The Cure May Kill You: A Cassidy Hudson Mystery

by Carlie Lemont

  “Can I get you something to drink? Maybe a cinnamon roll?”

  “I’d love to start with a vodka tonic. Preferably Sky or Grey Goose; I really don’t like anything that’s charcoal-filtered, you know what I mean?”

  Stacey looked like she’d been caught kissing her cousin.

  “Or... maybe I’d like a sweet tea?” Cassidy said.

  “Okay! I love sweet tea. My momma used to tell me that the extra sugar gave us southern gals our sweet disposition.”

  “I’m sure,” Cassidy mumbled, while she scanned the apartment for a sanitary place to plant her butt.

  After much internal debate, the sofa seemed Cassidy’s best bet. It looked clean and comfortable enough, though she wouldn’t be staying long. Besides, she had a change of clothing in the car if the sofa smelled funny once she sat down. Despite the lumpy cushion, the cushions proved to be pretty comfortable, and Cassidy began to relax until something poked her through the fabric. Was the furniture stuffed with straw? She went to get up and find somewhere clean to lean against, when Stacey returned, carrying a glass of liquefied sugar. Cursing herself for not bringing something to spike the drink, she took the glass and searched it for floaters. Let’s hope it’s at least caffeinated.

  Stacey took a drink of the tea. “Isn't it wonderful?”

  Cassidy smiled. She could always just pretend to drink it.

  “You sure you don’t want a cinnamon roll?”

  “No, there’s plenty of sugar in the tea. I have to watch my weight.”

  “Nonsense! You’re as skinny as a crawdad.”

  “Well, that’s a new one. Seriously, though, I fear genetics.”

  “What do you mean?” Stacey leaned in.

  “When my aunt, Audrey, died, they had to cut her out of the house.” Cassidy, then took a “sip” of the tea.

  “That’s hilarious!”

  Cassidy didn't know what to say.

  “Oh... you’re not kidding, are you?” Stacey said. “Oh my ... I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. She didn’t really suffer; seemed happy up to the end. She always claimed she had some glandular issue, but we all knew it was more of a ‘pizza and wings’ issue. Bless her heart.”

  “Bless her heart,” Stacey repeated.

  “All righty... well, maybe we should get down to business. You said you needed some help with the patients?”

  Stacey’s smile dropped. “Yes, of course. You’ve had some medically complex people on schedule lately, and I’ve been assigned to do most of their showers. I just want to make sure I don’t do something to hurt them.”

  “Why would you hurt them?”

  “No, no... I’m just trying to make sure I don’t accidentally hurt anyone. I would never do anything on purpose.”

  “Wasn’t that awful about Francine?” Cassidy said

  “Oh my, yes. Such a wonderful old soul.”

  Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “Um... really? Had you ever met that beast? She was pretty awful most of the time.”

  Stacey bowed her head, hands trembling in her lap.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s just so scary, is all.”

  “I know. Could you imagine being there when the attacker killed her?”

  Lips pursed, Stacey crossed her arms and drew in a long, shaky breath.

  “I’m sorry, Stacey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Stacey got herself under control and relaxed back into the chair. The two women settled into a calm discussion about the patients on caseload. Cassidy even demonstrated the proper technique for transferring someone with weight bearing restrictions. The last one on the list was, Marge.

  “Just remember, Marge has hip precautions and weight bearing restrictions.”

  “Right,” Stacey said, “so no bending past ninety degrees, no turning the toes inward, and no crossing the legs at the knees or the ankles.”

  “And do you remember what would happen if they did that?”

  Stacey smiled. “They’d risk popping the artificial joint out of place, and they’d have to have surgery again. Not to mention they’d be in excruciating pain.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why Marge is so complicated; she’s already popped one hip, had the second surgery, and now can’t bear weight on that leg for at least six weeks. So, when you transfer her into the shower, be super careful that you weight-shift her all the way onto the good leg. Then have her pivot on the ball of that foot. Got it?”

  “Yep, got it. Have you ever heard a joint pop out of place? Is it really loud?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. Seems like maybe once you’ve heard that sound, you’d never forget it. I remember once, in summer camp, a girl had fallen out of a tree. I was standing right there when her head had hit the ground... I’ll never forget that sound.”

  “Ew, gross! That’s awful. I haven’t heard a hip pop out, though I have heard a bone break under the weight of a patient,” Cassidy said.

  Stacey didn't say anything and the mood in the room grew awkward. Cassidy looked around for something to break the silence, but she couldn't come up with anything nice to say about the plaid drapes or denim throw pillows. That’s when she’d spotted a picture on the end table.

  “Oh, what a great photo,” Cassidy said. “Where was it taken?”

  “Holy buckets! That was such a long time ago, I have no idea. It’s at the beach, but I can’t remember which one.”

  “How strange... ”Cassidy squinted. “That jacket you’re wearing is covered in patches. Is that an eagle scout patch? Or a veteran’s patch? I can’t remember when that was ever popular. What's that say at the bottom? Veronica and Kelly? But that’s you, right?”

