[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  Gina Mazzio RN Medical

  Series

  BONE DRY

  by

  Bette Golden Lamb

  &

  J. J. Lamb

  TWO BLACK SHEEP PRODUCTIONS

  NOVATO, CALIFORNIA

  Bone Dry

  Copyright © 2003 & 2010 by Bette Golden Lamb & James J. Lamb

  www.twoblacksheep.us

  Originally published in hardcover and softcover by Five Star Mysteries

  All rights reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Designer: Rita Wood www.ritawoodcreative.com

  Dedication

  For our sons, Clifford & Michael, with love.

  Prologue

  Waiting for the right moment was making her nuts.

  Ghent was everywhere today, everywhere except in his office. Twice she’d tried to get to the cold storage units, but each time the lab chief had been roaming the work area.

  Did he know?

  Was he watching her?

  God, if she didn’t do it soon, it wasn’t going to get done, and Frankie would beat her again.

  She used her toe to nudge an insulated, over-size lunchbox on the floor. Everyone was used to seeing it; made ratty remarks about how fat she was, and why. But they never turned down the cookies she baked for them.

  Well, no goodies in the box today. It was empty except for frozen Super Ice to protect the packets ... if she could ever get her hands on them.

  “Faye!”

  She spun around on the stool. Ghent was hovering over her.

  “Where are the hematology printouts for Urology?”

  “Just a sec,” she said.

  “I don’t know where the hell your head is, Faye, but it sure hasn’t been here.”

  “Sorry.”

  It was the second time she’d been yelled at this morning and it still wasn’t noon. If she didn’t get to the packets soon, she’d ... she’d what?

  A few minutes later, the ER called for ten units of plasma. Some kid had been shot and was threatening to bleed out.

  Suddenly the room was a frenzy of working technicians, Ghent in the middle of everything.

  She grabbed a lab cart, put the lunchbox on the lower shelf, and walked quickly to the rear of the lab. Her stomach cramped as she moved into the freezer repository area, then dry heaves wracked her.

  What if someone was watching her? She refused to look back into the lab.

  She snatched up a pair of insulated gloves and a pair of tongs, grabbed Carl Chapman’s supply of marrow from the freezer, and tossed the packets into the lunchbox.

  Cold sweat layered her skin. She clutched the cart handle, unable to move, unable to breathe.

  Trembling, she finally forced one foot in front of the other, made it back through the lab.

  As she slipped the box under her station, Ghent walked up to her.

  “Fucking kids,” he said to no one in particular. “Can you imagine shooting your own brother in the gut over a stupid pair of sneakers?”

  Chapter 1

  Gina Mazzio hunched over the engine of the Fiat roadster, ran her fingers along the black wires that sprang from the distributor cap and snaked their way to the spark plugs and coil. They looked okay.

  “So why doesn't the damn thing turn over?” Gina muttered.

  She conceded that she should have listened to Harry, who had warned her about Italian electrics. She'd gotten pretty pissed at him—boyfriend or no boyfriend, that was going too far. She was Italian and she didn't like either his attitude or his comments. Maybe she'd even bought the damn car just to show him she knew what she was doing. So much for that.

  A glance at her watch made her edgy: she'd be late for the morning report if she couldn't fix this mess, and soon. She lifted the distributor cap, grimaced. Green crud covered the ignition points, preventing any meaningful contact.

  “Stupid, stupid!” She pulled a nail file out of her purse and scraped and filed away the corrosion. When she was satisfied with the results, she capped the distributor and wiped her hands on a grungy rag and tossed it into the trunk. She looked down at her nursing scrubs. At least she hadn't picked up any grease smudges.

  This time when she turned the key, the car started with a satisfying purr. Maybe she wouldn't be late after all. And she sure as hell wasn't going to tell Harry about this.

  * * *

  Following the morning report, Gina escorted a group of volunteers around the Oncology Unit, fielding their questions about bone marrow and autologous infusion. One woman turned particularly pale when Gina described the needle process of having marrow removed from your own bones to save for future autologous replacement following chemotherapy. After that, most of them couldn't wait to get off the unit, the spectre of mortality chasing them to the safety of their cars. She couldn't blame them—she felt the same way whenever she really thought about it.

  After the volunteers departed, Gina called down to the lab; was put on hold. She sat at the edge of the nursing station desk, tapping one finger staccato-like until someone finally picked up.

  “What's the hold-up with Chapman's bone marrow? We're twenty minutes off schedule for his engraftment.”

  “We're still looking,” the voice said at the other end.

  “Looking? What do you mean, you're still looking? Let me speak to Ghent,” she said. Maybe the Lab chief would avoid his usual sarcasm and clear up this mess.

  While she waited, she opened Chapman's chart, flipped immediately to the physician's order sheet.

  Autologous bone marrow transplant in AM—Mark Kessler, MD.

  “God damn it!” she muttered, her finger underlining the order. Kessler was overdue, but he'd arrive any minute, demanding answers about his patient's missing bone marrow.

