by Joya Fields
She strode closer to the room and listened.
No doubt about it, someone in there was crying. A child. Small whimpers followed by sniffling. She cupped her hand to her ear against the door.
Brooke sighed and decided that checking on the child would be more important than breaking patient confidentiality. She rapped on the door.
She heard a choked sniffle and then the noises stopped.
She knocked again and leaned her ear to the door.
Nothing. She tapped on the door again, following a gut feeling that something was wrong in that room. “Hello? Are you okay?”
No answer. Not a sound.
She swallowed hard and considered her options. She couldn’t exactly walk right in. What right did she have to infringe on someone’s privacy?
Archaeologists were notorious for their nosiness—and Brooke knew she was no exception. Was she being nosy or helpful?
She heard another sniffle and knew her answer. She couldn’t leave knowing somebody in there was upset. Months in and out of hospitals had taught her that people cry in doctors’ offices all the time. But this was an empty doctors office.
She knocked again. “Hey…I’m coming in to see if you need help, okay?”
No answer. Not that she expected one.
Bracing herself, she turned the knob.
A small dark-haired boy sat on the examining table. His left leg hung over the side. His right was missing. Only a small portion of residual leg remained, a bump of skin that barely protruded from his colorful sea shell shorts. He shivered on the rough white paper lining.
Huge, brown eyes framed by thick dark lashes stared back at her.
“Hi,” she whispered and stepped closer. “I’m Brooke.”
He frowned. His teeth clattered loud enough for her to hear them. She yanked off her white sweater and draped it around his shoulders.
“Gets cold in here, doesn’t it?” she asked.
He stared wordlessly.
“You don’t speak English?”
His gaze darted around the room.
“Que tienes?” she asked. What’s wrong? She said a quick thank you prayer that she’d learned Spanish—and a few other languages—while on digs in foreign countries.
His mouth twitched into a slight smile. “Mi pierna.” My leg.
She nodded and rolled up her pants leg. She tapped her fingers on her prosthesis, then her residual leg, to show him she had a real leg and a fake leg. “A mi tambien me falta una pierna.” My leg is missing too.
He stared at her leg, frowned as if sizing her up, and then shook his head. “No, me duele.” No, it hurts.
He sniffled again, and she guessed he was trying not to cry.
Brooke rolled her pant leg back down and waited.
He couldn’t be more than ten years old, yet his intense brown eyes held a maturity, a wisdom of someone much older.
“I dun won put dat ting bock on,” he said in broken English.
She leaned toward him. “You don’t want to put that thing back on?”
“Hurts.” He squinted at her and rolled up the hem of his shorts.
Brooke gasped. A bright red rash covered most of his small residual leg. His rough, almost-stretched-out skin had specs of something on it.
She reached out, but stopped before touching him. An amputee was poked and prodded so often. Medical experts often treat the limb as a thing, not as part of a person.
“Can I touch it?” She needed to make it clear he had control over his situation.
His lips disappeared as he grimaced. Then he nodded his head.
Brooke carefully touched the surface of his swollen skin and her fingers came away sticky. She stood back, looked from his face to his leg. “Was there tape there?” she asked slowly, unsure of how much English he understood.
He nodded.
It wasn’t unusual to use strong tape to be sure an artificial leg stayed in place—she’d done it herself one time when she went skiing. It provided an extra layer of protection against the leg coming off.
But the skin wasn’t just sticky, it was stretched out. His prosthesis was probably too heavy.
She glanced around the room, curious to see the prosthesis that had caused the stress to his leg. Surely Merrick wouldn’t have put him in a prosthesis that was too heavy.
“Where’s the leg?” she pointed to her prosthesis.
He shrugged. “Doctor tole me he put back on. I say no…hurts.” He rubbed his leg with small brown hands.
He looked up, squinted at the door. “Maybe he taking powder out.”
Powder? Must be a translation error. What he said didn’t make sense. He must have confused the word with another similar word. She tried to remember the Spanish word for powder.
Diego would know. Maybe he could help interpret. She pulled out her cell phone, opened it, and then realized she didn’t have any reception this deep in the hospital.
She saw the boy’s eyes open wide and he stared past her. A hand reached over her shoulder, snatched the phone from her hand, and snapped it shut.
Chapter Seventeen
Dr. Merrick held Brooke’s phone in one hand and a syringe and needle in his other. He moved from behind her and headed for the boy. He kept his gaze fixed on Brooke. The boy stiffened and his eyes widened with fear.
Merrick moved behind the boy, rested the needle against his throat, and then locked his steely gray stare onto Brooke’s.
“Why are—” she started.
“Shut up.” he said, his voice calm, his words deliberate. Brooke would have preferred to hear agitation or anger. His tight, cool voice sent chills up her spine.
He twirled the needle in his fingers near the boy’s throat casually and continued. “Do you know Juan’s parents gave me temporary guardianship for his trip to America? I could do anything.” He glanced at Juan’s face. He smiled a thin-lipped smile. He moved his gaze to the syringe in his hand. “Probably enough propofol in here to kill a child this small.” His lips curled into an ugly smile. “Or put him in a coma.”
