubes to my hand. As I tugged at them impatiently, there was a stabbing pain in the back of my hand, but finally they came loose and a big metal pole tipped over and crashed onto the floor at my feet.

Dizzy and confused, I sat back down and stared at the blood that oozed out from under the tape. It ran across my hand and slowly down my bare leg. My nightgown was short, thin cotton with a faded blue print. I didn't own anything like it. I'm no fashion plate but I'd never buy something this ugly. I got up and made my way slowly across the room, tripping once on the plastic tubing and once on the metal pole, heading for the light switch. Someone had moved that, too. I opened the door and cowered back from the bright fluorescent lights. I wasn't in Maine or in my condominium. It looked like a hospital corridor and I thought,
what the hell, I spend enough time in places like this that I could call them home.
I just needed to know the name of my current temporary residence. Eventually my keen memory would return and fill in the blanks.

I braced a noodle-weak arm against the doorframe for support and leaned out. A uniformed policeman was sitting in a chair by the door. "Where am I?" I asked him, knowing I sounded like a cliché from the movies. "What's going on?"

He stared at me as if I were the undead come to get him, whirled on his heel, and headed off down the hall. "I'll get the nurse," he called back over his shoulder.

Suddenly the word "poison" flashed onto my mental screen and everything came racing back—the stuff I needed to remember and the stuff I didn't want to, like crouching on Rocky Miller's floor like a wounded animal, throwing up in his wastebasket. A nurse was coming down the hall toward me, a vision in crisp white, trailed by the cowardly cop. I knew before she even opened her mouth that she was going to yell at me—part of the hospital ethic is to infantilize adults—and that I didn't want to hear it. I cut her off with a question of my own. "Where is the nearest phone?"

"You're not making any phone calls, dear, you're going right back to bed. You've just been through a terrible time. You need to rest."

"You're right," I said, "I need rest. And water. And something to kill this pain. Right after this phone call." She didn't know what to do with me. People as sick as I was were supposed to be docile. Hospitals always expect it; I always disappoint them. "You have a phone right by your bed," she said, "and what have you done to your hand?"

I looked down at the little drops of blood dripping off my fingers. "I was disoriented. I must have pulled it off. I'm sorry."

"Well, we'd better take care of that right away." She began to herd me back toward the bed, persistent as a sheep dog, clucking over the scattered tubing and the overturned IV pole. While she was clucking, I picked up the phone and called Dorrie. My watch said it was almost seven but she was still in her office.

"Dorrie, it's Thea—"

She cut me off. "Thea? My God! I'm
so
sorry about what happened. How are you? Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I'm supposed to be dead. Fortunately, I have a habit of not doing what I'm supposed to."

"I'm on my way over there," she said, "we need to talk. I'm not sure you should continue with this, after what happened."

"Later, Dorrie. That's not what I called about. Listen, this is important. Does Carol Frank live on campus?"

"No. She has an office here but she lives in town. Why?"

"I think she's in danger." It sounded absurdly dramatic, even to me, but I persisted. People getting drowned and poisoned was dramatic. I didn't want anyone else added to the casualty list. "We were interrupted today before I could find out what she knows, but Laney Taggert told her some things... important things that might help us identify Laney's killer—"

"You're sure that she was killed, then?"

"Any doubts I had were dispelled this afternoon."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Please, Dorrie... not now... I feel like I've been marched over by a platoon of marines. You've got to find her and warn her. And tell Rocky she needs protection. Right now! Don't waste time arguing with me. It may be a matter of life and death. And as soon as you've done that, will you come and get me out of here? I can't stay. I've got to go home...."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it," Dorrie said.

"Call me as soon as you've talked to her. I need to know that she's all right. And someone needs to go to her office and get Laney's file. Right now. Tonight. If the killer hasn't already taken it." Dorrie started asking questions again, but I'd used up my energy. I said a quick good-bye as the trembling hand holding the phone collapsed into my lap and the receiver slipped out of my fingers. I stared weakly at it, hearing Dorrie's faint voice talking to my foot, too exhausted to do anything about it. "Can you hang that up, please?"

The nurse picked it up, realized that Dorrie was still talking, and explained that I couldn't talk anymore. Then she cradled the phone, tucked me back in, and repaired the IV line. She was gentle enough but her peevish expression said that she disapproved of my behavior. Nurses like their patients quiet and grateful. Rather like my mother. Another way this was just like being at home.

"I'm thirsty," I said.

She poured me some water and the sound of the ice tinkling into the glass made me dizzy with anticipation. She popped in a straw and held the glass so I could drink. I sucked greedily at the straw until the icy water hit my stomach; I felt it recoil in shock. Every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation. I would have chosen open-heart surgery performed with a knife and fork to throwing up again. Even though I was still thirsty, I stopped drinking.

"It's too cold," I said. "It hurts. Do you have any tea?"

"I might be able to find some," she said doubtfully. "Do you need anything else?" She wanted the answer to be no.

