HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY

by Kathryn Thomas

  The thing about getting picked up by the police is, unless there’s some ironclad evidence, they’ve only got what you give them. Most people crack under interrogation. I never crack under interrogation. So I just lie here, bleeding, and then my mind turns to my mother, a sweet nurse saving a cop and getting a gunshot for her troubles. How did she feel, I wonder, lying there on the concrete, turning it red? And then, oddly, my mind turns to Lily. I haven’t taken another woman since her. As I roll over and stare up at the four cops who creep with their guns raised between mine and Les’ body, I see her face: her sweet, flustered, vivacious face.

  I hear one of the cops mutter: “What the fuck?”

  But that’s far away now. Lily is calling me. Lily is whispering to me. Her whisper is a song in my head: “Come to me, Roman. Come and share the pleasure of that first night. Come and lose yourself in it. Come, come, my beautiful wild man. Come, come, come.”

  I roll over, groaning, no longer needing to pretend. And that’s when I see that Les is alive. Les is twitching.

  Chapter Six

  Lily

  I wish Mom was alive. That’s the wish that keeps reoccurring in my mind as I return to work. I wish Mom was alive so I could tell her about the pregnancy. I go about my work like a robot, performing each task expertly even if there is a second track in my mind, running in a completely different direction. Mom . . . I always looked up to her, liked to linger before I left for the school bus to see her adjust her gun and her badge and her uniform: a princess of justice, dressed in blue. She looked like me, but taller, stronger, sterner. Dad died when I was very little, and so Mom was my only parent. A cop, a protector, a hero. I almost lost her once, before the cancer took her . . . One night, she was responding to a gang exchange, as she often did, but this time there were two bangers when she only thought there was one. She turned up and saw that one was wounded, and was making her way down the street to signal to her backup when another man came out of nowhere and shot at her, giving her a flesh wound. A nurse charged into the street—her heroism was reported in the papers—and tackled Mom to a barricade, where she started to patch her up. And then chaos struck, and the nurse was killed—but she saved Mom.

  Mom . . .

  I imagine telling her that I’m pregnant, imagine her placing her sturdy hands atop mine and offering me that expression that was halfway between a grimace and a smile, as though she was too accustomed to the evil of the world to be surprised by it anymore. I hear her saying: “It’ll be fine, girl. Chin up, grit those teeth, and get the job done.” That’s how I think of her, a hero in blue, not what she later became when the brain cancer began to eat her away. Walking down the hallway between patients, I shake my head, shaking away the memories.

  I’ve just left the room of a kid who crashed his scooter into a hedgerow when the charge nurse advances on me. Sissy Sanders is the most inappropriately named woman I have ever met in my life. When I first heard Sissy Sanders, I pictured a petite, smiling, kind woman with a soft face. Instead, I was met with a six foot, wide-shouldered lady with a hard face and a no-nonsense attitude. “GSW coming in,” she barks. “Get room 202 prepped.”

  I hesitate for only a moment, and then nod.

  Spinning on my heels, I head for room 202. GSW: gunshot wound. I swallow as I walk. They call me the Sherlock of the nursing staff, but that’s because I’m good at talking with my patients and detecting lies—when somebody is trying to scam drugs, for example. It has nothing to do with the gruesome process of treating a GSW. When I get into the room, I begin to lay everything out which the doctor will need, doing it methodically, without having to think about my movements. Most of my mental energy is now directed at steeling myself for what I am about to see. I’ve done two GSWs before, and both were horrifying. One man had been shot in the face so that his eyeball burst like an overripe grape, and the other had the insides of his stomach spilling out.

  When the second nurse comes into the room, I am relieved to see that it’s Carol. If I am Sherlock, Carol really is Watson: the medical woman, who rarely gets queasy in these situations. But all that said, I’m a professional, and by the time they wheel the man in I’m fully prepared for whatever I might see.

  Or so I think.

  At first, it takes me a few moments to recognize him. I am too focused on the wound, a nasty pattern of blood-red dampening his shirt and spreading out over his arm. And then I look from the wound to his face. I take a step back. My heart was the steady beat of a nurse before; now it is the frantic pounding of a lover, a mother. I find myself backed all the way to the window as they shift Roman to the hospital bed from the stretcher. Roman is writhing, moaning, his eyes closed. Blood has dripped down from his shoulder onto his yin-and-yang tattoo. He looks exactly the same as the night we met but for the wound: tall, muscled, somehow handsome even under the circumstances. Roman is shot, Roman is lying there bleeding. I find myself clawing at my throat; I can’t breathe. Roman, the father of my child—but I don’t know him, not really. I only met him once . . . but that once was oh-so-beautiful, and now I am carrying his child. If he dies, my child will be fatherless even before birth, my child will be robbed of even the chance of having a father.

  I am taking shallow, quick breaths when Carol paces over to me. “What is it?” she snaps. Over her shoulder, I can see the doctor, ignoring me but his face knitted in annoyance. Sissy is already in the hallway, calling out for my replacement.

  “It’s . . . him,” I manage to say. “It’s . . . Roman.”

  “Oh.” Carol’s face immediately softens. “Shit.”

