Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  Jodie came to a halt. The corridor had terminated in a small storage area with a sink, some cupboards and a large window to one side. Jodie glanced at the CO.

  ‘Mind if I look out the window?’

  He gave her a hard stare. Then he glanced at the towel that covered their manacled hands. He shrugged his assent, and the three of them moved like conjoined siblings towards the window.

  Jodie watched their approaching reflections in the glass. She looked small between her two companions; too thin and pale; her eyes large, dark holes, like the orbital sockets in a skeleton. A thin strip of plaster was angled along her neck, another reminder of Magda’s blade.

  Outside, dusk had leaked over the day, though it was only about 5 p.m. The hospital campus looked tranquil, layers of snow draped across trees and ledges like bunting. Jodie scanned the other buildings, counting the floors. By her reckoning, she was six storeys up.

  Her eyes travelled to the middle distance, beyond the campus to the streets outside. Headlights rinsed away the shadows, probably ordinary people heading home, maybe to shovel their driveways, or fill water containers in preparation for another freeze.

  And out there among them, among ordinary people somewhere, Ethan was alive and hiding.

  Jodie made the nurses walk her at intervals all evening, blasting through the pain, determined to get mobile. Finally, they talked her into sleeping for a while, and when she woke again, Marino was by her side.

  He’d uncuffed her right hand and was snapping the bracelet tight around the bed rail. ‘Don’t you go anywhere, now, I’ll be right back.’

  He smirked and turned to leave the room, just as an orderly rattled in with a trolley of tea and toast. Jodie’s stomach shimmied. Her appetite was still poor, most of her meals ending up in Marino’s belly.

  A young nurse swept in with water and two pills, which she set on Jodie’s tray with instructions to take them when she’d eaten. She fluffed up Jodie’s pillows, folded her robe over the end of the bed, then breezed back out and closed the door behind her.

  The room fell silent. Jodie’s spine tingled, and she hitched herself upright in the bed. It was the first time she’d been left alone since she got here.

  She whipped her gaze around, her brain racing. The room was still bare, apart from the IV drip no longer in use, its old-style monitor and the empty seat over by the wall. Jodie yanked at the cuffs, sending them rattling and biting at her skin. Goddamnit!

  Her eyes flashed around the room one more time, then settled on the tray in front of her. She stared at the toast. At the two white pills.

  She bit her lip. The nurse hadn’t told her what the pills were for. They could be painkillers or antibiotics, for all she knew. Or sleeping pills, like the ones she’d dodged the previous evening; the ones she’d snuck out of her mouth and shoved out of sight somewhere.

  Where the hell had she put them?

  She twisted around, ran her free right hand under the pillows, feeling across the bed, palming down the sides, until finally she detected two hard lumps, tucked in under the sheet.

  She prised the pills out, being careful not to drop them, then set them alongside the others on the tray. They looked the same. Same size, same shape; similar markings carved on the chalky surface. Four sleeping pills?

  With one hand, she smoothed out the paper napkin and popped the four pills into the centre. Then she folded the napkin over, parcelled the tablets up and buried the bundle in her fist.

  Jodie shoved the table out of her way. Lifting the bed covers, she eased her legs out and planted her feet on the floor. The familiar pain throbbed through her midsection.

  Ignore it!

  With a quick glance at the door, she stood up and reached out towards the IV monitor with her right hand. Her manacled left wrist brought her up short. She lengthened her stride, giant-stepping away from the bed, stretching her torso till her abdomen felt it might rupture.

  Her fingertips touched the underside of the console. She coaxed it towards her, a millimetre at a time. It felt leaden and cumbersome, its wheels stiff. When it was close enough, she grabbed the stand and lugged the whole contraption to her side.

  Jodie set her parcel on the floor, unfolding it till only a single layer of napkin covered the pills. She grasped a corner of the console, tilted the heavy stand, raising one wheel a few inches off the floor, and toed the folded napkin beneath it. Then she slammed the monitor down with a crash.

