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someone pissed on his overtures and ended up dead, or
near about. You can't save them all, he reminded
himself. It didn't make the pain of losing one any easier.
Few cars filled Mercy General's visitor parking area
that early on a Sunday. He pulled his truck into a spot
near the front of the building, killing the ignition and
listening to the engine knock a few times. Shit. He
needed to get the truck serviced, and soon. "Whatever
happens, let me be able to handle the aftermath," he
Fallen Angel 46
murmured, idly stroking the St. Christopher medallion
hanging from his neck -- a Christmas present from
Jeremy. He wasn't Catholic and didn't know what St.
Christopher symbolized, but it'd do in a pinch, he
supposed, with no crosses handy. His thoughts flashed
back to the half Mizpah coin he used to wear, now
draped from a grave stone in Georgia. No time to think
about that now. Bracing for what lay ahead, he locked
his truck and followed the sidewalk to the building's
front entrance.
Flowerpots lined the walkway, heat-stressed pansies
drooping over the sides. He stepped out of the way of
the automatic sprinklers anointing the scorched grass,
the parched yellow blades valiantly struggling against
the hottest spring in recent memory.
Automated doors swished open at his approach, a
rush of cool air beating back the oppressive heat. The
main lobby hadn't changed much in the past ten years --
same faded gray linoleum, matching walls, outdated
fluorescent lighting, possibly even the same staff, for he
recognized the lady who sat at the information booth
reading a paperback. She hadn't changed much in ten
years either.
Swept back into the past, he half expected Doc to
come striding down the hall in a white jacket, clipboard
in hand.
"Excuse me. What room is Lark, I mean, Larken Tate
in?"
The attendant lowered her book, peering over the top
of her glasses at a computer screen. "Room 316," she
replied, never glancing up at Noah. An all-too-frequent
visitor to the sprawling, inner-city facility, Noah had
been to floors five, six, and the basement, repeatedly:
Trauma, Intensive Care, and the morgue. He'd once
spent weeks living in Trauma and didn't like thinking
about the morgue or Intensive Care. There'd also been
countless visits to the emergency room over the years.
Many of the distress calls he received came from the
ER, or from the police department. For too many people,
it took hitting rock bottom to admit they needed help.
Fallen Angel 47
What he'd seen in the morgue when asked to identify a
body didn't bear repeating. So far, he hadn't yet been to
the third floor. What unit was housed there?
"Thanks," he said, words falling on deaf ears. The
woman's open book hid half her face.
He found the elevators out of long habit, pressing a
chipped "up" arrow. Lost in a fog of memories, he'd
stepped off the elevator onto the sixth floor on automatic
pilot, stopping when he reached room 621. Now why in
hell did he come here? Then he recognized it as the
room he'd been brought to after an angry pimp ran over
Billy with a car.
As if it'd happened only yesterday, Noah clearly
heard beeps, the 'whoosh' of a breathing machine, saw
bloody bandages and a shaved head. Billy, battered and
bruised. In his mind, the barely recognizable form lying
strapped to a hospital bed opened dark brown eyes,
staring straight at Noah, "I'm where I belong," the ghost
of Billy said, voice distorted and gravelly.
Billy. Damn. Just damn. Even after a decade, Noah's
heart clenched in longing before remembering that
though Billy had survived one murder attempt to
become a pimp himself, he hadn't been so lucky a few
months ago.
Billy'd died, Jeremy'd lived, and Noah couldn't dwell
on the past if he hoped to move forward. But what he
wouldn't give for one more chance to save that man
from himself. "I'm sorry, Billy," he told the vacant room.
"Can I help you, sir?" A pretty young nurse stepped
from a room across the hall.
"Um& I seem to be lost. I meant to go to room 316."
Expressive eyes met his. "Oh, that's on the third floor.
Psychiatric."
Psychiatric. That ruled out a beating, leaving Noah's
other feared possibilities wide open.
"Thank you, ma'am." He retraced his steps to the
elevator, locating the right floor. Two name plates
posted on the outside of the door indicated a semi-
private room. Only one displayed a name: "Tate,
Larken, W." "Dr. L. G. Schmidt" was listed as attending
Fallen Angel 48
physician. Good, maybe he'd have privacy to make his
case.
He rapped softly and opened the door, easing the
heavy wooden panel closed behind him. A tiny figure
lay upon a railed bed, with ashen skin, sunken cheeks,
and hollow eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling. Lark's
hair, unaccustomedly washed and combed, fanned out
against a crisp white pillowcase. Though narrow by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]