One September Morning (42 page)

Lakeside Hospital
Abby

W
here did Madison go?

Abby double-checks the door number—yup, room 327—and stares at a sleeping boy, around eight or nine, whose leg is suspended from a harness over the bed. This was Madison’s room yesterday, and Abby didn’t think to check and see if she was moved since last night.

Worry flickers in her chest as she heads to the nurses’ station. What if something happened? If Jump got wind that he was about to be found out as an imposter, would he have done something rash?

The nurse on duty has a million things to do. “I came on at eight a.m. and there was no Madison Stanton on the patient list,” she tells Abby, then heads off to start a procedure. Which leaves Abby at a loss as to how to find Madison.

“You looking for someone?” asks a woman lumbering down the hall.

Abby realizes that her purple scrubs and the photo ID on the lanyard around her neck carry some weight inside the hospital. “My sister-in-law was on this floor yesterday, but someone else is in her room now. I’m trying to find out what room she was moved to.”

“Don’t you worry, now.” Dressed in pink scrubs, probably an aide, the woman settles down heavily at the desk and runs a key card through the computer. “What was her name?” She types the information in with clawlike nails dotted with pink gems in the shape of a flower. “Hmm. Okay, I see her now. She was discharged during the night.”

“Really?” Abby moves in view of the screen. “Was it Dr. Jump who discharged her?”

“That information doesn’t show up on this list. But that’s good news, right? She got to go home?”

“Yes, thank you so much,” Abby says.

As the elevator hums upward, Abby wonders what circumstances would cause Madison to be discharged in the middle of the night. She wants to call Sharice and find out what happened, but cell phone use is not permitted inside the hospital, and she doesn’t have time to take a break.

The minute Abby buzzes herself into the psych ward, Cilla pounces on her with information. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I just got here,” Abby says, “and I’m five minutes early.”

“Dr. Jump has been looking for you, and he’s on a rampage.” Cilla’s mousey little nose twitches beneath her dark glasses. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

He must know I’m onto him.

“Thanks for the tip,” Abby tells Cilla as she heads to the locker room to stow her purse.

“That’s not all. One of your patients had an episode last night and had to be subdued. He’s in lockdown now.”

Abby turns back. “Who?” Even as she asks, she knows the answer.

“Emjay Brown. Dr. Jump is blaming you, that you did something that set the patient off yesterday.”

Shaking her head, Abby heads back to the locker room.

“Is it true? Hey, Abby, aren’t you scared of being kicked out of the program?”

Abby keeps moving, pushing forward. Yesterday Madison, and now Emjay…two patients in two days.

What do you expect when the patients are being treated by a fraud?

Feeling precious moments slipping away, Abby quickens her step. She has to get to Dr. Steen, the director of the Psychological Services Unit.

It’s up to her to stop Charles Jump.

Now.

Lakeside Hospital
Charles

P
eople are such morons.

Cranky, whiny babies like Madison Stanton who thinks it’s so hard being a teenager with great parents and a cell phone and firm, high tits that she just has to have a little drink to dull the pain.

Uppity bitches like her mother. Sharice comes on with the manners and the reserved smile, the lipstick and skinny eyebrows. But one little bump in the path and she snaps her fingers at you as if you’re a bad dog who needs to get off the table. That woman has a stick up her ass—or maybe she deserves one.

The nerve of her, pulling his patient out of treatment!

He’s thought long and hard about what made Sharice Stanton turn on him, and it’s got to be that whore Abby. He thought she would keep her mouth shut, knowing what he could do to her, knowing how he could get to her and the little girl.

But no…Abby doesn’t seem to understand that he’s not playing a game. This is a mission. He’s going after everything that once belonged to the king, and no one’s going to stop him—not an uptight shrew or a melodramatic whore who thinks she’s got all the answers in psychology. Ha! He can spin circles around her with theories and jargon and bullshit terminology. The shrinks act like it’s a science, but in practice it’s a mushy guessing game. The blind leading the insane.

Doctors…what the hell do they know?

