Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  The Giver’s eyes narrowed. Soon he would elicit police attention, but he needed to keep a low profile for just a little while longer, until all aspects of his plan were in place.

  He breathed slowly, channeling his anger until reason stepped forth in his mind and assumed control. Everything is proceeding according to plan. I took what I needed from the Cassidy girl, and I’ll continue until it’s done.

  The Giver smoothed over the crumpled newspaper, repairing the damage he had done to it. There was nothing in it that pointed to him. Still, he would continue to monitor the girl. Any signs of remembering on her part and she was dead.

  The Giver looked up from the newspaper and turned his thoughts to his foe.

  “Ravello is a worthy adversary, he’s kept me on my toes, but he’s no match for my preternatural powers.”

  Thinking about the doctor detective and spying on him and his lovely family got The Giver’s juices flowing. Seeing him on TV, reading about him in the newspaper, inspired The Giver’s best work. But in the final analysis, The Giver was unconcerned about Ravello. He felt the detective was puny and weak, like all the others.

  “I alone will decide who in this fair city, in this wonderful nation of ours, lives and dies. I alone will decide who will be reborn—and no one can stop me.”

  Chapter 12

  Briganti rolled over underneath the covers and scratched himself. He sat up, turned, and slid his feet onto the hardwood floor beside the bed. He reached for a crumpled twenty-dollar bill that rested on the nightstand beside him. Rolling the bill up, he brought it to his nose and leaned forward, then ran a few lines of coke through his nasal passages.

  “Save some for me, honey,” implored the red haired woman who shared his bed this particular morning. She draped her arm over his back and across his chest, nibbling on his ear. “What’s a girl got to do to get a little morning pick-me-up around here, huh?”

  “Same as last night, bitch—blow me,” Briganti grumbled.

  “That ain’t no way to treat a lady, your steady lady, Johnny. What happened to me moving in here, hmmm?” the redhead said as she pulled back from him.

  Johnny spun around and grabbed her by the throat, his hand like a vice around her neck. “Don’t get too comfortable, Kristin. You’re just a warm hole waiting for me whenever I like,” he said as he tossed her like a rag doll against the headboard. He stuck his index finger in her face. “Get your shit together and get out of here—NOW!”

  Kristin scrambled across the bed, not even wasting time to rub her painful neck. She grabbed her clothes, dressed as she moved away from him, and was out the door before he changed his mind and killed her right there.

  Briganti pulled out his pack of Camels, lit one, and put it between his lips as he reclined on the bed. He flicked on the flat screen TV on the wall and turned to ESPN to catch the score to last night’s Yankee game. “Fuck them.” They lost three to two to the Nationals on a walk-off homer in the ninth. “Fuck Kristin. Everyone and everything can fuck off.”

  Briganti was in one of his famous dark moods. Like a black hole, he sucked the life out of any and all around him.

  Johnny was sick and tired of playing the role of the Neanderthal enforcer. It was so uninspiring, so cliché. He had an IQ of 148! Not too many mob brutes could boast that kind of brainpower. If not for the opportunity to develop and distribute the latest, greatest new designer drugs, this job would be an unbearable bore, he thought as he pondered his future. That and the violence. The sheer unadulterated physical and psychological torture and abuse he heaped on his fellow man and woman. Ah, that was what got him out of bed each morning. That was what kept him going.

  Briganti rose from the bed, slipped on the white terry cloth robe that lay on the floor, and walked to the kitchen. He poured himself a Scotch and a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats. He peered out the dining room window, looking down at the bustling crowd on the street below. He let his mind drift back to a happy, simpler time, before he was drawn into all this Mafioso crap.

  Two and a half years ago, Briganti was an MD/PhD student at NYU. He was involved in intense, gratifying research that overlapped the fields of human genetics and molecular biology. But a nasty habit of his got him in big trouble. Cocaine. Two kilos of it in his possession promised to send him to jail for twenty years or so. Johnny couldn't have that happen. So he asked a favor from a man you never want to be indebted to: Tony Tramboli. Tony and Johnny's dads were old acquaintances from the same Bronx neighborhood. The next thing Johnny knew, all the charges had been dropped. But as a result, Tony now owned Johnny through and through. Hence the neanderthal enforcer gig. But Johnny was way too ambitious to give up on his dreams so easily. He continued his research, albeit it shrouded in secrecy.

