This only fuels the media’s speculation. Soon, Miami’s CBS, NBC and ABC affiliates, as well as the independent stations and the stations for Spanish speakers, have picked up the “Roxie story,” as they are calling it.
Cat starts to doubt her own competence.
How could things have come to this?
* * *
Thomas and Isabella watch in rapt delight as the Miami ABC affiliate, Channel 10’s reporters speculate as to what is going on. A piece featuring many of Roxie’s neighbors airs repeatedly on the noon, four o’clock, five o’clock, six o’clock and ten o’clock news segments. There is speculation that Roxie’s “alleged rape” and beating are related to organized crime, though no one in the media says what supposed crime family is involved and what they would want with a legal secretary. No one makes any link to anything happening at Black and Knight.
Isabella is delighted as she runs her long, manicured fingernails through Thomas Pierce’s hair watching this news. They are curled up on the white leather sofa together, and Isabella has a glass of Chardonnay she has been nursing to her side. Thomas leans his back against her. She has his head on her lap. Her deliciously long fingers feel wonderful going through his hair, teasing his scalp.
“They are idiots, no?” she says to him, her Ukrainian accent only vaguely audible as she rolls through her r’s.
“Yes. They have no idea.” He pauses, enjoying her fingers running over his scalp. “It is good we got rid of Big Tiny. He was getting sloppy.”
Isabella nods, still running her fingers through Thomas’s hair, feeling his scalp. She knows that he is putty in her hands when she does this simple act. “We have no room for that in the Operation. But I will have to find another transporter.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And we will have to get rid of this Roxie woman. She cannot live. She cannot be allowed to talk to the police or this Powers woman.” The way Isabella says the word “live,” Thomas knows she is serious. Isabella is usually serious at times like this. It is the reason she is so good at what she does. Instinctively, she never loses sight of the prize. It is the reason she has not only survived, but thrived, for this long.
Pierce says nothing for some time, considering her comments, his eyes closed. “Yes, Isabella, you are always right. I will send Yosef to pay her a visit in the hospital.”
With that, he puts his head back, leaning against Isabella’s belly, allowing her to continue stroking his hair and his scalp, back and forth. Her nails make his spine tingle.
“Whatever you wish, my dear.”
Isabella says nothing.
* * *
To Yosef, this hospital is like all the others. No matter how fancy they are, they all smell the same. The human smell of fear, of death, of destruction. Inside Mercy Memorial, people sit huddled in the lobby with their heads down, shoulders shrugged. Families together, some holding hands, some praying softly. The sick to one side. The worried to the other. It is this way in every hospital—whether in Gaza or Israel’s countryside or Jerusalem or the West Bank. It was like this in hospitals in Paris and London and Madrid where Yosef has lived.
It is the same.
Human suffering.
The smell of fear.
The look on family members’ faces of the future unknown as they worry for their loved ones. Praying for the best, fearing the worst. Yosef hates hospitals because of this.
But he is a man on a mission today.
Nothing will change that.
He walks in wearing a priest’s outfit, white collar, black shirt, black pants. He asks to see Roxie, flashes a fake ID at the ER desk and subsequent nurses’ station. He says Roxie’s family has sent him and that she is a parishioner at St. Sebastian. Of course, there is a St. Sebastian Catholic Church near Fort Lauderdale not too far from where Roxie lives on “church row,” but Yosef does not know if Roxie has ever attended services there. It does not matter to Yosef. It is enough to get him past the nurses’ station and in to see Roxie when visitors are not allowed and visiting hours are just about over. Mercy Memorial’s halls are quiet but for the occasional moan and the beep-beep-beep of the monitors.
The monitors’ noises take Yosef back to his days growing up in the West Bank and Jerusalem. Remembering his mother’s time in the hospital after she had been struck down by a Palestinian’s bomb, her face a patchwork of places where nails and bolts had penetrated flesh. The way her one good eye looked at him for the last time before she died. Yosef feels his throat constrict as he remembers her one good eye’s last tear, her hand clenching his tight, before she passed away. Right there in front of him. He was only eight years old. Just a boy. But that day had made him a man. The ruthless man he is today.
Another reason Yosef hates hospitals.
They always bring back that memory, no matter how many years have passed. Watching his mother die was the primary reason he had become an assassin, and a good one. No one expected a mild-mannered old Israeli man to be a cold-blooded killer.
As he enters the dimmed room, Roxie moves slightly as though she has heard him, but she does not open her eyes. She cannot, as she is still under sedation.
Yosef focuses on the task at hand. Just Yosef and Roxie in her room, no one else. Except the drip-drip-drip of the IV titrator into her wrist and the occasional beep from one of her monitors.
Drugs are a beautiful thing.
He looks at this woman. She seems small and frail, like a tiny hummingbird he could just crush in his hand. She is nothing to him.
Stealthily, he removes a syringe from his pocket. His favorite killing tool. Knives and guns are so messy. Blood and guts all over the place. But a syringe, either into the body itself or, in this case, into the IV going straight into Roxie’s bloodstream, is so much more beautiful and controlled. So efficient. No screaming. No guts. No blood. No mess.
Clean, quick and simple.
