Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (33 page)

QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

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Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Jenkins and Wadley were sitting in an area called The Canteen. Used by nurses and staff, it was a small room behind the admissions desk with two microwaves, a pair of coffee-makers, an electric samovar

filled with hot water next to a bowl of tea bags, a three-quarter size refrigerator, a half-sized sink, and a small television patched into the hospital’s cable service; just at present it was showing one of
The
Incredible Hulk
movies with the sound turned off. The room had a slightly greenish cast from the old-fashioned recessed lighting, as unflattering as it was hard on the eyes. At the moment the two men were quite alone, having shown up early, prepared for what Jenkins had called “The double whammy night: Halloween
and
a full moon!”

They wore scrubs, having secured their coats in their lockers.

“Triple whammy: it’s Saturday.”

“That, too,” Jenkins allowed.

“Still pretty quiet so far,” said Wadley, a young African-American only recently out of college, rangy, clever, and ambitious; he sounded a bit disappointed.

“It’ll get busier, Jamal—don’t get ahead of yourself. By eight we

should have our hands full, if this year is anything like last year.”

Jenkins got up and refilled his coffee cup from the caffeinated pot; he was more than a decade older than Wadley, an experienced X-ray

technician with a host of good reports in his file and a passion for old

[251]

[252] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

horror movies; his first name was Chastain, but no one ever used it.

“Which,” he added after a thoughtful pause, “I hope it isn’t. Newsvans in the parking lot. No thank you.”

“Yeah,” Wadley said. “Well, my sister’s kids are going trick-

or-treating for the first time tonight. Making the rounds in the

neighborhood. Should be okay. Couple of adults going with them.”

“Good idea. These days they may get tricked instead of treated.”

“And not just kids,” Wadley said.

“You mean like year before last when someone spiked the

Golden Hills Country Club punch with LSD? Or last year when the

Cavalier Club went up in flames? That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it? And that bus accident didn’t help. SUV versus bus, what a mess.

You worked on the victims, didn’t you?” Jenkins asked, just before Alan Samson came in: he was in his early thirties, blond-haired and green-eyed, a pediatric nurse who looked like a football player, with big shoulders, a sturdy torso, and legs like tree-trunks; his voice was low and comfortable. “Hey there. I thought you were through for the day.”

Samson’s outwardly imperturbable manner was characteristically

unruffled. “Overtime,” he said at his most laconic.

“You planning to take care of the teenagers, along with the kids?”

Wadley asked, trying to urge Samson into a discussion.

“Whatever Spink wants; she arranged for me,” was Samson’s

abbreviated answer, leaving out the negotiating that her request

required. He took his cup down from the shelf, filled it with hot

water and dropped a teabag from his breast pocket into it.

“And what about Chin and Wieznieki?” Jenkins inquired as

Samson sat down opposite him; Chin was the cardiologist on duty,

Wieznieki was the orthopedist.

“Spink is pediatrics; so am I. If she doesn’t need me tonight, I can take other cases, just like you, Jamal.” It was impossible to tell if this calculated needling aggravated or amused him.

“There are five Docs on call tonight, and three extra on the floor,”

Jenkins remarked. “Almost as expensive as New Year’s.”

“Serves the suits right if we don’t get much action, and them

paying all this overtime.” Wadley often saw the hospital as being

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [253]

stocked with two separate forces that constantly rubbed against

each other, not like companions, but more like tectonic plates, their disputes jarring Herbert Blythedale Memorial Hospital between

them at irregular intervals.

“Be nice to have it go that way,” Jenkins agreed doubtfully,

sipping his coffee. “But the night’s young, and anything can happen.”

He chuckled.

“The shift will change in about fifteen minutes,” Samson remarked

to no one in particular.

Lois Barnes, the head of ER nurses for the night, stuck her head

into The Canteen. “Any of you seen Annamarie Smith? Or Nancy

Flanders? They’re late, and that isn’t like them. And tonight of all nights.” She glanced at her watch. “Well?”

The three men told her no.

