by JJ Lamb
“Come on in, baby. Frankie will make all your worries go away.”
She tilted her head, hesitated, then slowly removed her robe and draped it across the toilet seat. Stepping into the tub, she lowered herself between his long legs.
“If I keep gaining weight,” she mumbled,” we won't be able to squeeze in here together ... got to dump the candy bars ... never used to gain weight.” She pressed back against his chest, fingering the long strands of hair that floated on the perfumed water.
“Always fussin',” he said, cupping his hands under her breasts. “Don't you know I love you the way you are, darlin'?” He slid one hand down and circled her round tummy. “You shouldn't fret about the candy ... it just makes you sweeter.”
They soaked in silence, the only sound coming from the water lapping against the tub. He waited; she would have to tell him.
“It finally happened today,” she whispered. “They found out Chapman's marrow is missing.”
“So?”
“Everybody was terribly upset.”
“Yeah, well, we knew it wasn't going to make anybody's day ... especially Chapman's.”
“But Frankie, they keep talking about how horrible it's going to be for him. You don't know what it's like ... you're not there. I had to help look for it ... go through the files ... search the storage area, all the time pretending I didn't know what happened to it.” She twisted around to look at him. “I almost screamed it out a couple of times.”
He gave her a forced smile and moved his hands up and down her body, palms pausing to circle lightly over her nipples.
“Scream out what, darlin'?”
He watched her bite into her lip, turn away from him.
“I wanted to tell them I knew where it was ... that I could save him.”
He smashed his fist down into the water, splattering the surrounding walls.
“And were you also going to tell them that you're the one who stole it? He squeezed both of her breasts in his large, rough hands, punctuating the pain by digging his nails into her flesh.
“No, no!” she cried out. “I wouldn't, couldn't tell.” She tried to squirm out of his grasp.
“Then what is it you want, bitch?”
“I want to put it back where it belongs,” she whispered.
“What?” He moved his hands to her shoulders, twisted her around, and pressed his forehead hard against hers. “Say that again, God damn it! I don't believe what I just heard.”
“I want to put it back,” she pleaded, her face a mask of pain.
“Put it back?” he spat. He leaned over and bit into her neck, then her shoulder.
“Frankie!” she screamed, pushing at his head.
He unclamped his jaws and watched rivulets of blood run down her back and into the water. He licked the wounds once, twice before whispering into her rear, “He can only have the marrow if he pays the lousy fifty grand!”
“Frankie ... he doesn't have the money. He's going to die!”
“Listen to me, you little cunt: That's his problem, not mine.” He clapped his hands hard against the sides of her head, wrapping his fingers across her face. “We've stashed one hundred grand from those other two jerks ... but it's not enough. Do you hear me, it's not enough!” He swung her head back and forth so violently, water flew out of tub, drenching the floor.
“Do you hear me, you bitch! Not enough!”
She screamed his name again, tried to brace her arms against the sides of the tub to keep from toppling over, but ended up clutching desperately at his thighs.
“That's the first real money I've ever had,” he shouted. “I ain't about to quit now because Chapman doesn't want to pay.”
“But Frankie, there are others. They'll pay.”
He wasn't interested in her protests. He listened as her breathing deteriorated into ragged gulps of air and grunted exhalations. He forced her head around. Bubbles of saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth; she looked at him with widened eyes, the whites enlarging in spasms of desperation.
“Please, Frankie. Can't we let him live?”
He pushed her head into the water, dunking her over and over until she stopped struggling. Then he leaned back and let her lie on his chest, looking like a fish sucking for air.
“Let's tell it like it is, baby: This whole scam was your idea in the first place. Shit! The only thing I knew about marrow was that dogs sucked it, clawed it, lapped it up from bones. 'Bone dry,' my drunk old granddaddy used to call it.” He snorted a laugh. “And that old bastard was right: that's just what Chapman is, bone dry.”
“Frankie!” she gasped.
He caressed her head and whispered in a soft, loving tone, “Don't give me any more shit, darlin', or I'll throw your bones to the dogs.”
* * *
At 10:45 p.m. Frank Nellis entered Ridgewood Hospital, mingling with the employees about to start the graveyard shift; the security guards never looked twice at him.
He took the elevator to the oncology unit and followed a group into the employee locker room. Nothing appeared to have changed in the six months since he'd quit his job there as an orderly. Coming in at the change of shifts kept him from being conspicuous, put him in step with the ebb and flow of hospital life—a distinctive rhythm as compelling as a beating heart.
He went directly to a large laundry cart filled with fresh burgundy scrubs, the color for third floor personnel. Once he changed into a set, he shoved his street clothes into a vacant locker. No one paid any attention to him, which he'd counted on—turnover was high among the nonmedical staff.
He went down the hall to the utility room and selected a cleaning cart. He filled a bucket with fresh water and placed it in its designed slot on the end of the cart; a mop with a retractable handle fit conveniently into the bucket. He toyed with the inventory of supplies, stalling until he was the last one left in the room. Then he went to the far corner where the bright red sharps containers were stacked, filled with used, contaminated needles and scalpel blades.
