by Ellie Hart
Holding out an ancient flip phone in our direction, he says, “If one of you will call for an ambulance and the police, I’ll make sure Ms. Burton here is all right.”
Marta, thank goodness, has the presence of mind to place the call. I’m still trying to process the fact that Chrissy is now moving on the ground, struggling to sit upright. Don, however, keeps her in place with one hand placed firmly on her shoulder.
“Am I dead?”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of the question. Don grins at me and then squats down next to a clearly confused Chrissy.
“No, ma’am, you sure aren’t. I shot into the air and you fainted, plain and simple.” He looks over at Marta, who’s still on the phone, giving the emergency dispatch operator directions to where we are. “And as soon as help gets here and these two ladies have had a chance to give their story to the police, I’m taking them home.”
Instead of protesting as I thought she might, Chrissy just closes her eyes. It occurs to me this has been her response to everything in her life, from the death of her friend to the various crimes she’s committed in order to bring attention to the bigger crime of the transplant black market. A worthy message delivered in the worst way possible.
It’s all about choices.
The Oakland Police Department arrives in all its glory, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Chrissy still doesn’t open her eyes, and I wonder if she’s gone catatonic or whatever people do when they’re in shock. Or about to face reality. I don’t have too long to worry about her, though.
Marta and I are hustled over to a pair of officers who separate us and take our statements. I’m not fully comfortable with that, to be honest, but I’ve seen enough live police shows to know this is how it’s done. I tell it all, from meeting up with Chrissy earlier in the evening to the dramatic revelations to the arrival of Don Butler. The officer gives a small grunt when I give his name, and I remember most of the police departments in the Bay Area probably know his name. He’s quite the pot stirrer at times.
And he’s going to be absolutely insufferable after this. He must have a hidden wish of being the cowboy in the white hat, riding in to save the fair maiden—or maidens, in this case—and riding off into the sunset with a jaunty wave of his hand.
And I have never been happier to let someone live his dream. I’d hate to think what might have happened, how things might have turned out, if he hadn’t ridden into town. I might even buy him that white hat.
Epilogue
When it comes down to it, Chrissy Burton’s heart was in the right place. She was frustrated, angry at a system that had allowed such lax oversight for something that should have been held in highest esteem, not for the highest bidder. But it’s never right to take a life for a life. Some may argue with me and say that’s exactly what needs to be done in order to shut down these human black markets. It does make me wonder if we are as civilized, as advanced as we claim to be.
Thanks to Chrissy’s ultimate confession—and with a little help from my unauthorized recording—the entire conduit for selling bone marrow to those desperate enough to pay has been shut down. The well-known transplant surgeon Dr. Anita Mericello has been charged with trafficking in human organs, along with three of the oncology nurses and two consultants. When their various Mercedes and Range Rovers and McMansions were confiscated, the news knocked even the latest political fiasco off the top ten.
Bev Strait is back at work at the county social services department. Unfortunately, she seems to have escaped unscathed from this whole bone marrow selling scheme. In our state, along with a handful of others, it’s not illegal to sell one’s bone marrow. Still, I like to think her reputation is tainted now and she’ll take the hint and leave. The idea of Marta having to see her on a regular basis is enough to make my blood boil, to put it mildly.
Maxi and Jinx seem to be doing well, considering they lost their brother. Tramp has moved in with Maxi and comes to work with her several days a week, and I’m glad. It means she has something else to focus on, something to keep her tied to the living and the present.
Jinx? Well, he’s back to doing what he does best: smiling and twirling and flirting with the customers at the Vineyard. Marta and I still go there occasionally, both to enjoy the ambience and to keep an eye on the boy. As Marta commented recently, we tend to gravitate to those who are needy and hurting. Our tribe is filled with those in need of a lifeline.
Don Butler, to my amazement and Marta’s amusement, has taken to swinging by for the odd coffee or beer. I have to admit, although I’ll never say it aloud, he’s not that bad a person, at least for a journalist. When he jokes about being the little one’s unofficial “god-daddy,” I just laugh. Who knows, though? Stranger things have happened.
As for Chrissy Burton, she is currently residing in the state psychiatric hospital. With her medical history and the results of a mental evaluation, it was deemed prudent to commit her both involuntarily and indefinitely. Whether or not she’ll ever face murder charges remains to be seen. Personally, I hope she gets the help she needs. Living with that awful burden would be enough to make anyone lose their grip on reality.
Speaking of needing some help, today is The Day, capital letters included. I’ve faced down snarling dogs before without flinching. I know there’s nothing wrong with my mettle. I’ve handled plenty of situations that require nerves of steel. But this is an entirely different kettle of fish. A horse of a different color. A baby.
“Okay, missy,” begins the cheerful technician as she helps Marta onto the exam table. “Just get comfortable and lift your shirt for me.”
She bustles around the small room, clicking on a computer and getting gel down from a cabinet. I wink at Marta as she raises the voluminous maternity top. I’m rewarded with a classic eye roll.
The sight of the mound that is her stomach makes something clench in mine. This is real life. There is no going back now, even if I wanted to. I scoot around to the other side of the table and sit down on a stool that almost rolls out from beneath my suddenly unsteady legs. The idea that we are about to get our first glimpse of our child has me almost in panic mode.
“Ready?” The technician beams down at Marta and gives me a cursory glance. We both nod, and I reach for Marta’s hand. Hang on tight, I say silently, and I’m unsure if that was meant for me or Marta, who, quite honestly, is as cool as a cucumber, her hand smooth and dry under my damp one.
“This might be a little cold,” she says, and we’re off. For the next few minutes I barely breathe as I watch the wand trace a course across Marta’s belly. There is the sound of clicking as the tech records what she is seeing, but my eyes are glued to the screen. I’ve had plenty of experience with ultrasounds before in the clinic, so the various vague blobs and shapes I’m seeing have started my heart racing. I glance down at Marta, curious to see her reaction to the gray and white mass, and I wonder if she’s already aware of what the three of us are now staring at.
“Here’s baby one, gals, and here’s baby two.” The technician grins down at Marta and over at me. “Congrats. You’re having twins.”
God bless Mr. Flores. He really should set up a baby prediction business.
I’m already reaching for Marta, tears rolling unheeded down my cheeks. Fumbling in my back pocket for the small velveteen box I’ve been carrying for a while now, I pull it out and open it with shaking fingers.
“Marta Perry,” I say as I stare into her tear-filled eyes and slip the diamond solitaire onto her slightly swollen finger, “would you do me the immense honor of marrying me?”
About the Author
Ellie Hart is a lifelong writer whose love of mysteries was formed early in life. At age eight, she discovered Agatha Christie—much to her mother’s dismay—and began devouring any and all books she could find that featured murder and mayhem. After a twenty-year career as a high school and community college English teacher, she now devotes her newly found freedom to writing mystery novels and reading for pleasure.
Ellie lives in the Sonoran Desert and dreams of moving to a place where the seasons are something besides hot and hotter.
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