Give a man a white coat and a stethoscope and he’s supposed to have all the answers. Like the nerds his mother made him see when he was a kid. Goofballs in loafers and shiny wristwatches.

Chucky does not have the capacity to love.

What we’ve got here is a pathological liar.

He has a grandiose sense of self.

The child displays poor behavioral control.

They had a million things to say about him, but all he had for them was contempt. A bunch of doctors, physicians, making up bad things about him when there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all!

And after all these years, where are the naysayers now? All the doctors who called him a psychopath? Most of them are dead in the dust.

Look at me now, Mama. They’re done, and who’s the doctor now?

I am.

Dr. Charles Jump.

Lakeside Hospital
Abby

A
bby braces herself as she approaches the office of the director of Psychological Services. Dr. Lauren Steen is known for running her department efficiently and cheaply. Although Abby has never had occasion to speak with her personally, she knows Dr. Steen is petite, slim, and beautiful in that ice-blond sort of way. Abby can only hope she can locate the director, who is difficult to track down.

Having run from the other wing, Abby is breathless, but her pace is brisk. Halfway down the corridor, someone emerges from an office and stalks toward Abby. It’s her.

“Dr. Steen!” Abby tries not to rush her words; she wants to maintain professionalism. “I’m an intern, Abby Fitzgerald, and I need to talk with you if you have a minute.”

“I don’t, but…wait. You’re Ms. Fitzgerald? You are already on my agenda this morning. Dr. Jump has requested a special review of your performance. I hear you’ve been interfering with patient treatment?”

“My performance?”

“Don’t look so surprised. He tells me you’ve been apprised of these breaches every step of the way.”

“Dr. Steen, I don’t know what he’s told you, but—”

“Come, walk with me.” Dr. Steen puts a hand on Abby’s back and guides her down the corridor. “I was just on my way to the meeting, and frankly it’s not my protocol to discuss intern evaluations in the hallways.”

“But honestly, I don’t know what these charges are about.”

“Does the patient Emjay Brown ring a bell?” Steen asks as the doors part before them and they step out of the office wing, into a courtyard where wind is twisting dry leaves into the overhang between buildings.

“I’ve been working with Emjay on confidence building and stress management strategies—just as outlined in his treatment plan. He’s made progress, enough so that discharge could be considered.”

“Not according to Dr. Jump.”

“Actually, before we see him, I need to talk with you about Dr. Jump.” Abby stops walking in the courtyard, relieved that Dr. Steen pauses, too. “Charles Jump is not what he seems. I’ve noticed problems with dosages and his demeanor with patients. At first I thought it was me, but I’ve done some research and Dr. Jump is a fraud. The real Dr. Charles Jump died three years ago. This man, whoever he is, did not attend Rutgers or Harvard. His credentials are phony. He’s a fraud.”

Dr. Steen purses her lips, then laughs. “Twenty years in the medical profession and I thought I’d heard every excuse imaginable from interns, but this is a new one for me.” She points to the door and proceeds forward. “Quickly. I don’t have time for this.”

“But Dr. Steen—”

“Don’t say another word, Abby. You’re on tenuous ground as it is.”

As they step inside the wing, Abby frantically searches her mind for a fallback plan. She never anticipated that Dr. Steen would accuse her of lying. This thwarts Abby’s plans to shut Jump down today, but the hospital will dismiss him soon. Flint is meeting with Human Resources, who will discover that they’ve been defrauded, if not today, then soon.

It’s going to be okay,
Abby tells herself.
It will all work out in the end.

“I’m going to sit in on Emjay Brown’s evaluation first,” Lauren Steen says condescendingly, “and then the three of us will do your eval.”

Although Abby is silent, she’s thinking of the Native American toast before going into battle:
It’s a good day to die.

The isolation rooms are not on the psych floor, where patient doors are usually locked in the open position and patients are encouraged to spend time in the Day Room, the library, or the dining area. The isolation rooms, designated for patients who are at risk of harming themselves or someone else, are situated at the end of a med-surg floor, away from people traffic. The walls are devoid of artwork or mirrors. In Abby’s view, they are not awful, simply boring and isolated.