  “Veronica’s the name I went by with my friends whenever we went out to the bars. You know what I’m talking about, when those lecherous old men ask you for your name and phone number?” Stacey grabbed the picture back from Cassidy. “We had a lot of fun back then.”

  Stacey’s attention seemed solely focused on the photograph in her hands. Cassidy cleared her throat, though Stacey remained lost in thought.

  “Hey... are you okay?” Cassidy said.

  At the sound of her voice, Stacey appeared to refocus. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I was just thinking about what used to be. You know how it is... life changes so fast, and sometimes you just miss the good old days.”

  “Right.” The images of college partying, drinking, and flirty boys filled her mind. She slapped her thigh. “Well, as much fun as this is, I do need to get going.”

  The two women stood up at the same time, but neither looked at the other until they’d reached the front door.

  “Thank you for all of your help,” Stacey said. “I really appreciate the advice. Maybe next time I can go over to your place. I’d love to see where you live.”

  “You’re welcome! I am pretty good at helping people.” Maybe if she ignored Stacey’s absurd self-invitation, it’d be considered null and void. “Oh, and before I forget... ” She pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Stacey. “I’ll need you to sign this. Good thing I remembered, or I wouldn’t get paid for coming over here.”

  Stacey’s expression fell. “You get paid?”

  “Of course. I came over here and trained you. I get paid for that.” Cassidy handed her a pen. “I guess they figure you’re compensated with knowledge.”

  Stacey narrowed her eyes, then snatched up the pen with her left hand. She went to the doily-covered table and hunched over the paper.

  “Just sign the second line and initial the bottom left corner. Oh, and don’t push too hard. Janet won’t turn in the form if it looks like a mess.”

  Stacey barked out a bitter laugh, then stretched her back, straightening up to full height, and let out a sigh. Just when the awkwardness seemed to peak, she swapped the pen into her right hand and scribbled her name onto the training reimbursement form. She then quickly handed the paper back to Cassidy and offered her the pen.

 
; “You keep the pen.” Cassidy crammed the paper into her purse and stepped out the front door, which seemed to instantly transport her back to Miami. “See you later.”

  Stacey slammed the door shut.

  “That went well.”

  CHAPTER 11

  E

  yes closed, muscles taut, every sense heightened to its fullest... the child desperately wanted to run. The need to flee from the monster who’d just entered her bedroom uninvited was so great, it had nearly usurped the child’s conscious thought.

  She could hear the man slowly walk across the room to stand beside her bed. The child knew what her stepfather’s intentions were. Not the first time it’d happened, although she’d always hoped it’d be the last.

  Oh, he’d apologized before, blamed it on the alcohol, a tough day at work, a fight with Mommy—always someone else’s fault. But the result was the same, and there’d be no sweet dreams tonight.

  The mattress suddenly shifted as he sat down onto the edge of the bed, and the overpowering smell of Bengay filled her nostrils, a clear indication that her stepfather had been in physical pain from a tough day at work. The child shuddered, her body betraying her as she pretended to be asleep.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he slurred, breath thick with the sweet smell of booze, though his touch was light as he brushed back the hair that covered her fear-dampened face.

  Fists clenched and heart pounding, the child lurched and rolled off the side of the bed to land onto the floor with a thud. Then, thrusting a nimble arm between the mattress and box spring, her fingers searched frantically for the pair of scissors she’d stashed there after dinner...

  Nothing! Mommy must have found them. Her throat tightened. Mommy had to know—she just had to! How could a parent not know what was happening to their own child?

  A rough hand yanked her small arm free from the bed.

  “I just want to tuck you in for the night,” her stepfather said, as he forced her back into bed and shoved a sock into her mouth.

  At once, the room swelled, then shrank, like it was closing in, threatening to suffocate her. Vision blurred with tears—of fear, of frustration, of pain. She gagged on the rough texture of the sock until suddenly, something shifted... and the child saw the room from a different angle. Somehow, she hovered just below the ceiling, watching the little girl struggle in vain under the terrible, foul-smelling man—she pushed at his shoulders, pulled at his shirt, thrashed and screamed her silent screams until her face was red and sweaty, but he couldn’t be stopped. The monster held the little girl’s nose closed until she stopped struggling, and from high above the bed, the child’s eyes met the little girl’s, and an unspoken message passed between them.

  Throughout that night’s ordeal, their eyes had remained locked. From high above, the child didn’t physically feel the pain, the anger, the fear that accompanied the late night visits from her stepfather, but she knew them all too well.

  An overwhelming sadness consumed the seven-year-old. Why does this happen to me? she wondered. Doesn’t he know it’s bad? Had she been allowed to attend school, she would have told her teachers, her friends—anyone who’d listen. But it was just her and Mommy. And Mommy did nothing to help her.

  The multitude of thoughts soon became all-consuming until a sensation from deep inside intensified and spread outward, reaching the tips of her fingers and toes. The perspective shifted again, and she was brought back into the little girl’s body, where the pain and humiliation resided, though this time, something was different. Somehow, the usual loneliness and sadness had vanished and she was no longer afraid; there was safety in numbers, and this kid was no longer alone. A genuine smile crept across her face as a plan formed. Stepfather would no longer be paying late night visits to her bedroom. Things would be different from this moment on, and the newfound hope made the child feel in control for the first time since Mommy had brought this monster into their lives.