  Helen leaned out of the medication room, syringe and vial in hand, questioning Gina with a frown and a tilt of her head.

  Gina's eyes widened. She started to say something to her co-worker, then held up a hand when she heard the lab chief pick up.

  “Bob, what's going on down there? We need to get Chapman set up now. We're almost thirty minutes behind schedule and Kessler's going to be here any second.”

  “Someone misplaced the goddam marrow,” he said. “It's got to be down here somewhere ... can you hold on a few minutes longer?”

  “Jesus! How do you misplace someone's marrow? Chapman can't wait for anything.”Once again she scanned his blood work on her terminal. “His white cells are gone. He's neutropenic, for God's sake!”

  “Don't tell me what I already know ... I've got his blood work right here on the screen in front of me.”

  “Then you can see the problem. If we don't replace those cells immediately, we'll lose him.”

  “I can't send you what I don't have,” Ghent said. He launched into a useless discourse on lab routine and why the marrow shouldn't be missing.

  Gina listened, forcing a smile as a patient approached. The woman waved pleasantly in return as she walked her IV pole ahead of her down the hall. Gina offered an encouraging” thumb's up” and sat down, abruptly interrupting Ghent.

  “Did you check the computer? Maybe someone moved Chapman's marrow to another repository ... maybe it's mixed in with the blood units?”

  “Listen, Mazzio, where in hell do you think we looked first?” Ghent snapped. “And
I don't need some nurse telling me how to do my job.”

  Covering the mouthpiece, she turned to Helen. “That supercilious S-O-B is doing his nurses-don't-know-shit routine again.”

  She received a nod in response, along with a worried look.

  “You’re not the one who has to give the patient some song and dance about why we're going to postpone his marrow transfusion,” she told Ghent.

  “I'm sure Kessler will come up with something.”

  She waved a hand impatiently in the air. “What do you expect him to do? He's not a magician ... there's no viable marrow match in the Chapman family, and it's too late to go national.

  The point is,” she continued,” he donated his own marrow and if you can't find it, he's dead!”

  Chapter 2

  Frankie was still gone. She knew that.

  Faye Lindstrom stared at the clock with dull gray eyes: 10:00 p.m.

  He'd left about this same time four days ago, swearing he'd wouldn't be back until she'd done what he'd asked her to do. She repeatedly searched the apartment with her eyes, hoping somehow he would magically reappear now that she’d finally done it.

  Fingering the bones around her eye, pushing at the pain, she visualized the dark purple bruise that was just beginning to turn yellow around the edges. She'd never seen him so angry. He'd not only taunted her, he'd laughed at her, told her how ugly, how stupid she was.

  Do it again, he'd told her. Do it again. Over and over he'd said it. And each time that she'd said no, he'd smashed her in the face.

  But she'd continued to refuse, insisting she couldn’t, wouldn’t do it again.

  Faye poked at the bruise once more.

  The beating was nothing; nothing compared to the deafening slam of the apartment door as he left. That tore her to pieces.

  Four days!

  Her features screwed into a grimace, her head fell forward. Back and forth, back and forth she moved her head, her long unkempt hair sweeping across her lap, creating its own rhythm, like a silent metronome.

  “How could you leave?” she whispered.

  Flinging her arms over her head, she lay back onto the cool leather sofa, stared at the fireplace. It was small, of painted white brick, its brass screen almost hidden by a bushy schefflera that had spread beyond its planned limits. On the mantle was a photograph—Frankie staring arrogantly at the camera while she looked up adoringly at him.

  Only at him.

  Above the photograph hung one of her watercolors. Tears sprang to her eyes when she remembered how she and Frankie had laughed together at her having the balls to think she could ever be a real artist. The tentative piece mocked her, with its weak colors and timid brushstrokes. Still, she was able to smile for a moment as she took in the safe, bland world she'd created.

  Faye closed her eyes and rubbed them, a weariness overcoming her. Ninety-six hours without Frankie; ninety-six hours with virtually no sleep.

  She stretched her neck from side-to-side, looked around the small, conservatively decorated rooms that were only a few blocks from the hospital. Her breathing became short, ragged as she stared intently at the rigid lines of the hostile gray leather sofa where she was sprawled.

  Just like him: masculine, distant.

  Although it was her apartment, all her furnishings, except a few of her paintings, had disappeared into the back of a Goodwill truck—floral-printed drapes; fat, floppy cushions on overstuffed sofas; and, worst of all, the shiny brass bed with its draped canopy. “Frou frou!” Frankie had sneered.

  Now there was only his furniture, his things. Him! Him! Him, with his turquoise eyes. Him, with his long, lanky body. Him, who penetrated her soul—triggered her heat.

  She felt like a stranger in this room.

  Faye jumped to her feet and tore off his robe, flung it across the room, rubbed at her skin as though it were on fire. Perspiration erupted on her chest and ran down her body as she stared at Frankie's picture; his knowing eyes aroused her. Her hands rode smoothly across her flesh, caressed her wide hips, cupped under pendulous breasts, brushed back and forth across her nipples—eyes glazed as she caressed the roundness of her thighs, probed her wet inner lips.

