Slam the Big Door (22 page)

Mike arrived, gasping for breath. Troy glanced toward him, but not at him. He massaged the knuckles of his right hand. He picked up his suitcase and jacket and walked on, walked south, without looking back.

As Mike knelt beside her, four people were suddenly there. He had not seen them approach. There was an elderly couple in swimming clothes, both of them brown, spindly, white-haired. He remembered seeing them at the Club, but not meeting them. The other was Marg Laybourne and her husband. It had happened almost in front of their house.

“It’s Debbie Ann!” Marg yelped. “What’s happening? Where is Troy going? What happened to her?”

“I’m a doctor,” the spindly brown man said with quiet authority. “If you’d give me some room, sir…”

Mike gladly moved out of the way. The old man knelt in the road, found the pulse in the side of the throat deftly.

“Did the car hit her? Did she fall out of it?” Marg demanded.

The doctor sat back on his haunches. “I’m retired. I’m not licensed to practice in Florida. I would say, however, that in this case it might not be wise to wait for an ambulance to come out from Ravenna. I don’t want to move her any more than necessary. I want something we can use as a stretcher, something rigid, a pillow, two blankets and a station wagon. Quickly!”

Marg stopped asking questions and did some effective organizing. After she and her husband had hurried away, the doctor looked up mildly at Mike and said, “You saw him strike her also?”

“Yes.”

“The way you were running attracted our attention, and we saw it happen.”

“Horrible,” the doctor’s wife murmured. “There could be fractured vertebrae. That’s why I want to be very careful. And there will be shock. You can see how profusely she’s beginning to perspire.”

Mr. Laybourne arrived with a collapsed army cot. The doctor said it would do splendidly. By the time they had unfolded it and placed it beside her, with the legs still collapsed, Marg Laybourne was backing the big Buick station wagon into position. Three cars had stopped. About twenty people had gathered around, looking avid and nervous, whispering misinformation to each other.

The doctor carefully instructed Mike and Mr. Laybourne as to where to hold her, what to do when he gave the word to roll her onto the cot frame. The doctor handled her head.

“Now,” he said, and they eased her onto the cot. Mike gave an involuntary grunt of shock when he saw her face. The whole left side of it was bloodied and crushed in, grotesquely. Dust and shell fragments were stuck to the blood. The other half of her face was a soapy gray, beaded heavily with sweat. Powdered shell and dust clung to her parted lips.

Mike and Mr. Laybourne, plus four volunteers, carefully slid the improvised stretcher into the back of the station wagon. The doctor tucked the two blankets around her. He arranged the pillow in a way to minimize head movement.

“Go gently on the rough road and take corners carefully,” the doctor said, instructing Mr. Laybourne. He turned to Mike. “You, sir, and the lady, might ride in back with her. Go directly to the emergency entrance. If I could go in and use the phone in your home, they will know what to expect. They’ll be all set up to treat her quickly for shock.”

“Go right ahead. There’s a phone near the front entrance, on your left,” Marg said.

A young man approached Mike and said, “I know Debbie Ann. The keys are in her car. I’ll run it up into the carport. Okay?”

“Thanks a lot.”

“What happened to her?”

“She fell.”

“Out of the top of that pine tree?”

Mike got in. Traffic on the trail was infuriatingly dense and slow until the continual bellowing of the horn on the Buick attracted the attention of a state highway-patrol car, headed the other way. Within a minute he was behind them, siren keening. Mike pointed at Debbie Ann. As the patrol car passed, Mike yelled, “Ravenna Hospital!” and saw the trooper nod.

The siren opened the traffic ahead of them. Marg, well braced, held Debbie Ann’s shoulders. Mike held her by the hips. After one hard swerve when they still managed to hold her immobile, Marg turned and gave Mike a hard, impudent grin, and it astonished the daylights out of him to realize he could probably learn to like this woman. She was idle, silly and mischievous—but she reacted well to a thing like this.

They were prepared for them at the hospital, with the bottle of plasma all rigged and ready.

While Charlie took the car off to the hospital parking lot, Marg and Mike went to the waiting room.

“Wonder if I should phone Mary before we get the whole scoop,” he said.

“Phone her, of course, Mr. Rodinsky. She’ll want to be here in any case. That child is badly hurt.”

“Rodenska.”

“Troy did it, didn’t he?”

“She fell.”

“He’s been so strange lately.”

“I’ll find a phone.”