  “Excuse me? Didn’t you hear me, dear?”

  An elderly woman’s voice broke through the memories of the child-turned-killer. The killer refocused, looking up at the woman, Marge, and noticed she held an open tube of Bengay. The smell was both terrifying and infuriating, triggering a new sense of rage as the killer struggled to remain in control.

  “Are you feeling all right?” the old woman asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  All at once, the killer’s overwhelming rage drove her to close the distance between them—fast. One brutal kick knocked the tube of Bengay out of Marge’s arthritic grasp, then the killer lunged and began to pound her face with clenched fists, crunching and smashing Marge’s nose and eye socket as the elderly woman shrieked and toppled backwards to the floor. Not until the satisfyingly warm blood had gushed over the killer’s hands was there a moment of pause. Then, arching her back, the killer let loose a primal scream and began to pull at her own hair, slap at her own face in a repulsive display of self-punishment. She needed to clear her mind—now, now, now! She only knew one thing: kill or be hurt, and she needed to protect the others, the ones who lived amongst her, within her.

  With the old woman’s feeble struggles, the killer, who now straddled Marge, shifted her weight forward and, with her knees, applied a crushing pressure to the victim’s chest and abdomen. But the others’ voices grew louder and more difficult to ignore:

  Kill her before she hurts you!

  Don’t let her hurt me!

  She’s just like your stepfather!

  It’s not too late, ruin her!

  Shove the sock into her mouth; make her stop screaming!

  The killer clutched her head and fell to the side, consumed by the dreadful inner clamor. Marge had managed to wiggle out from underneath and crawl a few feet away. The killer cracked open one eye and watched the old woman scramble toward the bedroom closet, head full of wispy thin, bluish-white hair whipping back over her hunched shoulder every few seconds, breaths in ragged gasps.

  “Get away from me,” Marge screamed. “You’re a monster!” Then, she collapsed in an exhausted heap, tears seeping out of swollen eyes, leaving wet and bloody trails down the cheeks of her broken face.

  The killer merely stood and stepped calmly toward the victim.

  Marge groaned. “Please, don’t hurt me...”

  But her weak plea was immediately drowned out by the crunch of breaking bones mixed with blood-curdling screams. Screams not for help, but of rage and unimaginable pain.

  CHAPTER 12

  O

  n Tuesday morning, Cassidy and JJ arrived at the doorstep of their first appointment of the day, right on time, according to Cassidy, despite JJ’s repeated complaints that they would be late.

  At only 10:30 a.m., the heat and humidity had already reached epically oppressive proportions, with it forecasted to continue throughout the entire week.

  Cassidy hated the dead of summer. Just seconds after leaving the air conditioned car, her clothes clung to her body, and her straightened hair frizzed at the ends, roots sticking to her scalp like a sweat-filled mop. Right then, Cassidy would have sold her own mother to a traveling band of gypsies to be able to go home to a nice cool shower. Needless to say, her mood was anything but cool, calm, and collected.

  “You haven’t said a word since you picked me up,” JJ said. “You didn’t even scream at the usual idiot drivers on our way here. Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. You sure?”

  Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Stop smothering me. I told you I was fine.” She took in a deep breath and let it out nice and slow. “I’m sorry. I think the heat’s getting to me.”

  “I won’t take it personally. At least we only have one person to see. Marge is great, even if we have to listen to the same stories she tells us every time we see her.”

  “I know, she’s very sweet. If it wasn’t for her dreadfully thin hair, I’d say she was a dead ringer for Rose Nylund.”

  “I love The G
olden Girls.”

  “Clearly. Anyway, she’s clean, friendly, and keeps her house at a decent temp. Are you sure you pushed the doorbell?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Did you hear it?” Cassidy pulled the sticky fabric of her shirt clear of her sweaty body.

  “I didn’t hear it, but I pushed the button all the way in.”

  “Well, do it again, this is taking way too long.”

  JJ shrugged and pushed the doorbell a second time, but another minute passed without any sign of Marge. The two friends looked at one another, and though neither said a word, Cassidy was pretty sure they both thought the same thing.

  “Should we check the back door?” JJ said.

  Cassidy shook her head, leaned forward, and examined the doorjamb. “I don’t see any signs of forced entry.”

  “Forced entry? What are you, a cop?”

  “No, but I watched an episode of Criminal Minds last week. When the detective examined the doorjamb, he could tell by the splintered wood that someone had forced the door open. If you watched anything other than reruns of The Golden Girls, you might have known that, too.”

  “Okay, so no sign of forced entry. Now what?”

  “Try the doorknob. See if it’s unlocked. For all we know, she could have fallen somewhere inside and can’t get to the door.”

  “But I don’t like the idea of—” At the sight of Cassidy’s glare, JJ stopped protesting and turned the knob instead. It was unlocked, and the door swung open without a sound.