The Children's Ward (9 page)

Thirty-six

Alicia Vincent waited for her ex-husband to leave the children’s ward. It was nearly three and visiting hours would be over soon; he had been with Tessi since one.

She had been waiting for almost two hours now and she was getting impatient. What could he find to talk about for two hours? She could not imagine.

Well, it would not be much longer. She searched through her purse for the gold cigarette case Howard had given her and, finding it, extracted one of the thin brown cigarettes. The gold lighter, also a present from Howard, was not working so she dug through the glove compartment for a pack of matches.

She was almost entirely a social smoker—she enjoyed the brief intimacy of having a man light her cigarette—but right now she needed the nicotine.

Breaking the law was not something she was going to enjoy.

If they had been in Los Angeles, she would have found someone to handle it for her, but Spring Valley was a small town. She would have to do her own dirty work.

She inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into her lungs.

There he was, walking toward the beat-up truck he’d had since she’d known him. The truck where they’d first…no, she didn’t want to think about that.

She slouched down in the seat but he did not look in her direction. She turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear, ready to follow him.

It was tricky, staying far enough behind so that he would not be able to see her clearly in his rearview mirror without losing him. She had done what she could to disguise herself—her blond hair wrapped in a black scarf, dark glasses, and driving a rental car—but there was always a chance that he would recognize her.

He made a left turn onto a dirt road and she was forced to wait for traffic before making the turn after him. Worried that she might lose him, she accelerated, raising a thick cloud of dust in her wake.

The road was extremely bumpy, though, and she had to slow down. Leave it to Little Wolf to find the most beaten track in town. Where could he be going? It seemed unlikely that a motel would be located in the middle of nowhere.

She slowed to a crawl as the road began to wind up a small hill. The road was only wide enough for one vehicle and she held her breath at every curve.

As she neared the top of the hill, there, suddenly, was the truck, parked in a narrow turnabout. He was nowhere in sight.

She drove slowly past and saw, hidden among the trees, a cabin. This was it.

She continued on, needing to find a place where she could park the car. As she crested the hill it became apparent that this was indeed some sort of motel…cabins dotted the landscape. There was only one other car, though, so she drove on. She would certainly be noticed if she parked and set off down the hill on foot.

Just beyond the cabins, the road came to an end.

It took a little maneuvering to turn the car around and by the time she made it, she was furious…incensed…at James Wolf. Why couldn’t he stay at a civilized motel?

He was becoming more savage with each passing year. She would not be at all surprised to find out that he ate the raw meat of animals he caught with his bare hands.

She parked the car in a minuscule turnabout a half a mile below his cabin and changed her shoes. She could not recall the last time she’d worn tennis shoes but the salesman had told her that they were quiet (he hadn’t, thank God, asked why she needed them to be quiet).

Locking her purse in the trunk and pocketing the keys, she started the hike up to the cabin. She had, at the most, an hour and a half of daylight, and she did not want to be out walking after dark. She hurried.

When she neared the cabin she moved off the road and into the trees. The truck was maybe fifteen feet away and in it, unless he had changed his habits, were the keys.

The keys she intended to take.

She stared at the cabin, trying to determine whether he was moving around inside. When she didn’t detect any movement after a few minutes, she crouched down and ran to the truck.

Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry but she had come this far and she would go through with it. The passenger door was unlocked and she inched it open just wide enough for her to slip through.

Half lying in the seat, she pulled the keys from the ignition and began to search for a house key.

There were only two keys that might be it and she worked them off the heavy ring.

Replacing the key in the ignition, she heard the slam of a door.

She backed out the passenger door and restrained an impulse to run. If it was James, there was no way she could outrun him. If it wasn’t him, there was no reason to run.

She eased the door back until it was nearly closed, and waited.

She heard nothing else. Taking a deep breath, she ran back toward the trees. No one followed her.

She didn’t breathe easily until she was back on the main road.

She had done it. It was unlikely that James would notice the missing keys until he went home to New Mexico. By that time, she would have what she wanted…proof that a woman was sharing his home without the benefit of marriage.

Photographs of the desolate countryside and the primitive ruins that he called a ranch. Anything that could be a danger to Tessi…barbed wire, a well shaft, whatever. She would convince a judge that the ranch was no place for a child.

And she knew that James would never leave the ranch. Even if it meant losing custody of his own daughter.

He had made that choice before; if he wouldn’t live in the city to keep his wife, he wouldn’t for Tessi either.

That was when she really began to hate him, when she realized he had chosen a patch of barren ground instead of her.

He would be very sorry. She would see to it.

James Wolf stood at the window long after Alicia left, watching the clouds darken in the sky.

Thirty-seven

“Her temperature is a hundred and one, point six,” the afternoon nurse said, handing Courtney’s chart to Quinn. “I haven’t been able to locate Dr. Fuller.”

Quinn nodded and flipped to the vitals chart where the steady rise in temperature was displayed graphically. Blood pressure was holding steady at 100 over 70, pulse a bit rapid at 80, respirations 16.

“She had aspirin at noon and four,” the nurse continued, “but her temp keeps going up. She’s been sleeping all afternoon.”

“It’s too early for blood culture results,” Quinn said, thinking aloud, “and I’m a little hesitant to start her on antibiotics without the C & S. But if her temp continues to go up…keep the Phenobarbital ready in case she starts to seizure.”

Courtney was on her side, the covers pulled up to her neck. Her face was flushed and her skin dry and warm. Her eyes opened slowly as Quinn stroked her forehead.

For a split second Courtney looked at her without pretense but then, like a shade being drawn, her defenses returned. Now the look was distant.

“How are you feeling?”

“Warm. Sleepy.”

