Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2)

by Chris Patchell

  “Everything okay?” Henry asked.

  Seth ignored the question. “You find anything?”

  Henry didn’t need to be told to mind his own fucking business. He took the hint and refocused on the case.

  “No connections that I can find. No common friends on social media, they didn’t go to the same schools, hang out at the same places. It’s a dead end.”

  “There has to be something. What is it about them that made them good targets?”

  “They’re both young. Single. Both estranged from their families.”

  “Yes, but who would know that?”

  Seth rubbed his eyes, blew out a sigh.

  “We’re missing something. Let’s go over it again.”

  Chapter 23

  “Where have you been?” Xander yelled as Tory entered the room.

  “What happened?”

  Tory rushed toward Suzie, who lay spread-eagle on the bed. The monitors screeched behind her.

  “What does it look like? She’s crashing.”

  “What did you do?”

  Xander shot her a murderous glare. “What did I do? What did I do?” his voice rose in pitch. “I’m here doing your job. She woke up. Tried to escape. I gave her a shot of Ketamine.”

  “How much did you give her?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much I gave her, does it?” Xander bellowed. “She’s crashing.”

  Tory pressed her palms into Suzie’s chest and counted five rapid beats. Still not breathing. The whine of the heart monitor blared in the distance, but she barely heard it. Her entire being was focused on Suzie Norwood.

  She ground her knuckles into Suzie’s sternum, trying to elicit a pain response. Nothing. Checked for a pulse.

  “Dammit.”

  “What are you doing?” Xander yelled. His fingers latched onto her shoulder, and he pulled her away.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to save her.”

  Xander shot her a withering look like he’d never heard anything so stupid in his life. Tory’s breath caught as the shock wore off and the reality of the situation settled in.

  “We’ve got to take the baby,” he said.

  “It’s too soon.”

  “Unless you have a bolt of lightning from the sky, or some other miracle to apply here, we’re wasting time.”

  There had to be something else they could do, but staring down at the patient’s prone form, she knew Xander was right. The baby was in distress. They had four minutes to deliver this baby. Tops. Deprived of oxygen, the infant would die. There was no time to prepare properly, so Tory wheeled a surgical tray into place beside the bed.

  Her eyes flicked to a digital display over the bed, clocking the time.

  “Let’s go,” she said as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

  She knew what had to happen. Suzie was as good as gone, and every second was precious to the baby boy she carried. They had already wasted at least a minute, maybe more. Three to go before Suzie’s son started losing brain cells.

  She’d only attended one perimortem C-section in her career. A car accident victim wheeled into the OR. They had been too late to save the baby. This time, they were not going to fail.

  Xander made the first incision—a coarse vertical cut down the center of Suzie’s abdomen from her sternum to her pubis. He pushed his finger through the abdominal muscles down the midline. All the while, Tory counted off seconds in her head. Anticipating his needs, she grabbed the scissors from the tray and slapped them into Xander’s palm.

  Two minutes gone.

  She held her breath while he cut through the lining of the abdominal cavity. Just one slip, one tremor, and Xander could harm the baby.

  Sweat prickled along her hairline as he made a small, careful incision at the lower end of the uterus, away from the infant. Xander worked fast, his hands steadier than she had seen them in a long time as he cut through the uterus to the fundus.

  Three minutes.

  Tory held her breath. If the placenta was in the way, Xander would have to cut through it. Not only would that cost them time, but it would ruin any chance they had of harvesting the precious stem cells.

  Xander opened the uterus. The placenta wasn’t blocking access. Tory released her breath. This was it. She reached inside Suzie’s womb and pulled the infant out. Holding the baby aloft, Xander clamped the cord and cut.

  He was tiny. Still tucked into the fetal position, Tory shifted him onto his back. He lay silent. Unmoving.

  In an instant, she took in the bluish caste of his skin.

  He wasn’t breathing.

  She flicked his heels. Nothing.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath, rushing across the room to the newborn bassinette, wishing to Christ they had a warmer. They had hurried. The procedure had been rushed. There should still be enough time to save the child.

  With a jolt Tory realized that she had no idea when Suzie had started to crash. If the baby had been deprived of oxygen longer, all of this had been a waste of time.

  The memory of another baby edged out from the shadows of her mind. The pull of the memory was strong, dragging her back to the worst moment of her life. She couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t. She’d worked too hard to forget.

  She shoved the memory back. Fully focused on the baby in front of her, she ran over the possibilities. Airway obstruction? Meconium?

  Her heart raced, but her hands were steady as she opened the baby’s mouth. Inserting the catheter, she suctioned the airway, then each nostril, careful not to go too deep.

  “Come on. Breathe.”

  Dammit. Nothing.

  Gritting her teeth, she repeated the procedure, bumping up the suction pressure. Praying under her breath that this time it would work. This baby was going to live. He had to.

  The infant gave a cough. Then a wail. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

  She cradled the infant in her arms. “You gave me a scare.”

  The baby stretched. His skin starting to pink up, he screamed bloody murder. She smiled, looking down into his tiny face.

