The Pain Nurse - [5]

“Dodds…”

“What are you telling me, Borders? That you believe in ghosts? The Mount Adams Slasher died at Lucasville last summer.”

“Maybe he wasn’t the Slasher.”

Dodds lifted the sheet and studied Will. “Shit, you’ve got tubes coming out of you. That’s gross. You in pain?”

“Who was this woman? Do you have a suspect?”

“They’ll just go lay it on an innocent brother like they always do,” the orderly grumbled. Dodds ignored him.

“This is none of your concern, Mister Patient.” Dodds carelessly replaced the sheet. “You’re the only one in town who ever had a doubt over that case, and as I recall you left the Homicide Unit. You make a living ratting out police officers.”

“He took her ring finger, goddammit. Just like the Mount Adams cases.”

“So it’s a copy cat.”

Will hissed, “We never released that information about the crime and the media never reported it!” His back was starting to hurt, a low, spreading fire of pain. “I bet you found her clothes folded neatly, too. Dodds!”

“Borders…”

“You know who did this. You know it.” Will heard an unfamiliar pleading in his voice. “Look for the knife!”

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.”

Chapter Three

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.