In autopsy, she found clear evidence of both recent and old myocardial infarction, premortem coronary thrombus, plaque rupture, and the presence of 83 percent coronary artery disease.
From what she saw, he was lucky he lived as long as he did.
With the file completed, she shut down her computer and took her coat off the hook beside the door, pulling the wool over her shoulders and feeling the weight of it stretch down her back and neck. A very hot bath. With Epsom salts and a glass of wine.
She was tying the belt when the phone rang on the desk. She debated answering. It was past work hours. But it wasn’t in her nature to leave it. If she didn’t answer the call now, she would want to check the message from home.
“Schwartzman.”
“Bella.” He drew the name out.
She shivered, pressing her fist against her gut. A hundred thoughts entered her head at once. Confront him about Victoria Stein. The flowers. The lavender water. Say nothing. Hang up. Scream. Call the police. Hire someone to kill him. That one she’d had before. Instead she took a slow shaky breath, gripped the phone, and said nothing.
“Are you under the weather, Bella?”
Could she trace the call? He hadn’t called her office line directly before. She wondered if he had gotten the number from Terri Stein, or whatever her real name was. What else could that woman have learned from being in this office? What good would it do to trace the call?
He laughed lightly as though he could see all the thoughts racing about her mind. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Be well, sweet Bella.”
There was her own quick gasp in the receiver, then the click of the line going dead. A wave of cold was followed by the scalding heat of nausea. She shuddered and fought the desire to be sick. The room was off-kilter. She set her palm on the desk, saw she still held the receiver.
Breathe. She drew a breath, then a second, replaced the receiver on the base, ignoring her trembling hand. He had called before, she told herself. This is nothing new. And yet it felt like another step, another intrusion. He’d asked if she was under the weather. Was he implying she was sick? Or was it some sort of clue? Something about Victoria Stein?
Hearing his voice, she knew that she was right. Spencer knew about Victoria Stein. He was behind her death. Which meant he was probably behind Ava’s, as well. She could feel the truth like bitter cold in her bones. What would he do? He knew where she lived, where she worked, how to reach her, whom she loved . . . how could she possibly escape him?
She remained frozen in place as though he were an animal that could hunt her if she moved. She had waited too long for that. There would be no waiting in place. She had to leave, didn’t she?
Run and hide again?
She knocked the stapler to the ground and let out a small gasp. She glanced around the empty office. She was alone. She pulled out the chair and sat at the desk. Her legs were achy and weak. As though she were, in fact, ill. No. That was just him, getting inside her head. She couldn’t let that happen. It was so hard to keep the thoughts and memories at bay, but she had to try. If she let him in . . .
“Stop it,” she said out loud. “You are fine.” She stood. Put her computer bag over her shoulder and found her key to lock up the office. Halfway out the door, her cell phone rang.
She would not answer. Drawing the phone from her pocket, she saw the number was local. Was he here? She stopped in the doorway. Took a breath to steel herself.
“Hello.”
“Dr. Schwartzman?”
She didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?”
“This is Dr. Norman Fraser calling. Is now a good time?”
Schwartzman let out the breath she’d been holding. “Sure, Doctor. It’s fine.”
“Your biopsy came back positive.”
Spencer’s words. Are you under the weather, Bella? “Yes. I heard from Dr. Khan this weekend.”
“Yes. She told me she would call you,” Fraser said. “You have invasive lobular cancer in your right breast. The cancer is slow-growing and not aggressive. Grade one and less than two centimeters.”
A pause. A tightness in her chest.
“Dr. Schwartzman?”
“I’m here.”
“I can’t tell you what stage it is until after surgery.” The word surgery rang in her head like a bell. He said something else that she missed. “. . . receptive, which is good. It is HER2, which is also positive. I would like to get you back in to do an ultrasound on your left breast to be certain we haven’t missed anything on that side. I have a one o’clock appointment open on Thursday. I know this might seem like a lot.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“You don’t need to make any decisions tonight. I’ll inform Dr. Khan and hold that Thursday appointment for you until you can get back to me. Does that sound okay?”
