hand with his.
“Easy, old-timer,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”
Slowly, as if the act took every bit of his strength, Carey’s unblinking eyes turned toward Trace. He stared at the big man, seemingly unable to focus his eyes. Trace saw his lips move slightly.
“Just take it easy,” Trace said. “Everything’s okay.” Should he call a nurse? Should the man be awake?
Carey’s lips began to move, the movement of a toothless man gumming a soft piece of bread. A soft low sound emanated from his mouth. Mitchell Carey was trying to speak, and as Trace leaned over, putting his face near the man’s mouth, he instinctively pressed the record button on his tape recorder.
The sound Carey made was not much more than an exhalation and the words were slurred and indistinct. But Trace could pick out most of them.
“Hundred…two hundred…dying…dying…hundred hundred…no more…take it away…more dying…dying…dying.”
There was a long pause and Trace lifted his head. The lips were still moving, but no sound came out. Then Carey’s lifeless eyes riveted to him. There was a hiss and more sound came out of his mouth. Trace bent over to listen and suddenly he heard another voice: “What’s going on here?”
It was a woman’s voice and Trace turned to see an elderly nurse standing in the doorway.
“Who are you?” she said, even as she walked over to Carey’s bedside and looked down at the old man. His eyes had closed now, but he appeared to be breathing regularly.
“Walter Marks. I’m a friend of the family. Just stopped in to see how he was doing. He was trying to talk.”
“Visiting hours are this afternoon and you get passes at the front desk,” the woman said crisply. She was adjusting the covers over Carey’s body. She took his pulse and nodded to herself in satisfaction.
“Is he all right?” Trace asked.
“He’s fine. Just come back when you’re supposed to be here.”
“I will,” Trace said as he left the room.
Out in the hallway, he could find no men’s room, where he could change the tape in his recorder. He went into a door marked EXIT and walked up the steps to the next floor. A sign outside the door read: THREE EAST. NO ADMITTANCE. Trace pushed open the door and was facing a uniformed guard.
“Yes, sir?” the guard said.
Trace smiled sheepishly. “My aunt Lulu’s eating cigarette butts again. I was just checking the place out.”
“Sorry, sir, this area is restricted. You’ll have to arrange a visit at the front office.”
“Sure,” Trace said. “How come it’s restricted?”
“Special patients,” the guard said brusquely. “Ask at the front desk.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Outside the door to Three East, there was a pay telephone on the landing, and Trace decided to call Sylvan Glade to see if he had any messages. He searched through his pockets until he found a dime, but when he tried to dial the number, an operator came on and told him the call was twenty cents.
“I thought a short call was a dime.”
“It’s twenty cents in New Jersey. Deposit another ten cents please.”
“I’m just calling down the block.”
“The call is twenty cents. Please deposit another ten cents.”
“I don’t have another dime. Can I mail it to you? Send you a stamp?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“You’re no fun,” Trace said as he hung up. His dime was not returned.
In the parking lot, Trace noticed a Mercedes Benz parked next to his rented Ford.
Visible through the right front windshield, lying on the dashboard, was a yellow piece of cardboard marked PARKING.
The windows of the Mercedes were open and Trace reached in and filched the parking pass.
He turned and saw a uniformed maintenance man sweeping the sidewalk behind him. The man’s uniform hung on him as if it had originally been purchased to hold two like him. Trace wondered if he had noticed anything, and he tossed the parking pass into his car and walked over toward the man, who smiled a
“Easy, old-timer,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”
Slowly, as if the act took every bit of his strength, Carey’s unblinking eyes turned toward Trace. He stared at the big man, seemingly unable to focus his eyes. Trace saw his lips move slightly.
“Just take it easy,” Trace said. “Everything’s okay.” Should he call a nurse? Should the man be awake?
Carey’s lips began to move, the movement of a toothless man gumming a soft piece of bread. A soft low sound emanated from his mouth. Mitchell Carey was trying to speak, and as Trace leaned over, putting his face near the man’s mouth, he instinctively pressed the record button on his tape recorder.
The sound Carey made was not much more than an exhalation and the words were slurred and indistinct. But Trace could pick out most of them.
“Hundred…two hundred…dying…dying…hundred hundred…no more…take it away…more dying…dying…dying.”
There was a long pause and Trace lifted his head. The lips were still moving, but no sound came out. Then Carey’s lifeless eyes riveted to him. There was a hiss and more sound came out of his mouth. Trace bent over to listen and suddenly he heard another voice: “What’s going on here?”
It was a woman’s voice and Trace turned to see an elderly nurse standing in the doorway.
“Who are you?” she said, even as she walked over to Carey’s bedside and looked down at the old man. His eyes had closed now, but he appeared to be breathing regularly.
“Walter Marks. I’m a friend of the family. Just stopped in to see how he was doing. He was trying to talk.”
“Visiting hours are this afternoon and you get passes at the front desk,” the woman said crisply. She was adjusting the covers over Carey’s body. She took his pulse and nodded to herself in satisfaction.
“Is he all right?” Trace asked.
“He’s fine. Just come back when you’re supposed to be here.”
“I will,” Trace said as he left the room.
Out in the hallway, he could find no men’s room, where he could change the tape in his recorder. He went into a door marked EXIT and walked up the steps to the next floor. A sign outside the door read: THREE EAST. NO ADMITTANCE. Trace pushed open the door and was facing a uniformed guard.
“Yes, sir?” the guard said.
Trace smiled sheepishly. “My aunt Lulu’s eating cigarette butts again. I was just checking the place out.”
“Sorry, sir, this area is restricted. You’ll have to arrange a visit at the front office.”
“Sure,” Trace said. “How come it’s restricted?”
“Special patients,” the guard said brusquely. “Ask at the front desk.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Outside the door to Three East, there was a pay telephone on the landing, and Trace decided to call Sylvan Glade to see if he had any messages. He searched through his pockets until he found a dime, but when he tried to dial the number, an operator came on and told him the call was twenty cents.
“I thought a short call was a dime.”
“It’s twenty cents in New Jersey. Deposit another ten cents please.”
“I’m just calling down the block.”
“The call is twenty cents. Please deposit another ten cents.”
“I don’t have another dime. Can I mail it to you? Send you a stamp?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“You’re no fun,” Trace said as he hung up. His dime was not returned.
In the parking lot, Trace noticed a Mercedes Benz parked next to his rented Ford.
Visible through the right front windshield, lying on the dashboard, was a yellow piece of cardboard marked PARKING.
The windows of the Mercedes were open and Trace reached in and filched the parking pass.
He turned and saw a uniformed maintenance man sweeping the sidewalk behind him. The man’s uniform hung on him as if it had originally been purchased to hold two like him. Trace wondered if he had noticed anything, and he tossed the parking pass into his car and walked over toward the man, who smiled a
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