Read Sleight of Hand Online

Authors: Robin Hathaway

Sleight of Hand (3 page)

BOOK: Sleight of Hand
7.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
After lunch and before visiting hours is usually a slow time at most hospitals. The major surgery scheduled for the day has been done. Only if there is an emergency—an auto accident, a heart attack, or an in-house patient who takes a turn for the worse—will the quiet solemnity of the institution be disturbed. It would have been better for me if there'd been more activity. I could have gone about my errands with less notice. But I had no choice. I would have to make the best of it. Pulling on the white lab coat from my locker, I made my way to the surgical supply room. It was usually locked unless there was an ongoing operation, but sometimes the staff was careless. Maybe I'd get lucky. I turned the knob. It opened. Squelching my instinct to look up and down the corridor first, I walked boldly inside. There was a squeal and a scuffle as a nurse and a young doctor broke apart.
“Sorry!” I began to back out, embarrassed at having interrupted their tryst, but they pushed past me and left in a flurry.
Grinning, I shut the door behind me. For a brief moment, I forgot my own troubles.
Checking my list, I grabbed what I needed from the shelves and drawers and stowed the stuff in my pockets. Thank god lab coats have roomy pockets. I found everything I needed except what had to be
refrigerated—the tetanus vaccine, the antibiotic, and the anesthetic. I would have to beg for those from elsewhere. I left the storage room and headed for the ER.
As unobtrusively as possible, I scanned the sign-in sheet for a friendly name. Barry Freedman. Whew. A young doctor, a nice guy, and he owed me one. I had covered for him on his son's birthday the month before. Circulating through the corridors, I poked my head into offices and cubicles. No Barry. Damn. He was probably taking a coffee break. I made for the cafeteria. There he was at a table, surrounded by three young nurses. Great. How could I extricate him? But I underestimated my charms. He spied me and waved me over. One by one, the nurses evaporated. Doctors still had some clout in the medical hierarchy, thank god. I slid into a chair.
“Coffee?” he asked, starting to rise.
“No thanks. I need your help.” I tried to sound calm, but the cafeteria clock was staring me in the face, telling me I had only a half hour left. “‘The old Dutch clock it told me so,/ And that is how I came to know.'” Where the hell did that come from?
“Jo, do you know you're talking to yourself?” Barry looked concerned.
“Sorry, Barry. Listen, I need your help badly. I—”
“Yo, Jo, wadya know?” a voice crooned behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck.
Carl, the wise-guy surgeon who was always harassing me. I shot him a venomous look as he slid into the chair next to mine.
“Hmm. You don't look very perky today, Doctor. Miss your morning bran flakes?”
Barry grabbed his coffee cup and stood up. “Coming, Jo?”
“You bet.” I rose.
“A fine howdya do,” we heard Carl whining as we exited.
At least he didn't follow us. Once in the corridor, I latched onto Barry's arm, afraid he'd get away. “I need some Xylocaine, tetanus vaccine, and antibiotics,” I hissed.
“Wow. What are you up to?” But after I gave him the dosages, he didn't wait around for explanations. He disappeared down the corridor at a record clip. God bless him. “I'll wait here,” I called after him.
As I hovered in the hallway, trying to look inconspicuous, Arnold Higgins, the hospital administrator, strolled by. Unlike the doctors, nurses, and aides, he was never in a hurry. “Going up?” he asked, nodding at the elevator.
“No, down,” I replied, lying. I was determined not to go wherever he was going.
“Me, too.”
Oh no. Now I'd have to go down, and what if Barry came back while I was gone? Ten minutes had already passed. The elevator arrived. The administrator waited for me to enter ahead of him. There was no one inside, so we had to make small talk.
“How are things going, Dr. Banks?”
“Fine. Fine.” I nodded more times than the question required.
“Getting used to our country ways?” He wore a smirk, and I remembered hearing him rant against cities at the Christmas party last year—in particular, New York City.
I nodded, staring at the little red numeral 2 in the window above our heads, willing it to change.
Beep.
