They'd had that batch since yesterday. He'd watched Faye place it in there while the nurse—the one who'd given her a ride home—sat in the living room waiting for her coffee. The bimbo didn't know that she'd actually helped Faye bring the marrow home.
Would’ve goddam peed her pants if she’d known.
The vision was so funny it doubled him over. Holding on to the top of the freezer, his mirth swelled to a hysterical pitch. When his body stopped shaking, he wiped at the tears sliding down his face.
“Faye better not tell her. That nurse bitch might want to claim a piece of the action.” That idea started him laughing all over again. “Sure, like I’m about to give her anything except a good fuck.”
Finally calming himself, he glanced at his watch again.
Fuckin’ broads are all so stupid! His eyes narrowed. And that fuckin’ Faye is the stupidest of them all.
She’d even refused to dump Chapman's marrow after he was dead. He'd stood in the kitchen, throwing the dead guy's thawing bags of cells at her—at her face, her stomach, her head. Disgusted, he'd stabbed one of the plastic bags with a butcher knife and split it open. The gunk fell to the floor in icy globs, finally defrosting into a bloody mess.
She had stared at him, white-faced, a pathetic look twisting her features. He'd thought at the time that she really did look like a stupid cow, her big, brown, wet eyes watching him while she bawled over a dead man's bag of useless sludge.
What the hell was she moaning about anyway? Chapman was nothing to her, just some dumb shit.
In the end, he'd been the one to throw the slop away. No matter how much fun he'd try to have with her, no matter how much he teased about helping him, he had to cut all the bags open and wash the melting squish down the drain to make room in the freezer for the Bernstein broad's stuff.
He glanced at the temperature gauge—the cow said it was critical that the temperature remain constant. If the stuff started to thaw even a little bit, it could deteriorate.
Technical bullshit!
She'd explained how it was saving lives, talking to him as if he were a little kid. Said how the marrow cells only had to be re-transfused into the body so that after two to three weeks they found their way back to where they belonged and started reproducing on their own. She'd insisted that the two of them had a responsibility to handle it just right or else the marrow would be useless.
“So what!” he'd told her. “Just one less asshole in the world!” Besides, once he got the money he'd just as soon dump the marrow as give it back—less trouble, and much less risk.
Faye wouldn't go for it. Didn't want those weaklings to die. Said the hospital would get suspicious if any more marrow disappeared without a trace. If that happened, she wouldn't be able to get any more because of security.
The bitch had a point.
Fuckin’ Frankensteins.
He closed the closet door.
Or maybe my little girl is lying through her teeth just to get her own way.
He turned and stared thoughtfully in the direction of the bedroom.
It was the first time in his life he'd scored with the right bimbo. He'd been lucky enough to meet her when he was still working for the hospital. Just one look at her and he knew what she needed, smelled her hunger. Yet, she'd not only been smart enough to think of the whole scam, she took most of the chances—stole the junk, put it back when the money was paid.
Shouldn't really fuss with her. Better to leave well enough alone, especially when all she ever wants out of it is a good fuck. And he knew how to take care of that.
Besides, he got the best part. He got the money.
Checking his watch again, he started moving; he couldn't miss the change of shifts at the hospital. It was the best time to slip in, with little chance of being noticed. He knew they were so short of staff at night they had to rely on outside agency personnel to cover, so there were always a lot of unfamiliar faces floating about.
At the front door, he held his arms out, stretched his neck from side to side, then shook his head wildly. Jeez, he was high. High on the action. High on the thought of getting the money.
He flipped off the living room light, plunging the apartment into darkness. The cow had gone to bed early, just as she did every time he went out for a collection.
Good little girl. Sleep well! You’ve done your thing. Now it’s my turn.
A flash of pleasure tightened his sphincter; a sexual rush tingled in his groin. He moved cat-like down the stairs and out of the building, impatient for the confrontation with his prey.
