[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll check on you in a few minutes to see if you’re all right, to make sure that the EMTs are helping you."

  The line went dead.

  Gina would definitely make sure the woman was in the emergency system before she left for the day. Otherwise she’d continue to worry about her the whole weekend.

  “Ob/Gyn. This is Gina.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  Damn! Him again.

  “Gina. My name is Gina. Did you call the ER?”

  “Gina what?”

  A creepy tingling crawled up her spine; she shifted in her swivel chair.

  “Gina’s good enough. I’m the only Gina here.”

  A long silence was punctuated with labored breathing that made her think of someone running hard down a basketball court.

  “Sliced her into pieces.”

  Gina’s mouth turned to cotton. “Has there been an accident?”

  More heavy breathing.

  “Sir, I don’t think I can help you. This is Ob/Gyn.”

  “Dammit! I don’t care. I need to talk to someone. If not you, someone else … someone who’ll listen.”

  Gina stared hard at The Eye of God. Why couldn’t that thing give her all the information she could use – like Caller ID.

  “I’ll help you if I can, but –“

  “Don’t you get it? She’s all cut up.”

  Sweat blossomed on Gina’s forehead. “I heard you. But I don’t know what that means exactly. Please–”

  “It’s too late.”

  Like the night Gina was cut up. It had almost been too late for her, too.

  “If this is supposed to be some kind of joke, it’s not funny,” Gina said, putting steel into her voice.

  Loud sobs morphed into chilling, high-pitched laughter. Then came a wheezing so intense Gina felt her own chest constrict with each gasping breath.

  “Sir?”

  No response.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” he said in a raspy voice.

  Yes, she was scared, but she gave it her best Bronx effort: “Listen to me, whoever you are, there’s nothing about you that scares me.”

  Yet the pit of her stomach was on fire; she was more than scared, she was angry. Angry with her vicious ex; angry with street bullies and anyone else who’d ever tried to beat her up, beat her down.

  “What do you want? Do you have a medical problem, or are you one of those people who enjoy terrifying women?” She pretended to laugh. “If you are, you sure messed up this time.”

  She should have been on her way home, but here was this ghoul, wheezing in her ear, holding her hostage. And she still had to check on the 9-1-1 patient.

  Whatever was going on in this guy’s head was none of her business. Probably gets off creeping out people. Still, something warned her that he might be the real thing.

  “Listen Mr. … what did you say your name was?”

  “Who’re you kidding? You know I’m not going to give you my name.”

  “If someone’s dead or dying, you need help.”

  Hit the disconnect! Get the hell out of here!

  But she knew she wouldn’t. Instead, she pushed her chair back and leaned out into the hallway. It was a quarter past five, on a Friday evening – fat chance of finding anyone around the place to help her. The clinic was as silent as a tomb.

  She gave it another shot: “Why are you calling?”

  The wheezing had lost its crowing pitch, the breathing had slowed.

  “He says women are all alike. We love them and they fuck us over.” A tortured moan raised goose bumps on her arms. “Cut out our hearts and toss them to the dogs.”

  “Who said that?”

  “For God’s sake! Knock off the bullshit! Someone has to stop the cutting, the killing.”

  “What—”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 2

  The caller hung up, distraught, certain the nurse hadn’t believed him.

  Could he ever make it stop?

  He grabbed his inhaler, puffed until his lungs opened and he was able to fully breathe again. His cell phone stared at him, squat, menacing, like a black widow spider waiting to strike.

  When will he call?

  The hairs on his neck stiffened. His thoughts curled around him like a shroud.

  “No-o-o.” A familiar, paralyzing vision filled his head:

  Flexed muscles, beefy fists, beady lancing eyes, sadistic snorts of laughter, cauterized hatred. Flashes of slashing, boning, chopping; gristle, fat, and raw, red butchered meat from giant carcasses. And always the metallic smell of blood.

  The grotesque panorama made him scream; he swatted at the air to rid his mind of the butcher shop, where slaughtered animals enwrapped his memories like a rancid blanket.

  He winced as his feet slammed onto the bare floor. A half-hour of rapid walking around the spacious apartment usually lessened the despair. Acrid sweat dripped from his body, splatters dappled the blond bamboo floor. After the final lap, he collapsed on the sofa, wheezing again, barely able to breathe again. When he calmed down, he reached out and placed a tentative finger on the cell phone. He tapped the hard case nervously, a rhythm as fast and as deliberate as a metronome.

  How soon?

  His reflection stared back from the expanse of the penthouse window that framed a view of The City, from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge – he pulled at his red, spiky, hair.

  When will he call?

  He looked beyond his reflection, studied the native plants he’d bought for the penthouse patio – they loved the rain, heavy limbs thriving, reaching up to the sky.

  Restless, he started on another circuit of the living room, still concentrating on the patio plants. The trees attracted the birds – they would stop and rest in the branches, fluffing their gray, orange, white, and black feathers, then dart down to bathe in the large, variegated stone birdbath. Even in the rain they would chatter, peep at each other, then move on to Golden Gate Park.

  At least that’s where he would go if he were a bird.

