He boarded the elevator to the first floor. Now he would work himself up to the third floor, the scene of his triumph both over the assailant of Sister Eileen and, literally, over nurse’s aide Helen Brown. As he recalled, and this he clearly recalled, the crescendo and climax of God’s gift had been denied Ms. Brown. That, he felt, should be remedied.
First floor, through the day busier than most downtown streets, was now deserted. And all the more creepy for its comparative silence and emptiness. Even though Snell felt slightly more invulnerable than Achilles, he moved through these corridors somewhat more cautiously.
What was that? Something had moved up ahead. It wasn’t just the movement. Anyone might have been walking in this hallway. It might have been a late departer from the day shift. It could have been someone going from one department to another. From, say, one of the residence halls to the emergency room. But, somehow, he was certain it was not. Whoever it was had been moving furtively, stealthily.
Snell’s only consolation was that the furtive figure had seemed very small. In a confrontation, he would have every advantage of size. If the figure were human.
Snell began to perspire freely. But if he were going to take this job seriously he would have to investigate. He really would.
Warily he quickened his pace, trying to close the distance between himself and the mysterious figure.
Once again, the figure stepped out of the shadows. By now, Snell had advanced to within a few feet. “All right!” he commanded. “That’s far enough! Stop where you are!”
Sister Rosamunda collapsed against the wall, clutching at her heart. Snell was overwhelmed with confusion. “Sister! S . . . S . . . Sister,” he stammered. “What . . . I had no idea . . . are you okay?”
“Whew!” She could say no more. Her eyes, as she looked up at him, exuded a mixture of fear and fury.
“S . . . S . . . S . . . . Sister, are you all right?”
“I think so. No thanks to you! Who are you, in nomine Domini?” She squinted through her bifocals. “George Snell, is it? Well, George, where did you get your training? With the Gestapo?”
“I . . . I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t know who you were—I just saw you sneaking down the hall—”
“Sneaking! Sneaking, is it? I was not sneaking! Nuns don’t sneak! How dare you!”
“Like I said, Sister, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. I had to find out. For the safety of the patients. I just had to find out. You could have been anybody.”
“No, I couldn’t be anyone but me, you ninny!”
“Well, I couldn’t tell that, Sister. All I saw was someone sneaking down the hall.”
“There you go again!”
“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean sneaking.”
“Then stop saying it, in nomine Domini.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“That’s better.”
“Well, anyway, where were you going? I mean, it was odd that you were snea—going down the hallway—so . . . uh . . . cautiously.”
“What business is it of yours, young man, where I’m going? I’ve been a part of this hospital since long before you were born. Can’t I go somewhere in the evening, down to the chapel to say some night prayers, without being scared half out of my wits by some ape!”
“Oh, to chapel, that’s different.”
“What’s different about it, young man? Is there any place in this hospital that is out-of-bounds to me? Has anyone given you any orders regarding my behavior in this hospital?”
“Well, no, ma’am . . .”
“What is this ‘no, ma’am’? I am a Religious Sister of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul.”
“Yes, ma’am, I mean, yes, Sister.” By this time, Snell would have been hard pressed to give the proper spelling of his own name. He just wanted out of this confrontation.
“Well, then, am I free to go, young man? Or do you have some more bizarre surprises for me?”
“Oh, no, Sister. I just . . . can I do anything to help you?”
“Get out of my way! And while you’re at it, get out of my life!”
Snell backed away. He had never attended parochial school. But in just a few moments, Sister Rosamunda had taught him all the abject terror and humiliation ever experienced by a nice little Catholic boy or girl in the good old days.
He was beginning to doubt himself and his newfound resolve. He needed something. Something to rekindle his confidence. If he had been a religious person, he might have said a prayer. As it was, though employed by a Catholic hospital, he was less an agnostic or atheist than simply a backsliding Baptist.
Yet, almost in answer to his unoffered prayer, he heard a sound. A metallic object striking the terrazzo floor. A sound that should not have been made at this hour. Who’d be carrying something metallic? Maintenance? If it were someone from maintenance, why didn’t he show himself? Someone was lurking in the shadows. Snell’s opportunity for self-redemption.
Turning on his powerful flashlight, Snell began to retrace his steps. Hugging the wall, he directed the beam all around, into corners and behind columns. The trouble with these old buildings, there were too many places a person could hide.
Pressed tightly against the opposite wall and partially hidden by a pillar, Bruce Whitaker cursed his luck. Why had he dropped the pliers? Everything had been going so smoothly. The plan laid out by his comrades had been working flawlessly until he’d dropped the damned pliers. The racket, enhanced by the night’s quiet, had alerted the guard. Now Whitaker had become fair game. He was being hunted down. The guard was only a few yards away.
What kind of explanation could he give when inevitably he was found out? A volunteer roaming the corridors at night? With a pair of pliers? What for? This could get nasty. Could he be thrown back in jail for something like this? Probably not. But he undoubtedly would be dismissed from the hospital as a volunteer. All their plans would be washed away. How would he be able to face his friends? Failed again! And all because he had dropped the pliers!
Well, there was no sense in continuing to try to hide. In a few seconds he would be found out. He might as well step out and surrender. One good thing, as far as he could recall, the guards were not armed.
Whitaker was just about to step out into the soft indirect light of the hallway when he heard a sound behind him, further up the corridor. He could not identify it, but it was a very specific sound. He was not the only one who had heard it. The guard’s flashlight beam swept by and focused further back up the hall.
“Who is that? Who’s there?” the guard called out.
No response. But there had been a sound. No doubt of that.
The guard walked past the column where Whitaker cowered, heading toward where the sound had come from.
Exhaling relief, Whitaker slipped down the hallway as the guard arid he passed as ships in the night. What luck! What outrageous luck! This, very definitely, was not the way it usually worked out for Whitaker. Could it be that things would turn about for him? Whatever. He must get on with his task.
“Who is it, I said! Who’s there?” Snell tried to focus the beam in the general area whence he thought the sound had originated.
A young woman stepped out of the shadows. She was dressed as a nurse’s aide. She seemed embarrassed. Whitaker was too far down the corridor to see who it was. Nor did he care. He was intent alone on his mission.
Snell relaxed. She presented no physical challenge. Still, he was puzzled. Who was she? What had she dropped? And what was she doing there, in the shadows, on the main floor at this hour? All questions that had answers. And he would have them.