He untaped, then removed the thick plastic top to one of the containers. Carefully, he lifted out a used 10cc syringe with a 16-gauge needle still attached. He pulled the plunger out of the cylinder and filled it with water, patiently working with it until he was able to force the dried contaminants from the needle tip. He hid the empty syringe among the paper supplies and started down the hall toward the reverse isolation rooms.
Nellis looked through the glass partition of Room 318—a bedside lamp spilled its dim light onto a sleeping patient. He double-checked the name on the plaque beside the door: Carl Chapman.
The area was quiet, unlike the beehive of activity during the day shift. Still, a few seconds earlier he'd almost collided carts with another orderly coming around a corner. The man had looked inquisitively at him, but Nellis had given him a pleasant nod and continued on his way.
The bastard probably thinks he’s going to be replaced, he'd mused.
He continued to stand outside Chapman's room, listening for anything unusual among the normal night sounds of the hospital. From the nurses' station just around the corner, there was an occasional rise of laughter, followed by a quick slide into silence as they chided themselves for making too much noise. He listened again: coughing; the sound of a call button; silence.
Removing a small aspirin bottle from his pants pocket, he held it up to the light and viewed its liquefied contents. Smiling, whistling under his breath, he uncovered the purloined syringe and drew up the smelly, viscous solution from the bottle.
Nellis entered 318.
The released air flowed through his hair, whooshed over him; he jumped slightly at the sound, which seemed much louder than he remembered. He stood still, poised to run.
Fuckin’ bitch! I shouldn’t even have to be here. Can’t take a chance on her spilling her guts.
When Chapman didn't move, Nellis silently approached the bed.
The dim light cast distorted shadows of blacks and grays across the bed. Chapman's
eyes melded into the darkness, leaving two large holes that stared blankly in an eerie gape.
Shit! He looks like a corpse already.
Nellis stopped at the IV pole at the side of the bed: a bag of dextrose 5% solution dripped into a well, then flowed down a tube into Chapman's wrist. He examined the tubing and selected one of the ports for his injection.
He raised the syringe, inserted the needle, and plunged the solution into the tubing. Then he watched as a dark mixture of tap water and feces flowed into Carl Chapman's vein.
Chapter 6
Tracy Bernstein stared dispassionately as the med tech wrapped a tourniquet around the bulge of her arm muscle and inserted a large needle into a distended vein in the crook of her arm—fifteen seconds later her blood had filled four large tubes and the procedure was over.
All that carrying on, she thought, remembering past hysterics whenever she'd had blood drawn—clenched fists, swallowed screams, fainting. Now, she barely noticed it—it was the least of her worries.
The tech pressed a cotton ball to the punctured area.
“I'm always glad when you do it. You're good,” Tracy said. “For a vampire, that is.”
The tech smiled, her face flushed.
“How'd you get hurt?” Tracy asked, pointing at the woman's eye.
“You know, the same old story ... ran into a door.” They both laughed, but Tracy was vaguely aware that her question hadn't been answered. The tech now seemed distracted, avoiding her eyes as she turned to her IV tray on the bedside table and labeled the color-coded tubes of blood.
Tracy mentally opened a file and pulled up profile specs for the medical technician—thirtyish, ordinary, medium height, overweight; insecure, timid, feels safe with dark colors, cutesy designs.
Still at it, you dodo.
She forcibly withdrew her eyes from the lab tech.
One of the reasons her husband had divorced her was for this very thing—called it her type/class/black-and-white act—automatically typing people. He hated it. Accused her of doing it to him, violating him. He never could accept that it was just a tool, an aid in her work. But then Gary wasn't savvy about a lot of things, especially having a middle-aged, self-sufficient woman at his side, particularly one who owned the hottest fashion house on the West Coast.
Poor Gary and his weak ego.
Oh hell, stop making excuses for poor Gary. Poor Gary’s heart is black as coal. If it wasn’t one thing with him, it was another.
She rubbed her arms as if a sudden chill had pierced her.
Couldn’t wait to run. Take off with his thirty-year-old, face-perfect, body-perfect secretary.
Slender tentacles of loneliness laced through her chest, curled upwards to encircle her throat.
* * *
The lab tech stood with her back to Tracy and pretended to straighten her tray. At the same time, she eased an envelope from her pocket and slipped it into the top draw of the bedside table.
“Bye, Mrs. Bernstein,” she said over her shoulder as she picked up the tray and moved toward the door.
* * *
Tracy waved distractedly.
I like people …, why else would I want to dress them in beautiful clothes?
She wasn't a pervert just because she instinctively visualized people and wrapped them in her own creative designs.
Have I ever hurt anyone by studying a face, gestures, nationality, body shape? She shook her head. I’ve got to stop beating myself up about this.
Forcing her legs over the side of the bed, she took a deep breath, and muttered,” To hell with you, Gary Bernstein!”
* * *
In the small bathroom, Tracy unwrapped the multi-colored scarf of abstract design that she'd pirate-tied around her head, laying the silky square on the sink. As she stood in front of the shower, she allowed her hospital gown to drop to the floor. She stared at the crumpled material.