They said they thought Mrs. Jamison was out by the pool. If he would hold on a moment. It was a long moment before she came on the phone.

“Hello? Oh, Mike! I had the feeling it would be Troy. I don’t know why. How are things?”

“Mary, I don’t know any fancy way to say this. I’m at Ravenna Hospital. Debbie Ann is hurt. I think you better come right here… Mary?”

“I’m still here,” she said. “It was that damned car, wasn’t it? She drives like a fool. And she’s… dead.”

“She’s not dead!” he said angrily. “And it wasn’t the car. She—fell and hit her face.”

“Fell? Debbie Ann?”

“Yes. They’re treating her in the emergency room right now.

“Is Troy with you? Why didn’t Troy call me?”

“We can go into all that after you get here. Who’s your regular doctor?”

“Sam Scherman, but Debbie Ann hasn’t had to see him in years and years. But you better let him know, I guess. I can’t understand how she could… I guess I should stop talking. I’ll be along very soon, Mike.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’ll be okay.”

“Is she… disfigured, Mike?”

“Temporarily. She—wants you here.”

“Tell her I’m on my way, Mike.”

He went back to the waiting room. Marg and Charlie looked at him. “How did she take it?” Marg asked.

“Pretty good. She’ll come down by cab right away.”

“That girl is in bad, bad shape,” Charlie said heavily.

Marg leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You don’t have to be so secretive, Mr. Rodenska. I’m perfectly aware of the fact you don’t like me one bit.”

“Now, Marg!” Charlie said.

“It’s perfectly true, darling. He made it quite clear the first time we met. Maybe I deserved it. I was feeling bitchy that day. Mr. Rodenska, Charlie and I are certainly aware of the fact that Mary and Troy have been having… problems. We call ourselves their friends. We haven’t wanted to butt in. We’ve heard the rumors about another woman. We haven’t help spread those rumors. And we haven’t, in our own talks about it, taken sides. Maybe a little bit, on Mary’s side, but that’s only natural. Charlie and I have said that sooner or later either Troy or Mary or even both of them, might call on us for help. And we wouldn’t back off just because it could be a messy situation. We would help. Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“And so it has gotten messy. He got drunk and smashed the Chrysler. Mary has gone away by herself. We both saw Troy walking down the road, carrying a suitcase. He was walking
away
from Debbie Ann. Not looking back at all. He didn’t turn when Charlie yelled at him, and he couldn’t help hearing him. So it’s perfectly obvious that whatever happened to Debbie Ann, he did it. How messy can a situation get? Mary adores Debbie Ann. Personally, forgive the expression, I think she is a spoiled, selfish, tiresome little slut.”

“Marg!” Charlie said. “Now, Marg!”

“Hush, darling. You know, Mr. Rodenska, that Mary won’t be able to forgive Troy for hurting her so badly, hurting that invaluable daughter of hers. Here we are, perfectly willing to help in any way we can. So don’t you think it would make sense to tell us what’s going on?”

Mike thought it over. “Yes, I guess it would make sense. Maybe I should. But it isn’t my option. How much people know, no matter how close they are, is Mary’s business. And I’ve got a juicy problem of telling her how the girl got hurt. Once she knows the score and has had a chance to think things out, then you ask her. Okay?”

For a few minutes Marg stared at him with indignation and exasperation. And then suddenly she grinned at him. “If I ever
have
to tell somebody a secret, Mike, I’ll look you up. It would stay a secret, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Mrs. Laybourne. You gave me that last-outpost-of-gracious-living routine, and I figured you for phony through and through.”

“So you put on an act too, didn’t you?”

“Sure I did. So my opinion is revised. Consider this an apology.”

“Thank you. But I certainly don’t know why I should feel pleased. I wasn’t looking for your good opinion, Mike. And I am, in many respects, a phony. Right, Charlie?”

“You’re always right, dear.”

A huge young doctor with a bland round face and an eighth of an inch of bright orange brush-cut appeared in the doorway, filling it.

“I’m Doctor Pherson. Which of you belongs with the Hunter woman?”

“Hunter?” Mike said blankly. Then he remembered that was the name Marg had given them, Debbie Ann’s married name. The pause gave Marg an opening that she could easily have taken. “We’re neighbors and close friends and this man is just a house-guest.” But she didn’t take it. She waited. “I brought her in,” Mike said.