She didn’t know how much time passed before she heard his voice again. “Dr. Schwartzman?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I will call you back about the appointment . . . the appointment on . . .” She had no idea when the appointment was.
“Thursday. One o’clock. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll touch base tomorrow afternoon to confirm.”
Tomorrow. Cancer. It was too whispery a word. It should have a harsher sound in the middle. Or perhaps the word was fitting. Cancer was like a snake.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
She couldn’t think of a single thing to ask.
“It’s quite common to experience shock with this kind of news,” Fraser said. “The prognosis is positive for this type of cancer. Hopefully some of the websites Bonnie directed your husband to will be helpful for you both.”
She flinched. “Husband?” The sound was like a wheeze.
“He called and spoke with Bonnie earlier. Patient confidentiality prohibits us from giving him any specific information on your file, of course. But Bonnie was able to give him some general information on how you two might proceed.”
Her husband. “I don’t have a husband.”
The line went silent. “Well, perhaps—”
“Are you certain Bonnie spoke to someone who said he was my husband?”
“I thought the same thing—you’re not being married, I mean, but Bonnie looked it up in your chart. And he was able to confirm your date of birth and address. Bonnie mentioned that he was recently added to your emergency contact list.” Fraser was breathless, afraid. Breaching patient confidentiality was a serious offense. “In fact, he’s the only one listed.” The shuffling of papers. “Yes, here it is. He was added to the file yesterday morning.”
Schwartzman pressed her palm to her racing heart. “Added how?”
“Via fax, I believe. It will be here somewhere.” More paper shuffling. Another voice behind his.
Spencer knew. Somehow he’d found out. She pressed her eyes closed.
“Ah, yes. Here it is,” Fraser said with relief in his voice. “It’s got your signature right on it.”
Spencer would know how to forge her writing. “What name has been added?”
“Henry.”
Spencer’s middle name.
“Henry Schwartzman. We—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting him off. “Remove him immediately. No one is to have access to my files. And I want a copy of that fax sent to my mobile phone. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes. Right here. Go on, then.”
She recited her number for him and made him read it back. “I’ll be there.”
“Be where?” Fraser sounded a little nervous.
“Your office on Thursday. One o’clock.”
“Oh good. That is good. And I’ll speak with Bonnie and the front office,” he added in a rush. “We will take care of your records and eliminate your—”
“Thank you,” she said.
She ended the call, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the screen. Stunned, she stared at the wall of the hallway. Spencer knew she was sick. How fast did cancer spread? Was it coursing thr
ough her body? She imagined spiky toxic cells killing off healthy ones. How could she know so little about it?
Was that how it worked? And what would Spencer do with the information? What if she died? Would he let her go then?
She wanted her body donated to science. And then to be cremated.
Would Spencer insist on bringing her body back to South Carolina to be buried in his family plot? Torment her even after death?
She faced the ceiling. “God,” she whispered. A plea. A question. How could God do this to her? Why? Please make it go away. How did she get cancer? She had Spencer. Surely that was bad enough.
Then she pressed her eyes closed.
A minute or perhaps three or ten later, she opened them. She was sitting on the floor just inside the office door. It took her several minutes to pull herself up. Go home. Go home and take a bath. Wash away the feel of his voice on her. A glass of wine to ease the fear. If only for the night.
23
San Francisco, California
Yellow pressed against her mouth and nose. Soft amber clouds that wouldn’t budge. Her arms pinned, she struggled to turn to one side, to capture a breath. A soft voice whispered to her. Don’t struggle. Let go. Slide into the warmth. It pulled from below. Heaviness and weightlessness at once.
Schwartzman fought harder. There was no warmth. It was a trick. Fight. Fight harder. She had barely moved and already her head pounded. It was too strong. Spencer would win. If she couldn’t fight it, he would win. All this time, all this distance, and he would beat her.
