Raney & Levine

by J. A. Schneider

  “Three months pregnant,” David said. “The stab is close to or involving the uterus, but there’s still a fetal heartbeat.”

  MacIntrye stared incredulously, absorbing this. “We gotta take her up.”

  David double-checked the nurse collecting Dara’s belongings, then glanced at Jill. “Call the O.R. Describe and tell them to be ready.”

  By the time they were scrubbed and entering the O.R., Dara was anesthetized and intubated, with whole blood hanging on the IV pole ready to go into her tubing. The respirator whooshed and two separate monitors beeped: Dara’s and her unborn child’s. At three months gestation, the fetal heart rate on the oscilloscope screen was normal at 160 beats a minute.

  A good sign…so far. And a quick MRI had shown no cerebral damage.

  David made a vertical incision adjacent to the stab wound, long enough so he could explore the outside of the uterus and adjacent organs for injury.

  Then they retracted the incision, MacIntyre’s gloved hands holding it apart as Jill inserted the stainless steel retractors.

  Blood welled the cavity and David couldn’t see. A nurse suctioned out the blood. Jill reached a bit jerkily to start new IV blood flowing into Dara’s tubing.

  “Uterus just nicked,” David said as soon as the field was clear. “She and the baby are lucky, stab didn’t go through.”

  “The stab’s just five centimeters deep.” MacIntyre was frowning above his mask. “Two inches.”

  “Yeah. Not very penetrating.”

  “Funny shaped stab too. Angled like from a box cutter.”

  “Yup.” Quickly, David inspected the adjacent bowel and blood vessels. “No damage there either,” he muttered. “Lucky again.”

  “Too lucky?” MacIntyre’s frown deepened. “There’s something weird about this. That head wound was superficial. It’s like her attacker only wanted to do minimal damage.”

  “I was thinking that.”

  Her attacker. Something weird about this. Jill’s mind whirled. Dara Walsh? She closed her eyes for a second. No way to understand…

  With a curved needle and absorbable sutures, David closed the small uterine wound, took a last look around for other internal injury, and then sutured closed the layers of abdominal wall: fibrous tissue, abdominal muscle, and finally the skin.

  “Done.” He glanced at one of the nurses. “She can go to Recovery now.”

  The nurses wheeled Dara on her O.R. table through swinging doors.

  While the doctors scrubbed out, different nurses in the recovery room cubicle followed Dara’s vital signs, her pulse, blood pressure, respiration and temperature.

  “How long before she wakes up?” asked a younger nurse.

  “Ten minutes,” said an older nurse. “The anesthesia only lasts as long as it’s being administered, plus a few minutes, give or take.”

  She glanced out. “As soon as she wakes, start her painkillers. She’ll be groggy but the cops want to talk to her.”

  “Why don’t we just sleep here? Pack a bag, bring our toothbrushes?”

  Pappas wasn’t surprised to be back already. Once a detective caught a case, it was his through sleepless days and nights. Alex groused about the lumpy cots in the stationhouse dorm, and Pappas said he’d lost count of the times his wife had threatened to divorce him.

  David smiled grimly, sitting, wiping his wet hands and forearms on paper towels. His expression changed. He was still stunned. “The victim this time is Dara Walsh. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Pappas took a last swig of coffee and grimaced. Someone else on call had made it obscenely strong. “Well, we know it’s not Nash,” he said, exhaling. “The killer’s still out there, in a rage, getting careless. Can’t get to his snakes because the church is now surrounded by cops cars, Health Department gets to work in the morning. He probably saw it on the news.”

  “Has to be Brian Walsh.” Brand looked stymied too. “But what could his beef with Dara be?”

  “Besides the fact that she didn’t seem to like him?” David asked.

  They all looked tense and exhausted. Going on their nerves. Before them on the OB lounge coffee table were empty Styrofoam coffee cups.

  The detectives had been on the phone with the CSU. M.O. was the same. Dara had been pulled into an alley and attacked while on her way to her night job. So far no DNA, no fibers, evidence, or witnesses. They’d also been trying to find Brian Walsh. He wasn’t answering his phone – no surprise - and uniforms sent to his apartment reported nobody there. They were waiting for a warrant to break in. Fat chance at this hour.

