The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) Page 5

  RANDALL Finley had been up early, taking their dog, Bipsie, for a walk, and now sat on the edge of his wife’s bed. He put a gentle hand to her forehead, which felt warm and clammy, and asked, “How did you sleep?”

  She shifted her head on the pillow to take him in, blinked her eyes so slowly, it was like watching two garage doors close and open.

  “Okay,” she said weakly. “Help me up.”

  He got an arm under hers, shifted her forward slightly on the bed into a sitting position, propping pillows behind her.

  “That’s perfect,” she said.

  “I think you look good today,” he said, sitting back down. “Well rested.” Finley looked at the collection of pills, water bottle, reading glasses, and a Ken Follett novel big enough to chock a jetliner’s tire, set down open somewhere in the middle, the spine cracked.

  “Still working your way through this,” he said.

  “I really like it, but every time I start, I forget what I read last, so I have to go back.” She forced a smile. “I like it when you read to me.”

  He had taken to reading her a chapter every night when he got home. “I don’t have anything on today,” he said. “Maybe I can read a chapter this morning and another in the afternoon.”

  “Okay,” she said. “How about you? How did you sleep?”

  “Oh, you know. I never sleep that good.”

  “I thought I heard you up in the night. Did you go out after you left me?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Maybe just for a bit of air.”

  Finley heard a car door close outside. “That must be Lindsay,” he said. The home care worker Finley had hired not long after his wife became ill. In addition to tending to Jane Finley’s needs, she made meals, cleaned the house, ran errands.

  “Isn’t this the holiday?” Jane asked.

  Finley nodded.

  “You should have given her the weekend off.”

  Finley shrugged. “Well, you never know. Something might come up. They might need me at the plant. If I have to take off in a hurry, she’s here for you.”

  Jane pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, pulled it away, making a soft clicking noise. “My mouth is so dry.”

  He reached for the half-empty bottle of Finley Springs water on the bedside table, uncapped it. He held it to her mouth, tipped it far enough to give her a few drops.

  “That’s good,” Jane said. “So, no campaigning today?”

  “I’m not sure. So many people are away, gone to their cottages, or working on their gardens, doing spring cleaning. I don’t think anyone’s going to pay much attention to a gasbag like me today.”

  She reached out a weak hand and touched his arm. “Stop that.”

  Finley smiled. “I know what I am, sweetheart. And I’m good at it.”

  That made her laugh, but the chuckle then sent her into a coughing fit. Finley got a hand behind her back and leaned her forward until she was done.

  “You done?” he said, easing her back.

  “I think so. A bit of water went down the wrong way when I laughed.”

  “I’ll try not to be so hilarious,” he said.

  “The thing is,” Jane said, “you’re not the gasbag you once were.” Another small smile. “You’re a better man than you used to be.”

  He sighed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I thought I heard something, just as I was waking up. Sirens?”

  “I was in the shower, and I had the radio on in the bathroom,” Finley said. “I didn’t hear—”

  He cut himself off, listened. “I think I hear one now.”

  “Just so long as they’re not coming for me,” she said.

  Finley patted his wife’s hand, stood. “I’m going to go down and see Lindsay.”

  “Would you ask her to make me some lemonade?”

  “Of course. But you’re going to have some breakfast, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “You need to eat.”

  Jane’s eyes misted, and with all the strength she had, she gripped his hand and squeezed. “What’s the point?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “That’s not true. If you keep your strength up, no one can say how long . . . you know.”

  She released his hand, dropped hers down to the comforter. “You want me to hang in long enough to see you redeem yourself.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Finley said, frowning. “I want you to hang in, period.”

  “You’ve already redeemed yourself in my eyes.” A pause. “Although I might need those glasses.”

  That brought Finley’s smile back.

  “I’ll be back up in a little while, read to you,” he said.

  “Morning,” Lindsay, a wiry woman in her late sixties, said to Finley as he came into the kitchen.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “How’s Jane doing this morning?”

  “Tired. But fine. She’d love some lemonade.”

  “About to make up a new pitcher. Think she’s up to any breakfast?”

  “She says no, but I think you should take her up something, anyway. Maybe a poached egg? On toast?”

  “I can do that. How about yourself?”

  He thought a moment. “I guess I could be talked into the same. But make it two eggs.”

  “Coffee?”

  He nodded.

  Lindsay grabbed an oversized measuring cup from the cabinet and filled it from the Finley Springs cooler in the corner of the kitchen. She poured it into the coffeemaker, added a filter and some ground coffee, and hit the button.

  “Don’t know what’s happenin’ out there today,” she said.

  “Hmm?” he said, reading messages on his phone.

  “Must have seen five ambulances on the way into Promise Falls today.” Lindsay lived out in the country, about five miles outside the town.

  Finley slowly looked up from his phone.

  “How many did you say?”

  “Five, six, seven. I kind of lost count.”

  Finley looked at his watch. “All in the last half hour or so?”

  “Well,” she said, going into the refrigerator for eggs, “that’s when I was coming in.”