  He envied them, envied their freedom.

  Freedom.

  * * *

  He tugged nervously at his hair as he waited in his Jaguar sedan across the street from the main entrance to Ridgewood General Hospital.

  He finally caught a glimpse of the nurse, the one he’d seen while passing through the ER last week – red hair, petite. Another one who matched his memories of Mother.

  “Bring the package,” Father had said when he called an hour ago.

  And he would have to do it.

  He closed his eyes, remembered Mother. She used to protect him, absorb the fists meant for him. They would turn her soft, white skin purple

  Shifting in his seat, his heart thrummed. He continued to stare at the nurse.

  He told himself he had to do this. Told himself the same thing every single time. If he didn’t please Father, he would never find Mother. Father knew where she was hiding, but would never tell him if he didn’t help with the packages.

  The washed-out blue scrubs draped the softness of the nurse’s small frame. Even before he’d seen her face in the ER, he’d stored the image of her body – young, pretty, red hair. Mother’s red hair. He concentrated on her chest, where large breasts were now smothered by the London Fog raincoat she’d wrapped tightly around her.

  He sniffed the air, as though some aromatic secret was waiting to be deciphered, some special scent that would riffle the cells, bring back another vision of Mother. Instead, his brain conjured up one of the bad memories: A girl in the butcher shop. Naked. Gray tape smothering her mouth. Hands tied behind her back. Father yelling. Calling her Mother’s name –Lola.

  He sucked in more air, deeper, deeper. Tried to switch the vision back to Mother. But all he sensed was heavy moisture laced with the nauseating smell of billowing bus fumes.

 
; He concentrated on the red-haired ER nurse’s face; it was animated, yet kind. She stood out among the three or four other nurses around her.

  Wide-eyed, vulnerable.

  One by one the others departed as their rides appeared, or they rushed to the nearby bus stop, or simply walked away.

  She pulled a cell phone from her purse, held it to her ear. When she folded it, her shoulders drooped in apparent dejection. She ran toward an arriving bus and got on board.

  He made a U-turn and followed the bus as it moved slowly along the busy street; watched her get off in the Diamond Heights district and start walking uphill.

  He drove past her, pulled into a space guarded by a yellow fire hydrant, and surveyed the neighborhood. Even though it was still early, all he saw were wet deserted streets and sidewalks. He got out quickly, smiled without humor, and waited as she walked toward him.

  The sky opened up and rain crashed down on his head, leaving him drenched and cold. Just before she was even with him, he raised one arm and held it straight out to block her progress.

  She looked at the obstructing arm and gave him a startled, then angry glare. Her eyes widened in recognition.

  “You!”

  He smashed her in the face.

  He expected her to cry out, scream, fight back. But she dropped in her tracks, out cold; blood streamed from her flattened nose.

  His breath caught in his throat. He turned away and vomited in the gutter. After wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. He hauled her back to the Jaguar, grunting all the way, then held her upright against the back of the sedan. He opened the trunk and lowered her inside.

  Sitting in the soft leather driver’s seat, hands clenched around the wheel, he tried to stifle the tremors that rippled from head to toe. His breath caught, he choked; two quick puffs from his inhaler and he was able to breathe again.

  “Calm down,” he whispered. He forced himself to slowly inhale and exhale until he was in control. On the move again, he obeyed every stop sign, every red light, the posted speed limits.

  If only he could turn around, go back to where he’d grabbed her and dump her there.

  It was too late for that—she’d recognized him.

  Chapter 3

  Gina’s hand shook as she unlocked the door of her ancient red Fiat Spider. Sitting behind the steering wheel, she was numb, her fingers tingling with fear. The caller’s words repeated and repeated in her head – cutting, killing.

  Get going, Mazzio. Harry’s waiting for you.

  But she sat frozen in the seat of the Fiat, staring at the dashboard.

  Most days she was tough enough to stand up to any challenge that fell into her court by the mere act of forcing her body into motion. Movement could catapult her through most problems. But she knew the toughness was just a veneer, created long ago to camouflage her insecurities. At the core lived a little girl, no different today than when she was a scared kid growing up in the Bronx – run from danger, keep your fists up high, fight as dirty as it takes to escape. Inertia was the enemy.

  So why was she just sitting here?

  Because a few menacing words had stripped away her armor, stripped away the cover-up that said she was strong, that fooled her into believing she was safe.

  It took only one disturbing telephone call to reveal what she was really made of – hot air. There was no getting around who she really was — a terrified woman on the run from a dark memory.

  That alone had been a good enough reason to move to the West Coast. But the geographic escape had also given her hope, provided an opportunity to define herself and find some kind of peace.

  At least that had been the plan.

  Her stomach cramped as the black memory blossomed. She tried to shove it back into the past where it belonged, to squash it, to snuff it out. She breathed deeply, squeezed her sweaty hands together, and hurriedly looked around at the deserted streets where predators could be hiding in any alley, behind any wall. It had been the same kind of night then, a night like this – damp, forbidding. Only worse because it was a Bronx winter night with piles of dirty snow on the ground.