She screamed out silently and fought against the inability to move. It was as though she were pinned down, yet she couldn’t feel the straps.
She focused on moving in the darkness. The yellow faded. Gray tones emerged. Her fingers twitched against the sheets. She gasped and screamed again.
Some small sound emerged. More gray, less yellow.
And then a final scream.
Sound.
Noise. Not mighty but enough to press away the yellow, to bring the gray in deep and safe.
She was free.
She pressed herself onto one side, reached her arms out for the safety of the edge of the bed.
The throbbing in her head was blinding. She pressed her fingers against the bone behind her eyes, trying to recall the night before. She’d made dinner at home. Had a glass of wine in the bath, but only one. Something was wrong. She was sick. Did breast cancer cause headaches?
She put her hand out to push herself up and felt something warm and firm beside her. This time the scream was loud, full, shaking her awake. She fumbled away from the warmth. Legs caught in the sheets, she tumbled off the bed, hands first. Caught herself on the hard floor and slid in something slick. Hit her chin on the floor, bit her tongue, and tasted blood. Smelled it. Warm and alive, it was so foreign.
From the window, pale moonlight shone through the edge of the shades. Disoriented, she found herself on the floor on the far side of her own bed. In her own room.
And yet she’d never been in this spot. She always slept on the other side.
She lifted her hands and saw thick crimson smeared across her palms. More blood. She touched her tongue to the back of her hand, creating a tiny smudge of red. This was too much blood.
She pressed herself up, wiped her hands on her pajama bottoms, and moved to the bed. The bedside light was missing. She jerked up the window shade. Moonlight cast a faint light across the room. In the bed, the covers made a mound in the shape of a body.
A trick of the light.
She moved toward it slowly. Saw a head, dark hair.
Not a trick.
She reached out, stretching until her fingertips touched the wall, and palmed her way to the light switch. The room was flooded in white light. She blinked hard. There was a man facedown in her bed.
“How did you get in here?” she screamed.
No response.
Blood streaked the wall where she’d swiped for the light switch. She checked her body, touched her hands to her chest and belly. It was not her blood.
Her pulse throbbed at the base of her neck as adrenaline sent her own blood speeding to her legs and heart. Dizzy, she forced herself to the bed. She drew a breath, fighting her own flight instincts, and used both hands to turn the body onto its back.
She stared down at Ken Macy.
From the center of his button-down shirt, a bone knife handle lay almost perpendicular to the skin. It was a small paring knife. One from her set. She pulled the shirt away, but the knife held it in place. Hands trembling, she worked one of the buttons loose. Saw the blade was buried in his chest. Wounds across his chest. So much blood. “Oh, God.”
Schwartzman scanned the bedside table for her cell phone, but it wasn’t there. The white cord, where she plugged the phone in religiously every night, was there, but no phone.
His chest rose slightly, and Schwartzman cried out, “Ken.” She pulled the nail scissors from her bedside table and cut away Ken’s shirt. Red froth bubbled at the site of the wound. He was still breathing.
She sprinted through the apartment and found the kitchen phone. An antiquated device, attached to the wall by its thin, translucent cord. She almost cried out at the sound of a dial tone. Pressed 9-1-1 with shaky fingers. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Dr. Anna Schwartzman. I need an ambulance immediately.” She recited her address. “I’ve got a man with a knife wound to the chest in my—” She stopped speaking. A man with a knife wound to the chest in her bed. She could not speak those words.
“Okay, Doctor. Just hold on the line with me.”
“I am going to treat the victim as best I can. Get an ambulance here.” She hung up and glanced across the countertops. Two glasses. The empty bottle of Evan Williams. Her father’s last one, the one she’d been saving. But she’d had wine last night. She remembered a bath, going to sleep.
Lost memories, but how?
She dialed the department’s main number. “This is Dr. Schwartzman. I need you to call Hal Harris at home and have him meet me.”