  Then she remembered; pain slashed through her like a knife. She bunched her hands into fists and drove them knuckle-first into the soft flesh of her abdomen.

  “I did it, Frankie,” she cried out, pounding at herself over and over. “I did it, just like you wanted.”

  Exhausted, she drifted aimlessly into the small, spotless kitchen. The appliances shone back at her as she opened a milk container, then stood and simply stared at it. Finally, she shoved the milk back into the refrigerator and snatched up a couple of candy bars from the huge pile that covered most of the bottom shelf. She stuffed her mouth with one, then the other. For the briefest moment she was satisfied, in control again. She grinned mischievously and returned to the sofa, deliberately smearing her chocolaty fingers on the slick leather as she sat down. But she couldn't hold the mood.

  “Shouldn't have pissed him off,” she confessed to the room. Her eyes focused on the candy stains as she lay back, reaching for the television remote control. “Should have done it right away,” she muttered, closing her eyes. Gradually, she increased the TV volume and surfed from one channel station to another, her fingers moving on the tiny buttons as though playing a miniature musical instrument. Sound became a roar of music, voices, and blares that vibrated through the apartment, resounding off the walls.

  The control was snatched from her hand, her scream replaced the noise that was catapulted into silence.

  “How many times have I told you not to do that, darlin'?” Frankie whispered into her ear.

  “Frankie!” She twisted around and looked up into his face.

  He smiled down at her, his white, even teeth contrasting with dark curly hair. “The neighbors are gonna run us out of here and we're not ready to leave.” He rubbed her shoulders; his hands drifted down to fondle her bare breasts. “Miss me, baby?”

  “God, yes! Where have you been?”

  He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, undid his belt, then shucked off the rest of his clothes. As he stood looking down at her, he stretched his long body and rolled his shoulders.

  “I know what you missed,” he said, moving around to the front of the couch. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her upright, crushing her body against his.

  Spikes of pleasure penetrated her groin; she was enveloped by soft clouds of lavender and purple, then plunged into electrical fires of orange and red. She clung stubbornly to the edge of the abyss.

  “I can't do it anymore, Frankie,” she whispered hoarsely. “This has to be the last one ... please don't make me hurt anyone else.”

  Then his fingers raked across her skin; his body melded into hers. It was no use: she knew that she couldn't resist him; he could make her do whatever he wanted.

  Again and again and again.

  Chapter 3

  Gina slowly replaced the telephone receiver.

  In the three years she'd been on staff, there'd never seen a foul-up like this. They'd actually lost Chapman's marrow.

  She'd carefully chosen Ridgewood when she'd migrated to San Francisco from New York. The hospital not only paid the best salaries, it had a reputation as a leading teaching-research facility.

  Now this. It shook her faith in the system.

  She glanced up to see the hospital administrator walking in her direction. She almost didn't recognize him, having seen him only a few times since her original orientation.

  “Good morning, Ms. Mazzio,” he said, after straining to read the identification tag clipped to her shirt. “Alan Vasquez!”

  He reached over the nursing station counter and offered her a hand damp with perspiration. She sensed that the quick, winning smile crinkling around his eyes was a deliberate distraction.

  “Would you please locate Mr. Chapman's primary care nurse for me.”

  “That's me ... Chapman's my patient.”

&
nbsp; Vasquez started to speak, then turned and looked up and down the busy hospital corridor. Seeing there was no break in the steady flow of personnel and patients, he stepped around into the nursing station. He paused for a moment, seemingly disconcerted that when Gina stood, their equal heights brought her immediately eye-to-eye with him.

  “I assume you're aware that we're having some difficulty locating the patient's bone marrow,” Vasquez said, continuing to look around, obviously worried someone might overhear them.

  “Yes,” she said, running her fingers roughly through her tight curls. “I just got off the phone with Bob Ghent.” She took in Vasquez' silk tie and finely tailored suit, then self-consciously wiggled her toes in worn cross-trainers that were long overdue for a good polishing. If Vasquez was visiting the unit, they definitely were in serious trouble—administrators usually avoided the war zone, preferring the safety of their air-conditioned offices.

  “We're depending on your cooperation, Ms. Mazzio.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We want this situation ... contained.”

  “Fine. I'm not in the habit of discussing patients or department problems outside the unit.”

  “Good!”

  “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to let Mr. Chapman know what's going on. He's been expecting his transfusion”—she checked her watch—”for close to an hour.”

  “I'd prefer you didn't do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Don't tell him his packets are ... unavailable!”

  She narrowed her eyes and tapped out a soft beat on the counter with her nails. “What do you expect me to tell him?”

  “Stall him. Tell him anything!”

  She snatched up Chapman's chart with shaking hands, flipped it open to his lab values, and held it in front of Vasquez. “Look at his granulocytes ... they're almost flat.”