Blood Music by Jessie Prichard Hunter Read Free Book Online

Admissions, St. Vincent’s. “Excuse me, but could you tell me the name of the woman who was treated and released last night in the Slasher attack?”
    â€œAre you a member of the immediate family?”
    For one mad moment John thought of saying yes. “No,” he said. For the first time in a long time he almost laughed.
    â€œI’m sorry, but we are not at liberty to give out patient information.”
    â€œIs there anyone I could—”
    â€œI’m sorry, but we are not at liberty to give out patient information.”
    Numbers. Columns on a page. How much the new Mac computers were costing versus the figures on typesetting and page makeup for a year ago. What precinct would it be? Washington and Bank. He called information, where they eventually told him it was the Sixth Precinct. As he dialed the number he realized he was frightened. He had to tell himself there was no way the police were going to know who he was or why he was trying to find out the woman’s name. But when the phone rang in his ear he still wanted to hang up.
    â€œSixth Precinct.” The voice, a woman’s, had no inflection at all.
    â€œUh—I guess I want the Slasher Task Force.”
    â€œJust a moment.” The voice was completely uninterested.
    â€œSlasher Task Force. How can I help you today?” This voice was big and hearty; it filled up John’s ear. A black voice, Southern.
    â€œExcuse me.” John hesitated. “I’m trying to find out the name of the woman who escaped from the Slasher,” he said finally; but he had given his hesitation to the policeman on the other end of the phone, like a piece of clothing that can later be used for tracking.
    There was a ruminative silence in John’s ear; when the voice spoke again it was easy.
    â€œMy name is Sgt. Blackman,” the voice said, and it laughed. “And I am, too.” A truly rich voice, multilayered. Now it was friendly and watchful. “And what might your name be?” John said nothing, said, “Uh,” very softly. The voice filled the gap. “You know I can’t just hand out that information to whoever asks me for it. How about you tell me who you are and why you need to know?”
    â€œIs she all right?” John asked; quite suddenly it didn’t matter about finding the Slasher, just for a moment, it was more important that the woman be all right.
    â€œNo, she’s not.” The voice had gone altogether cold. “She had the scare of a lifetime, and she doesn’t need any newspapermen knocking on her door this morning.”
    â€œOh, no,” John burst out, “I’m not with the papers. My—” and he stopped in confusion; he had given something away.
    â€œWell, that’s good to hear,” Sgt. Blackman said, his voice smooth again. John got the impression of a big dog sitting up on a desk at the other end of the line, a big dog with its head cocked to one side and very intelligent eyes. “You know I can’t give out her name.” There was a pause so sudden and complete that John thought the phone had gone dead.
    â€œIt’s just that—” he said, and then he stopped and heard nothing and went on, “—but I just wanted to talk to her. I need to talk to her.” The air was dead in his ear and then Sgt. Blackman said, very softly, “Why?”
    John moved the phone away from his ear because his eyes had filled with tears and he had to clear his throat. He didn’t want Sgt. Blackman to hear that but he probably had. John put his hand up to his face and rubbed, hard; he hated to cry. He put the receiver back up to his ear. “I’m sorry,” he said briskly, “I guess I’m wasting your time.” And he moved to hang up, ashamed of himself and angry, and Sgt. Blackman said, “Wait,” a command and a promise.
    â€œI want you to know I’m here, son,” Sgt. Blackman said.