Growing up in the chaos that was Jerusalem, through numerous “conflicts” with the Palestinians, some the Israelis called “wars,” Yosef has seen enough blood and guts and people blown into pieces to last three lifetimes. He prefers a more quiet method of kill. Drugs and poisons are his chosen accomplices.
He leans over Roxie, so close to her face he can see her nostrils moving air in and out of her lungs. Her skin is smooth. He wishes he could touch her but knows he cannot. In a strange way, she reminds him of his mother.
It is always this way for Yosef.
He sees his mother’s face in each female he kills. He should be used to it by now. His mother’s memory, her presence, is never far from him. Never far from his mind. Never far from his soul.
He leans over Roxie’s IV, injects the drug. He adjusts the titrator so it will run slower as the drug makes its way to her heart. He will have about ten minutes in which to escape, quietly leaving, before her heart goes into an abnormal tachycardia rhythm, then full A-fib, then cardiac arrest. As Yosef leaves Mercy Memorial with a not too quick step, he hears the overhead speakers shout, “Code Blue stat,” with a reference to Roxie’s room number.
Yosef slips out into a light rain, feeling it warm his face and dampen his clothes. He has a feeling of euphoria knowing his job is done.
* * *
Cat hears only buzzing in her ears, as she rewinds the nurse’s words in her head. “She’s gone.”
“What?” Cat’s heart is racing as she screams into her cell phone.
The nurse’s voice is flat, without affect. There is no doubt she’s made this kind of call before. Cat has been on the receiving end of such a call only once before in her life, when her father died. Even though they were not close, she remembers the physicality of how the words that he had passed hit her. She had gone to her knees. Tears for many hours. It was if there was no air left for her in the world when she found out he was gone.
“Who’s gone?” Cat cannot put it together in her mind.
Who are you talking about?
She left Roxie earlier this afternoon, looking l
ike she was recovering just fine.
The buzzing is getting louder. “What are you saying?” Cat is screaming at the Mercy Memorial nurse on the phone.
The nurse’s voice is calm, monotone. “She died earlier tonight. I don’t normally discuss such things because of HIPAA, but you are a doctor. She had a massive heart attack. Not much we could do. She coded before we could get a crash cart into her room. She flatlined. Never came back. I think we worked on her for a good half hour, but she never came back.”
Being a physician herself, Cat can see each action the nurse is talking about like a slow-motion movie in her mind. Roxie on the receiving end of it, her body already going cold, lifeless, eyes staring into nothingness, her lips and pallor turning blue and cold, as the doctors try to revive her. Her body jerks but her heart and her breathing do not respond. In her mind’s eye, Cat can see the woman’s lips turn from a familiar pink to lifeless blue-white. Roxie’s eyes are glassy and unmoving. Her body lifeless. Her wrists hang off the bed as the doctors try to bring her back. Cat can visualize all the doctors and nursing staff rushing about, waiting and staring at the monitor, knowing full well Roxie is already gone.
What are you talking about?
Cat can say nothing. She simply feels the room spinning around her. She feels a whoosh of air leave her lungs but does not feel herself exhale. Right now, she feels nothing but numbness.
Roxie is gone.
Cat feels her body going down. Falling.
In the blackness in her mind, Cat sees only Roxie’s face hovering over her. As if Roxie’s ghost is there already, blaming her for all of this. For pain. For brutality. For death. Cat cannot think. She feels the weight of Roxie’s passing in her soul.
What are you talking about?
Cat is to blame for this horror.
In the blackness behind her eyes, Cat finds her soul crying for Roxie.
Crying into an endless abyss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I bend but do not break.
—Aesop, “The Oak and the Reed,”
in La Fontaine, Fables
Cat awakens from blackness. Roxie is still in the back of her mind, as is a throbbing headache.
She realizes now, more than ever before, that grief means different things to different people. Some people are more outward with it—able to talk about the loved one they lost and able to express how much they loved that person. Others, like Joey, keep it all bottled up inside, not able to speak of it. Not able to confront it. It is easier to pretend that it never happened. It is easier to believe that person isn’t gone forever. Just gone for a while. It is easier to believe that person isn’t dead. Then the hurt doesn’t come. Then the feeling of isolation isn’t there. Then the loneliness stays at bay.
Roxie is dead because of me.
Roxie is dead.
Because I was careless.
Because I didn’t think.
Nate is standing next to her, his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest. She tries to say his name, but not much comes out. Her throat feels sore and parched. Above her, she hears familiar sounds from beeping monitors for her heart rate and her blood pressure. She is in a hospital.
Looking down, she sees a plastic oxygen monitor on her ring finger, pinching it ever so slightly. She tries unsuccessfully to sit up in the bed.
Nate spins around at the sound of Cat’s movement. He sits by her bedside, looking into her eyes. Cat does not want to look at him. She blames herself. She does not want him here. She does not want to explain how stupid she has been. She does not want him to negate it either. How can he negate sending someone to an untimely death?
He can see her emotions written all over face.
She does not want his pity or his understanding.
In her heart, she knows she deserves neither.
She does not want to be patronized.
It should have been her, not Roxie, as bait. It should have been her life on the line, not Roxie’s. She can’t stop thinking about it.