“If you do, remind Smith she needs to be at the reception desk

right now,” she said, and withdrew.

“Annamarie is usually a little early,” said Jenkins, evincing no

concern at this minor tardiness.

“She’s got three kids—she may be taking care of them, getting

ready for trick-or-treating, or they might need to join up with other kids.” Wadley thought this over. “Maybe there’s more traffic than

usual.”

“There was a stabbing down on Claussen Avenue,” said Wadley.

“Some kid was wearing a costume in a rival gang’s colors.”

“All of the above tonight,” said Samson, drinking his tea.

They fell into an uneasy silence, each feeling disquieted by a

disruption in routine on a night like this. Wadley was the first to get up from the table; he gave his mug a cursory washing in the

small sink, then set it out on the counter to dry. “I’m off. See you at break.”

“Yeah,” Jenkins said, stretching. “I’ll be out of here in a couple of minutes. Tell Pomeroy I’m coming; she gets antsy. She likes to be out of here as near on six as she can, but won’t leave until I sign in officially.”

Samson made a sound that seemed to indicate something similar

while contemplatively blowing on his tea.

[254] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

Wadley had barely left when Megan Hastings came in, her forty-

year-old face looking a good bit older; she walked as if her feet hurt.

“Just got a half-dozen partyers in. They were on a forty-foot cabin cruiser, more than twenty guests aboard, and the skipper rammed

it into Boromeo’s Wharf; about ten went into the drink. The Coast

Guard got them all out, but they’re cold, wet, and bruised, most of them, though the host of the evening got a gash on his arm, and

one of his guests has a concussion; there are probably other minor injuries.”

“I didn’t hear sirens,” said Samson.

“Most came in by private car; the fire department wants to hold

as many ambulances in reserve that they can. The EMTs said most

of the injuries from the partyers weren’t serious and the guys were okay to drive. They all signed off on their driving, and agreed to get medical help within twenty-four hours if they didn’t come here before going home. The gash and concussion came in the ambulance

together, no siren, and another four arrived by car. They’re all in costume.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to get home. It’s building up; I can feel it. They’re gonna need you, Jenkins.”

Not wanting to get into a discussion about Hastings’ feelings,

“See you on Tuesday,” said Jenkins, shoving himself up from his

chair. “Have a nice rest-of-the-weekend.”

“You, too,” she said, opening the refrigerator for the last of her sandwich.

Samson studied her. “How is it in the waiting room?”

“It was about average, but with the boat party, it’s gonna be busy for a while: X-rays and some guys waiting to drive the injured home.”

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “They’re all dressed as pirates, the swashbuckling kind.”

“
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum
pirates, or cutthroat?” Samson asked.

“
Yo-ho-ho,
by the look of them,” Hastings said. “Like they all want to be Johnny Depp.”

“Just guys?”

Hastings shrugged. “It was that kind of party; you know.”

Samson nodded and stepped out of The Canteen, working his way

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [255]

through the change-of-shift crowd at the admissions desk, pausing

long enough to sign in officially, then going on to the Pediatrics office, taking a moment to make sure his undershirt was properly

tucked into the trousers of his blue-green scrubs. He could hear a child crying, more in anger than fear or pain, which he took to be a good sign. In the corridor he passed a bedraggled young man in an

outfit of wet leather pantaloons tucked into high, cuffed boots. What manner of shirt he wore was concealed by a blanket wrapped around

his shoulders; the fellow had a bandage on his right hand, probably from scraped knuckles, Samson thought, as he turned into Linda

Spink’s office. “Happy Halloween.”

Doctor Spink looked up from the open laptop on her desk.

“Oh. To you, too, Samson.” She had iron-gray hair cut like a shining steel helmet, and wore scrubs the color of slate; at fifty-six she was considered the doyen of the ER. “It’s going to be you and Flanders tonight.”

“I saw on the assignment board,” he said. “She here yet?”

“I haven’t seen her. She usually rides in with Annamarie—”

He interrupted her. “—Smith. They aren’t here yet.”