As they pass the nurses’ station in the center of the hall, an aide emerges from behind the counter. “Dr. Steen, we were just about to page you. One of the doctors from upstairs just called down. There was some kind of a scuffle in the psych ward. One patient bit another? Apparently they need you to sign off on the paperwork.”

“Lovely,” Steen says sarcastically as she checks her watch. “There are not enough hours in the day.” She strides off, telling Abby, “I’ll be right back.”

Left on her own, Abby wants to check on Emjay. “Which room is Emjay Brown in?” she asks.

“End of the hall, seven thirty-eight. He won’t give you any trouble. After he acted out, Dr. Jump got a tranquilizer in him.”

More drugs, and probably a whopping dosage.

Through the window in the door, Abby sees soft gray light suffusing the room from a high window and Emjay prone on a mattress.

“Good morning, Emjay,” she says, opening the door and propping it open.

When he doesn’t respond, she enters the room tentatively. “Emjay?” He is curled on the mattress, facing her feet. His gray T-shirt is soaked with sweat, and his body trembles, almost convulsively. His breathing is shallow and quick, almost as if he is gasping for breath. Is he reacting to the medication? Overdosing? God knows what dosage Jump has prescribed for him. “Emjay, it’s Abby. Can you hear me?”

“Mmm.” He stirs, scratching at his face, trembling. This is different from the deep sleep he was in when she first met him; this time he’s agitated, moaning.

“Emjay? How are you feeling?” She squats beside him to get her face into his line of vision, but his pupils are contracted into tiny pinpoints in his glazed eyes—one sign of a drug overdose. And that breathing is a bad sign. Emjay needs to be examined by a real doctor.

“I know it’s hard for you to breathe,” she tells him, “but hang in there. I’m going to get help, okay?”

“Not so fast. I cannot have you interfering with my patients.” Jump’s voice chills her to the bone.

She kneels beside Emjay, but does not turn to acknowledge the man watching from the open doorway.

“First Madison Stanton is withdrawn from my care, and then today I hear you’ve taken it upon yourself to promise one of my patients a release. And under whose authority would that be?”

“Emjay is one of my assigned patients, as you well know.”

As she speaks, Emjay moans and writhes. He tries to push himself off the mat, but falls back. “I can…”

“Easy,” Abby says, “I won’t leave you now.”

“Actually, it’s time for you to leave, Abby.” Jump steps forward. “I recommend you get out before this patient attacks you the way he attacked me.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s so drugged up he can barely breathe!”

“He’s stronger than you think. I was lucky to have escaped unharmed. What a shame, we send these guys over to Iraq, make them kill, and then expect them to put the brakes on it once they’re back home.”

“Nice argument. I’m sure it will play well in your eval meeting with the other doctors,” she says, straightening. “But I don’t believe Emjay attacked you. In the time I’ve worked with him, he’s shown no tendencies toward violence. We’ve been working on stress management and coping strategies. Ways to recover from PTSD.” She snaps her head around to glare at Jump. “But wait, you wouldn’t know about those things,
Dr. Jump,
since you don’t have a real medical degree.”

His shoulders pull back, his chest puffing out—the bully stance. “You don’t know anything about me,” he growls. “And as of this moment, you are removed from Mr. Brown’s case. In fact, you can turn in your ID badge at the desk, because you’re officially dismissed from the internship program.”

“Fine. I’m out. But I’m staying here as Emjay’s friend and advocate, and if you want to spare yourself a death sentence for murdering him, you’d be wise to get a nurse now. In fact…” she reaches for the call button. “I’ll get one myself.”

In a flash, Jump is on her, chopping her hand. His move takes her by surprise and she hugs her arm close before she realizes his motive—to yank the call button out of the wall and disconnect it.

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly, tossing the disabled cord to the floor. “We don’t need any witnesses for our last procedure with Emjay Brown, do we?”

“What are you talking about? As soon as the medication wears off, and he gets over the trauma of having a doctor abuse him, he’ll be ready for release.”