“Cat, I know what you are thinking.”
“No, you don’t.” She is defiant, as always. “Don’t pity me. Pity Roxie. I’m still alive. She’s not.” Her own words roll through Cat’s consciousness over and over, plunging deeper and deeper like a knife through her soul.
“I know.” Nate is more emphatic this time.
Tears well up in Cat’s eyes. Suddenly, they roll down her cheeks before she can do anything to stop them. Cat’s body heaves with the blame of it all; her shoulders hunch so she looks not like a woman, but like a child. She does not want to cry like this. Not in front of Nate. Not about this. Not like this. She is stronger than this. She can’t let it happen.
But she knows she has no control.
Nate holds her in his arms, his body against hers. So close, she can smell his cologne. And yet inside, she feels nothing. Only emptiness and blame.
Right now, nothing seems right.
Roxie is dead.
As he cradles Cat, her tears come even faster. Grief takes over. “It’s okay, Cat.” He whispers it over and over in her ear as though it could be true.
In Cat’s soul, a piece is gone. An emptiness there. A cavern that can never be filled. For Roxie’s life and her death. For all that was and all that could have been. For all that will never be now. Now that Roxie is gone.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Nate is saying to her, as he rocks her. She does not want to be like this, not with a colleague she respects and must see each day. And yet, she simply cannot pull it together. Her face feels hot and her lips feel swollen. Nate’s shoulder is wet from her emotions.
He says nothing more. He allows the silence and sound of her emotions to fill the room.
She knows she needs to get it out.
He is a good man.
She knows he will not judge her for this. She will recover in time. She must recover. For Joey.
She leans back out of his arms, holds him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes. There, she sees a man she is coming to care for in more ways than she can say. She sees the strength, determination and willfulness of her secret love.
Her eyes are searching his, back and forth over his face. In that moment, she sees something she has never seen before. Is it just her emotions? Is she thinking straight? No, there in Nate’s eyes, there is something more than just respect. There is a tenderness there. Maybe even love.
Love for her, even like this.
Even looking like this.
A mess.
A god-awful mess.
Cat feels grateful for it.
In that instant, Cat decides there will be a tomorrow. In that moment, she knows what she must do. Roxie’s death will not be in vain. If Cat does it with her dying breath, she will bring whoever was responsible for killing Roxie to justice. She pulls Nate in and holds him tight, tighter than before. Cat whispers to him, “Thank you.” He kisses her on the forehead, turns and is gone.
She never sees his tears shining like crystal pools in his eyes as he closes the door to her hospital room.
* * *
The next day, when Cat is released from the hospital, Nate is there to help her and to take her to her hotel. Cat says little, unsure about their intimate exchange the day before. Unsure of what to say. How to say it? Unsure if she simply dreamed it.
In the car, Nate is the first to speak of it, breaking the awkward silence between them. “You know, about yesterday . . .”
On instinct, Cat takes over the conversation. She is in control again, or at least, that is what she wants him to think. “I don’t know what came over me. I apologize for it. I must have looked a mess. It was unprofessional of me.” Her words are quick, nervous, as she looks out the passenger-side window toward a growing Fort Lauderdale skyline. She does not want to make eye contact with Nate. She does not want him to see the lack of truth in her eyes. She was so vulnerable yesterday. It is not like her.
It is as if she is walking a tightrope over quicksand.
He stops her talking with a simple touch of his hand on her check. A soft, tender touch so filled with emotion.
“Don’t . . . ,” he says. “I know it’s not easy for you. I know you don’t want to open yourself up to this. It’s not easy to be vulnerable in this business. It’s not easy to show emotions . . .” His words tumble out, but he keeps talking. “But you know what? Sometimes there is something there.”
“But . . .”
“No buts. Yesterday, there was something between us, Catherine.”
She says nothing, continuing to look out the car’s window at things going by. She cannot let him see what she is feeling, thinking. She knows it is written all over her face.
He continues to speak, his words soft and tender.
“Something that can’t be denied. No matter how hard you try to close yourself off to it, Catherine.”
“Yes, but I can’t. It’s not time yet. Mark . . .”
“You can’t live forever in Mark’s memory, Catherine. It’s not healthy. You must move on.”
“I can’t. It’s not right. Not yet. It’s too soon for anything . . .”
Cat can feel her face getting flushed.
Nate will have none of what she is saying.
“Look, yesterday in your hospital room, I felt it too. There was something between us. Something special that I haven’t felt in a long time. I know you felt it too. You can’t close yourself off to it. No matter how hard you think your heart has become. No matter how much you try to protect yourself.”
“But I can, and I must. For Mark. For his memory.”
There is silence for thirty seconds.
As if Cat wants her words to sink in.
“And for Joey.”
Another minute of silence as the green trees and the scenery whiz by the car.
“I don’t want to replace Mark in your memory, Catherine. I know I never can. Mark was your husband. Mark will always be Joey’s father. No man can replace that. But yesterday, I felt something undeniable. I’ve actually felt it for a long time, Catherine.” His words slow as he says the last two sentences, as though he is struggling too, to let her know how he really feels.
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