“Huh!” said Spink, surprised. “They usually call in if they’re going to be late.” She looked at the file-folders sitting on the shelf next to her right elbow. “You want to sit?”

“Sure,” he said, and plunked himself down on the futon currently

in couch mode next to the door, and looked through the magazines

and papers on the occasional table next to the futon. He found a

two-day-old newspaper and opened it. “Says here it was supposed to rain tonight—it’s clear and windy.”

“The Air Force says that the Wednesday night UFO flap was a

hoax.” Spink said, pointing to the front page of the paper that was emblazoned with a night sky spangled with red and green glowing

eggs.

“Of course they did,” Samson said, bored; he closed the paper.

“Did you see the pirates?” Spink asked suddenly.

“One of them. He was kind of waterlogged.”

“He fell in the bay.”

Samson snorted a kind of laugh. “Damn silly, if you ask me.”

[256] QUADRUPLE WHAMMY

“People do get silly on Halloween,” she said. “And worse than

silly. The full moon doesn’t help.”

“Saturday doesn’t either.” He picked up a magazine from the rack

and began to thumb through it.

Two honks on the hospital’s public address system announced

the change of shift. There was a flurry of activity out in the corridor, as the day shift gave over to the six-till-two shift. Lockers were opened and closed, a cluster of nurses and staff gathered in front of the emergency entrance, cell-phones clapped to their ears. Over the next ten minutes, staff and nurses milled in the admissions area, then either left the hospital or went along to their assignments. The hospital settled into its usual weekend rhythm, the ER ready for early arrivals.

Linda Spink answered her summons, gesturing to Samson to

come with her. “Two kids with dog bites. Cops are with them.”

Samson set the magazine aside and got up. “Right behind you,

Doc.”

They heard the noise before they reached the triage desk; Spink

gave Samson a signal to keep close.

One woman’s voice, shrill and angry, penetrated the general

babble coming from the cluster of people confronting Mitchell

Doyle, the triage nurse, who was trying to sort out what was going on. “You people! Letting dangerous dogs out on Halloween!” She

appeared to be addressing the EMTs and two cops; she was in her

thirties, of medium height, spare, with lackluster hair and work-

chapped hands. “Reece could have been killed!”

“Aw, Ma,” said the gangly ten-year-old boy in a cheap, store-

bought Spiderman costume standing beside her, a thick bandage

wrapped around his hand.

One of the cops rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

She shifted attention to her son. “What were you thinking, going

up to an unknown dog?”

“I keep telling you, he had a collar, and he wasn’t that big,” the boy whined. “Hey, the dog came up to us, tail wagging.”

The woman next to her was kneeling down, comforting a slightly

smaller boy in a homemade Mad Hatter costume; this child was

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO [257]

clearly in need of more help than his companion, so Doctor Spink

started with her. The woman looked up, flushed slightly, and got to her feet. “Doctor?”

“Talk to the cops and the EMTs, Samson,” said Spink, and turned

her attention to the smaller boy, speaking quietly to reassure him.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asked, lowering her

voice.

The younger EMT came up to Samson. “They 9-1-1-ed us about

thirty minutes ago, and we had the boys in the ambulance, mothers

included, in a little over ten minutes. Animal control has the dog.

Looks like a smaller shepherd mix of some kind, maybe thirty-five

pounds. The boys told us they went up to pet it, and something

spooked the dog, so it growled and bit.”

The nearer cop said, “Dog looked trained. It backed right off

when we showed up. I think the costumes bothered him.”

“Male dog?” Samson asked.

“Once upon a time,” said the cop. “That’s another reason I’m not

buying the kids’ story of an unexpected attack.”

“I see,” said Samson.

The second EMT nodded toward Spiderman/Reece. “That one

started it; you can tell. I have a hunch they were teasing the dog.”

“Me, too,” said the older cop, having completed his report to

Mitchell Doyle. “Though I think it was more tormenting than

teasing.” He nodded in the direction of the boys. “You’re right: that Reece kid’s the type to do it.”

Spink rose, but before she could speak, Reece’s mother announced,