"How about rolling over for me, big fella?" she said, all palsy again.
"What for?"
"We've got to poke a little medicine into you, that's all. A tiny pinprick in the bottom. You've had them before."
"But what is it?"
"It will make you feel better."
"I feel fine."
Dr. Pastory moved over closer to the bed and frowned down at Malcolm. His eyes were small and bright, and there was something in them Malcolm didn't like.
"Do as the nurse says, Malcolm. We have some strong young fellows working here who can come in and flip you over if you won't cooperate. Do you want me to call them?"
Malcolm looked at the nurse and saw he would get no help from her. Feeling trapped, he rolled over on his side, facing away from them. The nurse yanked the blanket and sheet down and pulled the short hospital gown up to expose his buttock. He felt the sharp sting of the needle and a tightening of the flesh down there as something was pumped into him.
He felt the needle slide out and smelled the tang of alcohol as the nurse swabbed him off. She gave him a familiar little pat and pulled the gown back into place. Malcolm rolled onto his back and looked up at the two of them.
"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" the nurse recited.
"I want to see Holly," Malcolm said. "Dr. Lang."
Pastory showed his small, even teeth. "I'm your doctor now, Malcolm. You'd better get used to that."
Malcolm felt a tingling sensation spread over his body. He braced his hands and tried to sit up but found he was dizzy and lay back down.
"Just relax," Pastory told him. "Don't try to fight the medicine. You can't win, you know." The words had a funny echoing sound.
"I don't want to relax. I don't want you for my doctor."
That was what Malcolm tried to say, but it came out all mush-mouth. His tongue felt thick and foreign, like a hunk of strange meat.
"The more you fight it, the more trouble it makes for everybody." Pastory's oily little face swam in and out of focus.
With a great effort Malcolm sat up. The doctor reached for him and Malcolm batted his hands away. "You're not my doctor," he mumbled.
Pastory bared his teeth, and for a moment Malcolm thought the doctor was going to strike him. But he got control of himself and turned to the nurse.
"Better give him another fifty cc's."
"But doctor, for a boy his age, that's - "
Pastory's little eyes flashed, though his voice remained calm. "Please do what I ask, Nurse."
With her cheeks reddening, the nurse turned her back and did something with the things on the cloth-covered tray. Pastory stared impassively down at Malcolm.
"Don' wan' any more shots." Malcolm had trouble getting the words out past the tongue that did not belong to him. "Wan' see Holly."
"Will you please hurry?" Pastory snapped at the nurse, who was still fumbling at the tray.
"No more shots," Malcolm said feebly.
The orange-haired nurse turned toward him, making no attempt this time to conceal the hypodermic needle. She reached down with one hand and flipped Malcolm onto his side. His body would not respond to the messages sent by his brain.
He barely felt the second needle prick. The nurse eased him over on his back and he watched as she and Dr. Pastory floated side by side in some murky void. The room grew warm, then hot. Malcolm could feel the sweat rolling off him, but he could not move a hand up to clear his eyes. His power of speech was gone. All he could manage were soft grunting noises. The light grew dim. And dimmer.
"That s done it." Dr. Pastory's voice floated to him through a long tunnel, distorted and barely audible. "I won't be needing you anymore, Nurse."
The shadow shape that was the nurse floated back away from him and disappeared. Dr. Pastory went away, too, but just for a moment. Then he was back with somebody else. Another man. The features were only a blur to Malcolm, but he sensed that the newcomer was not a doctor or a hospital employee. He smelled wrong. There was none of the astringent tang of surgical soap, medicine, and alcohol that clung to the hospital people. This one smelled of tobacco, stale sweat, and urine.
Malcolm felt himself lifted roughly from the bed and placed on another flat, yielding surface. He sensed the door to his room being opened, and he was floating out through it into the corridor. No, not floating, rolling on soft rubber wheels. Rolling, rolling. The fluorescent lights passed overhead in dim, wavery images, as though seen from underwater.
Suddenly the air was cool on his face. There was a breeze with the scent of pine in it. He was outside. A dim recollection of a voice that called him from out here fought for a space in his consciousness, but the drug was too strong.
Malcolm was lifted again, placed inside some sort of metallic box. A van. Dr. Pastory got in beside him. He gave an order. An engine fired and Malcolm sensed movement. Then the fever returned and consciousness slipped away.
At ten o'clock Dr. Dennis Qualen strolled in through the entrance of La Reina County Hospital. He was, as always, impeccably turned out. Today he had chosen a dark blue worsted with muted pinstripe and a tie of pale yellow. He acknowledged the greetings of staff and employees with a nod and half smile. Dr. Qualen did not believe in becoming too familiar with the people under him. Particularly since he did not intend to spend one day longer than necessary at La Reina. He had feelers out to bigger institutions in San Francisco, Houston, and Miami. Once he had straightened out the budgetary problems here, and had the figures to show it, he would surely be hearing from them.
He rode the elevator to the second floor, passing an encouraging word to a small boy in a wheelchair. The boy stared at him dully. He watched as the nurse wheeled the boy toward the orthopedic ward, then he turned and walked briskly toward the glass doors to Administration. Once beyond them he felt a tangible relief. Those doors represented a barrier to Dr. Qualen that kept the sordidness of disease and death separate from the nice clean business of running a hospital.
He barely noticed a neatly dressed young man with sandy hair who sat in one of the chairs across from the reception desk. A salesman, the doctor surmised. Some new wonder drug, or a piece of expensive equipment that no modern hospital should be without. La Reina was not in a buying cycle at present, but Qualen tolerated salesmen for the gossip they carried of the outside medical community.
The doctor smiled coolly at Mrs. Thayer as he went by. For his own taste he would have preferred a receptionist with a bit more style, and better tits. However, he knew that the matronly Mrs. Thayer gave his office a solid, businesslike appearance. And she was excellent at guarding his door from patients and other unwanted visitors.
As soon as he settled himself in the burgundy leather chair behind the mahogany desk, the intercom buzzed. With a sigh he reached over and flipped the switch.
"Yes, Mrs. Thayer."
"A gentleman out here to see you, Doctor."
"Who is he with?"
"Apparently he is not representing any firm."
"Then what does he want with me?"
"He says it's about the boy they brought in from the woods. The boy in one-oh-eight."
Qualen frowned. He glanced over at the transfer papers for Malcolm, riffled through them, and saw that Dr. Pastory's name had been correctly entered, making him the responsible party.
He said, "Did you tell him I am not concerned with patients' affairs?"
"The gentleman was quite adamant about wanting to see the man in charge. He's been here since I came in, at eight o'clock."
Damn. Qualen hated to start the day with some petty annoyance. "Does he have a name?"
"Yes, Doctor. Mr. Derak."
It meant nothing to Dr. Qualen. Had an unpleasant foreign sound. He sighed. Might as well get it over with.