cops as possible. Self-preservation was a powerful emotion.
He took a stethoscope off a hook on the wall and wrapped it around his neck the way Farber had worn his. A few footsteps later, he was at the door and peering out. Two police officers were coming down the hallway, pointing at the adjacent room where he had been lying a few moments ago. He waited until the cops were nearly at the entrance to the recovery room, then pushed through the door.
Chambers walked out of the supply room, heading down the corridor, trying to carry himself as naturally as the leg wound would permit. He wondered how long it would take the police to realize that he was the person they were looking for. They would probably grab a nurse or doctor and ask what had happened to the patient known as John Doe. Then, they’d flash on the doctor they had seen leaving the adjacent supply room, who was sporting a slight limp; they would do a quick search of the cabinets and find the bloodied gown. Then they’d be heading in his direction. All told, he probably had three minutes, unless something unexpected occurred.
Chambers quickened his pace and a second later was turning down a long corridor where the hospital laboratory was located. He slipped into the sprawling, open suite, which was well-lit from above with banks of sleek, brushed-aluminum fluorescent light fixtures. A few lab techs were busy processing samples, and a nurse was dealing with a line of patients at a long counter.
Chambers walked through the lab, still limping as he passed the reception station, and proceeded into the work area. He grabbed a patient chart and pretended to look inside while he thought about how he was going to get out of the hospital. He had no money, no car that he knew of—Farber had said the one Chambers had been found in was stolen—and nowhere to go.
He closed the chart and headed toward the back of the lab, where he noticed an elevator. He took it up to the second floor and glanced out into the hallway: the sign indicated patient rooms, the cardiac care unit, and ICU. None of these would do.
He needed food and a quiet place to think. But if the police started searching the hospital, it would be best if he was out of the building. Or would it? If he was lucky enough to avoid a search, he could wait a few hours and then leave. By then, they would be focusing their efforts elsewhere—why would a sane person remain in a place where the police were looking for him?
The third floor was more promising, as the directory indicated that it was where the doctors’ lounge was located. As he approached, the smell of chicken and potatoes hung in the air. His stomach contracted again.
He walked into the lounge and hesitated as he glanced around. A couple of physicians were sitting on a couch reading journals. Another was half-reclining, her eyes closed, the exhaustion of a long shift etched in her face. He continued on into the adjacent cafe, picked up a tray, and surveyed the food. I’ll take a little of everything, he felt like saying. Instead, he settled for a scoop of potato salad, a tall Coke, a ham-and-cheese sandwich on wheat, and a container of yogurt.
At the register, an elderly woman smiled at him and began ringing up his food. “That’ll be six-eighteen.”
“Oh,” Chambers said. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you this is on Dr. Farber. He asked me to have you put it on his account.”
The woman hesitated and crumpled her wrinkled face. “I really need verification—”
“I should’ve told you before you rang it up.” He leaned closer to her graying hair and lowered his voice. “Dr. Farber lost a bet,” he said as he noticed the other cashier with the Washington Wizards T-shirt on. “Took the Wizards and lost big. Kept forgetting to pay up. Told me to grab a late lunch and have you put it on his tab.”
“Dr. Farber shouldn’t be betting on basketball games. I didn’t never think of him as the gambling type.”
Chambers shushed her
He took a stethoscope off a hook on the wall and wrapped it around his neck the way Farber had worn his. A few footsteps later, he was at the door and peering out. Two police officers were coming down the hallway, pointing at the adjacent room where he had been lying a few moments ago. He waited until the cops were nearly at the entrance to the recovery room, then pushed through the door.
Chambers walked out of the supply room, heading down the corridor, trying to carry himself as naturally as the leg wound would permit. He wondered how long it would take the police to realize that he was the person they were looking for. They would probably grab a nurse or doctor and ask what had happened to the patient known as John Doe. Then, they’d flash on the doctor they had seen leaving the adjacent supply room, who was sporting a slight limp; they would do a quick search of the cabinets and find the bloodied gown. Then they’d be heading in his direction. All told, he probably had three minutes, unless something unexpected occurred.
Chambers quickened his pace and a second later was turning down a long corridor where the hospital laboratory was located. He slipped into the sprawling, open suite, which was well-lit from above with banks of sleek, brushed-aluminum fluorescent light fixtures. A few lab techs were busy processing samples, and a nurse was dealing with a line of patients at a long counter.
Chambers walked through the lab, still limping as he passed the reception station, and proceeded into the work area. He grabbed a patient chart and pretended to look inside while he thought about how he was going to get out of the hospital. He had no money, no car that he knew of—Farber had said the one Chambers had been found in was stolen—and nowhere to go.
He closed the chart and headed toward the back of the lab, where he noticed an elevator. He took it up to the second floor and glanced out into the hallway: the sign indicated patient rooms, the cardiac care unit, and ICU. None of these would do.
He needed food and a quiet place to think. But if the police started searching the hospital, it would be best if he was out of the building. Or would it? If he was lucky enough to avoid a search, he could wait a few hours and then leave. By then, they would be focusing their efforts elsewhere—why would a sane person remain in a place where the police were looking for him?
The third floor was more promising, as the directory indicated that it was where the doctors’ lounge was located. As he approached, the smell of chicken and potatoes hung in the air. His stomach contracted again.
He walked into the lounge and hesitated as he glanced around. A couple of physicians were sitting on a couch reading journals. Another was half-reclining, her eyes closed, the exhaustion of a long shift etched in her face. He continued on into the adjacent cafe, picked up a tray, and surveyed the food. I’ll take a little of everything, he felt like saying. Instead, he settled for a scoop of potato salad, a tall Coke, a ham-and-cheese sandwich on wheat, and a container of yogurt.
At the register, an elderly woman smiled at him and began ringing up his food. “That’ll be six-eighteen.”
“Oh,” Chambers said. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you this is on Dr. Farber. He asked me to have you put it on his account.”
The woman hesitated and crumpled her wrinkled face. “I really need verification—”
“I should’ve told you before you rang it up.” He leaned closer to her graying hair and lowered his voice. “Dr. Farber lost a bet,” he said as he noticed the other cashier with the Washington Wizards T-shirt on. “Took the Wizards and lost big. Kept forgetting to pay up. Told me to grab a late lunch and have you put it on his tab.”
“Dr. Farber shouldn’t be betting on basketball games. I didn’t never think of him as the gambling type.”
Chambers shushed her
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