“What does that even mean?”
“Don’t you understand? I want things to be right. I don’t like to see people hurt and I really think the patients in this place are in danger.”
“I know there’s something wrong here, but, in danger? Are you sure you aren’t overreacting?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that when something is wrong, or I feel people … patients … are at risk, I have to act, do something. But everything I’ve done here has been a waste, right from the start, especially sneaking down there, trying to find out what they’re doing. It was all wasted. I didn’t even get close enough to see or learn one damn thing. Nothing’s changed, other than I’ve been clawed to shreds, and we still haven’t found out what Ethan’s doing down there, or even what he’s up to. The only thing I know for sure is that this isn’t what we signed on for.”
“You know what?” Harry said, a worried look on his face.
Gina gave him her attention, but was silent.
“What I think is that we should pack our bags and get the hell out of here ... git while the gittin’s good. This place, this job, was completely misrepresented by the nurses’ agency, and Comstock Medical, as well. Shit, there’s no drug study going on here. We’ve both discovered that.”
“But what about the money?” Gina said.
“It’s not worth it. We can’t spend the next three months working under these conditions.”
“And the patients? Do we just leave them? They’re at the mercy of these people … so vulnerable. What’s going to happen to them?” Gina turned away. “Don’t you think we have to find out what’s going on … for them?”
“There are only two of us. What do you think we can do? It’s like jousting with windmills.”
Gina smiled. “You and Don Quixote. You’re both my heroes, you know?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a dead hero. And I have a hunch we’re circling around a sink hole.”
Harry poured hot water over their tea bags. They let the tea steep in the two large cups they’d been using for their first-thing-in-the-morning coffee. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a jar of honey, poured a generous teaspoon into each mug.
“I did learn something down there: it was definitely Rocky and Pete bringing a patient to Ethan. That much I could figure out from what was said.”
“But why?” Harry said. “What could Ethan possibly do for a patient in the basement? Don’t you think it’s a hell of a strange place for any kind of treatment … especially at that time of night?”
Gina took a sip of the tea, pulled away from the scalding liquid. “I wish I’d heard a name or knew which patient was there. That would be something to go on. We might have been able to question the patient later.”
“I don’t know, doll. I don’t want to scare these poor people. They’re going through enough as it is.”
“Have you ever seen such severe cases of arthritis?” Gina asked. “Some are so crippled they can barely move. At least half of my patients are that way.”
“Mine, too.” Harry said. “Well, that along with congestive heart failure, visual impairment, and a host of other age-related diseases … it’s damn sad.”
“And why are the daytime orderlies bringing patients down for treatment at night, or whatever it is Ethan’s doing? Shouldn’t it be the night staff doing that?”
“That’s how it usually goes down, but the entire facility is so understaffed, it doesn’t surprise me that Ethan would overwork every employee he has. Wait and see. If we stay, we’ll be called in for lots of extra jobs, too.”
Gina looked at Harry as he concentrated on stirring the honey into his tea.
He finally looked up at her. “You’re thinking of dragging us further into this, aren’t you?”
“We have to, Harry. We can’t just leave these people behind.”
She took his arm and squeezed it. He was disheveled: hair flying in all directions, eyes at half-mast. But there was something so reassuring about him. She was excitable and quick to anger; he was calm and seldom, if ever, acted irrationally.
He’ll make a great husband, a wonderful father, too.
That thought struck hard. Suddenly she could barely breathe.
A baby? That’s never going to happen with me.
Her mind flashed back to that horrible night three years ago. The night when her drunken husband had not only beaten her, he’d made it so that she’d probably never have a child.
I’ll never get pregnant—not after what Dominick did to me.
She thought back to that night—the medical team had saved her life, even her uterus, but no one was convinced she’d ever be able to have a baby. She’d spent a long time trying not to think about it. A lesson she’d learned a long time ago.
Don’t wish for what you can’t have.
She’d been telling herself that for three whole years. Harry was probably now part of that same “can’t have” package.
She watched him sip his tea and finally understood one of the biggest reasons why she’d more than once backed out of marrying him—she would only be trapping him, holding him back, keeping him from finding someone who was not so damaged … emotionally and physically.
She knew getting him to leave or breaking up with him would have to be done in a logical, constrained manner. The last person in the world she wanted to hurt was Harry Lucke. But, once and for all, she should stop leading him on, allowing him to think they had a real future together.
But how can I live without him?
Her heart would be broken and everything inside of her would be empty again—lost and confused, like when she came out of the hospital after Dominick’s attack.
Still, she had to do this for him. Somehow, when they finished this assignment, he would have to go on without her. And she would have to be the one to bring it to an end, make him walk away. Otherwise, it was never going to happen.
Chapter 20
Emma Goldmich lay awake, staring into darkness. She did this every night, waiting for something horrible to happen. From her bed, she could see stars pin-pointed in the sky. They brought none of the wonder she used to have when looking off into the heavens.