  His situation at present was filled with irony. The debt he owed Tony made it impossible for Johnny to earn a great living as a doctor. But Johnny skimmed more off the top than most doctors could ever hope to make legitimately. Not such a bad gig, he thought to himself.

  Johnny glanced at his watch: 9:32 a.m. Time to get a move on if he was going to spend a few hours in the lab before meeting up with Tony. Whose life would he be making miserable today? Johnny mused. Maybe this work wasn’t so bad after all.

  Chapter 13

  The Giver sliced through the woman’s abdominal cavity with the #12 scalpel, using electro-cautery along the way to stop the bleeding. Not that he was trying to spare Rakel Ingi, “Erika,” as her friends called her. No, April Cassidy had taught him an invaluable lesson. Mercy for his victims meant loose ends. So from now on, he would kill them all once he was done with them. The Giver’s motivation then for stopping Erika’s bleeding was purely selfish; the blood interfered with his view. And he wanted as pristine and clear a surgical field as he could have. It was a prerequisite in harvesting the baby.

  As he worked alone and after-hours in the clinic, he felt quite good about himself and what he was doing. Years ago all of this work fell on his shoulders, but over time he built up a team of confidantes at the lab. They knew exactly what he was up to and were fiercely loyal to him and his cause. They understood that these whores were entirely unworthy of motherhood, much the same as his own mother had been. They knew these women and their little niblets would not be missed, except at the Medicaid and welfare offices when it was time each month to collect their checks and renew their free medical care.

  How fitting that these degenerates and their offspring would be used, raised up, to transform all whose lives would follow from theirs. These patients would accomplish so much more dead at his hands then they ever would have alive, roaming the earth without purpose.

  The young fetus lay before him, still trapped for the moment inside Erika’s uterus. With that baby, and the countless ones before it and those who would follow, he would achieve greatness for himself and the entire human race.

  The Giver sang arias in Italian while he worked, as he was wont to do during moments of triumph such as these. He tore through Erika’s uterus while matching his voice to soprano Caroline Whisnant’s on the soundtrack from “The Magic Flute.” He removed the small fetus and its placenta. It was safe now. Safe with him and his grand plans—the same could not be said for Rakel Ingi.

  §

  The Giver eased his car through the parking lot to a point overhanging the water’s edge. It was an eerie, dark and still morning, a sharp chill in the air. The black Lincoln Town Car idled, headlights off so as not to attract attention. He opened the trunk, hoisted the package over his shoulder, and walked towards the East River as a brisk wind blew through his hair. He knelt at the edge of the lot and steadied himself on the ledge overhanging the water, then lowered the body down, avoiding the large splash that would have occurred from simply tossing the body in. Rakel Ingi’s lifeless body pierced the moon’s reflection off the water on its journey to the bottom of the river. The Giver knew that Erika’s exceedingly low body fat meant she would sink for at least a few days, more than enough time to suit his needs. />
  A sick, demented smile curled across The Giver’s face as he stared at the spot where Rakel’s body disappeared from view. A momentary and unexpected sadness came over him as he reflected on her. She was so pretty and so young to have died, but she would rest easy knowing her sacrifice helped advance the future of the entire human race.

  Erika’s harvest had been a fruitful one. Thanks to her young baby, The Giver’s plans were ahead of schedule. Victory was almost at hand. The Queen song, “Another One Bites The Dust,” danced in his head as a smile returned to The Giver’s face and all thoughts of sadness or sympathy for the girl disappeared. A warm feeling of supreme confidence and satisfaction swept over him. Blood rushed to his penis and roused it from its slumber. What a glorious morning it was!