  Finley went back to his phone, brought up David Harwood’s number. It rang several times before he picked up.

  “Yeah?” David snapped. Finley could hear a car engine in the background.

  “David, it’s—”

  “I know who it is. Don’t have time to talk, Randy.”

  “I need you to check something for me. Lindsay says—”

  “Lindsay?”

  “You haven’t met her. She’s our—”

  “I’m hanging up, Randy. All hell’s breaking loose and—”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Lindsay says there are ambulances all—”

  “Go to the hospital and see for yourself.”

  “What’s happened?”

  When there was no reply, Finley realized that David had already ended the call.

  “Don’t worry about those eggs for me,” Finley said to Lindsay. “And would you be good enough to tell Jane that I had to head out? I think something’s come up.”

  SIX

  Duckworth

  IT was the kind of scene one might expect to find if a jet had crashed outside of town. Except there was no jet, and the people waiting for treatment were not suffering from cuts and bruises and severed limbs.

  But that didn’t make things any less chaotic.

  I didn’t need long to take in the scene. Dozens of patients in various stages of distress. Some, on the floor, were clearly already deceased. People vomiting, writhing, scratching their arms and legs. Children crying, parents shouting for help.

  The doctors and nurses were going flat out. I hated to stop anyone in the midst of treating all these cases, but I needed to get a sense of what was going on, and fast.

  I pulled out my police ID long enough to
get someone’s attention, but then I spotted someone whose eyes and glasses I thought I recognized above the surgical mask. After all, I’d seen her only yesterday.

  “Dr. Moorehouse?” I said.

  Hair was hanging down over her eyes and those brown-framed glasses were askew. She was looking off in another direction, moving past me.

  “Clara!” I said.

  She stopped, turned. “Barry.”

  Even with the lower half of her face covered, she managed to look terrified, and professional, at the same time.

  “Give it to me fast,” I said. “What are we dealing with?”

  “Similar symptoms across the board. Nausea, headache, vomiting, severe drop in blood pressure. It escalates. Seizure, cardiorespiratory arrest. Hypotension. On top of all that, some patients are scratching their skin off.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, not food. But something ingested. Something they’ve come in contact with.”

  “All at once? From all over the town?”

  Clara looked me in the eye. “Not just all over town. All over this hospital. We’ve got current patients on every floor with the same symptoms. Started happening first thing this morning.”

  “How can that be? What spreads that fast?”

  “I’d look at the water.”

  “The town water supply?”

  She nodded. “Something got into the drinking water. Fuel spill, maybe. Chemical spill. Something like that.”

  I asked, “What can you do for them?”

  Her lips were set firmly before she spoke. “Right now, it appears absolutely nothing.”

  “How many?”

  “They’re stacking up like planes over the airport. Dozens dead. We’re likely going to be in the hundreds soon. I have to go, Barry. Get the word out. Fast as you can.”

  “Have you seen Amanda?” I asked. Amanda Croydon, Promise Falls’ current mayor.

  “No,” Clara said. “I have to go.”

  I let her.

  As I turned around, someone familiar bumped into me.

  “Carlson,” I said.

  “Shit, sorry,” Angus Carlson said. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now. What do you know?”

  He consulted a small notebook in his right hand. “No one was getting sick last night. Earliest anyone started feeling ill was around six this morning. Symptoms pretty much the same across the board. Dizzy, sick to stomach, shallow but rapid breathing.”

  “It could be the water,” I told him.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice shaky. “Common element seems to be the drinking water from the tap. Even if it was boiled, like for tea. Seems like it’s hitting older people more, but that may just be because older people get up earlier.”

  That made sense. I noticed Carlson’s trademark black humor wasn’t in operation this morning. No sick jokes today. The man was clearly shaken. It was fair to say neither of us had ever seen anything like this.

  The water. I had to call Maureen.

  “You called those close to you?” I asked. “In case they haven’t heard?”

  He nodded. “I called my wife, told her.”

  “What about your mother?” I’d overheard him, at the station, talking to her on the phone.

  “Yes, yes, I called her, too,” he said. “Everyone’s on high alert.”

  I looked beyond Carlson, saw yet another person I knew, but this wasn’t a doctor or one of the staff. It was Walden Fisher sitting in one of the ER waiting room chairs, nervously chewing a fingernail.

  “Ah, shit,” I said.

  “What?” Carlson asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Walden Fisher.”

  “Fisher?” Carlson said with, I thought, some recognition.

  “Like he hasn’t been through enough. You remember the Olivia Fisher murder.”

  “Of course.”

  “That was his daughter. And his wife passed away pretty recently. I’m gonna talk to him. Keep asking around, find out anything else you can.”

  I broke away, expecting to approach Fisher on my own, but Carlson chose to follow me.

  “Mr. Fisher,” I said.

  He looked up, blinked a couple of times, and seemed to be searching my eyes, as though trying to place me. “Detective . . .”

  “Duckworth,” I said, helping him. “And this is Detective Carlson.”

