The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  She noticed Abby slamming the door with more force than necessary. What had her so upset? She had gone to see the attorney who was helping with the adoption; Lena hoped she hadn’t gotten bad news. There’d been enough of that today. Abby stomped up the steps and threw open the door, her face crimson, her eyes so wide that Lena could see a rim of white around the irises. “What’s happened?” Lena asked, guiding her to a chair. “Are you ill?”

  Abby’s gaze searched the room like a trapped bird.

  Bill hurried to the sink for a glass of water for her.

  “Bill, this is my sister, Abby,” Lena said, keeping her voice calm. “Abby, what happened?”

  Abby’s lip trembled. This was very un-Abby. Was she having a heart attack?

  “It’s . . . not going to happen. Esteban. I’m not . . . I’m not getting him.” She lowered her head, grinding her hands into her eyes to erase tears, quaking to stifle the sobs she was too proud to release.

  “Oh, no,” Lena said.

  Bill looked confused but he didn’t ask questions, just let Abby feel the tremors of this change in her plan.

  “Abby?” Bill’s voice was gentle. “Take a deep breath, okay? I know you’re very upset but take a deep, slow breath.”

  Lena realized he was trying to keep her sister from hyperventilating.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Now try another.”

  Abby looked at him, terrified, but complied. Lena dropped into the seat beside her as the news sunk in. Abby loved that little boy. Had already invested her heart. And now?

  “Who’s Esteban?” Bill asked, returning to his chair.

  Lena told him all of it, Abby filling in a few details: “He’s a beautiful boy. And he’s doing well now that he’s getting physical therapy and help with his speech. I can’t let him stay in that orphanage . . . I can’t!”

  “I can see you’re quite attached to him,” Bill said. “Can you tell me what the lawyer said?”

  “The adoption agency didn’t follow the rules. You don’t know what it’s like down there—so much corruption. Yes, I’ve paid bribes. I did everything I was told to do. But there’s this thing called the “Hague Process” that the agency didn’t follow so they voided my application.” She spoke in a staccato ramble, ticking off the details.

  “Can you start the process over?” Lena asked.

  “There’s no time. I’m fifty-five this year, which makes me ineligible.” She shook her head. “I’ve got to get back down there. I have to do something.”

  What did that mean? Would Abby kidnap the child?

  “Hold on a second,” Bill said, lifting a finger. “Tell me about the agency you used.”

  Abby told him. Since she’d been living in Peru, a local church-run agency had said she qualified to adopt. It would be quicker than an international process, they told her, especially because she had local references. Others in her situation had done it; she’d met the children they’d adopted. She thought it would be fine. She had already paid twenty-eight thousand Nuevo Sol, which was about ten thousand dollars, and now it felt like her whole world had been ripped away. Lena knew how that felt. She reached for Abby’s hand.

  Bill listened, his forefinger pressed against his top lip. When Abby finished, he regarded her for a long moment and said, “Abby, do you mind if I look into this?”

  Lena raised her brows at the minister. Maybe Bill and his God could help Abby. At least someone might get a happy ending to all this.

  THE SUN HUNG LOW on the horizon. Joe tried to ignore the growl of hunger in his gut as he eyed the line leading up to the Methodist church soup kitchen. The clatter and talking inside was enough to tell him the supper wasn’t half bad, but he didn’t dare go in, because Cyphus Lawter might be eating, and Joe was doing all he could to avoid that man. So he’d find something else for his supper. As he trudged uptown, he detoured down an alley behind a string of restaurants. His Dumpster-diving days were over, but sometimes there’d be bags of fresh garbage stacked behind kitchen doors that he could pick through. Luck was with him; a man tossed a box of fruit outside the fancy dessert place: two bruised bananas, a clump of grapes, and three apples. Joe stuffed his pockets and kept moving.