  Jill had been with them briefly, then excused herself saying she’d be right back.

  And back she came now, hobbling on a crutch. “Just temporary,” she managed. “Standing at an O.R. table starts hurting even if you haven’t fallen through a floor.” She was still shaky from the shock of Dara’s attack. Still incredulous. What did it mean?

  “Percocet?” David asked her.

  “Almost time for the next one.” Pale, she sat with a small groan next to David, propping her crutch on a near chair.

  David rubbed his unshaven cheek. “There’s something wrong about Dara’s attack,” he said gravely. Unconsciously he touched his drooping dark hair. “For starters, her head bash wasn’t serious. The scalp is very vascular. Even a small laceration can produce a lot of blood. Her attacker didn’t hit her hard like the others. Not even close.”

  Both cops looked at him. Brand got out his notebook, started scribbling.

  “And that stab wound…” David faltered.

  “Was off,” Jill said nervously. “Off target and not very penetrating. Why? Because he didn’t want to go too deep, plus he didn’t know where a three-month uterus and fetus are.”

  Alex looked up. “Where are they?”

  Jill held her hand to her mid section. “At three months the uterus hasn’t grown much. It reaches barely up to the navel.”

  “And the stab was just above,” David said. “Externally missed by a couple of inches, though the angle in nicked the uterus.”

  Jill frowned anxiously. “Also he didn’t kick the belly like the other women. Could this be a different guy? A ring of baddies?”

  Pappas didn’t think so. It just felt like the same assailant. Someone who knew where Dara would be, where to follow her, and brought her down first with a bash to the head.

  “Still,” Jill said. “Whoever did it still could have stabbed harder, and he didn’t.”

  Pappas thought about that, his lips tightening. “If the smaller stab was deliberate,” he finally said, “this creep’s still in control. Dara could have been a message. But what does it mean?” The detective rubbed his aching brow.

  “The cut was in the shape of a box cutter,” David said. “He could have adjusted it to stab only superficially.” As both detectives nodded, agreeing, he glanced at bulging plastic bags on the table. “Dara’s evidence from the ER?” he asked.

  “Yes, including her cell phone, thanks.” Pappas put on gloves and pulled it from a bag. He started to scroll names, thanking again because they never could have gotten a warrant for the phone. “Recognize anyone here?”

  He showed them, scrolling. They didn’t recognize any of the names until he got to Rick Burrell and Gary Clark.

  Jill wasn’t surprised. “They said they’d gotten roped into helping with that save-the-church group, Burrell especially.” Her lips were dry. She fiddled with the medallion she still wore. “Plus, that group had been emailing a lot. Other names might be other members-”

  Pappas’s phone rang.

  He listened. Grunted, “Interesting. Thanks.”

  And looked from Jill to David. “Dara made several calls to Burrell. More, recently.”

  “Because the rally was approaching?” Jill ventured. “She was trying to get him to do more.”

  A nurse came in to tell them Dara Walsh was awake.

  Jill and David gave both detectives sterile gowns, and all four of them went into the recov
ery room.

  Dara was groggy. Confused. Weakly crying.

  “Do you know who did this to you?” Pappas asked, bending to her.

  “He!” Dara’s eyes squinted open, alarmed. “Didn’t…believe!” It was a feeble cry.

  Pappas tried again. “Who didn’t believe? Did you see your attacker?”

  “He…wouldn’t!”

  David, watching Dara’s monitor, whispered to Pappas to cool it, her blood pressure was rising.

  The cops traded frustrated looks. David nodded, and Pappas tried a last, gentle approach. “Would it comfort you if a friend came to visit? Would you like to see…Rick Burrell?”

  The name calmed Dara. Her b.p. readout dropped instantly and a quivering smile crossed her lips. “Rick,” she breathed.

  Looks crossed between Jill, David and the two detectives. So who was “he?”

  Back in the hall, near the cop assigned to guard Dara, Pappas used his phone to call Burrell. “No answer. Getting his voice mail.”

  “At this hour probably asleep,” Alex muttered tiredly.

  Pappas left his message, identifying himself. “Your friend Dara Walsh has been attacked. She’s being treated for injuries at Madison Memorial. She’d be comforted by your visit.”

