Telda knocked, then unlocked Mark’s door. The light was on and this immediately irritated her. She took a step inside, glanced at the bunks, but he wasn’t there.
Then she saw his feet beside the toilet. He was curled tightly with his knees on his chest, motionless except for rapid, heavy breathing.
His eyes were closed and his left thumb was in his mouth.
“Mark!” she shouted, suddenly terrified. “Mark! Oh my God!” She ran from the room to get help, and was back within seconds with Denny, her partner, who took a quick look.
“Doreen was worried about this,” Denny said, touching the sweat on Mark’s stomach. “Damn, he’s soaking wet.”
Telda was pinching his wrist. “His pulse is crazy. Look at him breathe. Call an ambulance!”
“The poor kid’s in shock, isn’t he?”
“Go call an ambulance!”
Denny lumbered from the room and the floor shook. Telda picked Mark up and carefully placed him on the bottom bunk, where he curled again and brought his knees to his chest. The thumb never left his mouth. Denny was back with a clipboard. “This must be Doreen’s handwriting. Says here to check on him every half hour, and if there’s any doubt, to rush him to St. Peter’s and call Dr. Greenway.”
“This is all my fault,” Telda said. “I shouldn’t have allowed those damned marshals in here. Scared the poor boy to death.”
Denny knelt beside her, and with a thick thumb peeled back the right eyelid. “Damn! His eyes have rolled back. This kid’s in trouble,” he said with all the gravity of a brain surgeon.
“Get a washcloth over here,” Telda said, and Denny did as told. “Doreen was telling me this is what happened to his little brother. They saw that shooting on Monday, both of them, and the little one’s been in shock ever since.” Denny handed her the cloth and she wiped Mark’s forehead.
“Damn, his heart’s gonna explode,” Denny said, on his knees again next to Telda. “He’s breathing like crazy.”
“Poor kid. I should’ve run those marshals off,” Telda said.
“I would have. They got no right coming on this floor.” He jabbed another thumb into the left eye, and Mark groaned and twitched. Then he started the moaning, just like Ricky, and this scared them even more. A low, dull, pitchless sound from deep in the throat. He sucked hard on the thumb.
A paramedic from the main jail three floors down ran into the room, followed by another jailer. “What’s up?” he asked as Telda and Denny moved.
“I think it’s called traumatic shock or stress or something,” Telda said. “He’s been acting strange all day, then about an hour ago two U.S. marshals were here to give him a subpoena.” The paramedic was not listening. He gripped a wrist and found the pulse. Telda rattled on. “They scared him to death, and I think it sent him into shock. I should’ve watched him after that, but I got busy.”
“I would’ve run those damned marshals off,” Denny said. They stood side by side behind the paramedic.
“This is what happened to his little brother, you know, the one who’s been in the newspaper all week. The shooting and all.”
“He’s gotta go,” the paramedic said, standing, frowning, and talking into his radio. “Hurry up with the stretcher to the fourth floor,” he barked into it. “Got a kid in bad shape.”
Denny stuck the clipboard in front of the paramedic. “Says here to take him to St. Peter’s. Dr. Greenway.”
“That’s where his brother is,” Telda added. “Doreen told me all about it. She was worried this might happen. Said she almost sent for an ambulance this afternoon. Said he’s been slipping away all day. I should’ve been more careful.”
The stretcher arrived with two more paramedics. Mark was quickly laid on it and covered with a blanket. A strap was placed across his thighs and another on his chest. His eyes never opened, but he managed to keep the thumb in his mouth.
And he managed to emit the painful, monotonous groan that frightened the paramedics and sped the stretcher along. It rolled quickly past the front station, and into an elevator.
“You ever seen this before?” one paramedic mumbled under his breath to the other.
“Not that I recall.”
“He’s burning up.”
“The skin is normally cool and clammy with shock. I’ve never seen this.”
“Yeah. Maybe traumatic shock is different. Check out that thumb.”
“Is this the kid the mob’s after?”
“Yeah. Front page today and yesterday.”
“I guess he’s gone over the edge.”
The elevator stopped, and they pushed the stretcher hurriedly through a series of short hallways, all busy and filled with the usual Friday night madness of city jail. A set of double doors flew open, and they were at the ambulance.
The ride to St. Peter’s took less than ten minutes, half as long as the wait once they arrived. Three other ambulances were in the process of depositing their occupants. St. Peter’s received the vast majority of Memphis knife wounds, gunshot victims, beaten wives, and mangled bodies from weekend car wrecks. The pace was hectic twenty-four hours a day, but from sunset Friday until late Sunday, the place was in chaos.
They rolled him through the bay and onto the white-tiled floors, where the stretcher stopped and the paramedics waited and filled out forms. A small army of nurses and doctors scrambled around a new patient and all yelled at the same time. People ran in every direction. A half dozen cops milled about. Three more stretchers were parked haphazardly in the wide hallway.
A nurse ventured by, stopped for a second, and asked the paramedics, “What is it?” One of them handed her a form.
“So he’s not bleeding,” she said, as if nothing mattered except flowing blood.
“No. Looks like stress or shock or something. Runs in the family.”
“He can wait. Roll him to Intake. I’ll be back in a minute.” And she was off.
They wove the stretcher through heavy traffic, and stopped in a small room off the main hallway. The forms were presented to another nurse, who scribbled something without looking at Mark. “Where’s Dr. Greenway?” she asked the paramedics.
They looked at each other, and shrugged at the nurse.
“You haven’t called him?” she asked.
“Well, no.”
“Well, no,” she repeated to herself, and rolled her eyes. What a couple of dumbasses. “Look, this is a war zone, okay. We’re talking blood and guts. We’ve lost two people in that hallway right there in the past thirty minutes. Psychiatric emergencies do not get top priority around here.”
“You want us to shoot him?” one of them said, nodding at Mark, and this really pissed her off.
“No. I want you to leave. I’ll take care of him, but you guys just get the hell out of here.”
“You signed the forms, lady. He’s all yours.” They smiled at her, and headed for the door.
“Is there a policeman with him?” she asked.
“Nope. He’s just a juvenile.” They were gone.
Mark managed to roll onto his left side and bring his knees to his chest. The straps were not tight. His eyes opened slightly. A black man was lying across three chairs in one corner of the room. An empty stretcher with blood on the sheets was by a green door next to a water fountain. The nurse answered the phone, said a few words, and left the room. Mark quickly unhooked the straps and jumped to the floor. There was no crime in walking around. He was a nut case now, so what if she caught him on his feet.
The forms she’d been holding were on the counter. He grabbed them, and pushed the stretcher through the green door, which led to a cramped corridor with small rooms on both sides. He abandoned the stretcher and threw the forms in a garbage can. The exit signs led to a door with a window in it. It opened into the madhouse of Admissions.