Mercy 6

Two gurneys were more hystericals, pain and fever, a nurse and an aide wearing ICU colors. The third gurney was still rolling, pivoted on back wheels. Pao Pao was reaching to catch it. She was the only one attending it — and it was clearly the reason for the this-way-that-way sway of the crowd. Mendenhall immediately recognized this arrival: Lual Meeks.

Meeks was physical plant, an experienced janitor like Enry Dozier. He was a guy all the doctors and nurses liked to identify as a friend, even though they knew nothing about him, nothing outside his ability to chat up anyone. Mendenhall was the only person in the entire hospital who didn’t like him. She believed he was, at heart, a misanthrope. She didn’t like the way his look lingered an extra second or two after his final good wish. She noticed that he did this with everyone, looked one or two seconds longer, his eyelids lulling, thoughts private.

But Lual Meeks was dead. He lay sideways on the gurney, which was absurdly wrong. Whoever had attended him first had just tossed him onto the gurney, brought him, spun him into the bay, and run. Pao Pao, in gloves, mask, and chest apron, was the only one near him, stopping the gurney’s careen. No one had even bothered to help her tie her apron.

Mendenhall cinched it for her and then took the gloves and mask. She looked at Meeks as she prepped, pulled the gloves tight to her fingertips, ready for touch. Meeks’s eyes were open, softened into that look she did not trust, as though he had just told her how young she looked today, how she looked like a goddamn Olympic pole-vaulter.

On the edge of her vision she saw the elevator open to reveal three figures from ID dressed in full garb, including head covers and tinted face masks. Even while focusing on Meeks, she could tell that the big one in purple was Dmir — leading the way.

If it had been anyone but Dmir — if it had been Thorpe himself — she would have done things right. Her legs and arms felt disconnected, moving with gut reaction. She sidestepped away from Meeks to hover over the two hystericals, their gurneys surrounded by attending nurses and techs.

When Dmir and the two others from ID entered the circle, Mendenhall almost bowed as she spoke.

“These are yours. Intense fevers.” She nodded toward Meeks.

“That one looks like an injury, a fall.”

Dmir went for it. All the action and attention was there with the two hystericals. Mendenhall’s lie had some truth to it; Meeks did look like a fall victim, frozen on his side, legs bicycled.

She returned to Meeks, joining Pao Pao. The nurse was glaring at her. She ignored this and pressed two fingers to Meeks’s carotid.

No pulse, but the skin was warm and loose. Her heart flipped.

She reached beneath his shirt and felt his armpit. Warm.

“They found him in the subbasement,” Pao Pao told her. “Near the old boilers. Like this. Just like this.”

“Who? Who wheeled him in?”

“They ran off.” Pao Pao adjusted the gurney brakes, avoided eye contact.

“Pao?”

The nurse held still for a second, continuing to look down, before turning to retrieve a packet holding two syringes and a thermometer.

Mendenhall scanned the bay. The crowd of nurses and aides and techs had swelled around the others, was shifting to Dmir.

Mendenhall took the thermometer offered by Pao Pao and inserted it into Meeks’s mouth, counted to ten. Then ten again. She blocked out Dmir, all other action.

The thermometer read 101. About what she feared.

“Did they even give CPR?” Mendenhall could tell by how Meeks lay what the answer was.

Pao Pao shook her head. “Someone here got the call. When they got to him, Meeks was alone.”

“Did Meeks make the call?”

Pao Pao shrugged. “His cell.”

“You?” asked Mendenhall. “You had to go?”

Pao Pao shook her head. “The other two had come in, and I was directing there. It was Cabral. Cabral went by himself. Looks like he would only touch his clothes, a belt-and-collar hoist. Lift him, plop him, push.” She checked the time. “Four minutes ago. At least he was fast.”

Dmir and his attendings hurried their patients toward the elevators, pulling the crowd with them. But to Mendenhall it felt as though she were the one spinning away, out of orbit with Pao Pao and Meeks.

She looked at her watch but did not call time of death, did not do it right. It was the first time she had checked her watch since the last call. It was ten twenty-nine.

Pao Pao was holding the paddles.

“We’re taking him to Pathology.”

“Time?” asked Pao Pao.

“I’m not calling it.”

“Then we have to do something, Doctor. I’m not joining you on this. Unless we do something.”

Mendenhall rolled Meeks onto his back. Pao Pao put the paddles away and moved to help. Mendenhall shook her off. “No.

Just stay close. I’ll do it.”

Meeks was looking at her. She pressed his sternum with both hands, precisely, released. Counted. Pressed. Released. Meeks stared at her. She pressed, counted, released.

“Let’s go,” she told Pao Pao.

“Call it, Doctor.”