  “You are going to be all right,” she promised him.

  Behind her, the monitors fell silent as Xander flicked them off. She didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see another dead body. Another wasted life. But then, not old enough to legally drink, Suzie Norwood would have been a shitty mother anyway. Just like her own had been.

  This little guy didn’t know it yet, but they were doing him a favor. The parents they had picked out for him would give him a better life. He would have two parents who adored him, who could give him everything he needed—a good education, food in the cupboards. Not a life of squalor, barely being able to scrape by, where he was left on his own to fend for himself.

  Xander’s work would improve the lives of millions of people around the world. Sacrifice was a necessary part of the plan.

  Tory jiggled the baby and he quieted down.

  Michael.

  The name sliced through her like a stab to the heart. No. She didn’t want to think about him.

  “Enough with the baby. Get over here.”

  “What?”

  She turned. Xander was standing with a needle clutched in his hand.

  “Right.”

  She placed the baby down in the bassinette and shifted over to assist. Working fast and sure, he inserted the needle into the vein of the severed umbilical cord. The precious blood, rich with stem cells, flowed through the needle into a collection bag. Miracle blood, which Xander could transform to mimic nearly any cell in the body to heal traumatic injuries or treat damaged tissue caused by a degenerative disease.

  The entire process took less than five minutes. A fraction of the time it took God to create the world. Next, he would load the cells into a centrifuge to separate the nonuseful and detrimental components from the precious stem cells.

  The collection process complete, she returned to the bassinette. Mesmerized by the beautiful baby before her, To
ry failed to register the abrupt shift in Xander’s mood.

  “What is this?” he barked.

  The expression on his face stopped her cold. Tory’s brow furrowed as she tried to interpret his thoughts. He was looking at the baby like he had three heads instead of what he was—a perfect little boy.

  She ran her hands over the baby on the table, taking careful note of what she saw. He looked good to her—strong and healthy. Maybe a little small, but that was to be expected. He was preterm. For the life of her, Tory couldn’t guess the cause of Xander’s ire.

  “What?”

  “Look,” he barked, gesticulating toward the infant. Tory’s brow furrowed. Ten tiny fingers and toes, and despite his early delivery, his lungs were fully developed, good breath sounds. What was she missing?

  “He’s fine,” she insisted. Better than fine. He was perfect.

  “He’s black,” Xander yelled.

  “Oh.” In their haste to deliver the baby, she had completely failed to register the fact that the child was mixed race.

  Just like Michael.

  “Oh? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Xander . . .”

  Xander ran his hands through his hair, oblivious to the blood and gore still sticking to his gloves. Thick red streaks tracked down each side. He clenched his teeth and gestured toward the baby.

  “Those parents are expecting a white baby. What am I going to tell them? Sorry, but it turns out we were wrong about a little detail like the child’s race. All the babies are supposed to be well screened. How am I going to explain this?”

  Tory blinked in astonishment. He couldn’t be serious.

  “They’re desperate for a baby. They will be fine with this one, as long as he’s healthy. And he is. Healthy. He’s . . . flawless.”

  “They’re not going to want to pay me a hundred grand for that.” He thrust his open hand at the baby, who started to wail. Tory rested a steadying hand on the baby’s tiny chest. “Get rid of him.”

  The chilling proclamation froze Tory’s heart.

  “What?” She peered down at the squalling child. Xander wasn’t thinking the situation through. The baby was hungry and cold. He needed a bath, a blanket and some formula. He needed someone to love him. Protect him.

  “You heard me.”

  “Xander, no. Sure, they will be surprised by the news. We were surprised, but people lie all of the time. I bet if you explain it to them—”

  “Get rid of him.”

  The baby cried louder, startled by the loud yell. Tory grasped for something, some piece of logic to snap Xander back to reason. It was a setback. Nothing more. This child didn’t deserve to die because his mother had lied about the father on a form.

  “We could charge fifty-grand instead.”

  “You’re marking him down, like he’s part of the scratch and dent section at Macy’s? And how’s that conversation going to go? So very sorry to have to tell you this, but instead of the snow-white baby you wanted, we’ve got a tanned one we can sell you on the cheap,” he mimicked. “Yeah, that won’t seem the least bit suspicious. Do you even hear yourself? Leave him out in the woods for the coyotes, or throw him in a dumpster. I don’t care what you do, just get rid of him.”

  Tory turned away, her stomach churning. The finality of his tone was unmistakable. There was no reasoning with Xander when he was like this.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, in a mollifying tone.

  “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all day.”

  Her eyes welled with tears as she looked down at the baby. He thrust his fists into the air and flung them out to the sides, like he was conducting a symphony no one else could hear.

  “What are you going to tell the parents?”

  “I’ll tell them the baby was stillborn.”

  A shudder ran through Tory. The welfare of the baby was the last thing on Xander’s mind, now that he had the stem cells. To him, the baby was as good as dead.

  Xander capped off the storage bag of blood and stalked from the room. She listened to him go, knowing full well he would spend the majority of the next few hours extracting cord cells and storing them away for his research.