She didn’t know why she was so jumpy or why fear had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach, but she knew it began the first day she’d come to this place so far away from her home and her daughter.
She shifted ever so slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in her bed. But the tiniest movement made her back feel as though it would snap. Her arms, legs, neck … everything … hurt with such acute intensity, it was difficult not to scream.
In the past week they’d placed a catheter inside her so she wouldn’t have to get up to go to the bathroom so often.
“You’re using up too much of our time with all your screaming and carrying on every time you have to get out of bed to pee,” Rocky had told her. “You’re not the only one I have to take care of, ya know?”
What made him say such cruel things?
Emma thought about the new nurse, Gina, the one she’d seen for the first time in the elevator when she was supposed to be on her way to have some kind of special procedure.
She’d been right—something terrible was about to happen … it just didn’t happen then.
Somehow she sensed, she knew, the new nurse was someone she could rely on. When she’d reached out to touch Gina, the nurse’s hand had been warm, reassuring. What was confusing was that after Gina stepped out of the elevator, Rocky turned around, took her back to her room. No procedure … no explanation. She’d tried to question him, but he wouldn’t say anything … just gave her a strange, disturbing smile.
Gina seemed kind … not like Delores, who only raced into the room to give her a shot or meds, then disappeared without any conversation. Lately, the medicine barely deadened the aching, or the stabbing pain that smothered her body. When she first came here, they gave her pills, but it wasn’t long before they shifted to injections. Now, those were
as ineffective as the pills had become. All the shots did were deaden her mind.
Arthritis was not new to her, but it had been manageable up until a year ago when it flared with a vengeance, not long after she entered the study. Since then, the slightest movement was like holding her hand over a flame. She tried to meditate, to mentally reconfigure all her pain into wild sparks of color—orange, yellow, red, purple—that she would splash over a canvas floating behind her eyelids. She’d started doing that when her drifting, unfocused mind wanted to empty itself into dark passages. The swirling colors not only carried the spasms away, it kept her mind alive … kept it from totally dying.
Poor Tuva! Could never understand why I refused to create the graphic art she loved so much. She thought abstract art was silly, ineffective.
My practical daughter. My beautiful child.
Would she ever see Tuva again? Emma wanted to hug her daughter at least once more before she died. That would be very, very soon. She’d overheard Rocky talking to the other orderly, Pete. It was as though she didn’t even exist and couldn’t hear what they were saying. They talked about taking Emma away somewhere. Putting her somewhere else. They laughed a lot about it … and not humorous laughter.
She couldn’t remember much about her Alzheimer’s days, except for her art … and one other thing—the unrelenting sensation of life pulsating through every part of her. That force had a voice of its own; it wanted her to continue to fight, to live.
Tonight, she fought hard with that powerful inner being. Tonight, she wanted someone to kill her, take the pain away forever.
What is there to live for?
Without her daughter, her heart was breaking. No one could go on with this kind of crushing sadness pulling them down. No one could survive such terrible despair for very long.
If only she could hear Tuva’s voice one more time. Not to complain. That’s not the last thing she wanted Tuva to remember.
The nurse interrupted her thoughts by turning on the room’s overhead lights without warning.
“Good evening, Ms. Goldmich.”
“Hello, Delores.”
“Time for your shot. Are you having a lot of pain?”
“It’s terrible!”
“You don’t have to move. I can get it into your hip just the way you are.”
The nurse’s words were kind, but her fingers were brusque and rough.
“This will help soon.”
And with that, Delores left the room.
* * * *
Emma’s mind began to drift again. Thoughts jumped here, there.
Tuva … Tuva … beautiful baby … beautiful child.
Grown … independent … accomplished.
Her father gone away with my best friend.
Gone … everything gone … beautiful home … twelve-year-old child … alone … back to work … teaching other peoples beautiful children.
Poor Tuva … poor little girl … draws everything that moves.
Like her mom … art buries her pain.
Emma reached out for her cell phone in the bedside table drawer. That slight movement made her whimper. Her mind became even fuzzier, but the pain remained.
Matter with me? … no service out here.
“Regular phone?” she muttered, “what’s to say?”
Tuva, get me out of here.
No!
This is all I have now … I won’t be a burden.
Waves of silent screams echoed across her brain.
* * * *
Tuva Goldmich looked at her watch—9:45. She was stoked, yet at the same time she was beat. She’d just had another sleepless night, one that left her dull, slow thinking. And she really had to be sharp for that 10:30 interview. She needed that job, needed cash in the worst way.
I'm sitting here like an idiot, hanging onto a telephone for ten wasted minutes, listening to elevator music. How smart is that?
Tightness was growing in her neck. It reminded her of Babe, the German Shepherd that her mom brought home for her after her dad moved out. Babe’s hackles would bunch up like a fist when she sensed a threat of any kind, especially if it involved Tuva. Someone at the door was enough to set her off. Right now, Tuva imagined her own neck probably looked as weird as Babe’s did long ago.
