Last Run

by Hilary Norman

  So the house was very quiet when, in the early evening, satisfied that Grace and Cathy were both sound asleep, Sam took some time out to switch on the machine and fix himself a super strong espresso.

  Strong exactly what he needed.

  No sleep intended until much later, until he was as certain as he could be that no one was going to need him. And tomorrow, he guessed, was going to be pretty much of a bitch in terms of himself and Terri catching varying degrees of hell from their respective chiefs and Internal Affairs. But with luck and a fair wind at least Cathy ought – as evidence stacked up against Flanagan and Lucia over the next week or so – to find herself wholly accepted as innocent victim rather than suspect associate. That would be tough enough on her, Sam realized, but knowing she’d made an unlucky decision in love had to be a hell of a lot better than facing even one more minute of jail time.

  The sounds told him his espresso was ready.

  Sam loaded his favourite Tosca CD (Callas and di Stefano, still sky-high compared to the others), set down his cup and two biscotti on a small saucer on the low table, sank down on the sofa, slipped on his headphones, picked up the remote and pressed the play button.

  The overture began to feed, gloriously, into his ears, a little of the ugliness of the last couple of days seeping away. He didn’t plan to listen for more than a few minutes, wanted to be sure of hearing Grace or Cathy if they called him, but he needed just a little beauty, a little tranquillity.

  Woody jumped up beside him, snuggled close the way he loved, and Sam fondled his ears for a moment or two, then took his first sip of espresso.

  He frowned.

  It tasted a little off.

  He shrugged, figured it had to be his imagination, his taste buds screwed up by the bitterness of the past many hours.

  Took another, bigger drink.

  Wrinkled his nose, then sighed, started to shift, to get up, because he’d really wanted this espresso to be the best, so maybe he’d better start over.

  Too tired.

  Drink this, wake up, then start over.

  The headache hit him first, right along with the nausea, so violent that he ripped off the headphones and made a run for the bathroom near the staircase, Woody, startled out of contented sleep, following and lying down outside the door to wait.

  Sam finally emerged, shaken but sufficiently recovered to make it back to the sofa, where he sank down on to the cushions, trembling and sweating.

  ‘Man,’ he murmured.

  He looked down at the cup, wondering.

  Remembering that Lucia had a key to the house.

  ‘Jesus.’ He stood up again as the pains hit him hard, stomach pains as bad as anything he’d ever known. ‘Oh, Jesus’

  He made it into the hall, staggering, knowing about halfway there that he needed help fast.

  ‘Grace!’

  He thought he cried out her name, but something was happening to his heart, something weird and frightening.

  The floor came up to hit him.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Grace heard the barking about three seconds before the phone started to ring.

  Still a little groggy she waited for Sam to get it, but after three rings she realized he must have gone out, and answered herself.

  ‘I woke you.’ David’s voice. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Grace had a clutch of anxiety. ‘How’s Saul?’

  Downstairs, Woody was still barking in his shrillest voice.

  ‘He’s fine,’ David reassured. ‘He loved seeing you, knowing you were OK.’ He paused. ‘It’s Sam I’m after.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s here.’ Grace decided she’d have to go down to stop the dog’s noise before Cathy got up. ‘Do you want to hold on while I check?’

  ‘Can you just tell him I’m a little concerned about Terri?’ David said. ‘Saul asked me a while back to call her to see how she was doing, but she’s not answering her phone. I guess she could have turned it off, but that’s not so likely with Saul in hospital.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound likely,’ Grace agreed.

  ‘I was wondering if maybe Sam could ask someone from her unit to go knock on her door? She lives so close to work, after all, and—’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  The scream tore the air.

  ‘My God.’ Grace started to scramble out of bed. ‘David, something’s happened.’

  ‘I heard it.’

  Grace had already dropped the phone and was through the door. ‘Cathy, I’m coming!’

  ‘It’s Sam!’ Cathy screamed. ‘Grace, call 911!’