“I need to examine you,” Quinn said, taking the covers and pulling them down, leaving just the sheet. “It won’t take long.” She placed the stethoscope on Courtney’s chest. A steady heartbeat, no murmurs. Lung fields were clear.

She palpated the abdomen, watching Courtney’s face for indications of tenderness, finding none. No masses or swelling, nor were the inguinal, axillary, or cervical lymph nodes enlarged. She drew the blankets back up.

Using the otoscope, she examined the child’s ears: the tympanic membrane was not inflamed or bulging and there was no discharge.

The throat was negative, tonsils intact, pharynx appeared normal. Gag reflex was present, tongue midline.

She took the penlight and flashed it in Courtney’s right eye, then the left. Pupils equal and reactive.

A negative exam.

Quinn turned to the nurse who was standing at the end of the bed with the ENT tray.

“What was her admission urinalysis?”

“All of the admit work-up was normal. CBC, UA, chest x-ray…”

“Well, I want a clean-catch urinalysis just to be sure.” She looked at Courtney. “Do you have any pain anywhere?”

“No…I just feel warm.”

“Nausea?”

Courtney shook her head no.

Quinn brushed the girl’s cheek with her fingertips. “I want you to call the nurse if you start feeling sicker.”

The green eyes closed. “Okay.”

“I want you to push fluids…apple juice if she’ll drink it…check input and output, too. And check her electrolytes.” Quinn sat at the nurse’s station, chart in front of her. “Switch from aspirin to acetaminophen. If the fever increases, up the dose to q 3 hours. I want you to have cold packs on hand in case we have to start cooling measures.”

“What do you think it is?”

“According to the chart, they’ve ruled out juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, collagen inflammatory diseases, mononucleosis…your guess is as good as mine. If it is a viral infection, it’s pretty well hidden.”

“Oh, Dr. Logan,” the nurse said as Quinn prepared to leave. “What should I do with these?” She held up two video cassettes.

“I’ll take them.” As she neared the desk, hand outstretched, she looked at the monitor, first at Courtney and then at Abigail.

For some reason, she was not surprised to see Abigail sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the other child.

Thirty-eight

Joshua went over Abigail’s MR scans for the third time, squinting in frustration.

There was nothing there, no mass, no abnormality, nothing.

He had been so sure that there would finally be a cause for the headaches…certain that he would have identified an enemy.

The scans were textbook perfect of a normal brain.

“Nothing,” he said aloud, still perplexed. Reluctantly he pulled the scan films down from the viewbox and turned it off.

If Abigail did not have a brain tumor, what
did
she have?

The technician had gone for the day and the scanning room was dark. Joshua sat at the computer console and stared through the observation window at the ghostly outline of the machine.

On one hand, he was glad it wasn’t a tumor since success rates in treating brain tumors in children weren’t that great. But—there was no denying it—he was back at first base. Every symptom had pointed so clearly toward a tumor.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o’clock; he’d arrived at three, just as the technician was leaving. Amazing that his pager hadn’t gone off, unless the shielding that kept the magnetic force from interfering with electronic devices also shielded against radio signals…that had to be it.

And Quinn was probably looking for him.

Eyes the color of smoke.

“Work,” he reminded himself, getting to his feet.

He had a master key and he locked up the department on his way out, pausing for one last look at the scanner.

He hadn’t walked ten feet down the hall when his pager began to beep insistently. He turned back to find a phone.

“Joshua?”

Her voice, although composed, conveyed a sense of urgency.

“What is it?”

“Courtney’s had a seizure.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He ran the distance from the main building to the children’s ward, grateful for the remaining moments of daylight.

The curtain was drawn around Courtney’s bed and he forced a smile for Abigail and Tessi, who looked more than a little alarmed, before ducking inside.

Quinn and the nurse had stripped the bed and wrapped Courtney in wet sheets.

Courtney was limp, her mouth agape.

Quinn, her lab coat pushed up to her elbows, was wringing out a wet towel.

“I’m very glad you’re here,” she said, brushing a dark strand of hair out of her face.

He found himself watching her as she talked.

“It was very fast…I’d only finished examining her about ten minutes before…she was tonic when I got here. It took both of us to give her the Phenobarbital.” Her smoky eyes burned into his. “Her temperature had spiked to 104.2°. I was afraid I was going to lose her.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help, but you handled it as well as I could have.”

“Now look at her.” She indicated the monitor. “Like nothing happened.”

“The recuperative powers of children…”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Thirty-nine

Abigail was angry.

No one would tell her what had happened to Russell, why he had been gone all day.

The nurse would only say that he would be back “later,” whenever that was. It was not a satisfactory answer.

To make matters worse, Courtney’s parents had arrived. They were dressed up and, judging by the way Courtney’s father kept looking at his watch, didn’t have much time, so they made up for it in a flurry of concerned cooing.

It bothered her, the way they were fussing.

She turned away, pulling the covers over her head, trying to shut out the sound of their voices.

Nestled in her cocoon, she remembered the sounds of other voices, voices brimming with good intentions. Grandmother said that good intentions had probably done more harm than evil ones. People doing what was best.

But they would be the judge of what was best.

Abigail hated Sundays.

“Poor dear,” she would hear them cluck behind her back.

She tried not to hear them, tried to listen to the preacher, but the whispers never stopped.

“Poor little thing.”

Her grandmother wouldn’t let her go to Sunday school with the other children, insisting that God’s word was too serious to be given like a spelling lesson.

“Such a plain little thing.”

The preacher always made a point of patting her on the head after the service.

So many faces peering at her.

“. . . killed herself…”

Fussing at her, their faces smiling.

“. . . crazy…”

Her grandmother holding her hand tightly so that she was forced to stand among the whisperers.

“. . . no loss…”

“. . . poor little…”

Abigail pressed her hands to her ears.