  The Giver climbed in the car and edged it forward onto the FDR Drive, which was busy 24/7; he would have no problem going undetected during the short drive home. Ah, how he welcomed the anonymity NYC provided!

  Back at his place, The Giver prepared a large and varied breakfast. Cinnamon French toast on Challah bread shared space on his plate with Canadian bacon, sausage links, blueberry pancakes, and two eggs, sunny-side up. At times like these, his appetite was insatiable. The Giver curled up on the couch with his slippers and bathrobe and read through the entire newspaper before he began the New York Syndicate crossword puzzle. An hour and fifteen minutes and two cups of Irish Breakfast tea later, he flipped through the magazine section of the paper while taking a warm bath. The Giver treasured his morning ritual. No matter how arduous or unpredictable the night before had been, mornings always unburdened his mind and refreshed his soul. And what good was a soul if one didn’t care for it properly?

  Chapter 14

  April’s head lay slumped over her forearm, which rested on the edge of the toilet seat. She had been dry heaving for a good thirty minutes now. Mornings are always the toughest part, she thought to herself as she prayed the nausea would soon pass.

  The night before had been another long night of dancing, titillating, and servicing the club’s patrons. Arriving back home at 5:00 a.m., she got three broken hours of sleep before the nausea jolted her out of bed. That was forty minutes ago, according to her pink piggy clock in the hallway. The clock had a pendulum beneath its face. On the pendulum swung a cartoon-like depiction of one pig humping another from behind. April often chuckled when she saw the silly gift from her ex-boyfriend. But right now, the to and fro motion was more than her stomach could handle. She lunged towards the center of the toilet bowl again, dry heaving one last time before rising to take a shower and get dressed.

  April backed her Plymouth Neon out of the driveway and headed west on East 237th Street. It was a dreary, overcast day. A light drizzle had just began. A few blocks and turns later she merged onto the Bronx River Parkway northbound, staying on it as the parkway crossed over into lower Westchester County.

  April proceeded along the parkway’s twists and turns through the Garth Woods in Scarsdale. She was quite unfamiliar with the area, having driven in Westchester County just a half-dozen times over the past year. After a few minutes, she exited the parkway, following some shortcut directions a girlfriend of hers from Hartsdale had given her. By this time the light drizzle had become a heavy downpour, reducing her visibility to twenty feet in front of her.

  April’s knuckles were white as she held onto the wheel and prayed she would make it to her appointment. Ten minutes later the rain let up as she exited the parkway and traveled to the periphery of the campus of Manning Medical Center.

  As she entered the campus, goose bumps rose on April’s arms. Arriving at the medical center always filled April with anticipation, awe, and fear. The medical center served a mixed population, ranging from prisoners and the indigent to well-to-do locals requiring state-of-the-art specialty care. Spread out over one hundred acres, the campus held the Manning Medical Center, as well as Manning Medical School. Both were privately run, not-for-profit institutions, gifts from real estate mogul Art Manning, who was a lifelong resident of Westchester County. April was grateful such a top-notch center was willing to take her as a patient. She shuddered thinking about the alternative, going to a rundown, degenerate Bronx hospital instead.

  As she pulled into a parking space in front of the Medical Arts Atrium on Brandywine Avenue, April sensed she was being followed. She caught a glimpse through her rear view mirror of a large, black car before it turned the corner onto Newton Road and headed out of sight. As she picked up her small, pink umbrella, she wondered if it was the same car that seemed to be following her yesterday on her way to work. Her stomach muscles tightened as she checked all around before exiting the car and walking into the medical building.

  §

  Doctor Carl Dietz entered the small exam room with a broad smile on his face. His nurse, Anne Halloway, had taken April’s vitals and prepared her for her procedure. His tender handshake and a lingering kiss on April’s cheek elicited an involuntary cringe from the nurse. The tall, androgynous woman disapproved of how the Doctor doted on some of his younger and more attractive patients.

  “How are we doing today, April?” Dietz said with great enthusiasm. He stood close to her and caressed her belly with his hand. He looked into her eyes for a few moments before saying, “Well, let’s see how you and that baby of yours are doing. I know you’ve had a rough time of it lately.”

