Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

The parking lot was nearly deserted now. Small amber bulbs in grilled cases hung from the concrete ceiling, casting a hard-focus glow on every other parking slot. The remaining spaces were totally dark, creating a zebra-stripe effect. As I walked to the stairs I felt as if someone were watching me. When I looked back, I was alone.

The lobby was empty, too, the marble floors mirrors of nothing. One woman sat behind the Information window, methodically hand-stamping some papers. The page operator was getting paid for showing up. A clock ticked loudly. The smell of adhesive tape and a faint but definite sweat-spoor lingered, remembrances of stress gone by.

Something else I’d forgotten: Hospitals are different at night. The place was as spooky as the streets.

I took the elevator up to Five and walked through the ward, unnoticed. The doors to most of the rooms were closed; handwritten signs provided occasional distraction: Protective Isolation, Infection Watch/No Visitors... The few doors that were open emitted TV sounds and the cricket-clicks of metered I.V.’s. I passed sleeping children and others entranced by the cathode ray. Parents sat, stiff as plaster. Waiting.

Chappy Ward’s teak doors vacuum-sucked me into dead silence. No one was at the desk.

I walked over to 505 and rapped very softly. No answer. I opened the door and looked in.

Cassie’s side rails were raised. She slept, guarded by stainless steel. Cindy slept, too, on the sofa bed, positioned so that her head was close to Cassie’s feet. One of her hands extended through the bars, touching Cassie’s sheet.

I closed the door softly.

A voice behind me said, “They’re sleeping.”

I turned.

Vicki Bottomley glared at me, hands on meaty hips.

“Another double shift?” I said.

She rolled her eyes and began walking off.

“Hold on,” I said. The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us.

She stopped, turned slowly. “What?”

“What’s the problem, Vicki?”

“There is no problem.”

“I think there is.”

“You’re entitled.” She started to leave again.

“Hold it.” The empty corridor amplified my voice. Or maybe I really was that angry.

She said, “I’ve got work to do.”

“So do I, Vicki. Same patient, as a matter of fact.”

She stretched one arm toward the chart rack. “Be my guest.”

I walked up to her. Close enough to crowd. She backed away. I moved forward.

“I don’t know what your problem with me is, but I suggest we deal with it.”

“I don’t have any problem with anyone.”

“Oh? Is what I’ve seen so far your usual level of charm?”

The pretty blue eyes blinked. Though they were dry, she wiped them quickly.

“Listen,” I said, retreating a step, “I don’t want to get into anything personal with you. But you’ve been hostile to me from the beginning and I’d like to know why.”

She stared at me. Opened her mouth. Closed it.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’ll be okay — no problem, I promise. Okay?”

She held out her hand.

I reached for it.

She gave me fingertips. A quick shake and she turned and started to walk away.

I said, “I’m going down to get some coffee. Care to join me?”

She stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Can’t. On duty.”

“Want me to bring a cup up for you?”

Now she turned quickly. “What do you want ?”

“Nothing,” I said. “With your double-shifting, I figured you could use some coffee.”

“I’m fine ”

“I’ve heard you’re terrific.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dr. Eves thinks a lot of you. As a nurse. So does Cindy.”

Her arms clamped across her chest, as if she were holding herself together. “I do my job.”

“Do you see me getting in the way of that?”

Her shoulders climbed. She seemed to be phrasing an answer. But all she said was, “No. Everything will be okay. Okay?”

“Vicki—”

“I promise ,” she said. “ Please ? Can I go now?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sorry if I came on too strong.”

She clamped her lips together, pivoted, and returned to her station.

I went to the Five East elevators. One lift was stuck on the sixth floor. The other two arrived simultaneously. Chip Jones stepped out of the central door, a cup of coffee in each hand. He had on faded jeans, a white turtleneck, and a denim jacket that matched the pants.

“Dr. Delaware.”

“Professor.”

He laughed and said, “Please,” and stepped out into the hall. “How are my ladies doing?”

“They’re both sleeping.”

“Thank God. When I spoke to Cindy this afternoon, she sounded exhausted. I brought this from downstairs” — raising one cup — “to help fuel her. But sleep is what she really needs.”

He began walking toward the teak doors. I tagged along. “Are we keeping you from hearth and home, Doctor?”

I shook my head. “Been and returned.”

“Didn’t know psychologists kept that kind of schedule.”

“We don’t when we can avoid it.”

He smiled. “Well, the fact that Cindy’s sleeping this early means Cassie must be getting healthy enough for her to relax. So that’s good.”

“She told me she never leaves Cassie.”

“Never.”

“Must be hard on her.”

“Unbelievably hard. At first I tried to ease her away from it, but after being here a few times and seeing other mothers, I realized it was normal. Rational, actually. It’s self-defense.”

“Against what?”

“Screw-ups.”

“Cindy talked about that, too,” I said. “Have you seen a lot of medical error around here?”

“As a parent or as Chuck Jones’s son?”

“Is there a difference?”

He gave a small, hard smile. “You bet there is. As Chuck Jones’s son, I think this place is pediatric paradise, and I’ll say so in the next banquet journal if they ask me. As a parent, I’ve seen things — the inevitable human errors. I’ll give you an example — one that really shook me. A couple of months ago, the whole fifth floor was buzzing. Seems there was this little boy being treated for some kind of cancer — getting an experimental drug, so maybe there wasn’t much hope anyway. But that’s not the point. Someone misread a decimal point and he got a massive overdose. Brain damage, coma, the whole bit. All the parents on the floor heard the resuscitation page and saw the emergency team rush in. Heard his mother screaming for help. Including us — I was out in the hall, actually heard his mother scream for help.”

He winced. “I saw her a couple of days later, Dr. Delaware. When he was still being respirated. She looked like a concentration camp victim. That look of being beaten down and betrayed? All because of one decimal point. Now that kind of thing probably happens all the time, on a smaller scale — things that can be smoothed over. Or don’t even get picked up in the first place. So you can’t blame parents for wanting to keep an eye out, can you?”

“No,” I said. “Sounds like you don’t have much confidence in this place.”

“On the contrary, I do,” he said impatiently. “Before we decided to have Cassie treated here, we did research — Dad notwithstanding. So I know this is the best place in the city for sick kids. But when it’s your child, statistics don’t matter much, do they? And human error is inevitable.”

I held the doors to Chappy Ward open for him and he carried the coffee in.

Vicki’s chunky form was visible through the glass door of the supply room behind the nursing station. She was placing something on a high shelf. We passed her and went to Cassie’s room.