Devil's Waltz Part 31

"Why not?" she said. "Why not? This is a hospital. That's what we get here-sick kids. That's what real doctors do. Treat sick kids."

I maintained my silence.

Her arms began to rise and she fought to keep them down, like a subject resisting a hypnotist. Where the cap had been, her stiff hair had bunched in a hat-sized dome.

I said, "The real doctors aren't having much luck, are they?"

She exhaled through her nose.

"Games," she said, whispering again. "Always games with you people."

"You seem to know a lot about us people."

She looked startled and swiped at her eyes. Her mascara had started to run and the knuckles came away gray but she didn't notice them; her glare was fixed on me.

I met it, absorbed it.

The smug smile came back on her face. "Is there anything else you want, sir?" She pulled bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the wedge of white starch.

"Have you told the Joneses your feelings about therapists?" I said.

"I keep my feelings to myself. I'm a professional."

"Have you told them someone suspects foul play?"

"Of course not. Like I said, I'm a professional!"

"A professional," I said. "You just don't like therapists. Bunch of quacks who promise to help but don't come through."

Her head jerked back. The hat bobbled and one hand shot up to keep it in place.

"You don't know me," she said. "You don't know anything about me."

"That's true," I lied. "And that's become a problem for Ca.s.sie."

"That's ridic-"

"Your behavior's getting in the way of her care, Vicki. Let's not discuss it out here anymore." I pointed to the nurse's room behind the station.

She slammed her hands on her hips. "For what?"

"A discussion."

"You have no right."

"Actually, I do. And the only reason you're still on the case is through my good graces. Dr. Eves admires your technical skills but your att.i.tude's getting on her nerves, as well."

"Right."

I picked up the phone. "Call her."

She sucked in her breath. Touched her cap. Licked her lips. "What do you want from me?" Trace of whine.

"Not out here," I said. "In there, Vicki. Please."

She started to protest. No words came out. A tremor surged across her lips. She put a hand up to cover it.

"Let's just drop it," she said. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Her eyes were full of fear. Remembering her final view of her son and feeling like a louse, I shook my head.

"No more ha.s.sles," she said. "I promise-I really mean it this time. You're right, I shouldn't have mouthed off. It's because I'm worried about her, same as you. I'll be fine. Sorry. It won't happen again-"

"Please, Vicki." I pointed to the nurse's room.

"-I swear. Come on, cut me a little slack."

I held my ground.

She moved toward me, hands fisted, as if ready to strike. Then she dropped them. Turned suddenly, and walked to the room. Moving slowly, shoulders down, barely lifting her shoes from the carpet.

The room was furnished with an orange Naugahyde couch and matching chair, and a coffee table. A phone sat on the table next to an unplugged coffee maker that hadn't been used or cleaned in a long time. Cat and puppy posters were taped to the wall above a b.u.mper sticker that read NURSES DO IT WITH TENDER LOVING CARE.

I closed the door and sat on the couch.

"This stinks," she said, without conviction. "You have no right-I am calling Dr. Eves."

I picked up the phone, called the page operator and asked for Stephanie.

"Wait," she said. "Hang up."

I canceled the page and replaced the receiver. She did a little toe-heel dance, finally sank into the chair, fiddling with her cap, both feet flat on the ground. I noticed something I hadn't seen before: a tiny daisy drawn in nail polish marker, on her new badge, just above her photo. The polish was starting to flake and the flower looked shredded.

She put her hands in her spreading lap. A condemned-prisoner look filled her face.

"I have work to do," she said. "Still have to change the sheets, check to make sure Dietary gets the dinner order right."

"The nurse in New Jersey," I said. "What made you bring that up?"

"Still on that?"

I waited.

"No big deal," she said. "I told you, there was a book and I read it, that's all. I don't like to read those kinds of things usually, but someone gave it to me, so I read it. Okay?"

She was smiling, but suddenly her eyes had filled with tears. She flailed at her face, trying to dry it with her fingers. I looked around the room. No tissues. My handkerchief was clean and I gave it to her.

