Sisterhood Read Free Page B

away with that kind of prestige coming in on his service.”
    “Do you think you could get in to see him? Or even better, get me in to see him? His campaign for a stiff windfall profits tax against the oil companies has made him really big stuff. An exclusive interview would be an ostrich-sized feather in my cap.”
    “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee any—”
    “Thanks, you’re a dear.”
    Lauren wished him luck with his new responsibilities, squeezed his hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then, with a final, “Be a good boy, now,” she walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.
    For several minutes David stood silently by the door, breathing in her perfume, but feeling only a strange emptiness. “At least she could have tasted them,” he said as he began to clear the table. “In spite of what they looked like.”
    *  *  *
    The night watchman was fat. Fat and agonizingly slow From a recessed doorway, the nurse, a fragile-looking woman with hair the color of pale sun, watched and waited as he lumbered down the hallway. Now and again he stopped to poke at the door of a storage room or to check one of the bank of staff lockers lining the wall. B-2 West, the subbasement of the west wing of Boston Doctors Hospital, was, but for the two of them, deserted.
    The nurse looked about at the grime, illuminated by bare ceiling light bulbs, and her skin began to itch. She was a petite woman, impeccably groomed, with makeup so meticulously applied it was almost invisible. Impatiently, she rubbed her thumbs across her fingertips. The watchman was taking forever. She glanced at her watch. Forty-five, maybe fifty minutes of safe time—more than enough, provided she could get moving and avoid any other unanticipated delays. A roach crawled over the tip of her shoe and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She forced herself to relax and waited.
    Finally, the watchman was done. He keyed the security box, began whistling the “Colonel Bogey March,” and, after a few in-place steps, strutted off to his own accompaniment. To some the man might have looked silly, or jovial, or even cute. To the delicate woman observing him he was, quite simply, repulsive.
    She waited an extra few seconds, moved quickly down the row of lockers to number 178, then dialed the combination printed on the card Dahlia had sent her. The thin, half-filled syringe was right where she had been told it would be. She briefly held it to the light, then dropped it into the front pocket of her spotless uniform. Another check of the time and she headed for the tunnel leading to the south wing. She rode the elevator to Two South, then slipped into the rear stairwell and hurried up two more flights. Ducking intoRoom 438, she stopped, regaining her breath in soundless gulps. Through the gloom she could see John Chapman. The man was asleep, tucked in a fetal position, his face toward her. From beneath the sheet a catheter drained clear urine into a plastic collecting system.
    Chapman’s recovery following kidney surgery had been uneventful. The woman smiled at the thought. Uneventful … until now.
    She checked the corridor. A nurse’s aide—the first arrival of her day shift—had just stepped off the elevator. The fragile night peace was holding, but the nurse knew that within half an hour it would yield to the chaos of day. The time was now. Her pulse quickened. Anaphylactic shock! Almost fifteen years in hospital nursing and she had never even seen a full-blown case, let alone watched one from start to finish.
    She moved to the bedside. There, on the nightstand, were the flowers. A glorious spray of lilies. Taped to the vase was the card.
    “Best Wishes, Lily.” She whispered the words without actually reading them. There was no need. They were her words.
    On the table next to the vase lay Chapman’s silver necklace and medic-alert tag. She illuminated the disc with her penlight. Again she smiled. It