  The apples had a few mushy spots he munched around as he headed towards his nest. It hadn’t been a bad day. Not too cold or too windy. He’d spent the afternoon up by the river, listening to the gurgle and rush of the current. The voices had quieted, no Satan, but no word from the Lord. Joe hoped the Lord hadn’t left him again, because of what had happened with Cyphus. Because Joe had let the devil inside loose. He would have killed Lawter if Rag Doll hadn’t stopped him. And now Lawter aimed to kill Joe, which was why Joe was being careful.

  Now that he thought about it, a week had passed with no sign of Cyphus. Maybe he’d gotten busted. Maybe he’d pissed off a dealer and run off. He was like that, terrorizing the town then disappearing for months on end. Maybe Joe didn’t need to be so cautious; his problem might have taken care of itself. Joe picked up speed as he headed toward the church.

  Reverend Bill’s car was still in the lot and he could see the pastor in the churchyard talking to someone, maybe somebody from the church who needed prayer or guidance. Joe slowed his stride, not wanting to interrupt. Reverend Bill spotted him, though, and motioned him over. Maybe he had work for Joe to do.

  As he approached, he recognized the large presence looming beside the pastor and trepidation filled his chest. Cyphus Lawter. Not here. Not on this holy ground. Joe hurried through the gate and caught the pastor’s smile in his direction. “There you are, Joe,” he said.

  “Reverend.” Joe felt queasy. Lawter had on dungarees, his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he deserved to be in a conversation with Reverend Bill.

  “This fella came to see you,” the pastor said, his voice kindly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lawter’s mouth slid back in an icy smile. “I been waiting on you Joe. Had a nice little chat with the reverend here.”

  Joe’s hands made fists at his side. What did Lawter have in mind? What if Joe hadn’t got here? Lawter might have hurt the Reverend. Stolen from him. Left him bleeding in the graveyard.

  “You okay?” Reverend Bill studied Joe’s face as if looking for some answer that wasn’t there.

  “I’ll leave you two to your business, then.” Reverend Bill gave him another long look before exiting the graveyard. As Joe watched the pastor slide into the blue car and drive away, a wave of relief washed over him. Reverend Bill was safe, for now.

  “You ain’t an easy man to find, Joe Booker. But I got my ways.” Lawter plucked up a stick and twisted it in his hand. “Got yourself a nice little squat here. The reverend there looking out for you. Nice man, ain’t he?”

  Joe felt the devil building inside like hot lava at the idea of Cyphus Lawter in this Holy place. He wanted to pummel the man, to finish what he started in the park. Not here, though. Not so close to the Lord’s house.

  Lawter chewed on the stem of the twig. “You and me got some stuff to settle. Can’t do it right now cause I got some people waiting. A little transaction in the works.”

  Drugs. That beast of a man brought drugs to the churchyard.

  “But now that I know where to find you—” Lawter smiled.

  “You won’t find me here again.” Joe trembled at the meaning of his own words. He could no longer stay at the church, not with Lawter knowing. He wouldn’t bring that kind of evil here.

  “But I will find you. And once I’m done with you, I might make this my nest,” Lawter said. “Got all them rich people come here every Sunday. Got that nice reverend nearby. Maybe he’ll say a prayer for me. Or maybe . . .” Lawter flicked the stick to the ground, backed through the gate, and trotted away.

  Joe stumbled over to Mr. Pinckney’s grave, a heaviness like the headstone sinking onto him. He had to leave and never return. He’d been wrong to stay this long, wrong to leave a trail Lawter could follow. Wrong to bring that kind
of evil to Reverend Bill. What about Lawter’s other threats? What if he came back here? What would he do?

  Joe touched the shiny granite tombstone that had been his home, had brought him peace, for so long. He shook his head.

  There’d be no peace for him now.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sandy ventured into the break room, relieved to find it unoccupied, so damn tired of being “on.” On for nursing report, for rounds with the chief of staff and three new residents who followed him around like goslings, for the wife of a new admit, a red-faced woman who sought constant reassurance, “Are you sure that machine is supposed to make that noise?”

  Sandy was running out of nice. After pouring a cup of coffee, she dropped into a chair and stared into her mug. She used to drink two Starbucks lattés a day. Now she was up to five mugs of crap coffee and maybe she was changing one addiction for another, but at least she hadn’t picked up smoking. Yet.