Merrick had been the one to drug Jeff. Without thinking, Brooke took a step closer. “You did that to Jeff? You—”
“Take another step, and I’ll turn this kid into a double amputee.”
Juan gasped.
“Oh? You understand English?” Merrick turned to look at the boy’s face.
Distract him, Brooke thought. Get his attention from the boy. “Why’d you do it?” She would do what he asked…for now. Then she would figure out a plan to keep the boy out of harm’s way.
Merrick squinted at her. He shifted his feet and readjusted his position. With a glance at Juan, he tilted his head and motioned with his chin to Brooke. “Move across the room. Sit in that chair.” He pointed toward a small stool near a counter.
She lifted her palms to him and followed his order. “Okay. I’m doing what you want. Don’t hurt Juan.” She backed up to the stool and took a seat. She could make a run for it—she might be able to outrun Merrick. But the boy. What would he do to Juan in the time it took her to run for help? She heard her mother’s voice in her head...Everything in its time…
Merrick put the needle on a tray behind the examination table and moved to the door.
For the first time, Brooke noticed a long box—like a box that would hold a dozen roses—leaning against the door jam.
Merrick carried the box to the table, with his gaze on Brooke. He sat the white box beside the boy.
Juan cringed when Merrick opened the box to reveal the prosthesis.
“You’ll be okay…you betcha.” Merrick slid a sock on the boy’s residual limb. The boy gritted his teeth when the sock touched his reddened skin.
You betcha? Wasn’t that what the man on the boat had said?
Brooke stood and forgot about her plan to keep calm. “You!” She took a step toward him. “You came on the boat…” But after she said the words, she frowned. Merrick was young…not an old man. But the voice. The voice, though disguised,
sounded the same. She hadn’t realized it until he said the same words. A Minnesota saying—she’d read that Merrick grew up there—you betcha.
Merrick’s lips formed a slow, crooked smile. He shoved the prosthesis onto Juan’s thigh and wound duct tape around the top. He wrapped it too tight against Juan’s swollen leg, so tight he could cut off the circulation. Then he stopped pulling the tape, and glared at her. “Sit down.”
She needed time to figure out what to do. Could she get to the needle…shoot it into his neck? But if she didn’t make it, he’d take it out on Juan.
Keep him talking. Find out more. That could be the key to getting them both out of the situation.
Merrick reached into the box, pulled out the magic skin. The skin that brought Brooke to Florida. The skin that looked and felt so real that it made a fake leg look real, made a person feel normal.
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice shook. Get it under control, she told herself. Deep breaths.
He stopped rolling the skin onto the prosthesis, and tossed a thin-lipped smile at her. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He laughed at his joke.
Then he let the smile drop from his face and his expression turned serious. “Since I probably will have to kill you, there’s no harm in telling you.” He rolled the artificial skin up the prosthesis. “The skin not only looks and feels real.” He turned and nodded. “It keeps my product safe.” He chuckled at his own strange joke.
Did he expect her to laugh, too? She studied him, looking for clues. Realization dawned. “Drugs?” she asked. She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud until she heard her own incredulous voice. Juan said he’d had powder in his leg. “You put drugs in the legs of the people you’re supposedly helping?”
He smiled and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and unscrewed the lid on a small container.
“I take all my boys to visit Hollywood stars,” he said, as if he were being interviewed for a Hollywood tabloid. He dipped two fingers into the container, pulled out a paste-like substance and applied it on Juan’s leg to form a bond with his new “skin.”
He imported drugs, probably got them past airport security because of this miracle skin, and then transported those drugs to Hollywood?
“Why? You’re a brilliant doctor…”
She’d obviously struck a nerve because he stopped with his hand mid-air and raised his chin. “Why thank you. Nice of you to notice.” Then he scowled at her. “Did that sound sincere? It should have. I was meant to be an actor, not a doctor.” He turned his attention back to Juan’s prosthesis.
With a quick glance around the office, she looked for something to use as a weapon. She realized the metal stool she sat on would make a perfect weapon. Now all she had to do was wait for the right minute, pick up the stool, hit him in the head, and escape with the boy.
He turned and faced her. “Why so quiet? Trying to come up with a plan?” He glared at her, his gray eyes glowing.
She’d have to make one quick move to get off the stool, pick it up and hit him. But what if it only angered him? What if it didn’t knock him out? She didn’t put anything past him—he might actually follow through on his threat to cut off the boy’s other leg.
Maybe flattery would distract him. Or at least stall him. She whispered a silent prayer that somebody had noticed her missing by now.
“You’re a great doctor. Nobody has to know about the drugs…just let me help you get Juan back home and—”
He banged his fist on the table. “Stop saying that!” Color crept into his pale face and made him suddenly look like a cartoonized devil.
Chills ran down Brooke’s spine, and a small cry escaped Juan’s lips.
Merrick narrowed his eyes and took several shallow breaths as he stared at her. A glob of paste dripped from his hand onto the tile floor.
“I know I’m a great doctor.” He put his hands on his hips oblivious to the paste that splattered the side of his blue scrubs. “But I’m an even better actor.”
He moved his hand in front of his face and examined the paste on his hand, then turned to dip it in the container again.
