[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  He unscrewed the top of the bottle and placed it on the nightstand. A vile odor floated down to her.

  “It was easy,” he said. “Hospital types are so smug, so stupid ... think they’re in some kind of fortress. Don't you people know everything's reachable, and anyone is get-able?”

  She yanked again at her bindings, stretching, turning. “Chapman was in reverse isolation.”

  “Big, fucking sweat,” he said, sneering at her. “I used to clean those rooms. Special to you ... nothing to me. Just another place to get in and out of. Popped a little of this stuff into his IV and no one ever knew I'd been there.”

  “It was you in Pathology chasing me, wasn't it?”

  “Almost had you, too.” He turned to look at her, smiled sweetly. “But what matters is, I got you now, darlin'.”

  She felt one of the belts loosen slightly. “What's in that bottle?”

  He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Why, darlin', this here’s my own special mixture.” He winked at her. “Got to admit, though, it sure don't smell too good.” He dipped the needle into the bottle and pulled back on the plunger, filling the syringe with the dark, viscous fluid.

  Gina turned her head from the stench. “What is it?

  “Well, now, you people might call it a coliform special,” he said, setting the syringe down, and putting the cap back on the bottle. “But truthfully, it ain't nothing but plain old shit 'n water. Not sweet, but pretty damn simple.” He gave her a mock solemn nod. “And you gotta admit, there ain't no shortage of it, either.”

  He put the syringe on the bedside table and removed the belt from one wrist. She pulled and twisted her arm once more. It came free and she punched wildly at him. He caught her fist in one hand, trapped it under his arm, and held it there while he looped the belt around her biceps.

  She watched her vein rise, bulge beneath the skin. He sat there smirking at her, looking from her breasts to the crotch of her panties as he retrieved the syringe and held it in front of her face.

  “After this, we should have some time for an intimate moment or two. I'll bet Faye's already told you how well I can use a woman.”

  Gina watched the needle inch toward her arm. She yanked violently at her bound wrist, but the leather only cut deeper into the abraded skin.

  “Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody, help me!”

  Nellis laughed. She looked at his twisted features, blinked, and saw a second head floating above him. She blinked again—Faye's broken face hovered there, one side of her skull caved in, mashed almost beyond recognition; the lower half of her face had become a gelatinous mass of fibers, flesh, and displaced teeth.

  Gina strained harder to free herself, yanked relentlessly at taut leather as she saw the switchblade poised in the air.

  Faye plunged the knife into Nellis’ neck; the tainted needle fell from his hand. He howled, released Gina’s arm to claw at the wound.

  “What the fuck?” He jerked the knife from his neck, flung it down onto the bed, fingered the oozing blood. “How could you, darlin’? All I’ve done for you?”

  Gina quickly freed her other hand, released the tourniquet.

  “Bitch!” Nellis snarled, grabbing Faye by the neck and pulling her down onto the bed across Gina's legs.

  “Frankie!” Faye moaned. “Sorry ... my fault ... all I wanted ... was ... to love ... you. Take care of...”

  Nellis drove his fist into her throat, crushing her larynx. He paused, fist raised, ready to strike again, but there was only deadly silence. His anger shifted back to Gina.

  “Get off me, you bastard!” she screamed, scooping up the switchblade. She held it point-first out in front of her with both hands.

  Nellis lunged forward, hands extended toward her throat.

  Gina drove the knife between his ribs and up into his heart. He stared at her, hands falling limp on her shoulders. She shoved him aside, struggled to pull her legs from under him and Faye.

  The eerie silence was broken by a mournful, animal cry of pain. Then another and another. It was several seconds before she realized the sounds were coming from her. She sat there, on the edge of the bed, rocking to and fro, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.

  Nellis’ breathing was loud, stertorous. He stared at her; a smoldering anger sparked for a moment, then diminished to bewilderment as his eyes glazed over with the defeated look of a beaten child.

  She looked back at Faye and quivered. Poor Faye. Poor broken, dead, Faye.

  Gina covered her mouth with both hands and cried.

  Epilogue

  Gina and Harry lay sprawled across a ratty blanket she’d taken from the trunk of the Fiat. As they watched wave after wave curl lazily onto Muir Beach, a summer fog started building above the chilly offshore waters. The warmth of the day was rapidly dissipating, yet neither made a move to leave.

  “Poor, misguided Faye,” Gina said. “I feel sorry for her.” She swiped at a tear that escaped from behind her sunglasses. “People do such incredible things in the name of love.”

  The fog grew thicker, creating white puffs across the surrounding hills. Gina and Harry huddled, watched others gather families, leash dogs, and disappear from the beach.

  Harry gently touched the large, ugly bruise on Gina’s cheek, then carefully lifted the dark glasses that not only masked her tears, but also hid her bloodshot eyes – a souvenir from Frank Nellis trying to strangle her.

  “How easy it is to point a finger at the other guy from a comfy seat on the sidelines,” Harry said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “But she could have walked away at any time.”

