The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [130]
“Listen, I’m going to let you sleep for a while,” the nurse said. “You’re due for a new I.V. in about twenty minutes. I’m going to wake you up then and we’ll try to get some more of this glass out of your hair. Okay?” Christine nodded as best she could. “Hey, I almost forgot. Only a few hours in the hospital and already you’re getting flowers. These were delivered a couple of minutes ago. They’re beautiful. I’m going to put them on the table here. I know you can’t see them, but maybe by tonight you’ll be able to. There’s a card. Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes, please,” Christine said weakly.
“It says best wishes for a speedy recovery, Dahlia.”
Dahlia? The pain and the swelling in her brain made it difficult to concentrate. “But … I … don’t … know … any … Dahlia,” she said.
The woman had already left.
“David, this killer, this … this Vincent—you must tell me again how you think he found you on the emergency ward and then was able to locate your friend.”
David toyed with the cover of a magazine, then dropped it on the coffee table and rubbed at his eyes. What had started as a comfortable, long-awaited unburdening had mutated into a tense interrogation as Dr. Armstrong probed for every possible detail. He felt off balance, bewildered, and threatened by the persistence of her questions and the strain in her voice.
“Look,” he said, no longer trying to conceal his mounting apprehension, “I’ve told you everything I know. Twice. My theories about how Vincent found Ben and me and then Joey are just that—theories. Dr. Armstrong, I know something is going on here. Something that I’ve said has upset you. I’m not going to tell you any more until you level with me. Now, please, what is the matter?”
The look in her eyes was glacial. “Young man, much of what you have told me is impossible. Preposterous. A series of sick, misguided conclusions that can only cause pain and suffering to many good, innocent people.” David stared at her in disbelief. “You are stirring flames of a fire whose scope you do not understand. This so-called killer you have described—it is impossible that he is connected in any way with The Sisterhood of Life.”
“But …”
“Impossible, I say!” She screamed the words.
“Just what is impossible?” Their heads spun in unison toward the door. Dotty Dalrymple stood calmly watching, her hands buried in the pockets of her uniform. David’s skin began to crawl at the sight of her.
“Oh, Dorothy, I’m glad you could make it down this quickly.” Armstrong’s voice was tense, but composed. “I phoned you because Dr. Shelton here was just telling me a preposterous tale about The Sisterhood of Life and hired killers and—”
“I know what he was telling you,” Dalrymple said, her face puffed in a half-smile. “I know very well what he was telling you.” She lifted her right hand free. Nearly lost in the fleshy ball of her fist was a snub-nosed revolver.
“The light … please turn it off.” Christine felt the glare even through tightly closed eyes.
Two women—a nurse and an aide—were picking fragments of glass from her hair with tweezers. “All right, Chris,” one of them said. “I guess we’ve tortured you enough for now. I have to rouse you in forty minutes. We can do a little more then. Okay?” She shut off the overhead light. “Wait a minute, I’m sorry, but I have to turn it back on. Just a few seconds to adjust the flow of your new I.V.
“Prime rib of beef and pheasant under glass were on your little menu sheet, but since you didn’t circle anything we decided to serve you the specialty of the house: dextrose and water.”
A ten-second explosion and again the room dimmed. Christine tried to ignore the throbbing in her skull.
“By