  “Mr. Fisher,” Angus Carlson said, nodding respectfully. “How are you managing?”

  Fisher’s eyes moved slowly to Angus. “How am I managing? I feel like I’m goddamn well dying, that’s how I’m managing.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He shook his head slowly, more a gesture of bewilderment than a negative. “I don’t know. They found me throwing up in the middle of the street—nearly got run over by an ambulance. They brought me here. I’d had some coffee and then started feeling weird. Why are we all sick? What’s happening?”

  “Everyone’s trying to find out,” I said. “Has a doctor seen you?”

  “No. I’ve been sitting here forever.” He laid a hand on his chest. “My heart’s been going like crazy. Feel.” He reached out, took my wrist, placed my palm on his chest, and held it there. Despite his condition, his grip was surprisingly strong. I felt flannel under my fingertips, and an erratic thumping. I didn’t exactly have a medical degree, but what I was feeling didn’t feel good.

  “Whaddya think?” he asked me.

  I didn’t know. If I dragged someone over here to check him out, I’d just be taking a doctor from another patient who might need more immediate attention, and as bad as Walden Fisher was, there looked to be other people in the ER who were in worse shape. I rested a hand on his shoulder momentarily and said, “They’re seeing people as fast as they can.”

  Good ol’ Barry Duckworth. Always knows just what to say. Turned out Carlson was better at this than I was.

  He went down on one knee so he was at eye level with Fisher and said, “I just wanted to say, I was in uniform back when your daughter, Olivia, was taken so cruelly.”

  Walden Fisher’s sick eyes widened slightly.

  “So I wasn’t actively involved in the investigation, but I followed it closely, and it’s a terrible thing that no one has yet been brought to justice for that crime.”

  “Um . . . yes,” Walden said.

  “I just . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.” Carlson glanced awkwardly my way, as if hoping I’d rescue him from a conversation he was now thinking he shouldn’t have gotten into. He stood, gave a nod first to Fisher and then me. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he said, then struck off in the pursuit of more information.

  This wasn’t the same Angus Carlson I’d encountered earlier in the month. The one who couldn’t stop making corny jokes about dead squirrels. Maybe a move up the ranks, even temporarily, was actually making the man less of a jerk, because that was how he’d impressed me initially.

  We’d see.

  I got out my phone, saw I had no signal. It had been my experience that you could get a signal in most parts of the hospital, but not in the ER, where you needed one the most. Rather than go back outside, I went into the nursing station and found a landline. One of the nurses looked at me, but gave me a permissive nod when I flashed my badge. As if she had time to worry about me.

  I needed to call Rhonda Finderman, the Promise Falls police chief. But sometimes the personal trumps the professional. I dialed home.

  “Hello?” Maureen said. She must have been alarmed, seeing the hospital show up on her caller ID.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Listen. Have you had any water from the tap today?”

  A pause. “I was just making myself some tea.”

  “Don’t. There may be something in the water supply making people sick. Call Trevor and warn him. Then start going up and down the street. Wake people up if you have to.”

  “Is it bad?�
��

  “It’s bad.”

  “I’m on it,” she said.

  “Wait,” I said. “Run some water from the tap, see if it’s giving off a whiff of anything. But don’t put your hand in it.” If there was, as my doctor had speculated, diesel fuel in the water, it would surely give off a smell.

  “Hang on.”

  Maureen was gone about fifteen seconds. Then, “Nothing. Ran it a good thirty seconds and nothing.”

  “Okay. Now start—”

  “I’m gone,” she said, and hung up.

  I loved her so much.

  Now I could make the call to my boss. I had her office, home, and mobile numbers in my cell. I dug it out again, brought up the numbers I had for her, and entered her cell into the landline.

  Finderman wasn’t very crazy about me these days. She was the subject of the comments Trevor had heard and passed along to Randall Finley, who made them public when he announced he was running for mayor again.

  I’d forgiven Trevor, but not Finley.

  It all found its way back to me, and Finderman was pissed. But this wasn’t the day to let grudges get in the way of work.

  She must have seen the hospital’s name come up on her caller ID, because she answered with an alarmed “Yes?”

  “It’s Duckworth,” I said. “I’m at the hospital.”

  “I’m heading there.”

  “We have to get the word out. The town’s drinking supply may be contaminated.”

  “Ferraza’s on it.” Angela Ferraza, the department’s public relations person. “She’s putting out a release to TV, radio—it’s on the Web.”

  “Not enough,” I said. “You need people going door-to-door. Wake everyone up. You need every fire truck with a loudspeaker going up and down the streets. You need every person you can find getting on phones. The full emergency plan.”

  The town had drafted one of those in the wake of September 11, but no one had thought much about it since.

  “I get it,” Rhonda said. I was getting under her skin. She didn’t want anyone telling her how to do her job.

  “And CDC,” I said. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, outside of Atlanta. “The state health department. Everyone.” I had a thought. “Is Homeland Security still sniffing around town?”

  They had parachuted in after the drive-in screen came down and killed four.