A numeral 1 appeared and the door opened. I hurried out and then ducked into the rest room to wait until I was sure the administrator was out of the way. Deciding to take advantage of the moment, I entered a stall. Heaven only knew when I'd get another chance. I slipped out and looked up and down the corridor. No one in sight. I took the fire stairs back to the second floor. As soon as I stepped into the corridor, I saw Barry. He was looking the other way.
“Hey!” I whispered.
He darted over and thrust a plastic bag filled with supplies into my hand. It was cold to the touch. “I put an ice pack in there. I didn't know how long it would be before you could refrigerate it.”
“You're a prince.” I gave him a peck on the cheek.
He blushed. “If I can do anything else, give me a call. Do you have my cell number?”
“Give it to me.” You never know, I figured.
He scribbled it on the back of a prescription blank. I grabbed it and took off. The clock in the ER said I had twelve minutes. I might just make it.
 
 
Despite the urgency of my errand, I had time to think as I drove. I thought about my patient. Why had he refused to go to a hospital? What dark secret lay in his past? Was he capable of murder? Had he murdered before? I wondered. Was that why he was hiding out in Bayfield? Bayfield was certainly the perfect hideout. Or was it? I had stumbled on Max. I was getting used to the name, although it didn't fit him somehow. It was too flamboyant for a shabby printer-farmer. His name should have been Sam or Jeb. Maybe he could have lost himself better in a big city. If I was on the run, I'd head for Manhattan. And what about Lolly's mother? Max had said, “Her mom's been gone for over six years.” But “gone” could mean a lot of things—she'd skipped town or was incarcerated in a prison or mental institution—as well as died. I could see why someone might want to skip out of that ménage. But what kind of mother would desert a disabled child? The peak of the barn roof rose across a distant field. According to my watch, I had two minutes to go. I didn't hear any gunshots, but I pressed the accelerator of the old car.
While I was away on my little shopping spree, Max and Lolly had moved from the barn to the farmhouse. When I rolled up the drive, one minute late, I was relieved to see Lolly burst out the back door. Nobody used the front door in Bayfield. A front door was only for decoration—the thing you plunked the pumpkin in front of on Halloween, tacked the wreath to at Christmas, and hung the flag over on Independence Day (they still called it that).
“Daddy's in the parlor,” she said.
Parlor? Did they still have such things? Only in Bayfield.
She led me into a dim room full of musty, dead air—a sign of long disuse. My patient was sprawled on a stiff rose-colored sofa, looking very uncomfortable. As I drew near, I saw the revolver nestled between his thigh and the back of the sofa. I thought of asking him if he'd heard about the body down the road, then decided against it. Things were complicated enough. Instead, I nodded at the gun and said, “Wouldn't it be safer to have a watchdog than a gun?”
“Lolly's afraid of dogs. A German shepherd bit her once.”
“Oh.” So that was that. I changed the subject. “How're you doing?”
He frowned. “Let's get going.”
“Daddy, can I help?” Lolly asked.
“Ask the doctor,” he grunted.
Lolly looked at me eagerly.
“We'll see,” I said. I gave Max a Valium. He eyed it suspiciously.
“It won't knock you out,” I assured him. “Just dull the pain.”
He swallowed it.
I asked Lolly to show me the kitchen. During my jaunt to the hospital, I had decided the kitchen would make a better operating room than the barn. Lolly led me to a large room at the back of the house. I halted on the threshold. This kitchen had not been renovated for over a hundred years. Under one window there was a cast-iron sink and against a wall stood a gas stove that I'd seen only in old movies. The most modern appliance was the refrigerator, and it was a fifties model that groaned like one of my arthritic patients. The shit brown linoleum was cracked and peeling and the wallpaper was stained from years of leaks, and discolored by smoke, probably from an even earlier woodstove. In the center of the room was a large oak table, battered and scarred. My operating table. The only available light came from the two windows and a small bulb over the sink. I would have to remedy that!
Suddenly, I realized Lolly and I were not alone. Gradually, numerous pairs of eyes—amber, emerald, and gold—emerged from the gloom. Under the table, on the windowsills, even on top of the refrigerator. “Oh my god! Get them out of here!” I cried.