  Carol calls across the room to Sissy. “This man is Lily’s cousin.”

  Even hard-faced Sissy can’t argue with this. She nods. “Okay. Fields, you go to room 212. There’s a poison victim in there and they need your help. Can you handle that?”

  I nod, grateful, and pace out of the room as quickly as I can. I can’t stay there, watching as the doctor picks and pokes at Roman, watch as the life leaves him. I don’t know him, I remind myself as I walk down the hallway between his room and the poison victim’s room. No, I don’t know him. But though that is true, I am carrying his life; his life is growing right now inside my belly. How can I one day raise a child after having seen his father die before my eyes? I get to the room, swallow, steel myself. Professional. Professional. Switching off my emotions, I enter the room.

  The short, ginger-haired man on the bed is writhing in agony as the doctor probes him, checking his airways, trying to determine what kind of poison the man has ingested. The man’s mouth is covered in the remnants of froth and his hair is soaked through with sweat. As I enter the room, he begins to convulse. The doctor mutters, “Nurse,” and I quickly go to his side. Together, we restrain him, securing him to the bed, and then the doctor strokes his chin, looking down calmly at the convulsing man. I step back, awaiting instructions. It’s time like this I’m glad I’m not a doctor. Who knows what this man has taken? He isn’t talking. It’s all up to the doctor’s diagnosis now. I help them, sometimes, but this is way out of my league.

  Finally, the doctor tells me what he needs. I get the supplies and return to him, and then insert the needle into his arm so that we can administer the antidote through an IV drip. Inserting a needle into the man’s arm is a weirdly calming procedure. I have done it thousands of times before. Finding the vein, making sure to insert it cleanly, and then ensuring that it doesn’t slip or cause any harm. About half an hour later, the ginger-haired man is asleep, lying on his back, breathing deeply. The doctor and I wash our hands with the alcoholic gel. When I ask the doctor if the man will live, he shrugs. I nod; doctors often give that stark response to nurses. They know that we know how brutal it can be.

  By coincidence, we finish just when it’s time for my second break. I walk toward the breakroom, but then I take a turn, and another turn, and I’m walking back the way I came, toward Roman’s room. I have to see him, have to see him breathing—or not. I have to see what’s happened to h
im. I can’t go and eat microwave pasta as the father of my child bleeds out in the same building. I stop when I’m a few feet from the room and pretend to be reading a noticeboard. Two cops come out, shaking their heads. One is a woman, short, wide, with gorgeous red hair tied up and bound with a strip of leather. The other is a man, tall, young-looking, with a bowl of black hair.

  The female officer mutters to the man: “What do you think?”

  The man shrugs. “He’s bullshitting us. Of course he is. But the fuck we gonna do? No evidence.”

  “Let’s see what forensics comes up with . . .”

  “Yeah.” The man chuckles darkly. “Let’s see.”

  They walk down the hallway. When they’re out of sight, I creep forward, listening for anybody else in the room. But I just hear the beep of the machines, and a quiet groaning. For a moment, I am transported back to over a month ago, to similar groaning, to when a musclebound stranger in the night leaned over me, groaning his warm breath onto my skin, thrusting: thrusting deep explosive pleasure inside of me. I open the door, wincing as it creaks on its hinges, and then walk into the room and close the door behind me.

  Roman is propped up in bed, but his head is lolling, his eyes opening and closing. The police shouldn’t have questioned him in this condition, but that rarely stops the police. He groans, and then his head lolls toward me and he stops groaning. A sleepy smile lifts his lips. He looks exactly like the Roman I remember, but different, too. Physically, he is the same, but his tough energy has left him. He looks impossibly tired as he smiles at me. The first thing I do is go to the end of the bed and look at his clipboard. Roman Slade. At least I have his name, now.

  “Hey bea’iful,” he murmurs, smiling that same tired smile at me. “What’s goin’ on?”

  I’m pregnant with your child, that’s what’s going on. I’m pregnant with your child and I have nobody to help me. No parents, no family. Just my work. What am I going to do, Roman? How I am going to support this child and be there for her at the same time? Tell me that.

  But he’s in no condition for this, so I just ask: “How are you feeling, Roman?”

  Even now, as he lies there in a hospital gown, I can’t ignore how incredibly handsome he is. The fabric of the gown is thin and as it rests against his body, it perfectly outlines his muscles. I tell myself to stop thinking like this. It’s inappropriate in the extreme, but my body doesn’t care about whether or not it’s inappropriate. This is the first time in my life I have been horny, shocked, anxious, and scared at the same time, all of it mixing inside of me like a cruel brew.

  “You’re angel ,” Roman whispers, his eyelids falling closed. “Angel.”

  “Get some sleep, baby,” I say, backing out of the room. “Just get some sleep.”

  I return to the hallway, close the door behind me, and turn around only to walk directly into Carol.

  “What are you doing?” I snap, feeling foolish at once. “Sorry,” I say, head bowed. “I didn’t mean to . . . It’s just . . .”

  “I know,” Carol says understandingly. “So, is it really him?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  We walk toward the breakroom, talking quietly.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, as we sit at the corner table, the TV playing some soap opera .

