The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [98]
David tried to nod, but the lights and the signs and the faces spun into a nauseating blur. He was retching as Joey pushed him through the gliding doors into the artificial brilliance of the reception area. The atmosphere and action were reminiscent of a battleground infirmary. A constant stream of patients—some bleeding, some doubled over in pain—flowed in through several doors. Litters were everywhere. Joey took in the scene, then pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the triage nurse.
The woman, a trim brunette in only her second month of screening duty, listened to him incredulously and then rushed over to David. He was moaning softly, his head rolling from side to side as he struggled to steady it. “My God, he’s cold as ice,” she said, holding a hand beneath his chin. “Keep his head still while I get an orderly. What happened to him?” She rushed away before Joey could answer. A matronly intake clerk, clipboard in hand, arrived seconds later and began firing questions at him.
“Name?”
“Joseph Rosetti.”
She looked at David. “That’s not Joseph Rosetti, that’s Dr. Shelton.”
“Oh, I thought you meant my name. If you already know his, why did you ask?”
The clerk flashed him an ugly look and tore off the top sheet on her clipboard. “Name?” she said in the identical voice as before.
Joey fished out David’s soggy wallet and found some of the information the woman requested. He came near to losing control several times, but held his temper for fear that she would rip off another sheet and start over again. In answer to “Name and address of next of kin,” he was about to say he had no idea, but thought about the chaos his answer might cause and gave his own.
“Religion of preference?” the woman asked blandly.
Joey looked down at David, whose skin now had a pea-green cast. “Look,” he snapped, “this man is hurt. Can’t the questions wait until a doctor sees him?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she bristled, “I don’t make hospital policies, I only carry them out. Religion of preference?”
Joey fought the impulse to grab the woman by the throat. The dark-haired nurse returned at that moment with an orderly, sparing him a final decision. “I’ve emptied out Trauma Twelve,” she said. “Take Dr. Shelton there. Sir, if you’ll finish signing him in, you can wait in one of those seats. I’ll let you know as soon as someone has evaluated him.” She looked at Joey’s face and realized for the first time how very handsome he was. Her smile broadened. “Any questions?”
“No,” Joey said. “But could you tell this—ah—nice lady here that I do not possess the knowledge of Dr. Shelton’s religion of preference?” He winked at the young nurse, whose cheeks reddened instantly, then took the intake worker by the arm and led her back to the reception desk.
In the feverish emergency ward only one pair of eyes followed attentively as the orderly wheeled David away. They belonged to Janet Poulos. Only her ears heard and understood the single word he moaned: “Christine.”
With multiple accidents and two gunshot wounds tying up personnel, Janet had agreed to work overtime until the crush of patients lessened. Now, she realized, that decision might be paying off in unexpected ways. Her mind raced as she tried to sort out the significance of what she had just witnessed and heard.
Leonard Vincent had been hired by The Garden to watch Christine Beall and to intervene only if it looked to Dahlia as if the woman had decided to confess and expose The Sisterhood. That much Janet knew. Dahlia had made the decision to protect The Garden at all costs; and every flower was also a member of The Sisterhood, whether they were active in that movement or not.
Beall and Shelton must have connected, Janet reasoned. She must have gone to him. Must have spoken with him about The Sisterhood. Why else would he be here in this condition calling out her name? Dahlia had turned Leonard Vincent loose, but Shelton had somehow escaped. It was the only explanation