  “I’m okay, Doctor Dietz. Thanks for asking,” April replied as she lay back, readying herself for an ultrasound examination of the baby.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I saw the article in The Daily and was concerned. Is it true, April, that you don’t remember much about what happened that night? That seems a bit strange,” Dietz commented as he applied blue tinged jelly to the ultrasound probe and pulled her gown up to just below her breasts.

  “No. I just told the police that because I wanted them to stop bothering me. I knew if they started poking around at work, asking a lot of questions, some things would come out and I could lose my job. I didn’t want that to happen, especially with little Rachel Raquel coming along,” April said as she patted each side of her belly with her hands and smiled.

  Doctor Dietz studied the ultrasound images with a furrowed brow as he manipulated the probe in the area between April’s hands. He recorded measurements of head circumference and forearm length. “Uh-huh,” Dietz said as he checked for a fetal heartbeat and for the volume of amniotic fluid. “Remember, April, we are still not sure of the baby’s sex. We haven’t done an amnio and the ultrasound is not conclusive.”

  “I just know it’s a girl, Doctor Dietz,” April said with excitement. “I always wanted a little girl to play dress up and have pretend tea parties with and talk about boys. I just can’t wait for little Rachel Raquel to be born. She’s the only thing that has gone right in my life since I moved here and I already love her with all my heart,” April said, beaming with happiness. “How’s she doing in there?”

  “Well…” Doctor Dietz looked at the ultrasound screen, then back at April. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can chat.” The doctor stood and wiped off the ultrasound probe as Nurse Halloway cleaned off April’s belly. Doctor Dietz washed his hands then sat down next to April.

  “We have a problem, April. I’m not sure why or how but the baby isn’t doing well. The amniotic fluid level is down and the baby…well, there is something wrong with your baby.”

  April bolted upright. “What!” she shrieked as tears streamed down her face. “I, I, I don’t understand....” April struggled to get the anguished words out between her sobs. “What happened? Everything was fine a few weeks ago!”

  “You’re right. Everything was fine. But it is as if someone went in and did a procedure, similar to chorionic villus sampling. But, instead of taking small samples of cells from the placenta for diagnostic purposes, they removed chunks of your developing baby. April, your baby isn’t developing properly, and won’t be viable much longer. We are, of course, going to need to ab
ort,” Dietz said in a quiet voice.

  “No, no, no!” April cried out as she thrashed her head from side to side. “It can’t be. There must be some mistake.” April reeled back and then forward. She felt lightheaded and unsteady. She slumped forward, head in her hands. “How could this happen? Why?” A minute passed. April lifted her head and pleaded with Doctor Dietz, “How can you expect me to give up on Rachel? I can’t. I know she’ll be all right somehow, I know she will.”

  Nurse Halloway froze at the computer where she had been making entries into April’s chart. She didn’t know whether to continue typing or to try and comfort April. She chose the latter. “There, there dear. It will be all right,” Halloway said as she embraced April. “Do you remember anything, anything at all, that might help the Doctor?”

  “April, perhaps this happened when you were abducted. Do you remember anything about it?” Dietz asked again.

  April’s face lay buried in Halloway’s chest. Trembling, she eased away and rubbed the back of her hands against her swollen lids. April trembled as she spoke. “I don’t know. Bits and pieces have been coming back to me.” April shook her head violently from side to side, “I thought…I thought it was a nightmare, but I guess it was real.”

  “What do you remember, April?” asked Dietz. “And don’t hold back. Anything you can tell me may help us to understand what happened.”

  “I woke up in the middle of some kind of procedure. The man doing it had a long thin needle around my belly and was finishing something up.” Anguish and fear washed over her face. “It’s really fuzzy but I remember that. He must have hit me because I had a bruise on my cheek, but I don’t remember much after that. I think he drugged me. Maybe that’s how I ended up in the car later,” April said with a far off, dazed look on her face.