  “Not Faye. To her it was a simple equation – she’d found someone to love and she was going to hang on to him no matter what.” She took Harry’s hand and pressed it tightly to her chest. “It’s so horrible – all she could think about was pleasing Nellis.”

  “And in return, he beat her to death,” Harry said.

  He poured a cup of steaming coffee from a Thermos, and handed it to Gina, who took a sip and set it down next to her.

  “It was my fault. I blame myself for what happened to her.”

  “That’s not fair. She went with you because she really wanted to save Vinnie.”

  “Detective Mulzini wasn’t convinced of that,” Gina said. “He insisted that without Faye, Nellis’ whole scheme would never have gotten off the ground.”

  “Nellis needed an inside person,” Harry said. He reached for Gina’s cup and gulped down the rest of her coffee. “He found Faye, seduced her, and turned her into his slave.”

  “I wish the police hadn’t made me sign a formal statement. Faye thought I was her friend. It felt like a betrayal.”

  “Yeah, well, the police operate like any good business – all the tees have to be crossed; all the eyes have to be dotted.” He rested his head against her shoulder and sighed. “Mulzini said it was a nasty scene at Nellis’ place. I’m grateful you’re alive.”

  Gina rested a hand on his head, ran her fingers through his hair. The only sound was the lapping of the waves and a whistling breeze moving through the shrubs.

  “I killed a man, Harry,” she whispered. “How will I live with that?”

  He pulled back, lifted her chin, and stared into her eyes. “He would have killed you.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “But it still hurts. I can’t explain it. I only know it hurts like hell.”

  “And that feeling probably won’t ever go away.” He pulled her into his arms and whispered, “Give it some time, Gina.”

  “Mulzini said pretty much the same thing.”

  “At least there’s a bright side to all of this,” he said. “You saved Vinnie’s marrow. That’s a big plus.”

  She nodded. “I was sure the cells had been trashed, then Kessler gave me a thumbs-up. It looks like things are going to work out okay for the kid.”

  “So when do we set the date?”

  She smiled, a spark returning to her eyes. “What date are you talking abou
t, big boy?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, lady. You damn well know what date I’m talking about – our wedding.”

  Gina struggled to her feet, held onto her sore side as she grabbed for her shoes, and limped toward the parking lot. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Harry shuffling through the sand, dragging the blanket behind him.

  She eased herself into the driver’s seat and waited while Harry dumped the blanket into the trunk and plopped down beside her.

  “I didn’t get an answer,” he said.

  “What was the question again?”

  “Has anyone besides me called you a terror?”

  “Almost everyone, and at least a zillion times.” She pushed the key into the ignition. “How about this weekend?”

  “What about this weekend?”

  “Do you want to get married or not, Harry Lucke?”

  He covered his eyes and shook his head, a big grin spreading across his face. “You are too much.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gina said, adjusting the side mirror. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The Fiat’s engine gronk-gronked, sputtered, and fell silent.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said and struggled out of the car. She flung open the hood and started tugging and pushing at every wire and hose she could reach, all the time swearing in Italian.

  “Never, never, never, never will I ever buy another one of these spaghetti burners,” she yelled.

  Harry vaulted over the closed door of the convertible and walked around the car, laughing and pointing a finger at Gina.

  “Is everyone from the Bronx as cuckoo as you are?”

  Gina’s glare melted into an evil grin. She tried to move with a vamp-like strut, but tripped on her own feet and tumbled into Harry’s arms. She held on tightly, snuggled into his neck, and whispered, “You bet your sweet ass.”

  -The End-

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  ONCOLOGY is a fast-moving field of medicine, with on-going research finding new treatments and techniques on an almost daily basis. As a result, an autologous bone marrow transplant (ABMT) may no longer be a leading form of treatment for some of the types of cancer in this book.

  Acknowledgements

  We gratefully acknowledge all those who provided us with information, guidance, and encouragement: “The Group”— Theo Kuhlman, Margaret Lucke, Laurel Trivelpiece, Mary Walker, and Judith Yamamoto; for technical details—Melody Childs, RN and the University of California Oncology Department; and for unselfish giving of their time—Marcia Miller, Bill Pronzini, and Marilyn Wallace.

  SIN & BONE

  by

  Bette Golden Lamb

  &

  J. J. Lamb

  TWO BLACK SHEEP PRODUCTIONS

  NOVATO, CALIFORNIA

  Sin & Bone

  Copyright ©2012 by Bette Golden Lamb & James J. Lamb

  www.twoblacksheep.us

  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 any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Designer: Rita Wood www.ritawoodcreative.com

  Dedication

  For Rita and Mike Wood, once good friends,

  who were always there for us through the

  good, the bad, and the ugly.

  Chapter 1

  Gina Mazzio glared at the call-waiting board high above her desk. The flashing red lights signaled every active phone line into the Ob/Gyn Advice Center; the display made her sick. It was a relentless reminder of all the people waiting to speak to a nurse. Speak to her.

  The Eye of God.

