Free A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd Page B
Authors: Charles Todd
Do you know?” I asked Dr. Philips in a low voice.
“Er—lieutenant, I think.”
“Don’t stand there staring, Lieutenant Booker! Here, take his shoulders, I’ll get his feet.”
He seemed to rouse himself, looking up at me, then telling Harry it would be all right, there was help now.
And then between us, we lifted the wounded man I couldn’t see, and Booker started out the door and down the passage with him between us, urging me in his turn to hurry, hurry.
Confused as we entered the passage by the stairway, Booker hesitated.
I said, “That cot. Over there. Doctor! This case is critical.” We put Harry down at the foot of the stairs, with Dr. Philips hovering in the background.
“Well done, Lieutenant. Look, here’s someone to see to Harry now. Sit down over there—yes, out of the way.” I led him to a chair against the opposite wall, put out a hand, and Dr. Philips set the needle into my palm. “Here, you’re exhausted. You must be calm when you see him again. Let me give you this—” The needle went home, and Ted Booker started up. I thought for an instant he was going to strike me. “Steady, young man, or I’ll make you wait outside the tent,” I said harshly, the voice of Matron and not to be trifled with. “Now sit down and be quiet while we do our work.”
But he shook me off, still calling to Harry.
Dr. Philips came up, took his arm as I had done, and said, “Soldier, you’re in the way. I can’t work—sit down. See, you’re distressing the wounded man—”
I turned my head to stare at him—it didn’t sound like Dr. Philips’s normal voice at all. It sounded like a medical orderly giving orders. We had found ourselves swept up in Ted Booker’s nightmare, playing our roles to an invisible audience.
Booker, distraught, clung to him. “Harry—” he began.
“Harry’s in good hands. You mustn’t let your men down, you know. Good example and all that.”
We finally got through to Booker, and then he sat down on the floor and began to cry, holding his dead brother in his arms and rocking him like a child. It wouldn’t be long now before the injection took effect.
I said softly to Dr. Philips, “The shotgun. Get rid of it.”
He turned to do as I’d asked, and I bent over to touch Booker’s shoulder.
“Lieutenant. Come in here, out of the rain.”
Ted Booker got up, stumbling a little, and let me lead him toward the dining room.
Halfway there, he twisted free and went back, calling for Harry. But his words had already begun to slur, and it was just a matter of minutes before he was half conscious and easily led up the stairs to the nearest bedroom. We got him onto the bed, his shoes off, his collar loosened, and a blanket over him against the chill. By that time he was out, and snoring from the drug.
Dr. Philips said, “Thank you for your help. You must have done this before—you got through to him.”
I couldn’t tell him I’d never dealt with such a severe case before. Not alone. But I’d learned from Dr. Paterson not to interrupt whatever world the patient inhabited. It was easier to enter it, and use it to help.
“They’re accustomed to the sisters. They usually mind well enough.” I was suddenly very tired, a reaction to the tension we’d been under.
“One of these days, he’s going to do himself a harm. He thinks he got his brother killed. Most of the time he’s all right, but today something set him off. His wife sent the man next door to call me. He was as bad as I’ve ever seen him.”
“He’s in torment,” I said. “And it won’t go away. You can’t keep him drugged.”
“No. I’ll take the shotgun home with me and bury it in a closet. I should have thought of looking for a weapon before this, but truth is, I didn’t know it was even in the house until today.”
We sat down on the two chairs in the room, one by the window, and the other near the bed. Dr. Philips looked as tired as I felt.
“A long night?” I asked him.
He
“Er—lieutenant, I think.”
“Don’t stand there staring, Lieutenant Booker! Here, take his shoulders, I’ll get his feet.”
He seemed to rouse himself, looking up at me, then telling Harry it would be all right, there was help now.
And then between us, we lifted the wounded man I couldn’t see, and Booker started out the door and down the passage with him between us, urging me in his turn to hurry, hurry.
Confused as we entered the passage by the stairway, Booker hesitated.
I said, “That cot. Over there. Doctor! This case is critical.” We put Harry down at the foot of the stairs, with Dr. Philips hovering in the background.
“Well done, Lieutenant. Look, here’s someone to see to Harry now. Sit down over there—yes, out of the way.” I led him to a chair against the opposite wall, put out a hand, and Dr. Philips set the needle into my palm. “Here, you’re exhausted. You must be calm when you see him again. Let me give you this—” The needle went home, and Ted Booker started up. I thought for an instant he was going to strike me. “Steady, young man, or I’ll make you wait outside the tent,” I said harshly, the voice of Matron and not to be trifled with. “Now sit down and be quiet while we do our work.”
But he shook me off, still calling to Harry.
Dr. Philips came up, took his arm as I had done, and said, “Soldier, you’re in the way. I can’t work—sit down. See, you’re distressing the wounded man—”
I turned my head to stare at him—it didn’t sound like Dr. Philips’s normal voice at all. It sounded like a medical orderly giving orders. We had found ourselves swept up in Ted Booker’s nightmare, playing our roles to an invisible audience.
Booker, distraught, clung to him. “Harry—” he began.
“Harry’s in good hands. You mustn’t let your men down, you know. Good example and all that.”
We finally got through to Booker, and then he sat down on the floor and began to cry, holding his dead brother in his arms and rocking him like a child. It wouldn’t be long now before the injection took effect.
I said softly to Dr. Philips, “The shotgun. Get rid of it.”
He turned to do as I’d asked, and I bent over to touch Booker’s shoulder.
“Lieutenant. Come in here, out of the rain.”
Ted Booker got up, stumbling a little, and let me lead him toward the dining room.
Halfway there, he twisted free and went back, calling for Harry. But his words had already begun to slur, and it was just a matter of minutes before he was half conscious and easily led up the stairs to the nearest bedroom. We got him onto the bed, his shoes off, his collar loosened, and a blanket over him against the chill. By that time he was out, and snoring from the drug.
Dr. Philips said, “Thank you for your help. You must have done this before—you got through to him.”
I couldn’t tell him I’d never dealt with such a severe case before. Not alone. But I’d learned from Dr. Paterson not to interrupt whatever world the patient inhabited. It was easier to enter it, and use it to help.
“They’re accustomed to the sisters. They usually mind well enough.” I was suddenly very tired, a reaction to the tension we’d been under.
“One of these days, he’s going to do himself a harm. He thinks he got his brother killed. Most of the time he’s all right, but today something set him off. His wife sent the man next door to call me. He was as bad as I’ve ever seen him.”
“He’s in torment,” I said. “And it won’t go away. You can’t keep him drugged.”
“No. I’ll take the shotgun home with me and bury it in a closet. I should have thought of looking for a weapon before this, but truth is, I didn’t know it was even in the house until today.”
We sat down on the two chairs in the room, one by the window, and the other near the bed. Dr. Philips looked as tired as I felt.
“A long night?” I asked him.
He