"Blankets," I said. She left to find some and I huddled in the bed, trembling and miserable. The icy water had left me shaking, unless it was getting out of bed, unless it was just the whole experience. All I knew was that I was shivering. Now that the lights were on, I could see how stark and utilitarian my room was. I was alone in a strange hospital in a strange town. I felt awful and nobody cared and I was too sick and weak to take myself home.

Maybe it meant that I was a better detective than I knew, since I'd obviously done something so threatening that the murderer wanted me out of the picture, but I didn't feel fine or clever or have any idea what I'd done. I knew what I wanted to do, though—die. Put myself out of my misery. I was just too stubborn to give anyone else that satisfaction. I curled up in a ball and buried my head in my pillow. My hair smelled awful, my face needed washing. I wanted to brush my teeth but I couldn't have made my arm go up and down and I was too big to have someone do it for me. And I hurt! Oh, God, did I hurt.

I stayed curled up in my ball, feeling extremely sorry for myself, while the nurse came and put blankets over me, tucking them in quietly and efficiently, fed me some tiny colorless pills from a little pleated paper cup, lowered the lights again, and went away.

There were things I needed to think about, things that needed to be done. I wasn't sure Dorrie had appreciated the urgency of my message. If I could have gotten out of bed, I would have gone and found Carol Frank myself. Found her and asked her my questions. But I couldn't do it. Frustrating as my weakness was, I couldn't fight it. Gradually I got warmer and a dizzying lethargy crept over me until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke to a commotion of voices and footsteps out in the hall. The door opened with a burst of light and Dorrie, Rocky, and another uniformed policeman came in, followed by the nurse. The nurse attempted to hush them with all the gusto of a burnt-out schoolteacher.

Rocky snapped on the lights, stormed up to my bed, and bellowed at me, "What's all this about Carol Frank? And who gave you that sandwich? I said you couldn't handle the job and now you damned near got yourself killed!" He stood over me, his face pink, his blond hair awry, breathing heavily and glaring.

The sudden glare of light felt like a physical assault but I managed to respond using my best Miss Manners technique. "Thank you for your kind expression of concern about my welfare. I'm doing much better, thank you." He just stared at me in openmouthed astonishment while behind him Dorrie struggled to repress a smile. "Would you please go away now?" Being bullied always brings out the sweetest side of my nature.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me everything you know," he said.

"Hope you've got lots of time, then," I said. "Where shall we start? Recipes? Poetry? Statistical methods? Interviewing techniques?" His face got redder and with his boyish looks he reminded me of a furious child. I decided not to start a fight. I didn't have the energy. "I'm sorry about your wastebasket," I said.

"Forget about the goddamned wastebasket," he said. "Why did you eat that sandwich?"

What a stupid question. "Because I was hungry!" It was supposed to sound defiant but it came out sounding pathetic. I'd expended all my energy on my first sentence. On a good day, Rocky's belligerence didn't bother me, but I was weak, dizzy, and bleary from sleep. Being sick always leaves me feeble, and this time I'd been sick and pumped and purged and drugged and I had no fight left in me at all. Despite the fact that I am the toughest kid on the block and I know that big kids don't cry, as Rocky Miller stood over me yelling, I started to cry.

"Go away," I said. I pulled the covers over my head.

Through the covers I heard Dorrie's voice. "Now you see why I didn't want your department to do the interviewing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"I'm talking about bullying people. I'm talking about tailoring your style to the situation. I'm talking about what you just did. You're forgetting something very important here. Thea isn't some criminal you're trying to get a confession from, Rocky. She's a victim. Someone tried to kill her today. But instead of acting sympathetic and protective, instead of saying, 'I know you've been through a horrible time but I need to ask you a few questions,' you're standing there yelling at her. Why shouldn't she have eaten a sandwich? I have one sent to her every day."

"Well, I didn't know that."

"Because you didn't ask—"

"Dammit, Dorrie, will you let me handle this?"

"How would you like it if you were sick in bed and someone came and yelled at you?" she said.

"It's happened," he said.

"Oh, spare me the macho bullshit, Rocky! You aren't listening."

I pulled off the covers. I was still crying but it wasn't something I could control. Let him think I was a weakling and a wimp. I didn't care. Through my tears, I stared past him at Dorrie and asked the question that was uppermost in my mind. "Did you find Carol?"

She shook her head. "She was out. I left a message on her machine and Rocky has someone watching the house."

"What about the file?"

"Gone. When I got to her office, it looked like a tornado had gone through it. I only hope she has it with her. Someone went through your office, too. I don't know if they took anything—"

"There was nothing to take. I had all my papers with me." So much I wanted to tell them, but my throat felt scratchy, my mouth was dry and everything took too much effort. I closed my eyes, shutting out the sight of Rocky's angry face and Dorrie's worried one.

"Goddammit, you can't go back to sleep now!" Rocky said. I think he would have shaken me if Dorrie hadn't been there. "We need to know everything you know. This isn't some simple consulting thing anymore. This is attempted murder! Let's start with the sandwich—"