  * * *

  Gina and another nurse always shared a ride to Jacoby Hospital. But the Bronx facility was short-handed that night; she was fast-talked into an extra four hours, and lost her ride home. The threat of another snowstorm was in the air but she’d decided to walk back to her apartment anyway. It was only a couple of short miles and she needed time alone to come down from all the tensions of the day.

  She was in a particularly good mood, had the next two days off, and much to her relief, Dominick was going to hang out with a bunch of his drinking buddies, go down to Atlantic City to gamble. She planned to meet a friend and go to the Metropolitan Museum, maybe even take in the Museum of Modern Art, where a traveling exhibit of Toulouse-Lautrec’s work was getting smashing reviews – mostly his popular bigger-than-life posters of brash women. She’d always felt more of a connection to Lautrec’s prostitutes than with the delicate female portrayals created by most artists of that era.

  When she arrived at their apartment building, exhaustion hit her hard as she climbed the four flights of stairs. Dominick was standing in the doorway, holding a beer bottle by the neck, slapping it repeatedly into his palm.

  “Where the hell you been?”

  Alcohol fumes polluted her space; she wanted to turn tail and run. He quickly yanked her through the doorway and flung her into the living room. Off balance, she stumbled, smashed her head against the coffee table, and crashed to the floor. An explosion of light assaulted her, everything became blurry.

  Her husband’s voice was low, tense with anger. “Tell me why I shouldn’t bash your fucking head?” He threw the beer bottle across the room; it shattered against the wall, splashing beer everywhere.

  She started to scream, but he backhanded her into silence. She tried to see his face, to plead with him, but everything became lost in a haze. Sound diminished until all she could hear was his incoherent shouting and her hammering heart. She squirmed on the icy-cold floor, trying to get away. Dominick ripped off her panties, fell on top of her and rammed himself deep inside.

  “That’s the last decent fuck you’re ever going to get,” he said as he rolled away.

  She heard a crash, then pain ripped through her. Red, orange electric flashes of searing fire burned from deep within.

  She screamed and screamed until everything shut down.

  A buzz of frantic voices broke through: “Stop the goddam blood! Get me more packing! Dammit, she’s gonna bleed out!”

  “Help me,” Gina whispered.

  “She’s awake!”

  Someone took her hand. “We’ve got you, Gina.”

  “Who?” She tried to open her eyes, started drifting away. Words were running together, fading.

  “Asshole … broken beer bottle … she’s not gonna make it. get her to the OR … now!”

  * * *

  Neighbors had heard her screams and called 9-1-1. Otherwise she would have bled out on the apartment floor.

  It had taken two days, six units of blood, and two surgeries for the medical staff to put her back together. They even saved her uterus, though being able to have children was still an unresolved issue. But she knew it was not likely.

  Her breath caught between uncontrollable sobs. Could she ever rid herself of the terror that Dominick would find her now that he was out of prison? Could she ever rid herself of the fear of being totally helpless again? Could being with Harry finally make her feel safe?

  She wiped her tears on a sleeve. A spike of anger stiffened her spine. She pulled a business card from her purse, bit down hard on her lower lip, and punched the phone number into her cell.

  “San Francisco Police Department.”

  “Detective Mulzini, please,” she said, looking at his card. He was the only cop she knew by name.

  “Sorry, ma’am, he’s off duty for the next few days.”

 
; Gina paused, unsure how to proceed. “I need to speak to someone about a telephone incident.”

  “Obscenities?”

  “No, no! Worse than that. Weird, scary stuff. Someone might even be dead.”

  “A possible homicide?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you want Detective Yee. Hold on a sec.”

  Gina tapped a finger on the steering wheel, thinking about the wheezing voice. It made her jumpy. She listened again for any signs of life near her car. It was quiet around the hospital. By now the day staff was either in a favorite hangout, getting a head start on the weekend, or curled up with a good book and sipping on a glass of wine.

  “Detective Yee here,” said a female voice.

  “Yes, hi! My name’s Gina Mazzio. I work…I’m an advice nurse at Ridgewood General.”

  “Would you spell that, please?”

  “What, Ridgewood?”

  “No, your name.”

  “Mazzio. M-a-z-z-i-o.”

  “And what can I do for you?’

  “About an hour ago I had this call on the advice line that was really disturbing.”

  “And you say you’re a nurse?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about this call?”

  Gina could tell she didn’t have the detective’s full attention. She pictured the cop sitting with a take-out dinner, just waiting to get her off the line.

  “The man who called said a woman had been … sliced.”

  “I see.”

  Right then, Gina knew Yee didn’t see, didn’t believe, didn’t care.

  “When will Detective Mulzini be back in the office?”

  “He’s not going to be much help to you. He and his wife are off to Hawaii for the next week.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “’Fraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Well, tell me, did you get a name or call-back number? Anything that could help us identify the caller?”

  “No. He hung up on me.”

  “And you expect me to do what?”

  “I was hoping there might be something.”

  “Without more information, Ms. Mazzio, there’s nothing we can do. I’d say you were a victim of some loser starting out his weekend with a crank call.” She paused. “There’re plenty of those around.”