Jon Talton: The Pain Nurse

Dodds tapped the gurney. “Get him out of here.” The orderly pushed and the scene receded. Out of the gloom, he heard Dodds’ voice, “Hope your back feels better, Borders.”

It was only safe to cry at home. She never cried at work, never broke that professional boundary. Only at home. But this time Cheryl Beth didn’t make it that far. A guard had walked her to her car, she had locked the doors, inserted the key into the steering column, but then sobs heaved through her body. She stayed like that a long time, trembling, wrapped in her trench coat, her arms clenched tightly across her chest, the halogen lights of the parking garage burning into her tired eyes. For a long time she didn’t trust herself to drive. The drive home only took three minutes if she hit the lights right. Her house in the Clifton district was so close that on summer days she often rode her hot-pink bicycle to the hospital. It made people smile.

Her little bungalow sat dark at the end of the street. The porch light had been burned out for a week. It was only tonight that it took on a sinister dimension. Her stomach tightened into a cramp and her breathing kicked up. She clicked on the bright lights as she approached. They swept the empty yard and spindly winter bushes.

Then, out loud, to herself, “Don’t be silly.”

She parked at the top of the driveway and stepped out, the chill helping to center her. The street looked coldly benign in the moonlight. The moon looked like it had been shot out of a cannon.

It came quickly from her left, shadow and blurry motion.

“No!”

“Cheryl Beth, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Gary.” She felt her heart slowly withdraw from her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“The hospital told me.”

“Come inside.”

She clumsily unlocked the door, led him in, and turned on some lights. When she turned around he was right there, pulling her greedily into his arms. At first she resisted, guilt and empathy fighting inside her. Then she let him hold her. After a moment, she even held him back. Dr. Gary Nagle stood a foot taller than she, but his body was hard with muscles, lacking even a careless hint of fat. He was a killer squash player.

“Oh, Gary, I am so, so sorry.”

With that she started sobbing again and cleaved against him until the coat made her oppressively hot, the heat reminding her of the impossible awkwardness of this. She broke away, tossed her coat in a chair, and went silently to the kitchen where she made herself a Bushmills on the rocks. He was already fixing himself a scotch. He knew where the bottle was kept.

“They told me you found her.”

He followed her back into the living room and waited, standing while she put a fake log in the fireplace, thinking the light and flame might be comforting. It bloomed into unnatural light as she told him what had happened. She was accustomed to telling the story now that she had told the police four times. The big black detective, she didn’t like him. He had aggressively questioned her every sentence, almost as if he suspected her of the crime. Several of her RN friends had married cops, but she had little personal experience with the police. If this was any indication, it was no wonder so many of those marriages had failed.

“She was just cut so badly,” Cheryl Beth said. “There was nothing I could do. She bled out. He cut off her ring finger.”

“If it was a he.”

“I didn’t think she was even wearing a wedding band now. This makes no sense.”

His voice seemed so matter of fact. By this time she was sitting on the small sofa in front of the fireplace. Gary sat next to her, the flickering flame accentuating his blue eyes and wolfish mustache. He started stroking and twirling her hair.

“Stop, Gary. My God, your wife was killed tonight.”

He pulled his hand slightly, to the back of the sofa, still resting on her shoulder. “Ex-wife,” he said. His face fell into a boyish sulk.

“I’m surprised you’re not down there,” Cheryl Beth said.

“The police want to talk to me. They left messages.” He took a deep pull on the scotch. “You know how they always suspect the husband. The ex-husband is even worse. You know how the police think. I’m considering getting my lawyer.”

Cheryl Beth regarded him silently. She had several rules concerning Dr. Gary Nagle. They were designed to keep her clear-headed about him. One was already broken: he was sitting too close. Another was getting emotional. She resisted blurting out the obvious: man, your wife, okay ex-wife, somebody you loved enough to marry, was killed tonight, murdered, horribly murdered, what the hell’s the matter with you? … After a breath, she said, “I don’t know why you came here. It’s three a.m.”

“I wanted to know what you told the police.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You might have been the last person to see her alive,” he said. After an impossible pause he added, “Other than the murderer.”

She turned toward him, felt her face redden. “What do you mean?” But she knew exactly what he meant. “You were on Main Street tonight?” She realized it was last night now, but made no effort to clarify. She shook her head. “You were spying? Following me? That’s very bizarre.”

“If an ex-husband sees his ex-wife and ex-lover having a drink together, he’s going to take notice.”

“Especially if he’s stalking.”

“You two were together around nine last night. Why in the world were you both back at the hospital later? Christine was working on a computer system, for God’s sake, not doing patient rounds any more.”

“We did have a drink. I left. Then I got paged. I do have patients. She didn’t tell me she was going back to the hospital.” Oh, she hated his neurosurgeon’s arrogance. She couldn’t imagine the time when she had mistaken it for an edgy confidence and had been attracted to him. “I was on one of the floors when they gave me a message from her at the nurses’ station. She said she was in her office and asked me to come down. Then I went down and she was, she was… Why…?” She felt herself getting angry. “Why am I explaining myself to you? I don’t owe you anything.”

He ignored her mood and finished off the scotch. After a few minute’s silence, he said, “I warned her about that office. That hospital’s not safe. They ought to shut it down, and they would without the neurosurgery unit carrying everything else.”

“Gary, you need to go see the police. Now.”

“Chris was going through the postdivorce wilds. Having a great time being away from me. Playing with residents. They’re young and idealistic and horny. And playing with nurses, I hear.”

“As I remember, you left her.”

“It was over a long time ago, way before any judge ruled. As I remember, you once wanted me to leave her to be with you.”

A wave of nausea swept over Cheryl Beth. “That’s not true.” She spoke quietly but heard her words echo off the walls and mantle. “What we had was a…fling. My bad judgment.”

“Oh, the pain nurse, always making nice.” He stroked her hair again, ran one of his high-priced hands down the side of her face, down her neck. He smelled good. Damn it.

“Stop, Gary.” She moved to a chair facing him and took a gulp of the whiskey. His face was strangely blank, the handsome planes of his cheeks, strong chin and sensual lips. He would look thirty-five forever. Then he leered at her, his dusky blue eyes morose and appraising. She knew her face was red and her eyes puffy, her makeup a mess, but he looked as if he hadn’t parted with one tear. Some days she hated blue eyes, swore she would never trust them again.