“Wrong. You think you’re so smart, but you haven’t made the simplest connection.” Jump reaches for the dog tags around his neck. His fingers find a gold medal hanging there, a Purple Heart replica, which he rubs between his thumb and fingers like an amulet. “Brown will never be released. He knows too much. This soldier was John’s partner the night he was killed. He saw me cleaning my rifle afterward, and he may have seen things at the scene. I made sure his night-vision device was disabled, but it’s hard to know what he’ll piece together over time. He holds the truth, even if it’s been buried in the Gordian knot of PTSD. He’s a liability.” He shakes his head. “He’s got to go.”

“Because he knows you killed John? He’s not the only one, you know.” Abby moves back to Emjay, who has grown still on the floor. Oh God, has she waited too long to get a doctor?

“Don’t act like you’re so smart. I wanted you to know. But Emjay Brown is the only one who could testify, and I can’t let that happen.” Charles Jump drops the medals against his chest, reaches into the pocket of his lab coat, and holds up a syringe. “He’s already loaded up with juice. This will shut him down for good.”

The shiny plastic tubing of the syringe twinkles in the gray light, the taunt of death.

“There’s going to be a little screw-up in meds,” Jump says. “I’ll figure out a way to explain it. Or maybe I’ll accuse Brown of dosing himself. Junky.”

“No.” Abby positions herself between Emjay and Jump, her hands braced against the floor for purchase. “You’re not going to do it, because you don’t want to get caught. And I’ll give you up in a heartbeat.”

Charles shakes his head. “You have too much to lose. Your own life. Madison Stanton…or that cute little Sofia, so vulnerable…”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses, even as she knows he would stoop to any level for self-gain.

“I
would
…and I
have.”

As she watches in horror, he pops the cap off the syringe.

“No!” she swipes at him, but he pushes her aside, lunging for Emjay.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he growls, trying to reach past her.

When she swipes at the syringe again, the needle hits her in the upper arm. She sucks air through her teeth as Jump’s eyes widen in outrage…

And he pushes the plunger.

“There you go,” he says spitefully, yanking back the syringe and tossing it down.

Stabbed, Abby sinks down with the hollow feeling of loss, failure. A tingling sensation travels along her arm, warmth jets to her head, and suddenly the floor comes up to meet her.

“You little druggy. Got yours. You can flake out here while I go get another syringe for Brown, because there’s plenty more where that came—”

Suddenly Jump is cut off by a growling mass rising from the mat as Emjay Brown rises up like an angry bear. He barrels toward Charles, grabs him by the throat, and slams him against the wall.

“No more!” Emjay bellows, grinding Charles into the wall.

Jump sucks in air. “I can’t breathe.”

“No more killing.” The words scrape through Emjay’s hoarse throat. “I saw you do it. It was you. I saw that damn gold medal, shining in your helmet. It was you. You killed John.”

“Stop it, Emjay. Put me down, now!”

Abby can hear a scuffle between them, but she can’t summon the strength to lift her head.

“Stop it! Nurse!” Charles shouts. “Help! Nurse!”

“Go on and call ’em.” Emjay’s voice is low but steady. “Get ’em all in here. I can’t wait to tell them all what you’re trying to do.”

The rapid pounding of footsteps mixes with the sound of voices, shouts down the hall. Abby’s feels herself slipping away. When she opens her eyes, the room is hot with outrage and new voices.

Her mind still processes but she cannot make her body lift itself from the floor. As she helplessly stares up, faces swim past—Dr. Steen, a uniformed hospital security guard, and Flint.
Oh, thank you, Flint.

“What did you do to her?” Flint is shouting. “What the hell did you inject her with?”

“Ow! You’re hurting my arm!”

“Tell me!”

“It’s just Percocet, a painkiller. She’ll sleep it off.”

“What was the dosage?” Laura Steen demands.

“What the hell should I know? I had some nurse make it up for me.”

“Go find out—stat!” Dr. Steen tells the nurse, and Abby hears footsteps recede down the hall.