“Wrong again,” Will said, wheeling the chair again and moving so Chambers was forced to turn his head to follow him. “I don’t even know what you did with those fingers you cut off, with the rings still on them. I think you’ve still got them.”
“You…”
“Trophies. You still have them, don’t you, Marion? You started out as a bad cop and you turned into a serial killer. Just another scumbag who could only get it up when he was hurting a woman, who can blame it all on his childhood and find Jesus before he gets the needle. And you will get the needle, Marion.”
Chambers shook his head and laughed. Turning, he walked past Will. Suddenly Will was falling and the floor came up hard and cold, as the wheelchair clattered harshly against the tiles. His hips and ribs shuddered from the impact. A wildfire of pain broke out in his lower back. Chambers studied him from an even higher vantage, making a clucking sound with his tongue and teeth.
“I know about you, Borders. You don’t have clean hands. And now look at yourself, cripple.” He studied Will a moment longer, then walked away with a slow, confident saunter.
Cheryl Beth rounded the corner into the old atrium and saw the man sprawled on the floor, his wheelchair on its side. One of the wheels was still turning. She ran to him and was relieved to see he was conscious.
“I’m all right.”
“What happened?”
“Spill on aisle one.”
She laughed loudly and told him to not move while she checked for any possible broken bones. Fortunately, he looked to be about her age, a dark-haired tall man. He wasn’t one of the elderly patients that seemed to find every opportunity to get over the railings of their beds or lose hold of their walkers. The nurses called them falling stars. He had sutures in the middle of his back, an incision about nine inches long, but they were in good shape, probably overdue to come out. It looked like the handiwork of Dr. Goldstein. A spinal cord tumor, she guessed.
“I told you I was okay.” He pulled down the sweatshirt that had ridden up on his back and belly.
“We need to get you up. Can you stand?”
He shook his head. He was on his side with his legs still drawn up against one arm of the upset wheelchair. He raised himself to an elbow but couldn’t get any higher. She would need help. She glanced into the chapel but it was empty. No one was coming toward her from the main part of the hospital.
Suddenly she smelled it. He must have lost control when he fell from the wheelchair. The noxious, all-encompassing odor of feces seemed at odds with the man’s handsome, lived-in face and his full head of lush wavy hair. Her well-trained gag reflex didn’t react. He started coughing and stared over her shoulder. She turned and saw Lennie.