  The terror felt like ice-lava filling her as she started down the stairs – freezing for a second as she saw them. Woody first, still barking, skittering around. Cathy on her knees, just outside the bathroom.

  Sam was on the floor beside her.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Grace started towards them. ‘Sam!’

  ‘I’ve got a pulse.’ Cathy’s first-aid training had kicked in. ‘Make the call!’

  Grace ran for the phone – and she could still run – keeping her eyes on Sam all the time, watching Cathy putting him into the recovery position, which meant that he had to be breathing, or Cathy wouldn’t . . .

  ‘Cathy, is he breathing?’

  ‘Yes, but he sounds really bad – ’ Cathy was terrified – ‘and there’s vomit, and . . .’

  Grace began to press keys, heard something tinny – her father-in-law’s frantic voice, and she’d forgotten he was holding. ‘David, Sam’s collapsed, so we need you to call the paramedics, get them here fast. Woody, be quiet. No, I don’t know, I don’t know anything except he’s vomited and he’s breathing, but he sounds bad, so – yes, I’m sure – Cathy, have you checked his airway?’

  ‘It’s clear,’ Cathy told her, ‘but his pulse is crazy.’

  ‘David, get them here now.’

  Grace cut off the call, got herself across the hall, down on to her knees on Sam’s other side, pushed the eager dog away. ‘Sam, darling, I’m here.’

  He stirred, moaned, opened his eyes.

  ‘Sam, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,’ Grace said, gratitude soaring. ‘Don’t move.’

  He moaned again, tried to sit up, sank straight back, his eyes unfocused, then closing again.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Cathy said. ‘Oh my God, Grace, what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s going to be fine.’ Grace shot her a look telling her to feign calm.

  ‘I know,’ Cathy said, biting back tears.

  Sam was trying to say something.

  ‘Don’t try to speak, darling,’ Grace told him, ‘you just rest.’

  ‘Coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Coffee?’ Cathy, bewildered, stared at Grace.

  ‘Sam, sweetheart, please.’ Grace stroked his hair. ‘Just rest. Help’s on its way.’

  His right arm moved, his hand reaching for her, but seeming not to find her.

  Coffee.

  Grace suddenly remembered Lucia’s words near the end of the nightmare afternoon. What she had said about Sam and Terri, about understanding why they had done what they had. But never being able to forgive them.

  ‘Oh dear God.’

  ‘What?’ Cathy’s eyes were wide.

  Grace stared down at Sam, saw that he was stiller again, his skin clammy, his breathing laboured, and she tore through her panicked brain, trying to think about the things you were meant to do in cases of poisoning.

  ‘Was he drinking coffee?’ she asked. ‘Before this happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, I was sleeping. I don’t know.’

  ‘Go see. If you find a cup, keep it for the paramedics.’

  ‘You think—?’ Cathy got up.

  ‘I think Lucia may have poisoned him,’ Grace told her. ‘Go. And don’t touch it, just find it.’

  Lucia’s words were rushing back now, names of poisonous plants – hemlock and nightshade and aconite, and if she was not already dead, Grace swore she would kill her, t
ake a pillow and smash it down over her face and hold it there until every last . . .

  Sam groaned, jolted, then vomited again.

  ‘It’s OK, sweetheart . . .’ Grace soothed him, cradled him, supported his head so he wouldn’t choke, started to call for Cathy to bring a towel but stopped, because finding the cup – the source of this, she was certain – was far more urgent. ‘Let it go, Sam.’

  ‘I found his cup,’ Cathy called. ‘His usual espresso.’

  ‘Is it empty? Did he finish it? Don’t touch it!’

  ‘Half full.’ Cathy came back out into the hall, took in the situation, ran into the bathroom, brought a damp towel and crouched down on Sam’s other side, wiping his mouth, his face. ‘Poor you.’

  He grunted, too weak and limp to manage more. Grace stroked his hair, took his pulse, found it thready, wished the paramedics were with them.

