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Page 199
hemorrhages. He could be a drunkas a Russian, Irene thought swiftly of this possibilitybut she discarded it. She needed to do a complete work-up on him, then spend some time with the books. It had been a long while since she had dealt with anyone in quite this condition. She left the nightlight on and walked back to the nursing station. She regarded the telephone for a long time before she lifted the receiver and dialed the number the transient had so carefully preserved.
There were a half-dozen rings before anyone answered. Not surprising, she thought guiltily. It was well past midnight.
"The White House."
Nurse Cullen gasped and hung up the telephone. She sat for a moment, heart pounding.
She almost leaped from her chair when the telephone rang under her hand. She picked it up and said shakily, "Spatha Station Hospital."
Bobby Lee Calhoun's soft North Carolina accents were on the other end of the line. "Miz Cullen?"
"Yes. Is that you, Bobby Lee?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Just then she was startled by a crash from the ward. On the telephone, Deputy Calhoun shouted, "What was that? Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes. Hold on, Bobby Lee, something has fallen in the ward." She left the telephone and ran, soundlessly on her rubbersoled shoes, down the hall to the ward. She snapped on the overhead lights.
The stand that held the IV bottle upright was on the floor, the flask shattered, saline solution puddled on the linoleum. Her patient lay sprawled beside it. He had apparently attempted to get out of his bed but had collapsed from weakness. His arms and legs made crawling motions, and he was moaning and calling out in Russian.
She knelt by his side and cradled his head tenderly, at the same time reaching for the call-bell that had been torn free of

 
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