“Well, at least you haven’t damaged your stitches,” she said.
As guilt replaced his pain, he looked on as the nurse systematically got him settled and as comfortable as possible again. “Sorry,” he managed.
“Your partner. Is that where you were going?”
“I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay.”
“Well there’s no way on God’s green Earth that you’re walking around so soon after your surgery. If you really must see your partner, let me see if I can find someone to take you up there.”
“Up there? He’s here?”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. But yes, he’s here. He’s in the intensive care unit.”
“I really do need to see him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He watched as she left. The pain in his shoulder faded to a fuzzy ache. He noticed the old man opposite him continued to stare.
“Don’t say it,” he said.
“I told you so,” said the old man, his lips unmoving, his expression as lifeless as ever as he spoke.
“I said don’t say it.”
The old man didn’t reply. Bell reached for the jug of water and cup again. His short adventure had left him deftly thirsty.
Soon enough, he watched as the nurse returned with an orderly and a wheelchair.
“That’s for me?” he asked.
“Like I said, you’re not walking anywhere today. It’s the wheelchair or the bed. Your choice,” said the nurse.
He nodded his consent and seconds later the nurse and the orderly shuffled him into the chair. He could have been mistaken, but as he was wheeled out of the room, he swore that he caught a flicker of a smile flash across the old man’s face.
* * * * *
Two things occurred to Bell as the orderly wheeled him into the room. First, he saw that daylight still filtered through the windows. Second, he realized how badly injured Boar must be in order to be here.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” said the orderly as he parked the chair alongside of a woman, praying beside a bed.
“Is that him?” Bell asked.
“Yes, that’s Detective Boar,” said the orderly.
“Okay,” he said.
As the orderly left and Bell took stock of where he’d been parked, he remained silent. He felt reluctant to disturb the woman in payer. She hadn’t indicated in any way that she was aware of his presence. Who was she, he wondered? As far as he knew, Boar didn’t have any living relatives. Whenever he’d asked him about his family in the past, he’d always received a prompt answer that they were all dead.
He could see bandages covering much of Boar’s head. Only his nose and mouth poked out from beneath them. Aside from that, Boar appeared to be relatively uninjured. But the hiss and pop of the machine breathing for him insisted that things were serious.
Before long, Bell realized he had no choice but to interrupt the praying lady. He had limited time and the woman may know something of Boar’s condition.
“Hello!” he said.
He watched as the woman eventually lifted her head with prosaic momentum and looked around at him with glazed eyes.
“Hello,” she said.
“I’m Warren Bell. I’m his partner.”
“You’re the detective?”
“Yes.”
“I heard about you. I’m Janine. I’m his mother.”
He pushed his shock aside and forced his focus to the matter at hand. “How is he?” he asked.
“He’s in God’s hands,” she said with a smile warming her cheeks.
“What? Are you telling me that he’s dead?”
“Goodness no. He’s very much with us.”
He was about to probe deeper when a nurse appeared at the end of the bed and began checking Boar over. He watched as she scanned his chart and then worked around to the various tubes and cables running from his body. Only as she finished her assessment of the computer monitor atop the life support system did he dare disturb her. “Miss, I’m sorry to trouble you, but how is he doing?” he asked.
“Are you a family member?” asked the nurse while twisting her pen in her fingertips as if it were a fine-tuned surgical instrument.
“I’m Detective Bell. I’m his partner.”
“Oh. I can only give out information to family members. But I suppose you are family in a way.”
He glanced at Boar’s mother before looking the nurse solidly in the eye. “We are much more than family,” he said.
He watched her work her way around to the end of the bed and make a display of scribbling some notes before she answered.
“He’s sustained a serious head injury. He has massive swelling of the brain and so far, we’ve had minimal success in bringing down that swelling,” she said.
“So, when the swelling comes down, he’ll recover?”
“It’s possible he may wake up, but he will never fully recover.”
Bell reeled backward in his chair at hearing this news. He glanced at Janine and noticed that she had re-immersed herself in prayer. “Never fully recover? What does that mean?” he asked, as he looked to the nurse again.
He had to wait until the nurse had pushed him just outside of Janine’s hearing range before he got an answer to his question.
“It means that if he does wake up, he will be classed as what we call PVS,” she whispered over his shoulder.
“What does that mean in English?”
“Persistent Vegetative State.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Sir, this is a hospital. Keep your voice down or you will have to leave this area.”
“Jesus! He’s going to be a vegetable?” he said, but this time in a much softer voice.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could have given you better news,” she said, before turning the chair around and returning it to Boar’s beside.
In mute silence, he watched as the nurse moved off to tend to her other patients. He felt lightheaded. The world began to spiral around him in a kaleidoscope of colors. He knew that if he wasn’t already sitting, then he would have collapsed. He gripped his chair arm with his good hand and hung on for dear life. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up. And it wasn’t until he realized that someone was speaking to him that the world began to stabilize again.
