by Ophelia Bell
That someone tried to kill him should be enough of a deterrent, but what’s wrong with a fantasy? He’ll recover and get discharged and move on, but I can still imagine what might have been if circumstances were different—if he wasn’t most likely a criminal and I wasn’t already in a long-term relationship.
My boyfriend, Barnaby, is an internal medicine resident at a hospital back home in Denver. The long-distance thing hasn’t been an issue between us so far, but the topic of seeing other people has come up in recent conversations. Not in a serious way, just as a hypothetical, and we both agreed that no, we don’t want to. We just don’t have the time, among other reasons.
But maybe we should?
I huff and shake my head. This is ridiculous. I don’t really want to, do I? It’s just the thrill of being noticed, of being asked that’s getting to me. And by a man who is probably the polar opposite of my type in just about every way. I like nice, professional men—other doctors, not bad boys. And the tattoos and muscles, not to mention the circumstances of his arrival, put J.J. Santos squarely in the “bad boy” category.
I slip past the waiting room where Dr. Yao is talking to a large group of people, one of whom I recognize as the haggard gangbanger so insistent that J.J. be saved. The other members of the group include a tall, willowy, middle-aged woman with dark hair and swan-like grace, who is nodding at the doctor and trying to force a hopeful smile. Probably J.J.’s mother.
Beside her is a younger version of her, a girl who can’t be more than sixteen, but who has the same solemn, wise-beyond-her-years look. There’s a younger man on the mother’s other side—a brother, most likely. All three of them have similar features and tall, solid builds that remind me of my own family.
They are a stark contrast to the gangbanger and the beautiful bronze-skinned, dark-haired woman at his side. They both look worried, but relieved when they ask about J.J.’s brother Maddox and Dr. Yao turns to inform them that, he’ll be fine, likely discharged in a day.
When Dr. Yao leaves them, he slips up beside me at the nurse’s station and taps his tablet to open the patient’s chart.
“Big family,” I say. “Good thing he’ll pull through.”
“Sure is,” Dr. Yao agrees absently.
“Who are the other two? Do you know them? They aren’t related.”
He looks up and glances over his shoulder, then shakes his head. “No one you want to know.”
“This was a gang-related shooting, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t really comment. Better to let the authorities handle it.”
“It’s not like I’m going to turn to a life of crime just by knowing who they are. Tell me.” I lean in, too curious to let it go.
The nurse behind the counter lets out a soft snort, and Dr. Yao sets his tablet down and gives her a warning look. I redirect my attention to her, eyebrows raised.
She leans close, nodding toward the attractive couple. “That’s Celeste Flores, Arturo Flores’ daughter. The fine male specimen next to her is Leo, her boyfriend and Arturo’s lieutenant.”
The name piques my curiosity even more. Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve heard a lot of name-dropping and speculation about the rich and famous. We’ve had our share of high-profile patients since I’ve been a resident, and the staff is always abuzz whenever it happens. The rumor mill is alive and well among both the nurses and the doctors.
Arturo Flores may not be a movie star, but he’s as notorious as they come. His name carries as much weight—if not more—in this town as any of the major producers. Hollywood types are a dime a dozen, but men like Arturo tend to keep a hospital in business. Today’s events are proof.
“So, what does J.J. Santos have to do with them? Is he a criminal?” I’m not sure why I feel so invested in the answer. Either way, I wasn’t going to agree to go out with him.
“Not sure, exactly,” Dr. Yao says. “It isn’t my place to ask those questions, but from what I gather, he had a run-in with the cartel thug who was brought in right after. He and his brother each took a bullet from the same gun.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pill bottle that rattles with its contents. When he holds it up, I take it and peer in to see a mangled metal slug—the same one he removed from J.J.’s spine today.
I gape. “Shouldn’t you give that to the cops?”
“They have the shooter and the gun. There’s no question.”
His phone buzzes and he’s simultaneously summoned from a speaker overhead. He and the nurse both rush off before I can hand the bottle back to him.
I open the container and stare inside. The bullet is clean and shiny, its exploded tip an asymmetrical star. I decide to hold onto it until I can talk to J.J. again. I’ll give it to him tomorrow before I have to start my shift in the pit.
I barely leave the hospital except to go home and sleep, and tonight is no different. I walk the ten blocks to the apartment on Wilshire that I share with a fellow resident named Felix Leonard. It’s mid-December and chilly, but a gorgeous Los Angeles night a few days after a winter rainstorm, so the air is clear and crisp. Holiday decorations grace the lampposts, and I get a giddy rush anticipating my trip back to Denver in a week. I plan to spend Christmas with my mom at her house in Englewood followed by her annual New Year’s Eve soiree at the Brown Palace in downtown Denver. The party is the one thing I refuse to miss, and one of the rare occasions I get to spend time with my best friend, Nina.
