in daring to take my Maggie from me.
Dr. Christian Fletcher? What a jerk. Fletcher the Lecher, more likely.
I took a good look at what I was feeling, and I had to admit it: jealousy was alive and well in the dead.
Chapter 9
You’d think nurses would like cops. But not this one. She looked like Nikita Khrushchev wearing a black wig—and she was not letting Maggie talk to any of “her nurses.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am sure the staff would like to talk to you and we are certainly all devastated about Fiona. But we are understaffed tonight and it’s simply not possible until the shift is over and a new shift arrives.”
“How long?” Maggie finally muttered after the third time she was told this. She was not used to having to give up. It unleashed something unpredictable in her that fascinated me.
“Three hours. But you might be able to catch some of the new shift if you get here a little before that. Some of them knew Fiona.”
“What about you?” Maggie asked, peering at the woman. Her forearms were as big as hams and she was guarding the nurse’s station like a mother bear protects her cubs.
“What about me?” the woman shot back. She had mean eyes, like she was looking for a puppy to kick. I’d hate to see those eyes coming at me if I was dying. Or being born, for that matter.
“Did you know Fiona Harker?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “Not at all.” She turned her back on Maggie and began stacking patient files. Maggie knew it was a waste of time to argue with her and left.
I followed her out of the hospital and amused myself playing hopscotch on the colored lines that had been painted on the floor to help people find their way through the maze of white hallways. I don’t know if anyone actually thought the twisting lines of green, red, blue, and yellow were helpful—they confused the hell out of me—but it sure was fun to jump from one color to the other, chanting old childhood songs.
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” a high voice said.
Where did that come from?
I stopped abruptly and noticed a little girl of around nine wearing a hospital gown. She was standing in the doorway of a vending machine nook, a pack of potato chips in one hand. Her feet were bare and she had no hair. Not a strand. Her head was shaped like a giant Brussels sprout.
“Those aren’t good for you,” I said, nodding at the chips.
She shrugged. “Neither is chemo, but I’m doing it anyway.” And with that, she followed me in hopping from color to color down the hall for a few moments, then disappeared through two swinging doors, labeled PEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY.
The girl had been real.
It’s things like this that mess with your head when you’re dead.
Maggie was taking the long way out of the hospital, as if she was lost. Perhaps she should have followed the colored lines. Unless . . . I noted with a flash of jealousy that she was heading out through the emergency room exit doors, looking around as she did so. But the fantastic Dr. Fletcher was nowhere to be found. Most of the staff was clustered by a double-wide entrance door, ushering in stretchers of people covered in blood. A car accident, I suspected. Their agony engulfed me, and I fled the building, thinking, It’s not death that people ought to fear, it’s life. Life hurts way more than death.
I can get across town in minutes if I need to, but I like to ride shotgun with Maggie and pretend that we’re partners. It’s difficult to do that if Calvano is along for the ride, of course. There’s no way in hell I’m sitting on his lap, but today we had her car to ourselves. Maggie doesn’t play music when she drives. She hums. Not very well, either, but I like to think everyone is allowed a few imperfections.
Maggie hums because she is thinking. Her tuneless melodies form the soundtrack to her mind and she was burning synapses that day as she sorted through the case she had been given. She had an amazing ability to
Dr. Christian Fletcher? What a jerk. Fletcher the Lecher, more likely.
I took a good look at what I was feeling, and I had to admit it: jealousy was alive and well in the dead.
Chapter 9
You’d think nurses would like cops. But not this one. She looked like Nikita Khrushchev wearing a black wig—and she was not letting Maggie talk to any of “her nurses.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am sure the staff would like to talk to you and we are certainly all devastated about Fiona. But we are understaffed tonight and it’s simply not possible until the shift is over and a new shift arrives.”
“How long?” Maggie finally muttered after the third time she was told this. She was not used to having to give up. It unleashed something unpredictable in her that fascinated me.
“Three hours. But you might be able to catch some of the new shift if you get here a little before that. Some of them knew Fiona.”
“What about you?” Maggie asked, peering at the woman. Her forearms were as big as hams and she was guarding the nurse’s station like a mother bear protects her cubs.
“What about me?” the woman shot back. She had mean eyes, like she was looking for a puppy to kick. I’d hate to see those eyes coming at me if I was dying. Or being born, for that matter.
“Did you know Fiona Harker?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “Not at all.” She turned her back on Maggie and began stacking patient files. Maggie knew it was a waste of time to argue with her and left.
I followed her out of the hospital and amused myself playing hopscotch on the colored lines that had been painted on the floor to help people find their way through the maze of white hallways. I don’t know if anyone actually thought the twisting lines of green, red, blue, and yellow were helpful—they confused the hell out of me—but it sure was fun to jump from one color to the other, chanting old childhood songs.
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” a high voice said.
Where did that come from?
I stopped abruptly and noticed a little girl of around nine wearing a hospital gown. She was standing in the doorway of a vending machine nook, a pack of potato chips in one hand. Her feet were bare and she had no hair. Not a strand. Her head was shaped like a giant Brussels sprout.
“Those aren’t good for you,” I said, nodding at the chips.
She shrugged. “Neither is chemo, but I’m doing it anyway.” And with that, she followed me in hopping from color to color down the hall for a few moments, then disappeared through two swinging doors, labeled PEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY.
The girl had been real.
It’s things like this that mess with your head when you’re dead.
Maggie was taking the long way out of the hospital, as if she was lost. Perhaps she should have followed the colored lines. Unless . . . I noted with a flash of jealousy that she was heading out through the emergency room exit doors, looking around as she did so. But the fantastic Dr. Fletcher was nowhere to be found. Most of the staff was clustered by a double-wide entrance door, ushering in stretchers of people covered in blood. A car accident, I suspected. Their agony engulfed me, and I fled the building, thinking, It’s not death that people ought to fear, it’s life. Life hurts way more than death.
I can get across town in minutes if I need to, but I like to ride shotgun with Maggie and pretend that we’re partners. It’s difficult to do that if Calvano is along for the ride, of course. There’s no way in hell I’m sitting on his lap, but today we had her car to ourselves. Maggie doesn’t play music when she drives. She hums. Not very well, either, but I like to think everyone is allowed a few imperfections.
Maggie hums because she is thinking. Her tuneless melodies form the soundtrack to her mind and she was burning synapses that day as she sorted through the case she had been given. She had an amazing ability to
Similar Books