* * * *
Tracy's mouth had become so painful they'd had to start the morphine drip again. When they'd first given it to her, it had worked well. But as the doses climbed higher, its effectiveness grew less.
She studied the IV fluid. It gave her something to focus on. She watched each drop fall, then studied the array of connections for all the other medications and solutions hanging on the IV pole.
In the past—was it just the day before yesterday?—the rhythm of the drops, along with her nighttime sedation, not only made her feel safe, it hypnotically put her to sleep. But tonight, it all seemed to emphasize her vulnerability—the survival diet, the never-ending medications, the noxious but vital chemotherapy, and the approaching crucial marrow engraftment.
She tore her eyes away; checked the bedside clock:11:30 p.m.
Twelve hours earlier she'd received the call from that disgusting person, with his vile voice. The conversation had been brief: Had she received his note? Yes! Good! He would come for the money. Tonight.
She remembered the exchange verbatim; it had etched itself in her brain like a living nightmare. She hadn't dared to tell him there'd be no money until tomorrow. What if he wouldn't listen? What if he destroyed her marrow?
She'd been virtually paralyzed the entire day. Every possible fear crowded into the room with her—loss of bodily functions, inability to communicate, suffocation.
Now she stared at her shaking hand as she reached to switch off the bedside lamp. She peered into the semi-darkness until she could see almost as well as when the light had been on.
She thought about Gary's afternoon visit.
He'd been concerned about her condition, apologetic about the ransom money. He seemed different, not the cold, ex-husband, but the warm, caring person she'd originally fallen in love with so many years ago.
What had caused it all to change for them. How had she lost him? Could it be he was gone from her life because of her own stupidity, her unbending ambition? Just thinking about Gary created a huge emptiness in her stomach.
She caught herself drifting off. Did she dare sleep? It was so late, maybe it would be all right. Maybe he wouldn't come until tomorrow, after Gary brought the money.
* * * *
“Did you think I wasn't coming, Mrs. Bernstein?”
Her eyes snapped open. She tried to rise. A hand pressed down roughly against her chest. She stared at the face looming over the bed.
“I ... I knew ...” Her voice drifted off, swallowed by the silence of the room. A metallic taste coated her mouth. She tried to hold her breath. Was forced to release the pent-up air, she quickly sucked in more through clamped teeth.
“Where is it?” He crushed down harder, smashing her back down into the mattress.
She stared blankly at him.
He slapped the other hand down onto her chest.
“Where is it?” he hissed.
“There wasn't enough time,” she said, struggling to lift up. “I ... the bank ... tomorrow!”
His fingers curled, nails squeezing into her breast.
“Listen to me ... please!” Her hands clenched into claws, then rounded fists. “Just don't hurt me. I'll do anything you want, but please don't hurt me.”
His lip arched into a sneer. “What the hell do you think you could do for me? All I need from you is money.” He straightened, wiped his hands on his pants.
She bit down hard on her lip to k
eep from screaming, twisted her head from side to side.
He flung off the covers, pulled up her gown, allowing the cool air to wash across her naked skin.
“Look at you!” he ordered. “Go ahead, look!” He forced her head down into her chest. “You're not even human anymore. Look like a turkey that's been plucked and carved.” He wrapped a finger around the silastic tube in her chest and pulled at the IVs that were attached to it. The plastic bags bobbed up and down.
She tried to blink him away. Her mouth was frozen; only her eyes seemed to function. In the dim light, he'd become a ferocious animal, toying with its catch, waiting to consume her.
Suddenly, he yanked off her silk head scarf, rubbed his hand across her bald scalp. “Bet you used to be a real looker.” She reached out, tried to snatch back the scarf. He pulled it away from her, stuffed it into his pocket. “Now you look like turkey shit.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Just what granddaddy used to call women: ‘God damned turkey shit!’”
“Please” she begged, not daring to move.
“Where's the fucking money?”
“My husband ... ex-husband ... will have it as soon as the bank opens ... tomorrow morning.” She pushed up onto her elbows. “I swear. First thing tomorrow.”