“Scat! Scat!” Lolly cried, charging forward, waving her arms.
There was a cacophony of mews as the cats leaped from their various thrones and perches and scattered in all directions. When the room was finally cleared, I told Lolly I would need more light. Once again, she sprang into action. Lolly might have been slow of mind, but she could follow simple directions. She quickly produced two rickety standing lamps and a reconverted oil lamp with a ruby shade. After an
extension cord was found, with Max's help, the lamps plugged in, and their shades removed, I decided there was enough illumination to operate. Next step: sanitation.
It could be worse, I thought. At least there was electricity and hot and cold running water. What if I'd had to draw water from a well, boil it on a woodstove, and operate by kerosene lamps—or candlelight? Count your blessings! I told myself grimly. And the place wasn't that dirty. Despite the cats, it didn't smell catty. There was no decaying food lying around, and the floor looked as if it had been recently washed and swept. Was that Lolly's work? And I hadn't spied a single cockroach—yet. Actually, the inside of the refrigerator was in about the same condition as my own. Wilted lettuce, a decomposing peach, and a half-empty can of tuna were the only contents.
I called for rags, a bucket, and disinfectant—ammonia or Clorox—all of which Lolly instantly produced. Together, we scrubbed the table until our knuckles were raw. Satisfied, I set about boiling water in a kettle and submerged my instruments. When I decided they were sterile, I removed them with a pair of metal tongs originally intended for plucking up hot dogs or asparagus spears—I had sterilized the tongs in another pot.
I had to admit Lolly was helpful. Despite her mental deficiencies (the result of Down syndrome, I had diagnosed), she followed simple orders easily and—more important—didn't charge in and do anything on her own. I decided I could trust her to assist me. “Do you have a clean apron?” I asked.
She promptly produced one from a drawer.
“Put it on,” I said, “and tie back your hair.”
She obeyed both orders without question.
“Here.” I handed her a plastic package containing a pair of sterile surgical gloves. “Wash your hands six times and put these on.”
“Six?” It was the first time she'd questioned me.
“Six,” I repeated sternly.
When she was done, I did the same.
It was time to retrieve my patient. I found him dozing on the sofa. The shock of the accident and the sedative I'd given him had taken their toll. But when I drew near, he stirred.
“It's time,” I spoke softly.
He blinked.
“Can you roll up your sleeve?” I asked.
He did so, staring at the syringe in my hand.
“This is Xylocaine—the local anesthetic you asked for,” I said. “It will take effect in about five minutes.” I inserted the needle and administered the dose.
With his good hand, Max reached for his gun. But this didn't bother me. I was sure he wouldn't shoot either Lolly or me—at least until after the operation.
As I approached the makeshift operating table, I knew my skills were not equal to this undertaking. I needed some magic, luck, or a miracle to get me through—or maybe some of all three. I crossed my fingers, knocked my knuckles against the wooden table, and said a prayer: “God, help me, please.”
I glanced at the clock. Almost noon. No reason to delay any longer. I tore open a package containing a sterile gauze pad, drenched it with disinfectant, and swabbed my patient's wounded fingers. When this was done, I turned to Bunnell's intricate drawing of the right hand, which I had propped against the lamp on my right, and picked up a scalpel.
Max drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes.
“It won't hurt, Daddy,” Lolly assured him. “If it does, I'll kiss it and make it well.”
“Thanks,” he said, and I went to work.
I was intent on suturing the stump of the first finger when I heard Lolly gasp.
I looked up, to see a tawny cat emerging from behind the refrigerator. She had probably been asleep and we'd missed her.
“Get her out of here!” Max muttered.
Lolly started toward her, but I stopped her. “Don't touch her! You'll be contaminated and won't be able to help me.” She had proved to be a big help, passing me new instruments, taking the old ones. I needed her. As we watched, the cat strolled toward the table and leaped neatly onto the far end.
“I'll take care of her.” Max raised the revolver he had been cradling in his lap throughout the operation.