  ‘Help is on its way, sweetheart,’ she told him again.

  Sam’s moan was the only warning before the seizure took hold, seemed almost to roar through him, its effects terrifying, jerking him around as violently as if some sadistic puppeteer were yanking on his head and body and limbs.

  ‘What do we do?’ Cathy’s training fell apart. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We keep calm.’ Grace attempted to grasp at Sam’s arms, then remembered that was wrong, she had to let him flail; she thought she’d learned that you were supposed to place a folded handkerchief between the patient’s teeth to stop them biting their tongue, but she didn’t have one, and anyway this was too violent.

  It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  ‘Thank God.’ Limp with relief, Grace felt for his pulse again and froze with fresh overpowering terror, because there was nothing, and Sam was motionless – and then it was there again, erratic but there. ‘Oh, thank you, God.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Cathy was weeping now.

  ‘Here soon,’ Grace said. ‘They have to be here soon.’

  She bent lower over Sam, stroked the dark hair she loved, tried not to cry, kissed him instead, three soft kisses on his clammy, cold forehead, placed neatly in a curve, as if the placement of them might make a difference.

  ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she told him again, heard her voice sounding as if she meant it, though all the terror was still there like a boulder in her heart, the unspeakable dread that if help didn’t arrive soon, it might be too late.

  And then it hit her, like a great, crashing wave. Like a cramp, but more powerful, spreading from her uterus all the way into her back, rocking her on to her heels and almost toppling her.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ Cathy asked, newly alarmed.

  It went away.

  ‘Nothing.’ Grace shook her head.

  ‘Was it the baby?’ Cathy looked terrified.

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s gone, anyway.’

  ‘You should go lie down.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere.’ Grace looked down at Sam, thought how bad he looked, how sick, and the desire swept over her again to punish Lucia, an urge so violent it staggered her.

  The siren bleated out of the night, still a distance away, then grew steadily and swiftly more strident, more recognizable.

  ‘Thank God,’ Cathy said.

  It came again, a breaker of pain so huge that Grace cried out in spite of herself, and she tried, but failed, to get off her knees – this couldn’t be happening, not now!

  ‘It’s too soon,’ she cried.

  It was too soon and Sam needed her, had never needed her more than now. It could not happen like this, she would not let it happen.

  Could not stop it.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was killing David.

  His total inability to help any of them. The fact that Sam might die. That Grace was soon to give birth to their son knowing that Sam might die. That Saul was still suffering, would continue to suffer for months. That Cathy was in pieces.

  That while the chances of his still-unborn nephew’s survival were better than good, the greatly longed for infant might have to start out on a ventilator, might not be able to nurse, might experience all kinds of difficulties at the beginning of his life . . .

  And his father might die.

  Sam was on the first floor at Miami General in the Critical Care Unit, his heart rhythms all over the place and causing great concern. He had arrested en route to the hospital, had been pulled back from the brink, but his continuing cardiac symptoms aside, he was still suffering from gastrointestinal and neurological problems.

  The doctors knew enough, at least, from what Grace had told them – and from reports from the Busseto house – to accept the high probability that Sam had ingested either leaves, flowers or ground seeds of a plant containing cardiac glycosides – a diverse group of plants fitting that bill, ranging from foxgloves to lily of the valley. If that were true and if more conventional methods of treatment failed to halt the potentially life-threatening cardiac symptoms, they might decide to administer digoxin antibody Fab fragments, but they would need to consult with a toxicologist and, perhaps, the Florida Poison Information Center.

  ‘Ask Lucia Busseto,’ David had repeatedly and agitatedly urged every doctor and manager in earshot.

  Which was easier said than done since Lucia had been taken to Mercy Hospital, and no one at Miami General seemed certain if she was even still alive, let alone in any condition to answer questions.

  ‘We’ll find out what the bitch did to him.’

  Al Martinez, sounding shocked and grim, had called David a while ago on his way from the new crime scene to the Busseto house.