  He pocketed his phone, eyes narrowed in thought. “Those emails. They all know each other. Maybe Burrell has an idea where Brian is.”

  “Or not?” David said grimly. “Walsh could be anywhere. Maybe he and Dara fought and he’s passed out drunk in his apartment.”

  Jill grimaced at David. “Time for the next Percocet.”

  From somewhere, a dog barked.

  Looking alarmed, the two detectives said good night and left.

  35

  Just hours to go, and I’m so happy!

  No one has ever known about my secret place here, where I’ve toiled nights for over three months in the service of God. Now I finish…oh, how my heart beats and my hands shake in excitement as I work…which is BAD. Stuff might blow up. Must try to control myself. Breathe deep breaths. Put on the earphones and listen, as always, to Benedictinos.

  Ah, better. The Gregorian voices calm me, mesmerize me, as I work so carefully. I sing softly with them, those sacred male voices…“Ave mundi spes Maria, ave mitis, ave pia, ave plena gratia. Ave virgo…”

  Now to open the last box, oh so gently, slicing my box cutter just so along the sealing tape. Then I lift the precious bags of powder. It is sinful that you can still get ammonium nitrate online. I didn’t know. Spent a whole month scraping off the tips of matches, keeping the rising pile dry. And then…firecrackers! Tons of them available last July. I was careful, removing the precious powder from them too.

  The box cutter still has her blood on it. I like that. Haven’t washed it off because it is a reminder of my brilliant, God-given idea. Carefully, I slice open the boxes of ammonium nitrate. Thank you, God, for leading me to that idea…after months, but I know that that was your plan. Order the most powerful stuff last. If any Devil Police come snooping, it will be too late.

  The container, they’ll never guess. I do believe it is a first. Last August I figured how to cut it in half neatly, leaving no sign of damage. Then I took out its layers of contents, threw them in a trash bin blocks away, months ago. Who would guess anyway? Make any connection with such an innocent-looking thing? Empty, there is lots of room for my ammonium nitrate, matchstick scrapings, and firecracker powder.

  Now I pour in the gasoline, just like it said to in those online instructions. Not too much, just enough to ignite when the wire connection is made, and that won’t be until the final moment. But I’ve got my cell phone parts prepared. Insert the precious little wire that won’t ring until I tell it to.

  And then, the boom that will be heard around the world. The Devil’s Workshop will be reduced to ashes, the Devil’s son along with it, praise God! Every sinner will cower in fear, and repent, and God will sit me next to Him, on His throne, for HAVING TRIUMPHED SO GLORIOUSLY OVER SATAN.

  At last, I will be important. I will be glorified especially for having triumphed over my terrible, painful beginnings. A mother who gave herself over to Satan, who was so cruel to me, as were the others.

  And now they are all in hell, burning and shrieking in eternal Hellfire.

  I hum…and hum…

  The gasoline is mixed now, and the little wire contact is in.

  I close the container oh so carefully, then re-glue its parts closed. Then remember that the smell of gasoline might alert the dogs, so again, carefully, I wash the container’s outside with warm water and soap. Then dry it, and sniff. All’s well, no gasoline odor, no sign of having ever been even opened. It sits there on my workbench, the most innocent-looking object imaginable.

  In my earphones, they seem to be singing louder! The souls behind those sacred voices have seen, and sing in praise of me! I turn down the volume, and in my earphones they still sing louder! This is overwhelming. I weep as I realize God has told them to sing for me!

  And I sing with them. “Ave virgo singularis, quć per rubum designaris non passus incendia…”

  And I look at my precious, Satan-destroying container on my workbench.

  It was so easy to make, once I had, over time, collected its contents.

  Perhaps I’ll make two of them. There is time…

  David found two pillows and mattresses, pulled them into the on call room, laid them side by side on the floor, and spread them with sheets and blankets.

  Then held out his hand. “Tip for room service.”

  “We could have managed in this bed.” Jill patted beneath her.

  “It’s too narrow. I’m on call tonight. You’re in pain and I’d be either squishing you or waking you.”

  “Oh squish me, squish me.” Jill pretended dismay. Had wanted to sound jokey, break the tension if just for a moment, but it came out troubled.