The huge young doctor took him fifty feet up the corridor. “First I’ll give you the scoop, and then you’ll answer some questions. We just read the wet plates. Shock is under control. She’s semi-conscious. She was hurting so bad, I deadened the areas of trauma. Sedation isn’t indicated so soon after shock. She’s got a cracked vertebra in her neck, a crushed left antrum, the cheekbone mashed back in, and the skin split over it, a simple jaw fracture, one molar knocked clean out and three loosened. There’s no skull fracture, but there’s indication of a dandy concussion. And I nearly forgot, a fracture of the middle finger of the right hand. The nurse caught that. I was about to miss it. She’ll need to be watched close. I’ve ordered a special. We’ve fastened the jaw in place temporarily. We’ll have to see if she’s well enough to work on tomorrow. Who are you and what’s the relationship?”

“Mike Rodenska. I’m just a house-guest.”

“Her
house-guest?”

“No. Her parents’. Her mother and her stepfather, that is. He’s Troy Jamison.”

“Oh. The builder. That place on Riley Key. Sure enough. That answers the question about the room. We’ve got a private room open right now, which is unusual, and we’ll move her there from emergency. Who’s their doctor?”

“Dr. Sam Scherman.”

“I’ll let him know. Where are her people?”

“Her mother should be getting here pretty soon. Will she be able to see her?”

“No reason why not, after we move her, but there won’t be any conversation going on. Now we come to the bonus question. How did it happen?”

“She fell.”

“Is that right?”

“She tripped and fell and… hit her face against the bumper guard on her car.”

“She was standing by the car?”

“Yes.”

“The car wasn’t moving?”

“No.”

“My friend, you can have a nice little chat with the cops. Your story is feeble. I’ll list this one as assault with a deadly weapon and let them worry about the lies you’re telling.”

“All right,” Mike said wearily. “I assume you’ll keep this to yourself. Somebody hit her.”

“With what? You’re doing better.”

“With his fist.”

Mike received a stare of cold contempt. “Look, my friend. I’ve got more to do than stand around here trying to pry the facts out of you. If you hit her, phone a lawyer. But stop wasting my time.”

“I’m telling you the truth, damn it! I saw it happen. He hit her with his fist.”

Pherson started to turn away and then turned back, dubious, skeptical. “You really mean that?”

“I swear it’s the truth.”

“His fist! Who is this joker? King Kong? Floyd Patterson?”

“Doctor Pherson, if a man is disturbed, if he’s on the edge of some sort of a breakdown, can he—be more powerful than he ordinarily would be?”

“How big is this guy?”

“Six two. Maybe close to two hundred pounds. But not in good shape. Forty years old.”

Pherson frowned. “When the normal man smacks a woman he almost always instinctively pulls his punch. If a man that big got crazy mad enough… and her bone structure is fragile, small… you’re not kidding me?”

Rodenska, with a trained reporter’s skill, told Pherson exactly what he had seen.

Pherson shook his head. “Okay. I believe. But you better get hold of the cops right now and have them pick that boy up. He came awful damn close to killing her with one punch.”

“I’d rather not.”

“So you still want to talk to the law.”

“Doctor, this is a family thing. It was her stepfather. Her mother doesn’t know that yet. I told you, I’m just a houseguest. I’d really like to leave it up to Mrs. Jamison. Maybe she’ll want to sign a complaint. I wouldn’t know. But it’s her—little problem.”

The big doctor whistled softly. “My, my, my!” he said. “Any other witnesses?”

“Two. A retired doctor and his wife. He didn’t seem talkative.”

“Well, she
did
fall off the front end of that car. That’s when she popped the finger. I’ll put it down as a fall. I’m going off now, right away. Soon as I arrange the room and phone Sam Scherman. Should I tell Sam the score?”

“He’ll believe you quicker than you believed me. And I guess he ought to know.”

“Okay. And I’ll leave the mother to you.”

“Thanks so much.”

“Sam will have some ideas about who should work on that face. Is she a pretty girl? It’s hard to tell.”

“Very pretty.”

“They’ll watch her close tonight. You couldn’t call her critical, but concussions are tricky.”

Mike thanked him. Apparently the heavy traffic delayed Mary. Mike was glad it did, because it gave Dr. Scherman a chance to get to the hospital and check on Debbie Ann before Mary arrived. Sam Scherman was in his fifties, an irascible little man who spoke his own brand of shorthand in a quick, light, bitter voice.