Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“I did oncology, too. Years ago. Psychosocial support.”

“Uh-huh.” Back to the form.

“Well,” I said, “at least Cassie doesn’t seem to have a tumor.”

No answer.

“Dr. Eves told me she’s planning to discharge her soon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought I’d go out and make a home visit.”

Her pen raced.

“You’ve been out there yourself, haven’t you?”

No answer.

I repeated the question. She stopped writing and looked up. “If I have, is there something wrong with that?”

“No, I was just—”

“You were just making talky-talk is what you were doing. Right?” She put the pen down and wheeled backward. A smug smile was on her lips. “Or are you checking me out? Wanting to know if I went out and did something to her?”

She wheeled back farther, keeping her eyes on me, still smiling.

“Why would I think that?” I said.

“ ’Cause I know the way you people think.”

“It was a simple question, Vicki.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what this has all been about, from the beginning. All this phony talky-talk. You’re checking me out to see if I’m like that nurse in New Jersey.”

“What nurse is that?”

“The one killed the babies. They wrote a book about it and it was on TV.”

“You think you’re under suspicion?”

“Aren’t I? Isn’t it always the nurse who gets blamed?”

“Was the nurse in New Jersey blamed falsely?”

Her smile managed to turn into a grimace without a movement.

“I’m sick of this game,” she said, standing and shoving the chair away. “With you people it’s always games.”

“ ‘You people’ meaning psychologists?”

She folded her hands across her chest and muttered something. Then she turned her back on me.

“Vicki?”

No answer.

“What this is all about ,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “is finding out what the hell’s going on with Cassie.”

She pretended to read the bulletin board behind the desk.

“So much for our little truce,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said, turning quickly and facing me. Her voice had risen, a sour reed solo superimposed on the Sacher-torte music.

“Don’t worry,” she repeated, “I won’t get in your way. You want something, just ask. ’Cause you’re the doctor . And I’ll do anything that’ll help that poor little baby — contrary to what you think, I care about her, okay? Fact is, I’ll even go down and get you coffee if that impresses you and keeps your attention on her, where it should be. I’m not one of those feminists think it’s a sin to do something other than push meds. But don’t pretend to be my friend , okay? Let’s both of us just do our jobs without talky-talk, and go about our merry ways, okay? And in answer to your question, I was out at the house exactly two times — months ago. Okay?”

She walked to the opposite end of the station, found another form, picked it up and began reading. Squinting, she held it at arm’s length. She needed reading glasses. The smug smile returned.

I said, “ Are you doing something to her, Vicki?”

Her hands jerked and the paper dropped. She bent to pick it up and her cap fell off. Bowing a second time, she retrieved it and stood up rigidly. She was wearing a lot of mascara and a couple of specks had come loose below one eye.

I didn’t budge.

“No!” A whisper with lots of force behind it.

Footsteps turned both of our heads. The maintenance man came out into the hall, pulling his vacuum. He was middle-aged and Hispanic, with old eyes and a Cantinflas mustache.

“Sumtin’ else?” he said.

“No,” said Vicki. “ Go. ”

He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then yanked on the machine and towed it toward the teak doors. Vicki watched him, hands clenched.

When he was gone, she said, “That was a horrible question! Why do you have to think such ugly thoughts — why does anyone have to be doing anything to her? She’s sick!”

“All her symptoms are some sort of mystery illness?”

“Why not ?” she said. “Why not? This is a hospital. That’s what we get here — sick kids . That’s what real doctors do. Treat sick kids. ”

I maintained my silence.

Her arms began to rise and she fought to keep them down, like a subject resisting a hypnotist. Where the cap had been, her stiff hair had bunched in a hat-sized dome.

I said, “The real doctors aren’t having much luck, are they?”

She exhaled through her nose.

“Games,” she said, whispering again. “Always games with you people.”

“You seem to know a lot about us people.”

She looked startled and swiped at her eyes. Her mascara had started to run and the knuckles came away gray but she didn’t notice them; her glare was fixed on me.

I met it, absorbed it.

The smug smile came back on her face. “Is there anything else you want, sir ?” She pulled bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the wedge of white starch.

“Have you told the Joneses your feelings about therapists?” I said.

“I keep my feelings to myself. I’m a professional.”

“Have you told them someone suspects foul play?”

“Of course not. Like I said, I’m a professional!”

“A professional,” I said. “You just don’t like therapists. Bunch of quacks who promise to help but don’t come through.”

Her head jerked back. The hat bobbled and one hand shot up to keep it in place.

“You don’t know me,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s true,” I lied. “And that’s become a problem for Cassie.”

“That’s ridic—”

“Your behavior’s getting in the way of her care, Vicki. Let’s not discuss it out here anymore.” I pointed to the nurse’s room behind the station.

She slammed her hands on her hips. “For what?”

“A discussion.”

“You have no right.”

“Actually, I do. And the only reason you’re still on the case is through my good graces. Dr. Eves admires your technical skills but your attitude’s getting on her nerves, as well.”

“Right.”

I picked up the phone. “Call her.”

She sucked in her breath. Touched her cap. Licked her lips. “What do you want from me?” Trace of whine.

“Not out here,” I said. “In there, Vicki. Please.”

She started to protest. No words came out. A tremor surged across her lips. She put a hand up to cover it.

“Let’s just drop it,” she said. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Her eyes were full of fear. Remembering her final view of her son and feeling like a louse, I shook my head.

“No more hassles,” she said. “I promise — I really mean it this time. You’re right, I shouldn’t have mouthed off. It’s because I’m worried about her, same as you. I’ll be fine. Sorry. It won’t happen again—”

“Please, Vicki.” I pointed to the nurse’s room.

“—I swear. Come on, cut me a little slack.”

I held my ground.

She moved toward me, hands fisted, as if ready to strike. Then she dropped them. Turned suddenly, and walked to the room. Moving slowly, shoulders down, barely lifting her shoes from the carpet.

The room was furnished with an orange Naugahyde couch and matching chair, and a coffee table. A phone sat on the table next to an unplugged coffee maker that hadn’t been used or cleaned in a long time. Cat and puppy posters were taped to the wall above a bumper sticker that read NURSES DO IT WITH TENDER LOVING CARE.

I closed the door and sat on the couch.