The Pain Nurse - [14]

Will took a baby’s breath when Dodds returned to the threshold, then stepped inside. Will sat up straighter, as if he could somehow reduce the profile of the wheelchair. Only the bulk of the open office door separated the two men. The sound of a chair. Dodds was sitting, probably making some notes. Will felt his bladder starting to grow full. How could Dodds not see him there, barely six feet away? The distinctive high-pitched wheeze of Dodds came from the desk. Will made himself look around. The office was square-shaped, with another door that probably held a closet. A metal desk cubicle faced the far wall. Was Christine Lustig facing away from the door when the attacker entered? Did the murderer even take her by surprise or somehow win her confidence?

Then the chair creaked and Dodds crossed the room, turned out the lights and closed the door. Will was in darkness again, realizing that he didn’t even know if the door might have a dead-bolt that could keep him from getting out again. Will had never been fearful or superstitious on murder scenes, but something about this was different. The darkness seemed almost to have mass and substance and to be narrowing in on him. He felt along the wall, and when it seemed safe, turned on the lights. Yet the sinister presence still weighed against him. He shook his head, adding to his pain, but somehow snapping the spell.

The room wasn’t much. It looked as if it might have been an exam room once, and it still had a wall of white cabinets and shelves, a sink, and a red box on the wall labeled “biohazard,” presumably for disposing of used needles. Otherwise, a desk, chair, and filing cabinet had been added. He looked more closely. The phone cord had been pulled from the wall. It now sat wound up on the top of the doctor’s desk. The Slasher always disabled the phones. A Tiffany lamp sat unmolested on the desk. It would have seemed a natural casualty of a fight to the death, even by a woman who was paralyzed by fear. Indeed, the main evidence of trouble was dried blood on the Persian rug before the desk, the tile floor, the drawers of the desk, the wall.

That had been the case with every Slasher scene: the most violent crime, accompanied by little or no damage to the physical environment aside from the blood. The exception was Theresa Chambers, who was clutching a framed photograph of her daughter, the glass shattered into a spider’s web. Had the Slasher taken his victims by such surprise, or had he somehow put them at ease? The arrest and conviction of Craig Factor had never really provided an answer. Aside from the semen evidence, they had found nothing linking him to the crime scenes, especially any of the missing ring fingers.

The walls told him that Christine Lustig was a graduate of Tufts Medical School and a fellow in the American College of Surgeons. The desk had a computer and beside it, thick notebooks labeled Med-Interface and SoftChartZ. What was her job? Did she see patients? Will used a tissue to shield his hand as he opened desk drawers. Pens, pencils, more files with obscure names. There were no family photographs. He rolled around, seeing the office from the desk’s perspective. How could you sit with your back to that empty hallway late at night? The newspaper story said a nurse had discovered the doctor’s body, so the door might have been open. There was no sign of a broken lock. The Slasher never broke a lock, a door, or a window. Will pushed the drawer back in and by habit reached under it, sweeping the metal with his hand.

He felt duct tape and then the unmistakable outlines of a knife.

“Damn.”

The doorknob shook. Will started and drew back from his discovery. He backed the wheelchair against the wall, hoping it would be in the safe place when the door opened. But no key was inserted into the lock. The knob rattled again and the door snapped against the frame from sudden pressure. Slap! The door was again pushed hard and the lock was rattled impatiently. Even when the sounds stopped, it was a long time before Will turned off the lights and ventured into the corridor.

Chapter Seven

Cheryl Beth answered the phone and could hear screaming in the background. It was the sound of the newest consult. It was going to be a bad day.

She had hurried to recovery, to a patient with pancreatic cancer who had undergone a Whipple Procedure. It basically involves lopping off part of the pancreas and rebuilding the digestive tract. It’s difficult surgery, almost, but not quite, being made obsolete. The aftermath can be pain incarnate: evil, damnation, omnipotent. It reminded Cheryl Beth of the hell-fire Baptist sermons she had heard as a girl growing up in the little Kentucky railroad town of Corbin. This was pain as the Lake of Fire, and it was almost as hard to knock down as bargaining on judgment day.

It was engulfing a woman so small and eaten up that it seemed barely possible she had the organs remaining to destroy or the breath to scream so loudly.

“I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to violate the orders.” A young nurse in purple scrubs spoke with a voice on the edge of panic.