  She stiffened, straining for sounds from the corridor. Heard none. Bent down, opened the napkin and fingered the broken pills. She heaped them together, covered them over, then lifted the console and hammered it down hard. For good measure, she repeated the manoeuvre twice more.

  She hunkered down, opened the napkin. The pills had been crushed to a gritty, white powder. Not as fine as she’d have liked, but it would have to do.

  She worked the powder into the napkin crease, then straightened up and reached for the paper takeout cup of tea. With one hand, she removed the lid and funnelled the powder into the steaming liquid. She swirled it around with a plastic spoon from the tray, and noticed her hand was shaking.

  Voices rumbled outside in the corridor. Jodie popped the lid on the cup, clambered into bed and was easing down on the pillows when Marino barged back into the room.

  Jodie lay still, trying not to wince at the pulsing aftershocks of pain. Marino approached the bed. His eyes narrowed as he took in her rapid breathing. He jerked at the cuffs to make sure they were intact, then swept his gaze around the room.

  Jodie’s heartbeat tripped. Shit. The IV monitor. She’d forgotten to shove it back out of reach.

  Marino’s eyes tracked a slow, second circuit of the room, his expression dull and flat with suspicion. But his gaze skimmed past the IV monitor without snagging. He drilled her with a final glare, then unlocked the cuff from the rail and ratcheted it tight around her wrist.

  ‘Just you and me for the night now, Garrett. I’ll be watching you. Every second.’

  He lumbered across the room and took up his post by the door. Jodie waited for the throb in her gut to subside, then raised her head from the pillows and shoved the bed table away: an unmistakable signal that a snack was up for grabs. She lay back and waited for Marino to help himself.

  She couldn’t be sure what effect the tablets would have. There was no guarantee all four were sleeping pills, and even if they were, a man his size might need twice that dose to go under. Jodie closed her eyes and waited. Just another half-assed plan.

  Marino didn’t move.

  Jodie’s limbs felt heavy. The night nurse came and went in a squeak of soft-soled shoes, dispensing sympathy and advice to eat up. The brisk mothering squeezed at Jodie’s chest and, unexpectedly, she found herself thinking of her parents.

  All she knew were their names, and some sketchy background. Her mother, Sarah Garrett, had been a young drug addict who’d died in an Irish prison when Jodie was six weeks old. According to Jodie’s case workers, the Garrett family wanted no part of any grandchild, and Jodie had told herself the feeling was mutual. Who needed a mob of reluctant relatives, all filling each other’s lives with unwanted obligations?

  So she’d blocked the Garrett family out, her mother included, and from a young age had invested all her hopes and dreams in her father.

  His name was Peter Rosen. He’d arrived in Dublin from North Dakota, a place that to an Irish child sounded adventurous and wild. Growing up, she’d always imagined he’d be her protector; that he’d guard her and be on her side. She’d known it was all a fantasy, but had cherished the notion all the same.

  By the time she’d found out he’d died at nineteen, she herself was twenty-four. Already older than he would ever be. After that, it was hard to think of him as a father figure. Instead, she’d felt an odd protectiveness of her own; a nameless regret for a boy who’d died young.

  Would things have turned out differently if he’d lived? She floated with the notion for a while. Felt her head drifting
.

  Her legs jerked, jolting her awake. She dragged her eyes open, checked on Marino. He was still standing by the door, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed straight ahead. The tea and toast lay untouched on the tray in front of her.

  Her lids felt leaden and this time she let them close.

  Just another half-assed plan.

  When Jodie opened her eyes, the room felt different.

  Darkened. Hushed.

  How long had she been asleep?

  Rhythmic breaths shushed back and forth. Jodie frowned, turned her head. Marino sat in the chair, arms folded, chin on his chest. Eyes shut tight.

  Jodie snapped her gaze to the bed table. The tray was gone.

  Jesus.

  Had he drunk the tea?

  She studied his face: the pugnacious jaw, slack from sleep; the drooping jowls. His breathing was steady; slow and regular. No way of knowing if he was comatose from pills, or just taking a quick nap.