When I get inside my apartment, Felix’s bedroom door is shut, which means he’s home, and the silence suggests he’s asleep. No surprise there. We barely see each other. He’s a pediatric surgery resident and works different hours with different days off in an entirely separate wing of the UCLA Medical Center, so we’re typically just two ships passing. I see the occasional sign that he still exists when he leaves a check on the counter for his half of the rent, and on his infrequent days off when his surfboard and wet suit appear on our rear balcony. When I agreed to the roommate arrangement with him, Barnaby didn’t speak to me for about a week until I shared a photo of Felix in what appeared to be an cozy embrace with another man.
Felix isn’t actually gay—he might be bi, I’m not sure—but the ploy worked to ease Barnaby’s mind that I wasn’t going to sleep with my roommate. The thought had never occurred to me, to be honest, but that was when Barn first broached the topic of maybe seeing other people while we were apart. As if I actually have time to date.
Is it bad that I like the long-distance thing? It gives me an excuse not to bother trying to date with what little free time I do have. I’ve seen enough relationships at the hospital implode under the strain of our schedules. At least with me and Barnaby, we are under no obligation to spend time together because we live in separate cities a thousand miles apart. When we’re both done with our residencies, that might change. His ends sooner, so it’ll be up to him to choose first. Mine has five more years. Either way, there’s no sense agonizing over it yet.
I shower and climb into bed, double-checking the alarm on my phone before propping it on the charger and turning out the light.
In my dreams, I’m in the operating room, performing surgery on J.J.’s spine. The fish inked across his back swims around beneath the skin, its tail flicking whenever it passes and interfering with the delicate procedure. J.J. is awake and talking to me, his gravelly voice even more distracting than his tattoo. I finally get frustrated and agree that yes, I will go on a date with him if he’ll just tell the damn fish to settle down.
In the morning, I open my eyes, feeling both guilty and triumphant. I love having surgery dreams that actually turn out well. Most of them are anxiety-induced nightmares in which a patient winds up paralyzed or dead. I can still hear J.J.’s deep, satisfied laugh when I finally gave in. But the memory just makes me groan and pull a pillow over my face. Dating a patient is a colossally dumb idea, even if I weren’t already involved with someone.
On that thought, I reach for my phone and tap my messenger app. I send Barnab
y a sleepy emoji and a heart. Three dots appear, flickering underneath followed by a pair of lips. I tap the video call button and wait.
Barnaby has declined your call.
Okay, that’s odd. I text him a question mark, then see the time and get up, glancing at the phone every few minutes while I get ready.
“Sorry, busy with a patient.”
He’s only an hour ahead and it’s 6AM in LA. It’s super early for him, but it still isn’t like him to skip a Monday morning call with me. It’s one of the few moments during the week when we’re both available and he’s willing to dally long enough for a conversation.
I tap a quick message. “Call when you’re done. I have about an hour. I can chat while I walk.”
As an afterthought, I add, “Miss you. Can’t wait for the party!”
“What party?”
What does he mean, what party? He knows how much I live for Mom’s party. After busting my ass with my residency, being able to take off for Christmas and New Year’s is something I’ve been looking forward to all year.
His question annoys me so much I don’t answer. I get dressed then slip out of my room. Felix’s door is open, his room a strange mix of tidy disarray. The man makes an effort to make his bed, but is clearly terrible at it. I usually don’t even bother.
I shove a yogurt and a banana into my bag, then sling it over my shoulder. Barnaby still hasn’t responded by the time I lock the door behind me and take the elevator down to my building’s lobby. I’m a block up Wilshire when my phone finally buzzes again.
“Shit. Sorry. I’m an asshole. I can’t wait, either. Can we talk tonight?”
Can’t wait for what? I sourly wonder. The party you clearly forgot about?
“Maybe. Not sure what my schedule looks like. Got a spinal contusion in last night and got to scrub in! First time in surgery. How hot is that? Got follow-up today and I’m still on trauma service all week, so it might be crazy.”
Silence again for three more blocks, and then my phone buzzes as I’m turning onto Westwood Plaza. This time, I ignore it out of spite.
I normally enjoy the walk to work, but this morning I’m on edge. I feel like I’m fighting against the current with Barnaby every time we talk, and we haven’t had an actual non-texted conversation since Thanksgiving. Even then he was distant and cut the conversation short with excuses.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been noncommittal? But it isn’t as if I can predict how the day is going to go. If we have a late surgery I’m invited to scrub in on, I’m not going to say no. He knows this. There was a time when he’d have cheered me on, when he considered my chosen specialty totally badass, and was willing to stick it out until I finished my seven-year residency and could have my pick of positions anywhere in the country.
I reach a crosswalk and take out my phone while waiting for the light to turn, then have to grit my teeth at his response: “Fine. I guess just call me when it suits you.”
The rest of my walk I wind up dwelling on the same old series of arguments I have with him in my head every few weeks. Most of it boils down to having to justify my choices with him over and over again. By the time I reach the ICU, I’m already exhausted and it’s not even 8AM.