His eyes flashed; he slapped her viciously across the face. She fell back onto the bed.
“Please! I don't want to die.”
“You don't, huh?” He turned abruptly away from the bed and started pacing around the room, his hands locked behind his back.
“Please ... trust me ... I'll have it tomorrow ... every dollar.” Tears welled up, spilled down her cheeks.
He stopped and stood next to her bedstand, staring at a sealed box of syringes awaiting the next day's engraftment procedure. His index finger worried the pull tab until it stuck out from the box. With a sudden motion, he yanked it open. Tracy jumped as the tearing sound slashed through the room.
“Trust you? Oh, I trust you all right, baby.” He smiled coldly, his body a tightly coiled spring. “All I lose is money. But you? You lose the wh-o-o-o-le crap shoot.” He poked at her scars and she winced. “You’re already only half a woman.”
She tried to crush herself flatter into the mattress. Ripples of shivers made her teeth chatter, she felt a line of spittle dribble down her chin. “I promise I'll have the money tomorrow,” she whispered.
“Promise?” he mocked, tweaking her nipple. “Well, if you want me to trust you, Mrs. B, you'll have to trust me, too.”
She nodded.
“No-o-o-o, it's not that easy. We're going to play a little game first.”
“Game?”
“Well, yeah. It's a little like Russian roulette, but we'll call it Trust.”His eyes glinted with pleasure as he removed three syringes from the bedside box.
Watching his every movement, not even daring to blink, her hand inched along the bed toward the call button.
“Mmmm, these are big mothers,” he said, reading the side of the syringe. “Fifty ccs. This will hold a lot of air, Mrs. B.”
He pulled the plunger until the syringe was filled with air. Two syringes were left unchanged.
Slipping her scarf from his pocket, he wrapped it around the three plastic cylinders so they were hidden from her view. “Turn your head. No fun if you cheat.”
She turned her head away. Her hand encircled the call button.
“You can look now.” When she turned back, he held out the scarf. “Pick one!”
She groped in the silk scarf and pulled out one of the offered syringes.
“Bang! You're dead!” He laughed nastily, quickly tossed the other two syringes back into the box, pocketed the scarf, then reached for the IV line.
The room started to spin in large swimming circles as she mashed down on the call button. It went off with a raucous buzz.
His eyes widened, then narrowed to dark slits. “You bitch!” He dropped the syringe and bolted for the door. “Fuckin' bitch!”
He stood there for a moment, back-lighted in the doorway.
“Have the fuckin' money tomorrow or you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
Chapter 14
Her sweat-covered body was wrapped around him; his fingers trailed over her back, across her shoulders, down her arms, around her hips.
“When will the beautiful Italian princess marry the stubby, brilliant prince?” Harry asked.
Gina smiled at him, pulled his head down so she could kiss each questioning eye. “This is one princess who's never going to marry again.”
He nuzzled her neck, rubbed his cheek against her breasts. “In fairy tales, never is just a long time.”
“Exactly!
He turned away with a solemn face, eyed the clock—11:30 p.m.
“Wait and see,” he said, crossing his eyes, running his fingers through his bushy hair until it was a mess of clumps and tangles. “One day you'll realize just how irresistible I am.”
“Mm-m-m-m.”
He studied her in the soft glow from the bedside lamp. Her face was flushed with a rosy sheen from their lovemaking, but her eyes were focused on something far away.
“The body's present, but the mind's adrift.” He fingered her cheek until she looked directly at him. “Where'd you go?”
“I'm sorry.”
“What's the matter, doll?”
She arose from the bed, her body a study of soft curves, the long smooth muscles of her arms and legs adding subtle angles. She shrugged herself into a terrycloth robe that had been carelessly flung across the end of the bed.
“I keep thinking about Tracy Bernstein.”
Harry shook his head, irritation lining his face as he grabbed his jeans from the mixed pile of clothing on the floor.
