“Red-dyed solution,” Winter told Director Adams as the two watched the liquid travel through the IV line. It was difficult to maintain her composure with River in such terrible shape, but she had to keep up the façade. She couldn’t let the director know she was giving him real medicine. “Kid’s in decent health, though. He might pull through anyway.”
“That could be a problem,” Adams muttered. “See what you can do. And make sure his bill gets paid.”
Winter clenched and unclenched her left fist. “Of course.” She’d been working on a plan to sneak into the payment office and destroy her mother’s file, and now she’d be adding her brother to the list. But she’d need to wait until he was out of the hospital—and Adams’s mind.
“Which reminds me—” Adams began.
“Andersen?” Winter asked before he could remind her again. “I’m going to…speak with his next of kin after I finish this round.”
Adams nodded approvingly. “Take your assistant with you. If she proves to be competent, I’ll consider putting her in charge of bill collection. As much as I like sending the Plague Saint to collect, you only have so much time to treat patients.” His expression darkened. “And immediately handing the bills over the city guard is…upsetting to some people. Now is not a great time for us to be drawing negative attention.”
No way Phoebe was capable of that. Not emotionally. Still, Winter nodded. “Sure.”
She finished her rounds, updating her patients’ treatment schedules as she went. When she returned to her office, Phoebe was scribbling away in a notebook.
“You’re coming on a bill collection trip with me,” Winter told her. “Adams’s orders.”
Phoebe closed the notebook and jumped to her feet. “Oh. Uh, sure. Okay.” She grabbed her coat off the rack, and the two set out.
Winter skimmed Andersen’s file while they walked. Director Adams had ordered family records from the city guard, revealing that Andersen had a cousin living a few blocks from the hospital.
“It’s not really fair, is it?” Phoebe asked. She kicked a stray stone. “Why should they have to pay their dead relative’s bills?”
What would the real Plague Saint say? Something profoundly stupid, probably. Winter slid Andersen’s file into her bag. “I don’t make the rules.”
“Why not? You have a lot of sway, don’t you?”
Sway that came from being good at killing whoever Adams wanted killed and saving whoever he wanted saved. But that wouldn’t last. Winter wouldn’t let it last, and Adams wouldn’t let her get away with breaking his agenda. She was running out of time. Something had to change, and if she didn’t make the first move, Adams would.
“Adams was thinking about promoting you and putting you in charge of collecting payments,” Winter said, changing the subject. “That’s part of why I brought you.”
Phoebe frowned. “I’m not sure I—”
“Want to? I figured as much. But it’s your choice. And it might come with higher pay.” And the guilt of harassing grieving people for money.
“Will he fire me if I say no?”
“I doubt he’d try, but I need you as my assistant. I won’t let him.”
Phoebe perked up. “You like having me around?”
Winter awkwardly adjusted her grip on the staff. “You make paperwork easier.” She wasn’t the monster the real Plague Saint was, but she’d never been one to show much affection, either. “Training a new assistant would be a pain in the ass.”
Still, Phoebe grinned. “Whatever you say.”
The smile faded when Winter stopped in front of a dull apartment complex. “This is the place,” Winter told her. Seeing the alarm on Phoebe’s face, she added, “Relax. I’ll do all the talking.”
As Winter knocked on the door, part of her hoped no one would answer. But another part knew if that happened, she’d have no choice but to hand the case over to the city guard.
The door creaked open a few inches. The woman on the other side took in the uniform, the mask, the staff. Her expression darkened, but she did her best to sound polite. “Plague Saint? Can I help you?”
Winter took a deep breath. In the moment before she started speaking, she could hear children yelling somewhere in the house. “Does Erik Andersen live here?”
The woman nodded.
“According to city records, he’s Jacob Andersen’s closest living relative.” Winter drew the bill out of her bag. “I’m afraid Jacob passed away with money still owed.”
The exhaustion on the woman’s face worsened. “How much?” she asked weakly.
Winter held out the bill. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman took it. Her eyes widened.
“We can’t afford this,” she said. “We didn’t even see Jacob that much.”
“My apologies, but it’s hospital policy.” Saying the words made Winter feel sick. But she couldn’t blow her stolen identity. Not yet.
“What if we can’t pay?”
Winter would have to find some way to make this right. But this poor woman was one of many in the city. One of many that the people in power were eager to squeeze every last dollar they could out of.
For now, Winter tapped a finger against the top of the staff. “You have until the end of the month to make your first payment. You’ll receive some payment plan options in the mail in the next few days. If you have any questions, you can call or visit the hospital. And if you can’t pay…” She swallowed. “That’s not my department.”
