The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [97]
Christine nodded.
Monday. Christine repeated the word over and over again as she scuffed through the rain. Three days before her life would, to all intents, come to an end. Hell, she realized, it had ended already. A bus careened past, spraying her boots and trench coat with muddy street water. She did not even break stride. In a rush of images, she pictured what was to follow for her: the arrest … the judge … Miss Dalrymple … her brothers and sisters … the newspapers … her father, already confined to a nursing home … the nicknames—Death Angel, Mercy Murderer … her roommates and their families.… But most punishing of all, perhaps, were the images of David and the hatred she knew he would feel for her.
She walked past the turnoff for her street. Little by little, the great black hole within her grew. The relief and the peace she had felt while talking with Ben were gone. Tears of rain supplanted the tears she was too empty to cry. Monday.
Unseeing, she studied the windows of shops and stores as she passed. All at once, she was standing in front of a pharmacy—her pharmacy. The elderly pharmacist knew her, knew all three roommates, in fact, and liked them all. Dreamlike, she entered, exchanged a few forced pleasantries, then asked the man for a refill of the Darvon she occasionally took for cramps. Her last prescription, filled six months ago, was at home in her bureau, the vial still nearly full. After a brief check of her file, the man refilled it for her.
On the walk home Christine began to compose the note she would write.
“Rudy, he’s up here!” Joey cried out. “Mother of God, what a mess! I think he’s dead.”
David’s motionless form lay face down in a puddle to one side of the amphitheater steps. He had crawled up the stairs and wedged himself behind a marble slab, hidden from the sidewalk below. Gently Joey rolled his friend over to his back. The driving rain splattered filth and blood from David’s face. At that instant, he moaned, a soft whine, nearly lost in the night wind.
“Jesus, go get a blanket!” Joey screamed. “He’s breathing!” He cradled David’s head in one hand and began patting his cheek—faster and harder. “Doc, it’s Joey. Can you hear me? You’re gonna be all right. Doc? …”
“Christine …” David’s first word was an almost indistinct gurgle. “Christine … must find Christine.” His eyes fluttered open for a moment, strained to focus on Joey’s face, then closed. Rosetti set a hand on David’s chest. He nodded excitedly at its shallow, rhythmic rise and fall.
“Hang on,” he said. “We’ll get you to the hospital. You’re gonna be all right, Doc. Just hang on.” He looked up and muttered a curse at the downpour. In moments the wind died off. The heavy rain gave way to a light, misty spray. Joey stared overhead in amazement, then nodded his approval.
“First thing in the morning You get a raise in pay.” He grinned.
David heard Rosetti’s voice, but understood only the word hospital. No, he thought. Not the hospital. He struggled to hang on to the thought, to put it into words, but his consciousness weakened, then let go, and he plunged into darkness.
Five minutes later, he was bundled in a blanket, propped against Joey on the back seat of Rudy Fisher’s Chrysler. His uncontrollable shaking continued but, moment by moment, he was regaining consciousness. Joey ordered Fisher to the Doctors Hospital emergency ward. Like echoes down a long tunnel, David heard his own words—disconnected, tinny whimpers. “Ben is dead … Christine is dead. No hospital, please … Must find Christine.… I’m cold … so cold. Please help me get warm …”
Several ambulances were lined up in front of the emergency entrance, their lights flashing in hypnotic counterpoint. Joey jumped out and returned moments later with a wheelchair.
“Place is a fucking zoo,” he said as they eased David out of the