When she'd arrived two weeks earlier, she'd insisted on wearing her own nightgowns. But one-by-one the satin, lace-trimmed, pastel garments had been washed and put away. Chemotherapy had caused her body to erupt from every orifice, staining everything with vomit, bloody urine, and diarrhea. Within a short time, the need to wear her elegant lingerie became unimportant.
It had been two months since they’d yanked out her ovaries, along with everything else. But she still felt like a stranger within her own body – her skin was different, everything seemed wrong – and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t settle into her mutilated anatomy.
Running her hands over her body, she explored the scarred of her abdomen. When her fingertips rode over the irregular incisions, she burst into tears. Moaning, she tentatively pulled at the few tufts of dull red hair on her head. It was all that remained of her luxuriant tresses. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, swallowed hard, and grimaced from the pain of a large ulceration in her mouth.
“It's not me anymore!” she cried out to her mirror image.
There was a knock at the bathroom door, but she didn't respond.
“Tracy?”
She turned as the door opened and looked into the worried eyes of Gina Mazzio.
“I had a hunch you were in here crying,” Gina said, stepping into the room. She reached into a stack of fresh patient gowns and put one on over her uniform. “Let me help you.”
Tracy said nothing, simply allowed the nurse to help her into the shower. Inside the narrow stall, she kept her back toward the spray to protect the Hickman catheter in her chest.
Gina gently soaped her back.
“How could I have been such a fool, Gina, ignoring the twinges of pain, the bloating?”
“Tracy, sooner or later you're going to have to forgive yourself, stop hating yourself ... hating your body ... for having cancer.”
“How on earth can I? And if it weren’t for my ex-husband noticing my gut hanging out, I probably would never have found it. Imagine having to be grateful to that son-of-a-bitch.”
“Hey, from what you've told me, you're lucky to find any redeeming feature. My ex doesn't even have that.”
Tracy smiled and reached up for the hand-held showerhead to rinse herself. “You know, Gina, I get the strangest sensation when the water hits my belly – I feel like they’ve eviscerated me.” She stopped rinsing and fingered the scars again, wishing for the hundredth time that it was all just a ghoulish nightmare.
They were interrupted by a voice calling Gina's name from outside the bathroom. When the door opened, Helen asked Gina to step outside for a moment.
“Will you be all right?” Gina asked Tracy.
Tracy nodded, but once alone, she realized she barely had the energy to dry herself with the towel.
During the past week, she'd progressively become more exhausted—walking to the bathroom, taking a shower, even eating, had sapped her strength and tested her willpower. Although she knew the massive doses of chemo were her only hope, she also knew they were killing her.
This morning her doctor had answered her complaints with a warning: her bone marrow suppression was approaching its lowest point from the aggressive treatment; he was talking about transfusing her in the next few days with the marrow samples they'd taken a month earlier. His comments made her think of her sister Veronica, who had taken her to the hospital that day for the marrow withdrawal. They'd immediately gotten into a heated argument:
“Damn it! You have to tell Mom and Dad,” Veronica had said in the car. “They're going to have to know sooner or later.”
“I don't want to deal with that now,” she'd argued. “When they learn the cancer has spread to my bones, they'll go off the deep end. I need some time ... please!”
Her sister hadn't changed her mind, but stayed with her at the hospital while the doctor once again explained the marrow retrieval and storage procedure:
She would be given general anesthesia, then four incisions would be made for access to the iliac crests of her hip bones. A sharp stylet would be introduced through an aspiratio
n needle at each site directly into the bone. A total of one liter of marrow would be collected by syringe from the four locations. The marrow would be treated, purged of any cancer cells with 30 minutes of chemotherapy, then mixed with a medium and DSMO preservative prior to being frozen.
It had all gone exactly as the doctor had described; she'd been released to go home. Two weeks later, after the incisions had healed, she'd been admitted to the oncology unit for treatment.
Veronica had been sworn to a reluctant secrecy, and Tracy still had not worked up the courage to tell the truth to her mother and father.
* * *
She retied the scarf on her head and hobbled toward the bed, gauging each step carefully. She sat down and rested on the edge of the mattress, taking up her hand mirror from the bedside stand. Her face was ashen and her usually vibrant green eyes had turned to a watery olive-drab.
“God, you look terrible,” she moaned, and pulled open the drawer to get her makeup. Balanced atop the brocade case was a white envelope with her name printed in block letters
Tracy Bernstein
Room 312
Puzzled, she opened the envelope and found a typed note inside.
We have your bone marrow.
This is not a hoax. Do not discuss this with anyone.
ANYONE!
Talk and we'll flush your marrow—and other people's—down the toilet.
The price is $50,000.
TOMORROW!
The letter slipped from her hand as she clawed at her chest. Everything was separating into polka-dot lightness and darkness; a scream surged upward, but jammed in her throat; the room accelerated into a mind-crunching spin.
Chapter 7
Helen squeezed Gina's arm sympathetically. “I'm sorry, but it looks like Chapman is dying. He's been asking for you.”
Gina nodded. “He barely responded when I saw him earlier this morning ... vitals signs were sinking ... spitting up blood. Just kept hoping. Talk about denial.”