  That was good. She needed every second.

  She peeked over her shoulder to make sure he was gone, then she turned back to the baby.

  “Shhhhhh,” Tory whispered. She picked him up and jiggled him gently until he stopped crying. He looked up at her. He had such soulful eyes. She could swear he almost smiled.

  She ran a clean cloth under a stream of warm water and washed the baby, humming a lullaby under her breath while she worked. After patting dry his newborn skin, she swaddled the fleece fabric tight around his tiny, wiggling body.

  “It’s okay, Michael,” she cooed into his ear. Closing her eyes, she breathed in his scent. “Your mama is gone, but I’ll take care of you.”

  Chapter 24

  The rain slashed against the windows of the house like hard bullets hitting the glass, each one drilling into Brooke’s head. She sat hunched in the corner of the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, palms pressing against her ears, trying to block out the sound. Another gust of wind blasted, blowing through the trees, branches heaving against the roof.

  He’s not here. He’s not here. I’m not there.

  She ran the words through her mind like a rosary prayer, trying to squeeze out whatever feeble reassurance they might bring, but her heart still raced like she was back there—trapped in the cabin at the bottom of the valley. Tied to the bed. The sound of the rain, the river, and the wind all around. The minutes, hours, weeks she spent in captivity. Waiting. For him to come back and do what he did.

  Waiting to be killed.

  The room was in shadow while outside, the gloomy afternoon storm raged on. She rocked in place as the sound of the wind swelled—rattling the eaves like a chained-up dog. Brooke’s eyes were squeezed shut.

  She lived and he didn’t. He was dead.

  Andy Bowman was dead. Intellectually, she knew it was true—had memorized it like a mathematical fact, but in her heart, she still heard the sound of his boots on the porch. Then the tread of his boots on the floor. The sound of his footfalls echoing through the small cabin until he loomed over her.

  “No,” Brooke whimpered, drowning in the memory of him. The terror. The way he would hunker down in front of her. Reeking of cologne. The rasp of his stubble. His hot breath on her face. How he would thrust his hands into her hair and jerk her head back until she was forced to look into his dead black eyes.

  A sharp knock pounded on the door. Brooke’s breath caught. Her heart thundered. She pressed her forehead to her knees as a small frightened cry escaped her.

  She prayed they would just go away. Leave her alone. But the knock came again. Harder. Her phone. At least if she had her phone, she could call her mother. The police. But her phone was nowhere to be found.

  She was alone. Helpless.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Brooke forced the air out of her lungs and drew in another shuddering breath.

  “Brooke.”

  She knew that voice.

  “Brooke, it’s me, Jesse. Are you home?”

  Jesse.

  The weight pressing down on her, like an intruder kneeling on her chest, released. She could breathe again. She unwound herself from her spot on the couch and crossed the room on shaky legs.

  “Coming,” she said. Her voice trembled.

  Cold air blew in from a gap at the bottom of the door and brushed over her feet. God, she must look like hell. She tucked her tangled hair behind her ears and tugged on the sagging waistband of her yoga pants, wishing she’d bothered to put on something decent. Losing twenty pounds when she was slim to begin with left her swimming in her ill-fitting clothes.

  Jesse stood in the doorway. He looked like Christmas standing there. Just looking at him reminded her of happier times. Laughter. Friends. A lifetime ago.

  His sandy, windblown
hair brushed the shoulders of a black motorcycle jacket. He had this way of making a T-shirt and jeans look good.

  “Is the power out?” he asked, looking past her to the darkened house.

  “What? Uh, no.”

  She flipped a switch. Yellow light flooded the living room. A nervous trill of laughter spilled from her lips, and she wondered how crazy she looked—sitting in the dark afraid of a ghost.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She hadn’t meant it to sound so blunt, but she was surprised to see him. He’d texted and pinged her on Facebook a number of times since she’d been discharged from the hospital. None of which she answered. Jesse lived in a different world, filled with parties and friends. Her world was different. Dark, ugly things lurked inside her mind that no one could understand.

  She was damaged. She knew it, and the way he was looking at her now made her think that maybe he knew it too.

  “I’ve been worried about you. Thought I’d stop by. Hope that’s all right.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. It was a lie. They both knew it. She ducked her head and stepped back, allowing him to enter the room. The door closed and they stood in the hall. An awkward silence filled the space around them.

  “So what have you been up to?”

  Brooke cast her gaze around the living room. “You’re looking at it.”

  Jesse faked a smile and shifted his weight between his feet. The polite thing to do was to respond in kind. Ask what he was up to. She wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t remember the protocols, but the truth was she already knew. She’d read every one of his Facebook posts like a stalker.

  Jesse thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked from heel to toe, searching for something to say. “So my band’s playing in Portland this weekend.”

  “That’s great,” Brooke said, a little too brightly.

  “Yeah, we’re pretty awful. Our singer’s a head-case and the drummer can’t keep time, but it will be good for a laugh. So, what do you think? Would you like to come? I could use a friendly face.”