Brooke gripped the seat to figure out if she could pick it up and hit him in one swift move.
“I fooled you, didn’t I?” He glanced at her. “I fooled you and all of your friends. You thought I was an old man.” He nodded several times. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “And the black man? He’s Jamaican. That was me.”
He twisted his lips and narrowed his eyes. “I should have been an actor.”
“Why weren’t you?” she asked, her fingers curled over the edge of the seat bottom.
Talking worked. He’d stopped applying the paste to Juan’s leg.
His voice changed to a high pitched imitation of a woman, “You’re too good for acting, you’ll be a doctor…” he blinked and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
He’d obviously wanted to be an actor and his mother didn’t support his decision. Still, she couldn’t let herself feel sorry for him.
He stared, distracted, at the ceiling, as if remembering the person who had spoken those words to him. The chance she’d been waiting for.
She met Juan’s eyes and nodded. He probably had no idea what her signal meant, but she wanted to assure him that what happened next would be okay.
In one fast move, she slid off the stool, twisted it overhead and brought the legs crashing onto Dr. Merrick’s head. It made a dull ping sound as it crashed against his skull, and then Merrick wobbled and fell over.
Juan’s mouth dropped open. Brooke stepped around Merrick’s slumped body and scooped Juan up.
“Bad man,” Juan said. Brooke nodded and lifted him with a grunt. He hadn’t exaggerated about the heavy leg. The leg full of drugs made him at least twenty pounds heavier.
Brooke struggled to balance on one foot to step past Merrick’s body. She hesitated when she spotted the needle on the nearby tray. Maybe she should take the time to shoot it in him.
But she didn’t know how to inject a needle. For all she knew, she could wake him up trying.
She took another step and concentrated on finding level footing. She maneuvered toward Merrick with the heavy boy. She didn’t think Juan could walk on his own with his sore leg.
Her heart slammed into her ribs, and she stepped past Merrick’s outstretched arm, careful not to touch him.
Three steps later, they stumbled through the doorway into the office waiting room, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The door from the office to the hall was now closed.
Almost there. She didn’t know if Juan had the strength to walk and didn’t want to waste precious time by finding out. Just a few steps, and then they’d get help. They’d be more visible in the hallway. Maybe there would even be security cameras.
Every step felt like a thousand, but she could see pain written all over Juan’s face. Poor kid. He was far from home, scared to death, and probably getting a major infection in his already-pained leg.
Four more steps and they’d be through the door.
One step. Almost there.
She heard a noise behind her.
Oh no. She could not let Merrick catch them.
A familiar prick stung her neck. Her arms went slack and the boy slid to the ground with a painful thump. No, have to block his fall. Her leg came loose in its socket, her muscles lost their fight, and she slid to the floor.
****
Brooke fought against the heaviness of her eyelids and tried to blink, but her lids wouldn’t budge.
Cold. Her body shivered and tried to warm her, but cool air blasted from the ceiling. And something cold pumped through her veins.
With supreme effort, she willed her eyes open, and she barely succeeded. Through a thin opening, she spotted Juan on her left. Dr. Merrick half dragged, half carried him toward the door. Juan grimaced in pain and hobbled with a sorrowful but determined look on his face. Poor kid.
She longed to lift her arms, reach out to touch
him. But she couldn’t move a muscle. An IV poked into her left wrist. Her body shivered again on the stiff examining table. Alarmed, she realized how badly she wanted to close her eyes and go back to sleep. Lids so heavy…it would feel good to close them.
First, she needed to warn Juan. She had to tell him to run for it. It would hurt his leg, but he’d get free of Merrick.
But as loud as she screamed it in her head, she couldn’t get her dry, cracked lips to move and form the words.
She willed herself to fight off the drowsiness that fogged her mind. She didn’t know if she was dreaming or not when she heard Merrick’s voice in the distance.
“Stop blubbering or you’ll make us late for our flight.”
Brooke had no idea how long she’d been unconscious when the door slammed shut and woke her.
She remembered the last time she’d come out of this drug-induced condition. She’d yearned for Garrett. If Merrick came back she would kick him dead.
She tried to roll to her side, toward the I.V. in her arm. Maybe she had kissed Garrett when she was drugged because she loved him. She wished she’d been able to tell him that before she died. Eyeing the I.V. bag above her head, she had no doubt that whatever drug he had dripping into her would eventually kill her.
She fought the urge to close her eyes. The longer it took her to pull out the I.V., the more drugs would plunder her system. Merrick had to be Tessa’s killer—he’d been trying to keep them from discovering her body. And if that was true, Brooke might be the only one who knew. She couldn’t die! She had to tell the police what Merrick confessed to doing.
The thought gave her the vigor she needed. With forced energy, she rolled to her side and grabbed for the I.V. line. She snatched it and then yanked with all her strength, panting from the effort, cringing at the strong sting as the needle ripped out of her arm.
She didn’t have long. Merrick meant to kill her. She had to save the boy. Merrick wouldn’t let the boy live. He’d keep him alive for now, to complete his drug transfer, but then what? She had to get to a phone and call the police before it was too late.