  I shrug. “I have no idea, Carol. This has been one hell of a day, one crazy hell of a day. First I find out I’m pregnant, and now . . . I mean, this is mad, right? This is absolutely mad.”

  Carol grins, but it’s a shaky grin. “Mad,” she agrees.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just—” She hesitates, and then pushes on: “I think that gunshot was self-inflicted. Nothing about it looks right. The angle, the burning around the skin. Which makes me wonder, why would a man shoot himself in the shoulder?”

  “And your conclusion?” I ask.

  Carol stares down at the table, unwilling to meet my gaze.

  “Maybe Roman is a criminal, Lily.”

  I want to argue with that, but I find that I can’t; I don’t know the man well enough, not even close.

  Chapter Seven

  Roman

  When I wake, morning sunlight is glaring through the window. I turn my head away from it, but that just causes my neck to ache like a motherfuck. My whole body is aching. Probably the pain meds, making me sluggish. Aching, but not in pain. The only thing that throbs is my shoulder, but I can’t exactly expect different when I shot myself in the shoulder, can I? I think back to last night, last afternoon, really . . . I talked to the cops, and even in my drugged-up state I gave them shit, and then . . . Was there someone else in my room? I try and think back, wondering who the hell would be visiting Roman the Assassin. I don’t have friends, or family. I have my work, and sometimes I go fishing and sometimes I watch football and I shoot guns at ranges and I read books when I find the time but my life isn’t one full of folks who’d want to visit me.

  All I can remember, before sleep took me, was an angel-winged creature floating into the room, flapping her wings in movements so tiny it’s a wonder she stayed afloat. I remember a soft cherubic face. I remember long dainty hands. I remember full lips.

  “So an angel,” I croak, my throat dry. “A fuckin’ angel.”

  I push all that away. No friends, no family, and I saw an angel. Clearly the drugs just messed me up to the point where I was seeing shit where there wasn’t shit to be seen. I open and close my hands, curl my toes, twist my neck from side to side, smoothing out all the aches in my body. Then I look down at my shoulder. The bleeding has stopped, as far as I can tell: the bandage is clean; the hospital gown is clean. This gown should be against human rights. It’s crispy, stiff, itchy. It’s the sort of thing you think they’d put you in as a punishment, not when they’re trying to make you better.

  I need to get the hell out of here. Les might’ve given me shit about Darius, but there are other links in the chain. Or . . . or . . . there’s something, isn’t there, about Les? It’s right there, lingering at the back of my mind.

  When I remember, I’m on my feet in a second, yanking out the tubes and shit they’ve stuck into my body. Les was twitching. Les wasn’t dead, which means that somewhere in this hospital Les might be alive and breathing, ready to talk. The machines I’m attached to start beeping as soon as I jump to my feet, so I just grab a blanket, wrap it around me, and get out of here.

  I close the door behind me, and then move down the hallway, blanket around my shoulders. Nurses and doctors and patients walk back and forth, but nobody pays me any mind. They’re all too busy, too rushed off their feet, to give a shit about a patient who is clearly well enough to take an early-morning stroll around the hospital. I know that’ll be different when they discover that I’m no longer in my bed, but I don’t plan on being around that long. I read the signs on the walls and head toward the supply closet. I need to get changed into something that doesn’t flash my ass cheeks every time I take a step, and then find Les, and then get the fuck out of here.

  I’m almost at the supply closet when I hear, from the direction of my room, nurses shouting. I’m too far away and there are too many people in between for me to make out their words, but they don’t sound happy. A nurse with her voice raised, another nurse with her voice raised, both of them shouting at each other as though this is going to make me magically reappear in the room. Then they stop shouting, and I imagine them spreading out, only in my mind they’re dressed in SWAT uniforms instead of scrubs. Maybe I’m still high on those pain meds, I reflect with a rueful grin. When I get to the supply closet door, my grin drops. This is just one of many supply closets, but if this bastard needs a keycard, I have to assume that all of them do. The keycard slot, with a red light above it, makes me want to just kick the door in. But that’d attract too much attention.

  Maybe I’ll have to give up on the whole getting-dressed thing. Maybe bare-assing my way down the hallway to Les’ room is the only thing for it. The problem is, I have no clue whe
re Les’ room is, if Les is even up here with the living or down in the morgue with the dead. I don’t know where to start . . . I hate this. Usually when I go into a job, I know exactly what I’m going to be doing. I’m prepared. Right now, I’m fuckin’ lost.

  I’ll just have to ditch this place, find Les later when I can do some proper scouting. Gritting my teeth, I turn around—and there she is. Not an angel now, but she was the angel last night. Something clicks in my mind the moment I see her. She looks tired, her cheeks dull red now instead of bursting red, her hazel-brown eyes half-lidded, her mouth set in a flat line. Then I look down her scrubs, to her waist, to the keycard which dangles there from a clip. I pace to her, take her by the arm, and then lead her to the door. I do it gently, and she’s so stunned—or scared, maybe, though I don’t like to think I’m scaring a lady—that she doesn’t say a thing. I swipe the door open, and push us both inside.