She looked at it, ignored it. Her face stayed wet, mascara tracing black cat-scratches through the impasto of her makeup.

"Who gave you the book?" I said.

Her face clogged with pain. I felt as if I'd stabbed her.

"It had nothing to do with Ca.s.sie. Believe me."

"Okay. What exactly did this nurse do?"

"Poisoned babies-with lidocaine. But she was no nurse. Nurses love kids. Real nurses." Her eyes shifted to the b.u.mper sticker on the wall and she cried harder.

When she stopped, I held out the handkerchief again. She pretended it wasn't there. "What do you want from me?"

"Some honesty-"

"About what?"

"All the hostility I've been getting from you-"

"I said I was sorry about that."

"I don't need an apology, Vicki. My honor isn't the issue and we don't have to be buddies-make talky-talk. But we do have to communicate well enough to take care of Ca.s.sie. And your behavior's getting in the way."

"I disag-"

"It is, Vicki. And I know it can't be anything I've said or done because you were hostile before I opened my mouth. So it's obvious you have something against psychologists, and I suspect it's because they've failed you-or mistreated you."

"What are you doing? a.n.a.lyzing me?"

"If I need to."

"That's not fair."

"If you want to keep working the case, let's get it out in the open. Lord knows it's difficult enough as is. Ca.s.sie's getting sicker each time she comes in; no one knows what the h.e.l.l's going on. A few more seizures like the one you saw and she could be at risk for some serious brain damage. We can't afford to get distracted by interpersonal c.r.a.p."

Her lip shook and scooted forward.

"There's no need," she said, "to swear."

"Sorry. Besides my foul mouth, what do you have against me?"

"Nothing."

"Baloney, Vicki."

"There's really no-"

"You don't like shrinks," I said, "and my intuition is you've got a good reason."

She sat back. "That so?"

I nodded. "There are plenty of bad ones out there, happy to take your money without doing anything for you. I happen not to be one of them but I don't expect you to believe that just because I say so."

She screwed up her mouth. Relaxed it. Puckers remained above her upper lip. Her face was streaked and smudged and weary and I felt like the Grand Inquisitor.

"On the other hand," I said, "maybe it's just me you resent-some sort of turf thing over Ca.s.sie, your wanting to be the boss."

"That's not it at all!"

"Then what is it, Vicki?"

She didn't answer. Looked down at her hands. Used a nail to push back a cuticle. Her expression was blank but the tears hadn't stopped.

"Why not get it out into the open and be done with it?" I said. "If it's not related to Ca.s.sie, it won't leave this room."

She sniffed and pinched the tip of her nose.

I moved forward and softened my tone: "Look, this needn't be a marathon. I'm not out to expose you in any way. All I want to do is clear the air-work out a real truce."

"Won't leave this room, huh?" Return of the smug smile. "I've heard that before."

Our eyes met. Hers blinked. Mine didn't waver.

Suddenly her arms flew upward, hands scissoring. Ripping her cap from her hair, she hurled it across the room. It landed on the floor. She started to get up, but didn't.

"d.a.m.n you!" she said. The top of her head was a bird's nest.

I'd folded the handkerchief and rested it on one of my knees. Such a neat boy, the Inquisitor.

She put her hands to her temples.

I got up and placed a hand on her shoulder, certain she'd fling it off. But she didn't.

"I'm sorry," I said.

She sobbed and started to talk, and I had nothing to do but listen.

She told only part of it. Ripping open old wounds while struggling to hold on to some dignity.

The felonious Reggie transformed into an "active boy with school problems."

"He was smart enough, but he just couldn't find anything that interested him and his mind used to wander all over the place."

The boy growing into a "restless" young man who "just couldn't seem to settle down."

Years of petty crime reduced to "some problems."

She sobbed some more. This time she took my handkerchief.

Weeping and whispering the punch line: her only child's death at nineteen, due to "an accident."