“…You were the one behind the wheel, I understand…”
Janine materialized before him. Her crystal blue eyes stared from a face filled with malice.
“What?” he managed.
“The driver… You were the driver in the accident, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He waited for the torrent of abuse, he felt sure would follow. He knew he deserved as much. The abuse never came. Instead, she returned to her prayer, apparently having decided to work things out with God. He sat there, the silence around him interrupted only by the machine breathing for Boar. Guilt racked his entire being. Janine had no need to cast the fires of Hell upon him; he was already there. It was he who had put Boar here. It should be him in that bed. Yet here he was with wounds that were nothing in comparison.
Through all of this, memories of conversations he’d had with Boar soon commanded his attention. He clung to those memories as if they were a life raft afloat on a sea of chaos. The memories morphed into the hope he needed—the only available path forward he could see. As he realized this, words spilled from his mouth.
“He didn’t want this,” he said.
“What?” asked Janine, looking up from where she knelt.
“This… …he didn’t want this.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. No one wants this. God has put James here for reasons that we’ll never have the wisdom to understand.”
“We need to unplug him,” he said. But as he spoke, he could see bitter hatred filling her eyes.
“You’re not going to kill my son. He’s mine. I left him alone as a child and I now intend to make up for that sin. He’s in God’s hands and
I will not let you touch him.”
“Hold on a minute. You said you left him alone as a child. When was the last time you saw him?”
“…It doesn’t matter when I saw him last. I’m here now and I won’t abandon him.”
“I’ve spent the last six years by his side. He’s like a brother to me. I think I know what he wants. We talked about this. James was an energetic man of action who would come back from the grave and haunt me if I let him suffer like this for long.”
“He’s not suffering. He’s in God’s hands.”
He looked to the bandaged form of Boar and back at the crystal blue ice of Janine’s expression. He could see that she wasn’t going to back down. His heart ached as the orderly returned.
“Are you ready?”
Reluctantly, he nodded his consent to the orderly and was wheeled from the ICU. It felt like a dismal retreat to him. However, he knew this was his only choice. For the moment, he’d been outmaneuvered. For the moment, Boar would have to suffer.
CHAPTER 22
Three days later...
To Jane’s ears, the ticking of the bedside clock may as well have been the roll of a war drum. She watched the seconds hand as it thundered around the dial. 10:00 a.m. had been and gone. 11:00 a.m. fast approached. The three prescription bottles beside the clock beckoned. The Xanax kept her going through the day, making the loss of Ron bearable. The Zopiclone helped her sleep and the Valium bridged the gap between it all.
Last night’s dose of chemicals still held her to the mattress, numbing her, anaesthetizing her. But even the power they wielded now waned with the coming of the new day. She reached for the Xanax, dry swallowed two tablets and thought for a minute before further fortifying her position with a valium. As she screwed the top back onto the prescription bottle, a knock at the door disturbed her.
“Mum! Are you up?”
“No, just a bit longer,” she said, full well knowing that Abn would at least have to wait until lunchtime before she surfaced.
“Okay, I’m going over to Michael’s for a while.”
“Go ahead, darling,” she managed.
The drum beat of the clock resumed its dominance. Only the sound of the front door closing a few minutes later interrupted this. Even the noise of the wind had taken a break. The fresh burst of chemical support soon coursed through her veins. A smile teased the corners of her mouth, but she squashed this involuntary action. Smiling had no place in this world. To smile so soon would be an insult to Ron’s memory. She had no right.
Anger filled the void were the smile had been. But even this emotion soon lost its place. Her reality became a haze as the cocktail of drugs further took hold. Numbness cradled her being in its tender palm. She could do it now. She could rise and face the day. Further funeral arrangements had to be made and many other things needed to be done.
Sliding her legs over the bedside, she sat up and again removed the top from the valium bottle. One more wouldn’t hurt.
Her phone rang as she put the bottle back down and swallowed the pill. “Hello,” she said.
“Mrs. Morrison? Am I speaking to Mrs. Morrison?” said the caller.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Mrs. Morrison, my name is Walter Line. I’m the lead detective working on the hospice murders.”
“Line… Detective Line? I thought Detective Bell and Boar were working on the hospice case?”
“Oh, I should have known. With all you’re going through, you haven’t heard the news.”
“News, what news?”
“Bell and Boar were in a car accident. I’m their replacement, for the time being.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, but all the while feeling quite to the contrary. If she never saw Bell or Boar again in her life, then she imagined she’d do quite alright.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. You’ve lost your husband. I have to offer you the department’s sincerest condolences.”
“Is that why you’re calling?”
“I’m afraid not. The reason I’m calling is in regard to the cause of your husband’s death.”
“Oh, how so?”
“In regard to his autopsy. The results have come in.”
“Detective Line, it’s hardly a mystery. Ron had been at death’s door for weeks with his cancer.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that straight forward. I have to inform you that sodium hydrochloride was found in your husband’s blood.”