“No!” Lolly and I screamed together.
“That's Sapphire—Mommy's favorite,” Lolly whimpered.
“Don't upset Lolly,” I said. “If you do, she won't be able to help me.”
The cat sat demurely on the end of the table, cleaning first one paw, then the other. Despite the emergency, I thought fleetingly how well cats get along without fingers, let alone an opposable thumb. Frantically, I racked my brain for some other way to get rid of her.
“Didn't I see some tuna in the fridge?” I asked.
Lolly's face brightened.
“Try to pick up some tuna with the tongs and carry it to the door.”
She was already at the sink, proving that heavy people can be quick on their feet. Picking up the tongs, she grabbed a chunk of tuna from the can in the fridge. Meanwhile, I concentrated on trying to keep Sapphire from entering the operating zone by giving her a fierce glare. She ignored me, absorbed in her toilet, but she didn't venture any nearer. As Lolly made her way to the door, she paused to give the cat a whiff of the tuna. It worked. Sapphire dropped lightly to the floor and followed her. Lolly fumbled a little with the doorknob, but it finally turned.
“Quick!” I yelled, afraid the rest of the cats would pile in as she let Sapphire out. But Lolly was fast. She dumped the tuna outside the door, and Sapphire darted after it. When Lolly slammed the door, the three humans left behind breathed a common sigh of relief. Now the only problem was Lolly's gloves. They were contaminated.
I told her to take them off, leave them in the sink, then get a sterile pair from my bag and put them on. This all took time. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since we'd spied the cat. I eyed my patient warily. Was the Xylocaine wearing off? His expression remained sullen, but pain-free. I returned to suturing his finger. I worked as fast as I could, knowing that I still had another finger to go, and I wasn't sure exactly how long the effects of the Xylocaine would last.
As I started on the second finger, I heard mewing and scratching at the kitchen door. I ignored it, but the others heard it, too. Max reached for his gun.
“Forget them,” I snapped. “They won't bother us as long as the door's shut.” Doubling my efforts, I worked quickly and silently, apart from an occasional request for Lolly to get the iris scissors or more suturing material. When I finally tied the last suture, I glanced at the clock. An hour had passed. An ER surgeon could have done what I'd done in ten minutes. I looked at my patient. He was paler than before I'd started, but he was holding his own. I dressed the fingers and pulled a sling from my bag—some of the booty I'd smuggled from the supply closet. When it was snugly fitted over his shoulder and the injured hand was resting comfortably on a splint, I helped him to rise. He wobbled a bit, but Lolly and I managed to guide him back to the sofa in the parlor. He left the gun behind on the kitchen chair.
When he was stretched out, Lolly brought a pillow for his head and carefully spread a multicolored afghan over his feet and legs. “I'll get your slippers,” she murmured, and disappeared.
“You must rest now,” I said.
He nodded, and for the first time I discerned a difference in his expression. Hostility had relaxed into something softer. Not gratitude exactly, but at least … acceptance. I brought him a glass of water and two tablets. As usual, he looked at them suspiciously.
“They'll help the pain when the anesthetic wears off,” I explained.
He swallowed them, lay back, and closed his eyes. But as I was
turning to leave, he sat up. “Don't get any ideas,” he said. “My promise still stands. If you try anything, I'll …” He scrabbled around the sofa with his good hand.
“Where's—”
“In the kitchen, where you left it. I'll keep it safe until you're well.”
We glared at each other in silence until Lolly bustled in with the slippers and a book. “Do you want me to read you a bedtime story, Daddy?”
The tension dissolved. “No, honey. I just want to go to sleep.”
She bent and kissed him on the forehead.
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
7.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Silent in an Evil Time by Jack Batten
Damsel Distressed by Kelsey Macke
World After by Susan Ee
To Fall (The To Fall Trilogy Book 1) by Donna AnnMarie Smith
Destination Murder by Jessica Fletcher
The Elf Girl by Grabo, Markelle
Shadow of Hope by Pollick, Tina, Rose, Elizabeth