The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [7]
She waited an extra few seconds, moved quickly down the row of lockers to number 178, then dialed the combination printed on the card Dahlia had sent her. The thin, half-filled syringe was right where she had been told it would be. She briefly held it to the light, then dropped it into the front pocket of her spotless uniform. Another check of the time and she headed for the tunnel leading to the south wing. She rode the elevator to Two South, then slipped into the rear stairwell and hurried up two more flights. Ducking into Room 438, she stopped, regaining her breath in soundless gulps. Through the gloom she could see John Chapman. The man was asleep, tucked in a fetal position, his face toward her. From beneath the sheet a catheter drained clear urine into a plastic collecting system.
Chapman’s recovery following kidney surgery had been uneventful. The woman smiled at the thought. Uneventful … until now.
She checked the corridor. A nurse’s aide—the first arrival of her day shift—had just stepped off the elevator. The fragile night peace was holding, but the nurse knew that within half an hour it would yield to the chaos of day. The time was now. Her pulse quickened. Anaphylactic shock! Almost fifteen years in hospital nursing and she had never even seen a full-blown case, let alone watched one from start to finish.
She moved to the bedside. There, on the nightstand, were the flowers. A glorious spray of lilies. Taped to the vase was the card.
“Best Wishes, Lily.” She whispered the words without actually reading them. There was no need. They were her words.
On the table next to the vase lay Chapman’s silver necklace and medic-alert tag. She illuminated the disc with her penlight. Again she smiled. It said:
DIABETIC
ALLERGIC TO PENICILLIN
ALLERGIC TO BEE STINGS
The small syringe in her hand held the bee venom concentrate used by allergists to desensitize their high-risk patients. Although practically speaking the dose was enormous, it was still minute enough to escape detection during a conventional autopsy.
John Chapman’s cocoa face was loose and relaxed. Even asleep he seemed to be smiling. The nurse pulled over a straight-backed chair and sat. With one hand, she slipped the needle through the rubber stopper of his I.V. tubing. With the other, she gently shook him by the shoulder.
“Mr. Chapman, John, wake up,” she cooed. “It’s morning. ”
Chapman’s eyes eased open. “Little Angel? Zat you?” His voice was a rich bass. A boyhood in Jamaica twenty-five years before still tinged the edges of his words. He focused on her and smiled. “My, but you are somethin’ to gaze upon,” he said. “Is it really morning or are you just one of my dreams?”
“No dream,” she answered. “But I am a little early. My shift doesn’t start for another half hour or so.” She depressed the plunger, emptying the venom into the intravenous line. “I came in early just to see you.”
“What?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she watched intently as a quizzical expression crossed Chapman’s face, which quickly gave way to apprehension.
“I … I feel funny, Angel,” he said. “Real funny.” Panic crept into his voice. “I’m starting to tingle all over.… Angela, somethin’s happening to me. Some-thin’ awful. I feel like I am going to die.”
The woman looked at him blandly. You are, she thought. You are. At that instant the full force of the anaphylactic reaction hit. The lining of John Chapman’s nose and throat swelled nearly shut. The muscles surrounding his bronchial tubes went into spasm. The nurse spun around to be certain the room door was closed. The reaction was more rapid, more spectacular than she had ever imagined it would be. In fact, she decided, it was more spectacular than anything she had ever witnessed.
“An … gel … please.…” Chapman’s words were barely audible. His eyes had swollen shut.
Instinctively, she checked for a pulse, but she knew that vascular collapse had already occurred.