  ‘You have my word, doc, believe me.’

  David believed him, but he was nowhere near as certain if it would happen in time, or that even if it happened in a minute how much difference it would make, how much damage might already have been done to Sam’s heart and other major organs.

  ‘Your son’s young and strong and fit,’ one of the doctors had told him.

  But Sam had scarcely seemed to know that his father was there, even when he’d been standing right beside him, and David had believed, when he had first seen Saul after Kez’s murderous attack, that he could know no greater fear than that.

  He knew better now, knew that this brand of fear was a bottomless pit.

  Because Sam might die.

  He had left the CCU for a while because as diplomatic and kind as they were with him, he knew that no one there needed a wrecked old paediatrician underfoot. And he had wanted to spend some time with Grace in her delivery suite on the seventh floor, but she was going nuts between contractions, refusing pain relief, insisting on trying to describe every plant she’d seen at the Busseto house and recall the name of every poisonous plant Lucia had recited to her.

  ‘I don’t care about the pain,’ she said to David and Cathy and to Barbara Walden, who had arrived – one piece of good news, at least – back from Europe the previous night and had driven straight in when she’d heard. ‘I need to think and I don’t want to be here, I want to go be with Sam, and if they won’t let me be with him, I want to go to Mercy and make Lucia tell me what she put in his coffee.’

  Nuts was the word, and Doc Walden was as much in control of the situation as Grace was allowing her to be, and Cathy was doing her damnedest to stand in for Sam – and David had never seen that kid look so lousy, and who could blame her.

  So he had left them too, because they didn’t need him either, had gone down to Saul’s floor to be with his younger son. Except now that he was here he found himself unable to muster the emotional strength to actually be with him, because he knew he was no longer up to faking that things were fine.

  He was beyond doing anything useful. Except, perhaps, praying. For Sam and Grace and the baby’s safe arrival. And for Saul – and for Terri, too.

  He had almost, God forgive him, forgotten about Terri.

  At three minutes to nine, the two Miami Beach pol
ice officers assigned to checking on fellow officer Teresa Suarez – having been delayed, first when an old guy had rear-ended them, then by a burglary three blocks away on Washington Avenue – finally arrived at the mushroom-coloured house in which their colleague lived, and headed up to the second floor.

  They knocked on the door and got no reply.

  Called that in and learned from the dispatcher that the perceived risk to Officer Suarez was now high. Got ready to bust in but found there was no need, because the Property Crimes officer, who ought to have known better, had a front door a kid could have cracked in seconds.

  They found Terri in her tiny living room, face down on the floor. Her laptop computer open on the table close by. Her coffee cup beside it, dark cafecito almost drained.

  Saul’s fiery, dark-chocolate-eyed Teté.

  All her sparkle and fire gone for ever.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Nothing had prepared Grace for this, nothing could have.

  She was exhausted, physically and emotionally wrung out, yet as one contraction came to an end, she knew another was already on the way and her fears for Sam were coming even thicker and faster, only submerging briefly beneath labour pains so all-consuming that it was impossible to think of anything else.

  Physical agony was her only respite. She felt as if she had walked miles around the room since her arrival – had used the bed mostly for brief spells of exhaustion, hardly able to bear to lie down at other times, finding it just a little easier to stay vertical during contractions, letting gravity give a little help. She and Sam had practised her leaning back in his arms, with him kissing the back of her neck and rubbing her back, and when they’d rehearsed that at home, Woody had kept getting involved, wanting to play.

  No play now, and no Sam either.

  She was taking another weary wander around the delivery suite and had just shaken off Cathy’s attempt to support her, when it came to her.

  The photograph. Of Lucia with Kez as a twelve-year-old. In the frame Lucia had claimed had been broken and which had, in fact, been whole.

  What Grace was remembering now, what had just come back to her sharp as a razor in the midst of her vast fatigue, was something Lucia had said when Grace had told her that she had brought the photo with her in case she wanted it.