  Her eyes lingered on the bunch of keys clipped to his belt. She hesitated, then eased herself upright in the bed, slipped her legs out from the covers, swung her feet to the floor. Marino didn’t stir.

  Jodie stared at the keys, then down at her cuffs. Maybe she should leave them on. Grab her chance now, get out while he slept. Why risk waking him by fumbling with his keys?

  Mentally, she shook her head. Getting out would be hard enough without brandishing a set of cuffs to mark herself out as a felon.

  She edged off the bed, crept towards Marino. Held her breath. His belt had over a dozen keys. Which one was it?

  She’d seen him use it. Tried to picture it: stubby, dull; the business-end projection short and plain, like a baby tooth.

  She flexed her fingers. Maybe she should just unclip the lot and take them with her. She reached out a hand, tried to stop it from trembling.

  Then she saw it: small and compact. Like a toy key.

  She flicked a glance at Marino’s face. Listened for hitches in his breathing. Nothing.

  Slowly, Jodie separated the key from its neighbours, and lowered her cuffs towards it. The tremor in her fingers wouldn’t stop. She angled the key, missed the lock. Tried again and felt it slip inside.

  Metal snapped. Pressure slackened on her wrists. She slid her right hand free and detached the key. Silently, she reached back and set the cuffs on the bed, picked up her robe, and back-stepped over to the door.

  She groped for the handle. Eased the door open.

  Then she slipped out into the corridor.

  11

  Jodie scanned her surroundings.

  The corridor was quieter than before. Nurses flitted in and out of rooms, most of the ward darkened by now. An elderly voice moaned somewhere, a hopeless note, not expecting to be answered.

  Jodie shrugged into her robe. To her left, the staff at the nurses’ station were bent over patient charts, probably catching up on clerical work while their charges slept. No one paid Jodie any attention.

  She padded barefoot towards the double doors on her right. Scooted through them. No one stopped her.

  Jodie’s pulse raced.

  Ignoring the elevators, she blundered through to the stairwell, noting the signs that confirmed she was on the sixth floor. The air here was cooler, the stairway dimly lit. She jogged down the steps, clutching her stomach, her bare feet making rapid, pit-pat sounds. For now, adrenaline was power-washing away the pain.

  She reached the fourth floor, inched the door open and slipped through to a replica of the floor she’d just left. All except for the sign: St Ann’s Ward.

  Jodie made her way through the double doors, her heartbeat drumming. The urge to break into a run was overwhelming.

  She made her pace casual, drilling herself to relax. This was a hospital, for God’s sake, where people were free to come and go. Not a prison where every movement was challenged.

  The nurses’ station was only a few feet away. The staff stood huddled together behind the desk and Jodie raked their demeanour, searching for signs that Marino had already sounded the alarm. But their eyes skimmed over her, preoccupied with what looked like a handover for a change of shift.

  Jodie strolled past. Checked the clock on the wall. One fifteen in the morning.

  Her gaze scoured the corridor in front of her. If the layout matched the ward upstairs, then the door to the staff room was just up ahead. She lengthened her stride, and a spasm of pain twisted through her without warning, fierce and deep. Her step faltered.

  Keep going. Left foot, right foot. Left. Right.

  The pain bit hard. She clamped her mouth shut to keep from crying out, and suddenly, the whole notion of escape seemed so absurd. She could barely walk. Did she really think she could hunt Ethan down like this?

  One step at a time. Don’t think too far ahead.

  Left foot, right foot.

  Clothes. Money. Passport. In that order.

  Left foot, right foot. Left, right.

  Gradually, the wrenching in her gut eased, movement acting as its own anaesthetic. Jodie inhaled slow, steady breaths, and made her way along the corridor, past the linen store, toilets, bathroom, sluice room, until finally she came to the staff room. The door stood ajar, the room empty. Jodie slipped inside. Lockers and benches lined the walls, and her gaze whipped around, hunting for an unclaimed bag.