“First Chapman, now Bernstein.” Zipping his pants, he untangled his shirt from her bra. “If you're not careful, Gina Mazzio, you're going to burn out, be useless to your patients, useless to yourself.”
“Harry, that's not it at all.”
“Listen, kid, don't tell me that's not it. I’m the ICU nurse, remember? I've seen this kind of thing over and over. So have you.”
Gina stomped into the living room, Harry hard on her heels.
“It's not burnout, Harry. You're way off base.”
“I say, when your off time is spent worrying, thinking only about your patients, you're in deep shit, whether you're willing to admit it or not.” He grabbed her by the elbow. “You've got to have a life of your own, babe.”
She yanked her arm away, padded into the kitchen, and began stacking dinner dishes. Soon she had the sink filled with suds.
“You listen to me, Harry Lucke,” she said, washing and standing the dishes in the drain rack,” this is not burnout we're talking about.”
He snagged a towel from the rack, started drying the dishes. “It's what I’m talking about.”
“That, my dear prince, is because you haven't let me finish what I have to say before jumping to a bunch of erroneous conclusions. And what's this ICU crap you're handing me? Working in ICU doesn't make you an all-seeing guru.”
“That isn't exactly what I meant.”
“Sure sounded like an ego trip to me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands high in the air, the towel hanging limply from his hand like a flag of surrender. “I give up. You're right. I'm just an egotistical clod.”
The room was still for several moments before she turned to look at him: “What am I going to do with you, Harry?” They silently searched each other's faces, each other's eyes.
“You could try loving me,” he finally said.
“I do love you!”
“Then marry me, for God's sake!”
She ran, wrapped her arms around him. “Give me time, Harry ... time to trust you ... to let you in.” She squeezed him, squeezed tighter. “Can't you understand?”
He kissed her softly on one cheek, then the other. “Oh, I do understand, Gina. Remember, I'm the all-seeing guru.”
“S
orry. That was kind of a cheap shot.”
They held onto each other, barely breathing. Harry took her chin in his hand, kissed her lips, and said, “We've been together for six months ... and in all that time I've never seen you so totally preoccupied with your patients.”
“That's not quite true. I mean, it's not really the patients ... it's something else.”
“Then what is it?”
She thought for a moment. “Things just don't feel right.”
“Like how?”
“Well, number one, losing Chapman's marrow.” She slipped out of his arms, grabbed a memo pad, and jotted down some notes. “I suppose I've got to believe it's possible that the lab could lose it ... but how did Chapman know it was missing? That keeps running through my mind, Harry, over and over. I mean, no one told him about it before me—I checked that out.”
“Are you sure Kessler didn't mention it to him?”
“No way! He didn't find out himself until it was time to transfuse. I was the one who told him.”
“Gina, I can't see anything hidden or sinister in this.”
“What about Chapman's death? I've studied all his lab values; the ones before he turned sour.”
“Yeah?”
“They weren't good, but I wouldn't expect him to sink with such an overwhelming infection so rapidly.” She paused, then added, “And who was he talking about when he told me someone had injected meds into his line the night before he died? There were no IV orders.”
“Look, Gina, the man was shot up with chemo ... his cells were badly chewed up ... he was probably half out of his head, or dreaming. The whole business is tragic, but I still don't see the mystery.”
She threw the memo pad across the counter, began washing the dishes again. He played with the towel, ready to dry.
“It doesn't make sense to me,” Gina said.
“So maybe the guy just gave up, stopped fighting. He'd been through one helluva lot. Maybe you're just reading more into this than is actually there.”
She shook her head stubbornly, ignoring his comments. “Not Carl Chapman! I don't care what you say, Harry. If Carl gave up, it wasn't because of his disease.”
She finished the dishes and started scrubbing the counters. “I admit that up until now my suspicious were rather tenuous. But now, it’s also happening with Tracy Bernstein.”
Bone Dry: An Action-Packed Medical Technothriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 1) Page 7