“Bleach. They found bleach in Ron’s blood?” she asked, the words escaping her lips in sharp bursts.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m afraid that your husband was murdered. He was murdered in the same manner as one of the other victims. And I’m afraid there’s more that I have to tell you.”
The fragile bubble of chemical protection surrounding her crumbled. Her body trembled and she fought to maintain control of the phone in her grip. “More, how could there be more? He’s dead. He’s been murdered,” she said.
“Can we send a car for you? Would you come down to the station and give us a formal statement?”
“Statement, why do you need a statement from me? Shouldn’t you be out there looking for Ron’s murderer?”
“I assure you that we’re doing everything we can. But as part of procedure, we have to interview you. You were the last person with your husband before he died, were you not?”
“So, you’re saying that I’m a suspect. Is that it? Are you saying that I poisoned my husband with bleach? Jesus Christ! I loved him. He was my husband. You’re an animal! How dare you? First you go accusing my son of murder and now you’re accusing me. Is that how it works? You sling your shit in every direction in the hope that it’ll stick somewhere. Have you no shame at all?”
“Mrs. Morrison. I think you have this all…”
But she didn’t give the detective the chance to finish. She hung up in his ear and threw the phone aside as if it were a hot coal. Disgust and frustration now added to the mixture of grief whirling around inside of her. She again reached for the valium bottle. She knew she needed to calm down.
What did this mean? Ron had been murdered. Who could possibly want him dead? And why? He was dying anyway. Why would someone speed that process up? And with bleach. How could someone be so cruel?
She lay back down on the bed. The day could wait. She needed to think. She needed to process things. To walk into the day otherwise would be like a sailor navigating the seas without the necessary equipment. A wreck would be the only result.
The light fixture in the ceiling spun above her. She couldn’t determine if this spin was a result of the drugs she’d taken or not. Was this how Ron felt during his last moments? Aside from death, what was the effect of being poisoned by bleach?
The more she thought about the situation, the more she realized that Ron would have died in agony. His blood would have boiled in his veins. Rage surged within her. It demanded dominance. But curiosity also reared its head. The two emotions battled inside her spinning head until she found her body standing again, walking again.
A warm pool of cotton surrounded her being as she made her way to the master bathroom. Her skin tingled with opioid induced euphoria that her mind couldn’t access. Before she knew it, she faced the mirrored sliders of the cabinet above the vanity unit. The face of a woman twenty years older looked back. She could hardly recognize her own reflection. Hollowed, dark rings surrounded her eyes. Wrinkles cracked her complexion, like canyons sunk into the desert that her skin had become. Her hair clung to her scalp, damp with perspiration and lifeless like the rest of her.
On any other day, she would have recognized this crisis of appearance and not rested until it had been corrected. Today, her curiosity took precedence over vanity.
Opening the medicine cabinet door, she rifled through the contents until she found the box containing Ron’s syringes. She knew that this box was new. The rest, Ron had taken with him to the hospice.
Not really knowing what she was looking for
, she opened the top of the box and poured the packets out. Ten syringes, sealed in their packets lay before her. Glancing at the side of the box, she saw that the count of ten was correct. All of the syringes were present. For a fraction of a second, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. But then she noticed the frayed end of one of the plastic envelopes containing a syringe. She picked up the package and examined it. Immediately, she could see that the seal had been broken. Someone had already been here. But who?
An overwhelming urge to cast the syringes back into the medicine cabinet seized her. But in no uncertain terms, she knew she’d opened Pandora’s box. It would never close again, not if she didn’t understand the full meaning of the contents.
Lifting the tampered envelope to her nose, she sniffed at its opened end. Her sense of smell sounded no warning bells. She pulled the syringe from the packet. Sniffing again, her senses came up with nothing. Her heart fluttered with hope.
In a final attempt to eliminate any remaining suspicions, she pulled the plunger from the tube and lifted the rubber sealing bung to her nose. This time, the alarm bells she dreaded rang as she detected the faintest scent of bleach.
But she couldn’t be certain. Could it be possible that the inside of a medical syringe smelt like that, regardless? Choosing another sealed package from the countertop, she peeled it open, removed the new syringe and pulled its plunger free. This time when she sniffed at the rubber bung, the smell remained neutral. She felt her heart pause in her chest with shock.
Someone had used the syringe in the unsealed envelope. Bleach had been inside of it. This fact could no longer be disputed.
Icy tentacles of terror crept up her back as she tried again and again to rationalize her way out of the ugly truth staring her in the face. Reality won through. It had its way. She knew that it was time to talk to the detective.
CHAPTER 23
Somber expressions and nods from his colleagues greeted Bell as he made his way into police headquarters. His injured arm wrapped in a sling and his shoulder bandages were obscured beneath his baggy shirt. He noticed an expression of surprise from one of his colleagues as she looked up from her computer monitor.
THE LIFE LEFT: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER Page 20