  David cracked a tired smile. Laid his phone by his pillow and pulled off his scrubs. “The Percocet kicking in?”

  “Starting to.” Jill felt the blurry warmth coming on, and even more warmth at seeing him smile.

  Enough to make her stop obsessing over her fear, this terrible day, for a whole twenty seconds.

  He turned off the lamp, leaving the room in shadowy dimness with a small night light on. She took off her scrubs and ached her way under the blankets with him, snuggling close on her good side.

  “You’re so exhausted,” she whispered. “I hate that you may get called.”

  “You’ve had a worse day,” he said, hugging her. His face was in the pillow, his voice muffled. “Try to sleep. You gotta sleep.”

  “David?”

  “Mmf?”

  “How rare is EEE among people?”

  “Very.” A sigh. His voice was an exhausted mumble. “Six cases reported in New York State since 1971. Risk is highest July to September when mosquitoes are out.” His droning slowed. “Cops who were in the church” – he inhaled – “notified to watch for headache, fever, chills…but risk practically nil. That snake probably caught the last skeeter about to lay her eggs.”

  “So why’s the Health Department in such a rush?”

  “Gotta…clear and spray before the site ices over. Worried about…spring. Other animals mmf…susceptible. Birds, dogs, cats, cops’ horses…”

  In the next instant he was breathing heavily, his arm still over her. Jill closed her eyes, tight, tighter, listening to him breathe.

  This nightmare day. She felt strung as tight as piano wire, and suddenly lost, alone with hideous images that came rushing back. In her mind Nash’s face flashed back, twisted in rage, and the church floor caving in – nooo - and the snakes…falling into a writhing pit of them. She shuddered; squeezed her eyes even tighter to force down the awful image.

  It didn’t work.

  The snakes were the worst. She kept seeing herself scrabbling frantically through the wet, derelict floor with them writhing and snapping, slithering over her. A hiss came from som
ewhere and she turned – “Oh!”

  It was the heat going on. David wakened slightly. “Huh?” he mumbled.

  “Nothing,” she whispered. “It’s nothing.”

  He was already back to sleep. Carefully, she rolled onto her back. Stared at moving shadows on the ceiling. Clouds flying past the moon? She saw them now through the torn church roof. And the dimly lit sanctuary, a dark figure in a long dark hood approaching her. “You’re all going to die,” the figure said, whispery-voiced. A siren wailed, and red lights flashed on the ceiling. “You see?” The figure came closer, its face lost in shadow. “You will all die in fire, the devil child first.” The dark-robed arm reached to drop a writhing black snake onto her chest; bent to pin it whipping and struggling to her medallion. “No!” she cried. “It’s a bug-”

  “Jill. Jill.”

  “Wha?”

  “You were dreaming.” David was back in his scrubs, kneeling to her, holding her.

  “You…up?”

  “Got called.” He pushed damp hair from her brow. “You’re all sweaty. You were crying about bugs.”

  It took a moment to register. “Oh… no, it was this.” She tugged at the medallion. “Take it off for me?”

  He did. Gently reached behind her neck and undid the chain. “Had a nightmare?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I was back in that church. With the snakes and some scary guy dressed like a monk only in black.”

  He groaned feelingly and rose, put the medallion on the dresser, then knelt back to her. “No more nightmares, okay? Tell that monk guy I’ll blow his head off.”

  She smiled weakly in the darkness. “What time izit?”

  “Two-thirty. Stay snug. You’re safe. Try to sleep.”

  He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, then kissed her again, then was gone. Jill heard the door lock click closed. She pulled his pillow to her and buried her face in it.

  It was safe there, in his pillow.

  She slept.

  36

  “Ammonium nitrate, it’s an explosive,” a woman from hematology called to report at seven. “That blood sample you sent from patient Dara Walsh? We centrifuged it, and those strange particles went straight to the bottom of the tube. Didn’t know what they were, so we sent the sample to the chemistry lab.” She inhaled. “They just called to report. Your sample also contained potassium chlorate, used in firecrackers and on matches. The chem lab sees those substances a lot. Kids blowing their fingers off, the stuff going off accidentally. Terrible injuries.”