The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [96]
David sat on the ground of the esplanade, hanging on to the dangling pay phone receiver to keep from falling over. He shook uncontrollably, fading in and out of awareness as the driving rain splattered him with mud. Squinting through the downpour, he could see the Hatch Shell Amphitheater. The mountainous half-dome, looming several hundred yards away, was the only landmark he’d been able to think of to give Joey.
Slowly, painfully, he released the phone, rolled over in the muddy puddle, and began crawling toward a night-light at one side of the dome. For ten minutes, fifteen, he clawed his way over the sodden ground. The tiny bulb, at first a beacon, soon became his entire world. It seemed farther away with each agonizing inch. Again and again he tried to stand, only to crumple beneath the pain in his ankle and the overwhelming chill throughout his body. Each time he got to his hands and knees and pushed on. Twice he doubled over as spasms knotted his gut, forcing fetid river water and bile out of his nose and mouth. The taunting light grew dimmer, more distant.
“It can’t end like this.” David said the words over and over, using them as a cadence to force one hand, then one knee in front of the other. “It can’t end like this …”
Suddenly the grass turned to concrete, then to smooth slick marble. He was on the stairs at the base of the Shell. His shivering gave way to paroxysmal twitches of his hands, shoulders, and neck—the harbingers of a full-blown seizure. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as his teeth, chattering like jackhammers, minced the edges of his tongue. Overhead, the night light flickered for a moment, then went black. David felt the incongruous peace of dying settling within him. He fought the sensation with what little strength, what little concentration, he had left. Christine knows, he thought. She knows why Ben is dead and now she’ll die, too. Must hang on. Hang on and help her. It can’t end like this.… It can’t.
* * *
The emptiness had set in only minutes after Christine had declined Ben’s offer of a ride and started home. It was as if a tap had opened, draining from her every ounce of emotion and feeling. She had abandoned her attempt to shelter herself beneath the overhangs of buildings and wandered along the center of the sidewalk, oblivious to the downpour.
The session with Ben had been easy—at least, easier than she had anticipated. In his comfortable, nonjudgmental manner, he had assured her again and again that her decision to confess was the right thing, the only thing to do. He had accepted the explanation she chose to give—one in which she, acting alone, had honored the wishes of a close, special friend who was dying painfully. The most difficult moment had come when he brought up the forged C222 order form.
“The what?” Christine asked, stalling for even a little time.
“The form. The one Quigg, the pharmacist, claimed Dr. Shelton filled at his store.”
Christine’s mind raced. Clearly, Miss Dalrymple or one of the others had used the form to protect her. With no forewarning of what had transpired, she had no ready response. “I … I used it and … and then I bribed the pharmacist.”
“How did you come by it in the first place?” Ben asked. There was no trace of disbelief in his face.
“I … I’d rather not say just yet.” Christine held her breath, hoping the lawyer would push no further. With a few days she could think of something. If Miss Dalrymple still wished to protect The Sisterhood, she would have to do whatever she could to insure that the pharmacist did not contradict her. She would also have to convince Peggy that Christine was determined to keep the movement out of her confession.
Ben studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, then,” he said. “Let’s talk about how I believe you should handle things. That is, if you want my advice.”
“I’d like more than that, Mr. Gl … I mean, Ben. If it’s possible, I would like you to represent me.”
“I’ll have to think it over, Christine. Just to be sure there wouldn’t be any conflict of interest