The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [102]
“Nice place you run here, Doc,” Joey said, quickly undoing the restraints. “If I ever need another operation, remind me to go back to White Memorial.”
“He’s the man,” David blurted excitedly. “The man who killed Ben. He … he was going to …”
“I know what he was going to do,” Joey said, unbuckling the restraints. “Leonard an’ me have met before. He does it for a living. The shit. If he’s after you, my friend, then you are into some serious business.”
David sat up. This time the dizziness was bearable. Instinctively he rubbed his hand over his throat. The rush of terror had done more to bring him around than had anything else. “Joey, get me out of here,” he begged. “Shoot that animal, then get me out of here. We’ve got to find Christine.”
Joey glanced at Vincent, who was lying on one side, his face contorted by the tiled floor. “We’ll let the cops take care of Leonard,” he said. “I promised Terry I wouldn’t use my gun—at least, the other end of it—unless I had to. Someone will find him here. Can you walk? Where the hell are your pants?”
“There, over there on the chair. I … I think I can walk with a little help.” David slipped off the table and steadied himself against Joey’s arm. His ankle throbbed but held weight as he wriggled into his damp, muddy jeans. “Joey, there’s this woman, Christine Beall. She’s the only one who can straighten out the mess I’m in. We’ve got to find her.” He sighed relief at the realization that, at last, his thoughts were coming out intelligibly.
“Okay,” Joey said, “but first we’ve got to drift out of this place with as little commotion as possible. I saw this gorilla here dressed up like a doctor or something heading for your room. Nobody else even looked twice at him. I figured he wasn’t going in to give you a checkup. Now listen—my manager’s parked by the front door. Let me get a wheelchair. We’ll go as far as we can with that, then run like hell. It’s a red car, an Olds or Chrysler or some ox like that. Do you remember it?”
David shook his head. “I’ll find it, Joey, don’t worry. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Rosetti helped him into a wheelchair, then casually pushed it down the trauma wing corridor and across the reception area. As the electronic front doors slid open, a woman’s voice behind them called out, “Hey, you two, where are you going?”
David scrambled out of the chair and hung on to Joey’s arm as they raced the last few yards to the Chrysler. “No rubber,” Joey panted as they dove into the back seat.
Rudy Fisher nodded and eased past two parked cruisers down the sweeping circular driveway and off toward Boston’s North End.
* * *
Janet Poulos stood helplessly to one side of the reception area and watched them go. She had told Dahlia nothing of her abortive attempt to handle matters. Now she had another decision to make—whether or not to see if Leonard Vincent was alive and needed help. Since she was the only person the man could identify if he were arrested, the decision was not difficult.
She stopped by the crash cart, took several ampules of pancuronium, and dropped them into her pocket. The respiratory paralysis caused by the drug helped maintain respirator patients. Well, now it would help her, too, provided she had the chance to use it. If not, she would have to find a way to help the man escape. Perhaps she could still salvage some heightened prestige in Dahlia’s eyes.
Janet cursed her rotten luck and David Shelton for causing her so much difficulty. Then she stalked down the hall to Trauma 12, hoping she would find Leonard Vincent dead.
“Ouch! What is that stuff?” David winced as Terry Rosetti scrubbed at the dirt embedded in the deep gouge along his arm.
“Just something I use to clean the windows,” she said. “Now sit still and let me finish.”
The Rosettis’ North End apartment was