God, I'm so stupid. The worst minister in the world when a real crisis comes. Help me not to be so stupid.
She rushed back, opened the drivers door again, looked over the seat, and saw the boy still lying where she had put him, but now sucking his thumb. His eyes went to her briefly, then looked up at the ceiling as if he saw something interesting there. Mental cartoons, maybe. He had sweated right through the little tee-shirt beneath his overall. Piper twisted the electronic key fob back and forth in her fist until it broke free of the key ring. Then she ran back to the woman, who was trying to sit up.
'Don't,' Piper said, kneeling beside her and putting an arm around her. 'I don't think you should - '
'Li'l Walter,' the woman croaked.
Shit, I forgot the water! God, why did You let me forget the water?
Now the woman was trying to struggle to her feet. Piper didn't like this idea, which ran counter to everything she knew of first aid, but what other option was there? The road was deserted, and she couldn't leave her out in the blaring sun, that would be worse and more of it. So instead of pushing her back down, Piper helped her to stand.
'Slow,' she said, now holding the woman around the waist and guiding her staggering steps as best she could. 'Slow and easy does it, slow and easy wins the race. It's cool in the car. And there's water.'
'Li'l Walter!'The woman swayed, steadied, then tried to move a little faster.
'Water,' Piper said.'Right. Then I'm taking you to the hospital.'
'Hell... Center.'
This Piper did understand, and she shook her head firmly. 'No way. You're going straight to the hospital. You and your baby both.'
'Li'l Walter,' the woman whispered. She stood swaying, head down, hair hanging in her face, while Piper opened the passenger door and then eased her inside.
Piper got the bottle of Poland Spring out of the center console and took off the cap. The woman snatched it from her before Piper could offer it, and drank greedily, water overspilling the neck and dripping off her chin to darken the top of her tee-shirt.
'What's your name?' Piper asked.
'Sammy Bushey.' And then, even as her stomach cramped from the water, that black rose began to open in front of Sammy's eyes again. The bottle dropped out of her hand and fell to the floormat, gurgling, as she passed out.
Piper drove as fast as she could, which was pretty fast, since Morton Road remained deserted, but when she got to the hospital, she discovered that Dr Haskell had died the day before and the physician's assistant, Everett, was not there.
Sammy was examined and admitted by that famed medical exper|t, Dougie Twitchell.
8
While Ginny was trying to stop Sammy Bushey's vaginal bleeding and Twitch was giving the badly dehydrated Little Walter IV fluids, Rusty Everett was sitting quietly on a park bench at the Town Hall edge of the common. The bench was beneath the spreading arms of a tall blue spruce, and he thought he was in shade deep enough to render him effectively invisible. As long as he didn't move around much, that was.
There were interesting things to look at.
He had planned to go directly to the storage building behind the Town Hall (Twitch had called it a shed, but the long wooden building, which also housed The Mill's four snowplows, was actually quite a bit grander than that) and check the propane situation there, but then one of the police cars pulled up, with Frankie DeLesseps at the wheel. Junior Rennie had emerged from the passenger side. The two had spoken for a moment or two, then DeLesseps had driven away.
Junior went up the PD steps, but instead of going in, he sat down there, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. Rusty decided to wait. He didn't want to be seen checking up on the town's energy supply, especially not by the Second Selectman's son.
At one point Junior took his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, listened, said something, listened some more, said something else, then flipped it closed again. He went back to rubbing his temples. Dr Haskell had said something about that young man. Migraine headaches, was it? It certainly looked like a migraine. It wasn't just the temple-rubbing; it was the way he was keeping his head down.
Trying to minimize the glare, Rusty thought. Must have left his Imitrex or Zomig home. Assuming Haskell prescribed it, that is.
Rusty had half-risen, meaning to cut across Commonwealth Lane to the rear of the Town Hall - Junior clearly not being at his most observant - but then he spotted someone else and sat down again. Dale Barbara, the short-order cook who had reputedly been elevated to the rank of colonel (by the President himself, according to some), was standing beneath the marquee of the Globe, even deeper in the shadows than Rusty was himself. And Barbara also appeared to be keeping an eye on young Mr Rennie.