by Sam Christer
It takes a second for it to catch. The dry wood throws off a bright flame and a crisp crackle. Pathykos feels a stab in his heart. He keeps his hands over the fire and lets the flames scorch his skin. As the cuffs of his robe catch alight he bows his head into the burst of orange light. The last words he manages before the fire engulfs him are ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
184
COUNTY HOSPITAL, LOS ANGELES
Sixty-forty is now eighty-twenty. Against.
The doctors give Mitzi the bad news soon after she arrives. There’s a chance he won’t even make it through the night. And if he does, then he could be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.
Eighty-twenty.
Vegetative state.
Some choice. Some odds.
Mitzi wanders the corridors feeling lost. Right now she’s regretting telling Amy not to come in with her. She sent her home, told her to get some rest, said she’d be all right. She’s not. Most definitely not.
The hospital drink dispenser produces the worst chicken soup she’s ever tasted. But it’s all she can manage. Muffins in Carter’s office were her last meal and that seems weeks ago. She takes the plastic cup back to Nic’s bedside and sits there in a daze. Waiting is something cops do better than most people, but Mitzi’s always struggled to pull it off. Especially when she’s waiting for someone to die.
She stares at his grey face. His eyes used to be bright with adventure and he was just about the cutest of rookie cops she’d ever seen. She’d denied all her natural feelings for him. Thrown water on the fires within, just as soon as they started to flicker into life. She’d been nothing but professional. Shown him the ropes. Wiped his nose. Walked him through his first domestic murder. Stood next to him when he almost hurled at his first autopsy. Got him blind drunk after he lost his first case in court.
She’d done anything and everything except loved him.
She bends her lips to the fingers entwined in hers and kisses the back of his hand. It’s the most meaningful contact they’ve ever had. Until now they never exchanged more than a peck on the cheek. The thought almost makes her laugh and cry at the same time. How had she managed to bury her feelings? Alfie, she supposes.
Alfie and the twins.
She’d been the good wife and mother. Been determined not to be the cop other women pick out as the one having an affair with their partner. She wishes she had. My God she does. She wishes it had been long and mad and passionate. Full of life. That’s what being close to death does for you. It makes you want to live to the fullest – makes you regret every wasted second of your precious time on earth. Mitzi stands up and tugs a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet. She blows her nose and dabs her eyes. It’s 11 p.m. She’ll stay until midnight, maybe one, then turn in for the night. Even as she thinks it, she knows she’s still likely to be in the same chair in the morning, nursing a stiff neck, wondering how much coffee she’ll need to stay awake through another shift.
Screw them. Tomorrow she might not even go in. Being here is more important than all their political accommodations. She looks round the room for anything to distract her from the monotonous bleep of the machines.
There’s nothing.
She’s read the place dry. Even the signs on the wall – about visiting hours, the importance of hand washing, the danger of infections and all their rules on not using cell phones. Re-reading the last one makes her decide to call the girls.
Tapping in Jade’s number brings back a smile to her face. At least they’re talking again. The rift is healing, the bond is being strengthened.
A loud and intense beep startles her. At first she thinks it’s the phone and almost drops it out of surprise. Then she realises what it is. An alert from a monitor. The door opens and a nurse walks briskly in. The kind of stride cops and medics have when they’re disguising a moment of panic.
This is it. She knows it is. Feels it is.
‘What’s happening?’ Mitzi moves closer to Nic’s bed. ‘What was that noise?’
‘Stand back please.’
She feels a hand on her shoulder. A white-coated doctor eases her out of the way. He guides a stethoscope to his ears and bends over Nic’s body.
He’s dying. Right this minute. Cop instinct makes her look again at her watch – one of the first things she was taught was the importance of keeping track of the time that things happen. The moment everything changes. The precious second that life becomes death. More white coats fill the room. Mitzi drifts back to the wall, out to the periphery of the action, as though thrown there by centrifugal force.
Through the melee of bodies and the forest of arms spread over the bed, she sees Nic’s body spasm.
Death throes.
His feet jerk up and down. He’s being shocked. A last effort to bump-start his broken heart.
Standing and watching, she feels lost. Stranded like a helpless wife or sister. Not like a cop, not like any other professional in the room. The medical talk is all just a meaningless mumble. She’s treading water. Waiting for them to back off and tell her the news.
The bad news.
They shift the crash paddles and study the monitors. Something moves Mitzi’s legs and she becomes a cop again. She walks around the bed and finds a gap. If he’s going to die, it’s not going to be without the touch of a friend, someone who loves him.
A doctor glances at the monitor. Nic’s body heaves again. She takes his hand. Squeezes it. Stays strong.
He coughs.
‘Stable,’ shouts a nurse. ‘Pulse normal.’
Nic coughs again. His eyes flicker open.
She stares at him. The dying often have a last gasp. Body full of fluids and juices, jolted by enough electricity to light up Vegas – the signs are meaningless.
‘Mit-zi.’
The slowly whispered word tears her apart.
Medics shuffle tubes and check fluid bags. The nurse who first came in adjusts a finger-monitor and checks his pulse again.
Mitzi’s eyes are locked on Nic. If she looks away or even blinks, he’ll die. She knows he will.
He can’t force out a smile. His voice is a soft, painful croak. ‘Where am I?’
She lifts his hand and kisses it again. ‘Where’d you think you are? The freakin’ boatyard?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost the biggest possible thanks to Luigi Bonomi and his team at LBA for invaluable guidance, encouragement and fun. Big, big gratitude to all at Little,Brown/Sphere – especially David Shelley for faith and support, Daniel Mallory for inspiration and energy, and Iain Hunt for perspiration and imagination. Behind all great men are great ladies and they don’t come greater than Andy Hine, Kate Hibbert and Helena Doree in international rights and Kate Webster and Hannah Hargrave in marketing and publicity. I’m hugely indebted to Professor Guy Rutty, MBE, Head of Forensic Pathology, East Midlands Forensic Pathology Unit, University of Leicester, for his guidance and patience over the crime scenes – any deviations from fact are down to me and not him. Special thanks to ‘Scary Jack’ at Everett Baldwin Barclay for knowing what Donna and I never know. Finally to everyone who read The Stonehenge Legacy and wrote or posted on www.facebook.com/samchrister.
FINAL WORD
The Turin Shroud Secret is a work of pure fiction. Scholars will spot the bending of time and sometimes blinkered vision of events but the truth is out there – it’s just a question of whose truth and how far out.