  That’s what the clinic nurses called it – among other things.

  She pushed back into the chair, stretched her neck, and ran fingers through short, black, hair; her eyes fixated on the sea of pulsating dots.

  Three desks were crammed into the tiny office, and normally two other nurses would have been wedged into seats on either side of her. But a sick call and a family emergency had pared the Ob/Gyn advice staff down to one – her. Even without her co-workers, the claustrophobic room had about the same appeal as cramming her five-ten bod into a linen closet.

  The Eye continued to flash, all her desk lines rang and flashed. She wanted to fling the phone against the wall and run. Instead, she answered the next-in-line call.

  “She’s all cut up.”

  “Sir, this is Ob/Gyn. I think you want the ER.”

  “No!” the caller said. “Listen to me! She’s all cut up.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. Who’s all cut up?”

  Silence.

  “Sir, what’s the problem? Is it your wife?”

  “No!”

  “You’re going to have to explain so I can help you.”

  “She’s all cut up.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m going to transfer you to the ER now.”

  “No–“

  The red light blinked out.

  She felt uneasy as she glanced at the finger-smudged plaque in front of her that told where Gina Mazzio, RN, sat, then glanced again at the two empty desk chairs. A sharp pang of resentment stabbed through her. Alone, she’d handled more than 100 patient calls during her eight-hour shift, with no break or time out for lunch. She was beat. So whoever was at the other end of those flashing call lights would have to wait until she got caught up with her paperwork.

  She jerked the cord out of its jack, yanked off her headpiece, and let it dangle around her neck like a funky necklace.

  I need to finish these nurses notes:

  11/02/09 4:45pm

  Margee Donlevy, 32-year-old primigravida, 34 weeks pregnant, complaining of more than 5 contractions/hr. Good fetal movement,

  (-) bleeding, (+) hydration. Working two jobs – on her feet all day.

  To L&D for monitoring.

  As she tapped the info into the computer, the ringing phone lines scrambled her thoughts.

  “Mama mia! That’s enough.”

  For her sanity, she needed to take the damn calls, get it over with. But exhaustion and pure stubbornness kept her from hooking back into the network. She checked her watch, then ran a finger across a framed photo of her fiancé, Harry. She smiled.

  “Four-fifty, baby! Only ten more minutes!”

  This was the weekend they were finally getting married. Her heart skipped a beat, the joy morphed into fear and lodged itself at the base of her neck.

  Scared? No, she was terrified and willing to admit that to anyone, other than everyone who knew her already knew. She’d re-set the date three times for three different flimsy excuses and it had reached the critical point where Harry had had it with her. He’d told her last night that he doubted they’d ever tie the knot.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe she couldn’t do it.

  But Regina and Bill had gone overboard to make all the arrangements, and she did love the guy, so she was doing it. Everything was set — set for them to run away to the Mendocino Coast to become Mr. & Mrs. Lucke, RNs.

  Gina continued to study Harry’s picture and wondered why he couldn’t be happy for them to just go on living together. He’d been a bachelor all these years, and as a traveling nurse, his out-of-town assignments kept him up to his ass in alligators most of the time.

  What was the hurry to get married?

  She finished her notes, plugged back into the network, and hoped it wasn’t the “she’s-all-cut-up” thing again. What was that all about, anyway?

  “Ob/Gyn. This is Gina. May I put you on hold?”

  “Fi-nal-ly. Don’t you people ever answer the phone?”

  “May I put you on hold?” Gina repeated in a pleasant voice.

  “Don’t let me wait too long.”

>   The woman’s voice bounced with impatience, but Gina could tell she would wait without further complaint. A pang of guilt cut through her.

  Give her a break, Mazzio. She’s only trying to get some help. Isn’t that what I’m here for?

  At least at 5:00 pm the 24-hour Call Center would start picking up the incoming calls. Anything in process before that would have to be completed by her, no matter how long it took. And she’d definitely have to take care of the “on-hold” call. But before she could act, three more calls piled up and it still wasn’t quite five o’clock. As she pressed the button, she yelled at the empty office, “Basta! Basta!”

  She dispatched the “on-hold” call with a few simple instructions for self-treating a vaginal infection. The second caller was hoping to still get in for an appointment, but was just now leaving San Francisco’s financial district.

  What is it about clinic hours you don’t get, lady?

  Gina popped her – complaining – into a Monday slot and took the next caller.

  “Nurse, nurse, help me! I can’t breathe…feels like someone’s sitting on my chest.”

  “You need to call 9-1-1. Now!”

  “No, no! Can’t you help me?”

  Gina could hear a shortness of breath. “Ma’am, please call 9-1-1.”

  The caller’s voice was faint, shaky. “Can’t you call them for me?”

  “No! They need a direct line so they can monitor you.”

  “I can’t handle that…those screaming sirens…it’s so embarrassing.” The woman began to sob.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. There’s nobody here. I’m scared.”

  “Listen to me: Please call 9-1-1. You’ll get help right away.”

  Silence.

  “Please call them.”