  “There you are. Didn’t you hear my page?” Marie Hempshall stood with her back to the door, arms folded across her ample chest.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “You bloody well know there’s a problem. Come with me.”

  “Come with you where?” Sandy rose slowly, not wanting to overreact to Marie’s dramatic tone.

  “The medical director’s office.” Marie led her out the door and down the hall, slowing at the nurse’s station and giving a pointed look at the med cart parked there. Other staff had clustered around it: Pete Borden. The pharmacy tech. And a man and woman from security, who stepped behind her.

  “What’s going on, Marie?” Panic echoed in her voice. The officers came close enough to brush her arms.

  “I think you know.”

  Sandy looked at Pete who fanned out his hands as if to say, “You got me.” The security officers nudged her forward. Deep shit, that’s what this was. She was in deep shit and she had no clue why. Something to do with the med cart? Crap.

  Marie held open the door to the Medical Director’s conference room, the two security guards entering and taking seats. Sandy positioned herself as close to the door as she could.

  “I think you need to tell me what this is about.” Sandy tried to summon indignation when all she felt was terror.

  Marie said to one of the officers, “Do you want to take over from here?”

  Sandy had seen the man before; he had silver hair that made a widow’s peak over an oily forehead. “Please take a seat, Ms. Albright,” he said.

  She obeyed, deciding it best not to argue with security.

  “I understand you are restricted from access to Schedule Two medications. Is that correct?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you approach the pharmacy cart today when you were on rounds?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Records indicate that you were in room 517 and then 523. The cart was parked just outside room 521.”

  “I wasn’t administering meds,” she said.

  “No, but Pete was,” Marie interjected. “He and the pharmacy tech had loaded the cart. When they reached 523, the medication cup holding two Oxycodone tablets was missing.”

  Sandy swallowed. “I didn’t take them.”

  “That’s your answer?” Marie glared at Sandy like she expected a confession.

  “That’s my answer. I’m in recovery. I haven’t used in almost four months.” Stupid tremor in her voice. So stupid.

  Marie said to the man, “Sandy admitted to me that this is her drug of choice. And as you know, she has a provisional nursing license that will be revoked if she has a single drug infraction.”

  Sandy slammed her hand against the shiny table. “I didn’t take them! You can’t just accuse me of this.”

  He lifted a finger. “Let’s take it down a notch, Ms. Albright.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Marie said. “I thought—” Her mouth drooped in disappointment, as though she gave a damn about Sandy.

  “Let’s have the cup.” Sandy stood. “Marie loves for me to pee in a cup so she can check it. Now’s your chance, I’m ready to give you a sample.”

  “Very well.” Ever-prepared Marie pulled a small white package from her pocket and ripped it open. “Dr. McKenzie has a private toilet, we’ll use that.”

  So that was why they’d come in here. Sandy took the collection cup into the small bathroom. She tried to shut the door but Marie’s foot came through the opening. Sandy closed her eyes, swallowing her humiliation as her boss backed against the wall to watch her urinate.

  Sandy’s bladder seized up. She was so screwed. Marie turned the faucet on. “This might help.”

  Sandy focused on the running water and tried not to imagine her future going down the drain. At last, she was able to produce the urine sample. “Here.” She gave the cup to Marie.

  They returned to the conference room, Marie placing the specimen on a napkin and inserting her test card. Sandy’s humiliation mounted as three sets of eyes riveted themselves to her piss. It felt like having a public mammogram. Marie clucked her tongue as she removed the tester.

  “Positive?” security guy two asked.

  ‘No,” Sandy said. “Tell him, Marie. Tell him I tested clean.”

  “She hasn’t taken the drug. Yet.”

  “Ms. Albright, will you consent to a search?” the older guy asked.

  “And if I don’t?”

  Marie didn’t reply.

  “If I don’t I’m fired,” Sandy clarified, feeling queasy. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Officer Nichols?” the man turned to the other officer.

