candidates. They were in pain and outnumbered. A young man in athletic sweats slumped in a chair, his face contorted in pain and one ankle propped on a nearby coffee table. His girlfriend fussed around him, rubbing the injured joint and glaring at an oblivious nurse's aide. A basketball had rolled under his chair, forgotten by all but a young boy sniffling nearby, who eyed it with longing and hope. Against the far wall of the waiting room, a very young and very drunk Danish sailor, on leave from his ship berthed nearby, clutched a hand that dripped steady drops of blood onto his white uniform. The scarlet stain spread across his chest as if he had been pierced in the heart. But the nurses—who had already confirmed that it was a minor cut hand inflicted by a broken beer bottle—had decided that he deserved to wait.
The only respite from the madness of this hopeless system was a small cluster of waiting figures anchored by a waving Auntie Lil. They had pulled their chairs in a broad semicircle in front of the double-wide doors that led to the treatment rooms of the emergency facility. Every time anyone entered or exited the inner sanctum, Auntie Lil was able to peek inside and demand updates from whatever hounded medical professional had failed to move quickly enough to avoid her. One dashed successfully past just as Herbert, Adelle and her two consorts joined the group.
"Sir!" Auntie Lil demanded of the already departed doctor. He left a faint whiff of antiseptic behind.
"How is he?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly. "Miss Adelle filled me in on what happened."
"He's alive. That's all I know," she replied miserably. She lifted her brows slightly and slid her eyes quietly to the right. Father Stebbins sat crouched in a chair beside her, a rosary clutched in his hands. His lips moved silently as he prayed and his eyes glistened with tears. He alone among the suffering had managed, at least in mind, to escape the stuffy waiting room. Fran sat next to him, tight-lipped and silent, her hand resting lightly on the priest's arm.
"What happened?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly, aware that Adelle was listening in. "I heard very few details. Only that the young boy's friend ran into St. Barnabas shouting that Timmy was dead."
"We don't know yet," Auntie Lil told him. "He was lured to an abandoned building and beaten almost to death. Little Pete escaped unharmed, but he ran away before he would say who was responsible."
From long habit, Herbert's eyes slid from face to face in the dreary room. "That's the Homefront man," he confirmed in a low voice, indicating Bob Fleming.
Auntie Lil nodded. They watched the Homefront director quietly argue with a nurse at the admitting desk. He was obviously a veteran at negotiating quick settlements in the overcrowded, overworked atmosphere. He spoke quickly and firmly, but in a low voice, his finger frequently hitting the countertop for emphasis. Each time the nurse's face appeared about to cross over to anger, he would lean close and whisper something that triggered a quick smile.
"He knows what he's doing," Herbert confirmed.
"Let's hope so. He signed a stack of papers two feet high." Auntie Lil nodded toward the cold steel doors. "They let Annie inside. They seem to know her well here."
Herbert nodded and gently took Auntie Lil's hand. "Not your fault," he said simply and she replied with a weak smile.
"Miss Hubbert." Bob Fleming stood before them, looking tired but hopeful. "I guess they don't have time to read the newspapers around here. They don't seem to know I'm a pariah. They've agreed to admit him if Homefront guarantees the bill. I'm going to go down to the precinct now and talk to the detectives who questioned me about Timmy's allegations yesterday."
"Now?" Auntie Lil asked in surprise.
Fleming shrugged. "There's nothing more I can do here and I might as well volunteer for questions before they come and drag me down there. This way, it will look a whole lot better. I'm sure I'm the number one suspect in their book."
"I can certainly vouch for your whereabouts when this happened," Fran spoke up. Her voice was firm and calm; she remained in complete control. Father Stebbins, on the other hand, appeared not to have heard. He was still lost in prayer and worry.
Fleming nodded his thanks. "Good. You'll have to. But it's still better this way. Annie will be out in a minute with a progress report.