Contacting next of kin shouldn’t have been her department either, but it seemed the real Plague Saint had been happy to perform this task for Adams. He must have liked being present in the lives of the city’s people. It added to the persona. Winter had initially found it strange he didn’t want to appear completely benevolent, but he had an excuse: if the hospital didn’t get its money, he couldn’t heal the people.
And the stories the preachers told in church…well, the figures sent by God in those stories weren’t always pleasant, either. God’s will didn’t have to be pleasant.
Winter rejoined Phoebe—who’d waited just close enough to hear the conversation—and they headed back toward the hospital.
“Why is this the Plague Saint’s job?” Phoebe asked after a minute, echoing Winter’s earlier thoughts. “Wouldn’t your time be better spent with patients?”
Winter considered for a long moment, unsure how to convey her true thoughts on the Plague Saint when she was pretending to be him. “Adams has interesting ideas about how things should be done,” she finally said.
It felt a bit like deflecting blame, but to be fair, she had no idea how much of this had been the real Plague Saint’s idea and how much had been Adams. Maybe the hospital director thought if he sent the people someone they saw as a savior to collect, they’d be more inclined to pay.
“Like harassing innocent people for money?” Phoebe said the words under her breath, but Winter still heard them. She didn’t respond.
When Winter had first learned about the next of kin policy, she’d been conflicted. It was certainty unfair, but where was the hospital supposed to get money if so many of its patients died?
It didn’t take much time going through the files and letters in the Saint’s office to learn the truth: the absurd amount of money on the bills was far more than it cost to actually treat patients, and Adams was taking most of the money that came in for his salary. And even if the hospital weren’t profitable, there were plenty of wealthy people in the city who could easily afford to pay more taxes to fund the hospital.
Adams wasn’t the entire problem, but as long as he was around, things were going to stay terrible. Winter wondered what the chances were of him catching one of the plagues. Probably slim. He was taking excellent precautions. But if he slipped up…
Back at the hospital, Phoebe returned to paperwork, and Winter returned to sneaking real medicine to patients that needed it. While she was in the middle of taking down the vitals of a red plague victim, Adams entered the room. Winter’s jaw clenched under the mask.
“Andersen’s bill?” he asked.
“Gave it to his cousin’s household. Told them they have until the end of the month to send their first payment.” Winter tightened the cap on the blood sample she’d just taken, which she’d figured out how to do from a combination of closely watching nurses and reviewing the Saint’s written instructions. “I don’t think they’ll be able to pay, though.”
“Then the city guard will handle it.” Adams’s tone was as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
Winter dared to bring up the point that had been on her mind for some time. “That doesn’t benefit us, though.”
“Not directly. But it helps the city financial advisor, and she’s the one signing off on our budget.”
City financial advisor. That was someone to look into.
Adams looked Winter’s patient up and down. “How’s he doing?”
“Not sure. He just came in,” Winter answered. “But he’s got red plague and he’s eighty-three, so I doubt he has much of a chance.” That was true, even with Winter giving him the best medicine she had.
“Good.”
Adams left Winter to stare at the man, her fists clenched, her jaws tight. The rage burning in her chest was undeniable. Hell, it was the only thing in this city keeping her warm.
Winter opened her hand to study the vial of blood.
If Adams wanted this poor man dead so bad, maybe he could go with him.
Winter returned to her office, walked past Phoebe without a word, and entered the Plague Saint’s lab. She pulled out the Plague Bible and read through every entry mentioning the red plague.
Adams was in good health, but he was nearing sixty. If he was infected with red plague, he’d show symptoms within a day. If he received real treatment, Winter estimated he had close to a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through, maybe higher.
But even without treatment, he’d still last a few days. Winter sighed. She couldn’t let his death drag out that long. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, and if she didn’t give him her medicine, God knew what he’d do. She could risk lying and giving him fake treatment, but something told her Adams was too smart for that.
Winter lifted her gaze from the Bible to the freezer on the other side of the lab. Other blood and saliva samples filled the shelves, plenty of specimens from every plague. Her fingers drummed against the counter.
With five plagues running rampant in the city, there were inevitably cases of people catching two at once. Winter had even found records of patients with three in the Saint’s files. The only one she’d seen herself was a man who’d died within hours of coming in. While he’d had signs of green plague since the night before, yellow and red symptoms had only showed up the morning of his death.
Winter crossed the room to the freezer.
She told herself she was just looking. Then she told herself if it wasn’t Adams, it would be all the dying patients. People like River. Do it for River.
Nothing she told herself prevented her hands from trembling, nor her heart from racing, but she didn’t let that stop her from taking a sample of each plague.