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MARY LOATHED WILLIS Flugum. How could she not?
But all she wanted to do was put him in jail. Not in his grave.
Her adrenaline pumping, she rushed over to him. He was lying face down on the floor, terribly still.
Leaning over him, Mary touched a finger to his neck. She could feel no pulse, and her own heart quickened. It didn’t help that her hand was shaking.
“Don’t be dead,” she pleaded. “Please don’t be dead.”
Moving her finger to a second spot, she finally found a pulse, and let loose a sigh of relief.
She patted the unconscious man and found the ring of keys on his belt. Stuck in the top of his white pants in back was Mary’s own Smith & Wesson. She reclaimed it. Then she felt through his coat pockets and discovered a brown bottle of ether and a rag.
Flugum was moaning now. Mary needed to act quickly. She dribbled some of the clear liquid onto the rag, taking care to keep it away from her own face. Then, hands still shaking, she pressed it over his nostrils and mouth for three or four seconds. She hoped that was enough and not too much. Having nearly killed him once, she didn’t want to chance doing it for real the second time.
The moaning stopped and Flugum once again went still.
There were at least twenty keys on the ring, and it took Mary a moment to find the right one. She grabbed the lamp and locked the scoundrel into her former cell. Allowing herself one calming, deep breath, she then went to Christena’s door and held the lamp up.
Christena’s face was plastered to the glass in the porthole, wearing a look of utter incredulity. Her mouth was working away, but Mary had no idea what she was saying.
She put the lamp on the floor. It took another minute to find the right key for Christena’s cell. And the instant the door swung open, Mary found herself in a rib-cracking, smothering embrace.
“Oh, Mary,” her aunt blubbered. “You’re all right. I was so afraid that awful man had hurt you.”
Mary held Christena at arm’s length and gave her a good examination. She seemed none the worse for wear, although the shabby gray dress she now wore did nothing to flatter her—even the stained brown skirt and shirtwaist that she had arrived in at Westerholm had looked more deluxe.
“I’m fine. And I’m the one who hurt him. But right now, we have to get out of here. And that means sneaking down four flights and out the front door as quickly as possible.”
They descended the stairs in starts and fits, pausing in ink-black nooks when activity was heard. They had removed their shoes to avoid clicking and clacking, and Mary had transformed her makeshift bloomers back into a skirt, albeit a ripped one. When they finally got to the first floor by the infirmary, they put their shoes back on and went slowly across the windowed passageway between the east wing and the administration building. Christena peeked out into the lobby.
“There’s someone sitting at that desk,” she whispered. “And someone else is talking to her. An attendant, I think. They most certainly will try to stop us from leaving. Any ideas for persuading them that we’re sane?”
With a wry grin, Mary hefted her Smith & Wesson.
The shock on Christena’s face was priceless. “You’re going to shoot them?”
“Of course not,” Mary muttered. “But they don’t know that.”
“Ah, a grand bluff.”
“That’s the idea.”
But just as they were about to move forward with their plan, a loud pounding resonated through the lobby. Mary stole a look. It was the gregarious Nurse Swenson who was at the desk, talking with a female attendant. They both turned in the direction of the main door.
“Who the devil could that be at this hour?” Nurse Swenson said.
She went to the big double door, followed by the attendant. The pounding continued and so did muffled shouting. Mary couldn’t see who was outside.
“Westerholm is closed at this hour, sir,” the nurse hollered through the glass and wood. “If you wish to visit a patient or see one of the doctors, you’ll have to come back in the morning.”
The angry shouting and pounding continued.
“I am not opening the door,” Nurse Swenson insisted. “And if you keep pounding, I’ll call the police.”
Looking a bit concerned, she turned to the attendant. “Sadie, go find Oscar or Willis. Whoever it is out there sounds crazy.”
Briefly savoring the irony of the woman’s observation, Mary turned to Christena. “It could be Edmond with the deputy.”
“Or it could be Olcott,” Christena countered. “This may be a case where discretion is the better part of valor.”
Mary thought a moment. “Right. We’ll find a place to hide out of sight until the dust settles. Olive Handy told me the east wing had its own kitchen. No one should be in there this time of night.”
The two women made their way back past the infirmary entrance to the kitchen, and slipped inside. A single gas sconce flickered weakly up on the wall, casting barely enough light to see. It showed stacks of plates and wood trays, pots and pans, sinks, tables, cupboards up and down one wall, and two stoves. The gaping opening of a dumbwaiter sat centered in one of the walls—doubtlessly to send meals up to the well-to-do ladies on the second floor.
Next to a large icebox was a single door. Mary swung it open but could barely see anything from the sconce light. It seemed to be a stairway down into the basement. Without a lamp, though, it would be dangerous to try to descend into that utter blackness. A single little misstep could lead to disaster.
“Well, what do we do now?” Christena asked.
Mary groaned. They were in a terrible fix, almost certain to get caught, sooner or later. She dreaded to think what might happen if Flugum got hold of them again.
“I’m afraid there’s no way out, Tena, but the way we came.”
“Oh, yes there is. Yes there is. Yes there is,” sang a girlish voice out of the shadows.
