The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [135]
David glanced over at Armstrong. “Yeah,” he said stonily, “a miracle worker. ”
Margaret Armstrong met his gaze and, for a few moments, held it. Then, one at a time, she whispered a thank-you to those in the room and motioned each to leave.
The young nurse was the last to go. Armstrong walked her into the hall, then said, “You did wonderful work in there. I’m very proud of you.”
The nurse flushed. “You … you’ve been hurt. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll be fine,” Armstrong said. “You go on along and get back to your patients.” Then she turned and reentered Room 412. She knew that at the moment she had stepped to the emergency cart and had drawn up the correct medication, she had sealed the fate of The Sisterhood.
Christine was asleep. Across the room, David had opened the drapes part way and was looking out at the hazy afternoon. His hands hung heavily by his sides, his stance reflecting none of the victory he had just won. Armstrong walked quietly to his side. He would not look at her. For a time the only sounds in the room were the gurgle of oxygen through the safety bottle and the steady sighs of Christine’s breathing.
“That’s a hell of a bruise you’ve got,” David said, his gaze still fixed on the city below. “I think you should have someone look at it.”
“I will,” she said. “Later.”
“That woman, that … that beast lying in your office—she was your creation. Your monster.”
“Perhaps. I suppose that in some ways she was. Does it matter that I still truly believe in the good of what The Sisterhood of Life has been doing? Does it matter that the struggle for dignity in human death is just?”
“Sure.” David snorted the word. “It matters. Like it matters to the fracture in Christine’s skull. Like it matters to the crap she faces when—if—she recovers. Like it matters to the fucking judge and the prosecutor and the newspapers who are going to try her for murdering Charlotte Thomas. Like it matters to my friends who are dead just because …” His frustration and fury choked off the words.
A silent minute passed before Armstrong said, “David, I know how you are feeling. I really do. I know my help with Christine and what I did to Dorothy can’t take away the pain you both have suffered. But I also know something else. Something that will do much to soothe your wounds.” She hesitated. “I know that Christine will never have to stand trial for murder.”
David whirled and stared at her. “What did you say?”
“Christine did not murder Charlotte Thomas.” Her eyes leveled at his, her gaze and expression deadly serious.
“How … how can you say that?”
“She didn’t,” Armstrong said flatly, “because I did. And I can prove it.”
CHAPTER XXIV
Armstrong closed the door to Room 412 as David first checked Christine’s blood pressure, then slowly raised the head of her bed. He had listened to the woman’s story for only a minute or two before realizing the importance of having Christine hear it for herself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped a hand beneath her head. The room was dark, save for a spattering of pale sunlight through the partially closed drapes. David shook with excitement as he reached up and stroked her bruised, swollen face. “Chris, wake up, honey,” he said. “Wake up.”
Armstrong pulled a chair by the head of the bed.
Christine opened her eyes, smiled at David, then closed them again. “I’m awake,” she said weakly. “It just hurts less with my eyes shut. I’ll be okay, though. A few days and I’ll be okay.”
“You bet you will,” he said. “Chris, Dr. Armstrong is here. She has something to tell you. I … I thought you would want to hear.”
“Christine? Can you hear me? It’s Margaret Armstrong.” Christine turned toward the voice and again opened her eyes. For several seconds, the women looked at one another. Then Armstrong said softly, “Christine, I am Peg. Peggy Donner.”
Christine studied her through the dim light, then reached out and grasped her hand. “The Sisterhood … is it over?”
“Not yet, dear. But … but soon.”
David searched Christine’s face for anger, or even surprise, but neither was there. A bond was forming