Everything was off-balance since her mom had been taken away to Nevada. Tuva was run down, a mess. She was even starting to dream with her eyes open. And when she finally did doze off, her mom would be there, trying to tell her something.
Two weeks.
Not a word out of this Carl Kreuger dude.
If the OCI agent didn’t pick up soon she would have to hang up. Have to get to that interview on time. She looked at her watch again. It was going to be close, very close.
She held the phone in the crook of her neck and paced to the mirror to check out her outfit. Her pin-striped, tan business suit, with a chocolate shell, was just back from the cleaners. The soft material nipped at her waist, exaggerated her petite figure, highlighted her brown eyes. She was pleased. It was the perfect outfit for her interview, even though she’d rather wear jeans and a tee.
That certainly wouldn’t land her the job.
* * * *
Carl had already taken ten calls since 9:15, and none of them had been worth his time.
Always a lot of damn questions, usually poking at him, blaming him for all the stifling bureaucracy in the world. It was all his fault … of course.
Blah, blah, blah.
Budget cuts had taken away most of the telephone screeners the department used to have. Now, when the calls were about numb-dumb questions, he usually palmed them off to one of the junior agents, or redirected them to the on-line informational outlets. His time was too important to handle the stupid questions most citizens tossed his way.
He took a sip of coffee and reached for the phone to take the next caller in line. Even though he was pissed off, he forced himself to speak in what he hoped was a pleasant, helpful voice.
“Good morning, Agent Kreuger here.”
“This is Tuva Goldmich.”
She said it like it was a name he should remember.
“Oh, can you hold one more minute, Ms. Goldmich?”
He hit the hold button before she could complain and tapped into his computer files.
Damn it! That name sounds really familiar.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, “that’s the Alzheimer’s study business.”
How the hell did that get lost?
He thought back to the meeting he’d had with the woman, pulled out the notes from his bottom drawer:
Worried daughter re mom in Phase III Zelint (California company) study AZ-1166. Follow up with LA regional office.
There were no other notes … or any follow up.
Shit!
“Ms. Goldmich?”
“You didn’t do anything, did you?”
“I’ve been checking with the LA Regional offices about your mother.” He let the words spill out with no room for interjection. “Any action, of course, would have to be taken from our California offices since they’re the ones who cover Nevada and the facility where your mother is in residence.” He loosened his necktie and took a large gulp of coffee, which now was not only icy cold, but was making him choke.
“You’re a liar—”
“—now wait a minute!”
“You did exactly what I thought you would do. My mother’s case is buried in some pile on the corner of your desk. You don’t give a damn about her, do you?”
Before he could answer, the line went dead.
Chapter 21
Ethan detached the flash drive from his car key chain and pushed it into the USB port on the side of his PC. Zelint’s AZ-1166 study data was stored on it, as well as all of the completed altered results of the study. Not only that, copies of the submission papers for FDA approval were also stored on the memory stick.
The drive, a little piece of red plastic, also held the only copy of his personal testing, re
search, laboratory work, and clinical findings. Everything he’d done since joining Zelint had been compacted and exiled to a virtual reality that could fit inside a two-by-three-quarter-inch computer storage unit.
Thinking about how his huge accomplishments could fit into something so small agitated him. After all, he was studying and searching for answers to enormous questions. The only complete evidence of his work was staring back at him, housed in a tiny flash drive. He should have left the files safely in his computer. Deleting sections of them was stupid. Without documentation, everything he’d achieved could be dumped into that vast shit bucket called anecdotal evidence.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, but couldn’t concentrate on anything.
What if I lose the drive?
The answer wasn’t pretty.
David Zelint had a copy of the data, but that copy didn’t include any of Ethan’s private research or investigations.
Throughout his years as a pathologist, he’d pictured himself as an active research scientist. That’s why he went into the field of medicine in the first place.
Researchers, pathologists, medical examiners didn’t have to deal with the emotional outbursts of patients and their families. Working as a pathologist gave him the luxury of stepping back, standing off, treating people as an essential segment of a bigger, more important picture. They were subjects, building blocks to be assembled as a key to a solution.
He never had to put up with all the bad health news people were bound to get sooner or later. Specifically, he didn’t have to inform people that some disease would kill them long before the thought of death had ever crossed their minds.
He wasn’t cut out to deal with people—he just wasn’t a touchy, feely kind of person.
And that had always been fine; after all, dead people didn’t need hugs.
He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. He’d tossed and turned, couldn’t stop thinking about the woman Rocky and Pete had brought to his laboratory. He didn’t care for the way those goons handled her. He tried to stay away from personally meeting the patients who were brought in the Comstock Medical Facility. He preferred to be the faceless administrator and scientist. Getting involved only made his job harder.
Bone Pit: A Chilling Medical Suspense Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 3) Page 12