Chapter 23 #2
Arthur heaved a sigh. That would be a point in his favor, if he could get McMartin to listen.
A true vampire bite would have seen Brody through a torturous transformation as the curse took hold.
Arthur had lived it himself, and then died from it.
While he wouldn’t trade his undeath with Salvatore for the world, Arthur had no pleasant memories of his own death.
It had been drawn out and painful and not at all how he’d imagined it.
If Brody died now, he wouldn’t awaken. It would be a tragedy still, but one the FPI couldn’t possibly blame him for. He hoped.
“I don’t suppose you could conveniently wake up now?” Arthur asked, the sound of his own voice against the metronome of Brody’s heart monitor an almost haunting echo in the uniquely sterile quiet of the hospital. “I’d really like to ask you some questions.”
Brody gave no response. He was an unconscious boy, not a hungry mouse, after all. Arthur picked up Brody’s chart, hoping to decipher something, then the door to the hall opened.
“Oh, excuse me, Doctor, I didn’t expect you here.” Trip Young stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his khakis, a weary facade molded to his face. “Is there any change?”
Arthur’s mind went blank. This man standing in front of him was a murderer. He’d tried to kill his own son and would try again. Young might not recognize Arthur because of the mask and scrubs, but he’d know his voice. Arthur needed to sound like a stranger. He needed to sound like a doctor.
“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid.” The words escaped his lips in a British accent.
Wrong type of doctor, Arthur chided himself. His panic had supplied him with one idea: Doctor Who, who wasn’t even a medical doctor. But at least the accent worked to disguise his voice.
“I’m his father,” Young said, annoyed. “Who are you?”
Don’t say Doctor Who, Arthur thought, before opening his mouth and blurting, “Dr. Why—” Arthur cleared his throat. “Dr. Weissman.”
“You weren’t the one I spoke to before,” Young said.
“I suppose you’re familiar with the concept of shifts?
” Arthur said before he could stop himself.
Ah, well. Perhaps Dr. Weissman, in addition to recently moving here from the UK, was also rude.
Yes, yes, he was in a bad mood because he was getting a divorce and the paperwork was taking forever, plus the cafeteria had his least favorite flavor of Jell-O.
Sal would probably suggest Dr. Weissman was caught in a love triangle with an orderly and a janitor, but Arthur rather thought his alter ego was too busy to juggle extra paramours—besides, none of that really mattered unless Dr. Young asked, and really, why would he?
“I want to know how my son is doing,” Young replied, crossing his arms.
“He’s the same.” Arthur glanced over the chart, all the words utterly meaningless to him, but he hoped it looked convincing.
“Why are you here?” Dr. Young asked.
“I could ask the same of you, as visiting hours are over. The patient needs his rest—”
“He’s in a coma; he’s already resting!” Young’s voice rose in volume with each word. “I’m not leaving. But you should.”
Arthur would do nothing of the sort. “You’re being very belligerent, sir, and ignoring hospital policy.”
“Are you serious? I’m his father. Visiting hours don’t apply to me!”
Arthur supposed if Brody were only sleeping, he’d have woken up by now from the racket. Besides, Dr. Young was bound to attract attention like this and Arthur very much preferred to avoid discovery at this stage. He needed more proof of Dr. Young’s ill intentions than just his hunch.
“And I’m to take your word for it?” Arthur asked, trying to sound as flippant as Salvatore might have, but only managing to transform his British accent into a vaguely Scottish one. “You could be anyone.”
“This is ridiculous.” Young ran a hand through his hair. “My son is going to wake up soon. I know he will. And I’m going to be here for him when he does. But you better be long gone, or—”
“Or what?” Arthur raised one eyebrow. “Because from my point of view, I’m about to call security to come up here and verify you are really this patient’s father. I swore an oath to do no harm, you know, so I can’t let random people off the street skulk around in here.”
“Skulk? I’m going to have your medical license revoked!”
“No offense, sir, but I don’t think you really know how that works.”
“I’m a doctor myself!” Young snapped.
“Oh, that settles it, then.” Arthur smiled, though Young couldn’t see it through the mask. “This boy’s father is a dentist, not a doctor, so you must be an impostor.”
“Dentists go to medical school!”
“Excuse me,” said a woman in the doorway. She wore plum scrubs and a scowl. “What is going on in here? You do know there are patients in this ward who are trying to sleep, right?”
“Apologies, ma’am,” Arthur said in his most polite British accent. “I was just telling this strange man he can’t be here.”
“This is Trip Young, Brody’s father,” the nurse said. “Wait. Who are you?”
“Dr. Weissman, of course. We haven’t been acquainted yet.” He stretched out a hand to the nurse. “I’m new here from across the pond.”
Arthur willed himself not to add any other extraneous details from his concocted backstory.
This woman really didn’t need to know about Dr. Weissman’s impending divorce or the medical mystery that had brought him to the charming small town of Trident Falls.
The romantic comedy practically wrote itself, though.
He would have a meet-cute with a male nurse over a malfunctioning IV, then discover the nurse volunteered for a pet rescue.
Yes, Dr. Weissman came to Trident Falls to find an escape from the big city and the surgical mistake that cost him the life he’d planned, but instead he’d find true love with a handsome nurse—perhaps named Terry or Bruce or Diarrhea Blastington.
“There you have it.” Young nodded curtly to the nurse in thanks, then turned on Arthur. “I can be here with my son. Now, could you please leave? It’s been a very tiring day, and I’d like to read to Brody.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t bring a book.”
“I have an e-reader.” Young held up his phone.
“It’s not very good for your eyes to read off a screen for that long.” Arthur didn’t think that was actually true, but it seemed like the sort of thing a doctor would say. Arthur glanced at the nurse for confirmation.
“I didn’t think we were getting any new doctors,” the nurse said, eyeing him suspiciously. “When did you start here? Who hired you?”
Arthur called upon all his television-based knowledge of hospital hiring structures. “The chief of medicine hired me.”
“The who?” She raised her eyebrows.
Young was also staring at Arthur with a little too much scrutiny. Well. Perhaps this game was over, but he could still keep Trip from being alone with Brody long enough to kill him.
With a dramatic flair Salvatore would’ve been proud of, Arthur pulled off his mask and discarded it on the floor in what he hoped conveyed the energy of a mic drop.
The nurse didn’t really react, likely unfamiliar with Arthur at all, or his connection to Brody’s case, but Trip Young stepped back and let out a strangled gasp.
“That’s right!” Arthur proclaimed. “It’s me, Dr. Young, and I’m here to keep you from committing another murder!” He kept his dramatic exclamation fairly quiet out of respect for the other patients along the hallway.
Young, however, did no such thing. “Nurse, call the cops!” Young shouted. “This vampire’s here to kill my son!”