“I’m afraid Inspector Harris is off duty.”
“This is Dr. Schwartzman. I’m the medical examiner. I am instructing you to call Inspector Harris and have him come to this address now. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Dr. Schwartzman. What address?”
Schwartzman recited her home address.
“If you can’t reach Inspector Harris, then call Inspector Hailey Wyatt. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do it right away.”
“This is a matter of life and death,” Schwartzman said, hearing the panic in her rising voice.
“I understand, Dr. Schwartzman.”
Schwartzman dropped the receiver, which clattered across the counter and landed on the floor. She didn’t stop to retrieve it. She turned the water on and slammed through the cupboards for a large metal bowl, a roll of paper towels, her kitchen shears. To make room for the bowl of hot water on the bedside table, she swept a stack of books onto the floor. Ken’s body jerked at the noise. He was conscious.
“Ken, it’s Anna Schwartzman. You’re going to be okay. Help is on the way, Ken. Okay?” She touched his wrist and searched for the pulse. Thready but palpable. Keep talking. “It’s me. You’re injured, but you’re going to be okay. Can you open your eyes?”
Schwartzman studied the blood-soaked sheets and tried to calculate how much blood there was. Pressed her fingers to them, came away wet.
Ken’s eyes remained closed.
She studied the knife. The handle jutted to the right, indicating a right-handed assailant. But this wasn’t a victim. He wasn’t dead. You’re a doctor.
“I’m going to get you fixed up, Ken,” she told him and ran to retrieve her medical examiner’s bag from beside the front door.
“I’d love to see your eyes, Ken. Can you try to open them for me?” She watched his eyes, saw the slightest twitch as she fumbled to open her case. She open
ed the top and stared into the contents. There was no blood pressure monitor, no stethoscope to listen for breathing sounds. She was a doctor for the dead. The living were outside her expertise.
The pounding returned to her head. Drugs. They’d been drugged.
She put her hand in Ken’s. “I want you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
His fingers lay motionless against hers. “Come on, Ken. You owe me dinner. You’ve got to fight, okay?”
Come on, Schwartzman. First step: stop the bleeding. She ran across the room and scooped an armful of T-shirts from her drawer. “We’re getting you all fixed up, Ken. Good as new.” Talking as she worked, she rolled the T-shirts, then folded them in half to create firm packs she could press on the wounds that were bleeding more actively.
Ken remained motionless. “Come on, Ken. Hang in there, okay?”
She looked at the bundles laid out on his chest. The compressions would only work if she had a way to apply pressure to all of them at once. Think! She sprinted back to the closet, grabbed a fistful of black stockings. Straddling Ken’s torso, she worked the stockings under his body and tied the legs across the rolled shirts. Listened to his breath. “I hear it, Ken. I hear you breathing. Good. That’s so good.” She held her hand on his. “Can you wiggle your fingers, Ken? Give me a finger high five.”
With her free hand, she reached down for her blood sample kits. His finger moved. Or was it hers? “Again, Ken. Do it again.” She pulled the empty vials into her lap and reached down for clean needles.
As she sat back up, she felt movement.
He did it. He could hear her.
“Do you know your blood type, Ken?”
A tiny flutter from his index finger. “I’m going to take a sample of your blood to find out what type you are. Then I can tell the paramedics.” If she needed blood from the dead, she drew it from the jugular or the femoral artery. She hadn’t drawn blood from a living person since med school. “Hang on, Ken.”
She grabbed a pair of the tights and tied them high on Ken’s arm and made a fist with his hand. The vein was flat. She used the nail scissors to cut off one of the legs of the stockings and tied it on her own left arm, using her teeth to tighten it over her bicep. “I’m going to take my blood, too, Ken.” She was AB positive, a universal recipient but not a good bet for a donor. “We’ll both do it. While your vein gets ready, I’m going to take some from mine. Because you know what, Ken? I think we were drugged. I think someone drugged us.”
Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) Page 18