  When Officer Nichols stood, she came up to Sandy’s armpits. She had a jowly face and long dark hair with red highlights. “Stretch out your arms,” she said.

  Sandy squirmed against her touch, jerked when the foreign hands reached into her pockets and patted her breasts and buttocks. How could this be happening?

  “See? Nothing. I’ve got nothing on me except that used tissue you’re holding,” she said to Officer Nichols.

  “What about her locker?” Marie directed this question to the man who shook his head.

  “You’ve searched my things? Christ! Don’t I have rights?” Fear waned, replaced by raw, grating anger at this violation.

  “Your locker is hospital property.” Marie took a seat, hands on table, fingers steepling. “Whatever you did with the drugs, it’s best that you tell us,” Marie said.

  Sandy shook her head. No matter what she said, or did, she’d already been convicted. Still, they had no proof, and she didn’t need to be subjected to anymore of this bullshit. She glanced at the officers. “I think we’re done here.”

  Officer Nichols looked at her colleague who shrugged. “I guess you’re free to go,” he said.

  “Wait a minute!” Marie blurted out. “She took the drugs. We can’t have her working here if she’s putting my floor at risk.”

  Sandy tore down the hall like a tornado, blew past her gathered colleagues and slammed the door to the locker room. “Damn it!” she spat out.

  Her locker was ajar; her belongings strewn all over the bench. She found her purse on the bench, wallet, makeup case, and car keys scattered beside it. She collected everything and left the room. She knew exactly where she needed to go next.

  When she reached the seventh floor PT department, she didn’t stop at the reception window, but moved straight through the treatment areas to the staff offices. Nathan Capers sat in his cubicle, one leg up on the desk, cell phone in his hairy hand. He looked up at her and at the bundle of her belongings in her arms. He clicked off the phone.

  She didn’t say a word. Nathan smiled, and it filled her with edgy hope. “I’ll fix you up,” he said.

  And he did.

  The staff elevator was empty. The pills lay in a cozy pile in the bottom of a plastic bag she’d shoved in her pocket. She thought about taking one right there between floors, but opted to wait. She’d stop for a bottle of wine on the way home—Sean was working, so she
’d have the house to herself—and take the oxy with a glass of pinot because that was her very favorite recipe. She willed the elevator to hurry down so she could make this final escape.

  Her purse, jacket, and an extra pair of crocs made an untidy bundle in her arms. The elevator stopped and someone entered. Crap.

  Dr. Owens looked at her and smiled. “Hey there. Sandy, right?”

  “Right,” Sandy shifted her load and one of her crocs plopped to the floor.

  Dr. Owens picked it up. “Quite a load you have there.”

  Sandy gathered her jacket closer and thought about the pills. The elevator pinged as the door closed.

  “I wanted to thank you for your help with Becca Hastings. She’s been good about keeping appointments,” Dr. Owens said.

  Good for her, Sandy thought, willing the elevator to pick up its pace.

  “She mentioned you last session. Said she’d talked to you on the phone.”

  Sandy closed her eyes. So what if she’d given a patient her phone number? So what if that violated hospital policy about professional boundaries? Just add it to the ways-Sandy-screwed-up list.

  Dr. Owens pressed the stop button on the elevator. “What’s going on? Did you clean out your locker?”

  Sandy looked down at her feet. The security officer had squeezed her ankles and searched in each shoe for the lost pills. She was lucky to escape without a cavity search.

  “Sandy?” Dr. Owens’s voice was insistent.

  “Yes. I screwed up. Four months ago. And I’ll never be free of it.”

  “Did you hurt someone?”

  “Myself mostly.”

  “Yourself?”

  “I’m an addict.” The word felt sharp and pointed on her tongue, but so very right.

  Dr. Owens pointed to the bundle in her arms. “You’re leaving. Quit? Or get canned?”

  “Neither. Yet.” Sandy didn’t understand the soft expression on the doctor’s face. Hadn’t she heard what Sandy said? I’m an addict.