  Nothing.

  Padlocks secured all the lockers, but she rattled a few, just to make sure. None of them budged. Her eyes strayed upwards and her heart leapt. Shoved into a corner on top of the lockers was a large blue holdall.

  She sprung onto the bench, reached up to grab the bag. Her abdomen gave a sharp wrench and she sucked in air through her teeth. She fumbled for the holdall, grasped the rough canvas and hauled the bag down.

  She ripped it open, rummaging through it: jacket and sweater on top, other items underneath. She sent up a quick prayer of thanks, then slung the holdall over her shoulder and tiptoed out of the room.

  Jodie headed back down the corridor, her pulse rate climbing. She ambled past the clutch of nurses behind the desk, her limbs twitching with the need to run. She held herself in check till she’d reached the elevators, then she sprinted through to the stairs.

  She raced down three or four flights, lost count, double-checked the signs. Car Park, Level -1. Too far. She climbed back up, her bare feet smacking against the cold steps, her abdomen throbbing. Level 1. Jodie paused to catch her breath, then pushed through the door and out into the main hospital concourse.

  The place was quiet at this time of night; wide and spacious, like an airport at four in the morning. A bank of vending machines hummed on her left, and to her right, a small coffee shop was still catering to the graveyard shift. Her gaze roamed over the straggle of customers, settling on the nearby restrooms.

  Jodie ducked into the ladies’, a single spacious cubicle, then clicked the lock shut and emptied the holdall on the floor.

  Something hard clattered out onto the tiles: short, wooden handle; pointed, scoop-shaped blade. She picked it up, tested its weight. Sturdy and solid. Dixie hadn’t known what a gardening trowel was, but thankfully her brother had.

  Jodie shoved the trowel back in the bag, then stripped off her hospital gown and dragged on underwear, jeans, two T-shirts, a sweater, and a dark blue hoodie. Dixie’s brother had been considerate, packing multiple layers for the climate outside, though in truth she probably had Dixie to thank for that. Jodie belted the jeans tightly at the waist. Everything was several sizes too big, except for a worn pair of snow boots which fitted snugly with two pairs of socks.

  She pulled on the padded parka jacket, discovered gloves, scarf and woolly hat stuffed into the pockets. She tugged the hat down low over her forehead, and wrapped the scarf around the bottom half of her face. Then she turned to inspect herself in the mirror over the sink.

  She looked hollow-eyed and undernourished, the bulky coat swamping her small frame. What little of her face that was visible looked angular and pinched, her right cheekbo
ne heightened with a livid bruise where Magda’s foot had connected.

  Dismissing her image, she stuffed her robe and gown into the holdall, then eased out of the restroom, threading her way through the coffee shop tables. The main exit was a few hundred yards ahead, and Jodie steered a course towards it.

  Her step faltered. A security guard was approaching the doors ahead of her, mouthing something into his radio. And trudging right behind him was Marino.

  Shit!

  Marino’s back was towards her, but his gaze was sweeping around the concourse like a searchlight. Jodie’s skin buzzed. She retraced her steps, slunk back in the direction of the stairwell. Marino’s eye line was combing the area to her left, scanning over the vending machines, rotating towards her. She groped for the door, pushed backwards, slipped into the stairwell a split second before his radar could snag her.

  She clattered down two flights to the basement, burst through to the car park. The place was deserted, only a few cars left at this time of night. Her heart thudded in her ears. She scoured for exit signs, wheeled to her right, half-ran, half-staggered, clutching her abdomen, zigzagging her way towards the lowered car barriers. The kiosk was unattended at this late hour, and she squeezed past, ignoring the signs forbidding pedestrians on the ramps.

  Jodie clambered up the steep, curving slope, clinging to the sides, alert for any traffic that might mow her down. She kept on climbing, until finally the ramp straightened and decanted her out into the snow. Her breath fogged up the frigid air. She shot a glance around. The hospital building was now about five hundred yards away to her left. And to her right was the exit onto the street.