I get my second wind once I manage to shove thoughts of Barnaby aside and head toward J.J.’s room. I have the bottle with his bullet in my pocket, fingertips worrying the cap. Even though my dream is the only place I’ve agreed to his request, a calm realization overtakes me.
I want to do it. It’s entirely out of character for me, but who cares? I’m going to call Barnaby tonight and tell him he can have it his way. We can see other people. And I’m going to say yes to J.J. Santos and go out with him once he’s on his feet again.
But when I round the corner and come within sight of his room, the bed is empty. It’s been stripped, all the equipment that had surrounded it last night is gone, and his large family is nowhere in sight. For a second I’m confused, thinking I got turned around somehow and wound up in the wrong area of the ICU, but everything else is just where it should be.
“Morning, Dr. Nicolo,” the nurse at the station says.
“Please tell me they moved Mr. Santos to another floor.”
“Hmm, let me check.” She pauses to look at her monitor, and I get impatient and pull out my tablet to check myself. Patients get moved all the time, and I’m not exactly at the top of the list to notify when it happens.
“Oh.” She lets out a disconcerted sound the same moment I find the chart, and my heart drops into my stomach.
“Dead? No! This can’t be right. He was fine when I left!”
I scroll madly through the digital record of his treatment, but hit a brick wall at the end. One that makes no sense. Only it does, at least on paper. “Oth postproc cardiac functn disturb following oth surgery.”
The listed cause of death looks like gibberish, but the shorthand is a language I understand. Evidently, complications caused his heart to stop after surgery. Except it didn’t. I was there. He was still breathing—talking, even—when I left last night. He was stable with a strong prognosis.
“Is Dr. Yao here yet? I need to talk to him.” My voice sounds brittle and my hands start shaking.
The nurse gives me a worried look as she nods and picks up the phone. I’m too engrossed in picking over the chart to hear the call. I’m supposed to be in the pit by now, but I can’t leave until I get answers. When Dr. Yao arrives and sees me, his face goes stony.
I wave my tablet at him. “Please tell me this is a lie. I was the last surgeon who touched him. I was with him for a couple hours after he got out of recovery. He was fine!”
He lifts his hands, palms out. “It was beyond our control, Callie. He complained of chest pains, then went into cardiac arrest on the way to get an MRI. Cardio thinks they missed some trauma. Bullets can do a real number on someone at close range. You saw the state he was in—all those wounds, the bruises. They had to open him up again, but he was too far gone. It’s a miracle he made it through the spinal surgery to begin with. It had nothing to do with you, I promise. Nothing.”
Nothing to do with you. It echoes in my head, but still doesn’t quite gel. There should be more in his chart if it’s like Dr. Yao says. But there isn’t. There’s way too much missing if he had a second surgery. Especially if he died while on the table.
“Then explain why there’s no autopsy order! They have to do one to cover our asses if nothing else.”
He gives me a helpless look and shakes his head. “Patients die, Dr. Nicolo. Just learn what you can from it and move on.”
“Learn what I can?” I glare at him, jabbing my finger at the tablet. “From what? There’s no record here of what happened. Nothing for me to learn from. What really happened?”
His eyes blaze and he grabs my arm, pulling me aside. In a low voice, he grates out, “I know how you can be a pit bull when it comes to finding answers. That’s a perfect quality for this specialty, for the surgical profession in general. But trust me, this is one case you need to let go for your own safety, got it? Now drop it and get downstairs before Blanchard gets pissed and takes you off her service.”
I stare like he just slapped me. “Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?”
“He. Was. Shot. There was nothing fucking accidental about it. That’s all. Now drop it before I write you up.”
He stalks away red-faced, and I stand there still shaking.
The image of J.J.’s tattoo flashes in my mind. Not the one I stitched together last night, but the living one swimming beneath his skin in my dream. I’d planned to ask him about it today if he was awake, just to have an excuse for a conversation.
Dr. Yao’s ominous words finally sink in, but they don’t manage to calm me down. I manage to get my legs to work and make my way to the elevator down to the ER. I assume he means that J.J. was mixed up with Arturo Flores somehow. That asking too many questions would be dangerous. I can at least read between the lines well enough to figure that o
ut.
But I’m not going to forget it. Somehow, I will find out what happened.
3
Mason
Three Years Later
Near the California-Mexico Border
* * *
The plane ride from hell is finally near its end when I feel the thunk of landing gear lowering beneath me. The sound reverberates up through my skull where I’m pressed to the coarse carpet on the floor. I try to roll over, but only make it halfway before pain lances through my right shoulder. It was dislocated when I was thrown on this thing, but I managed to get it back into its socket despite being zip-tied.
Out of the corner of one swollen eye, I see only dark sky through the small windows. There’s nothing to give a clue where the fuck they’ve taken me. Across the border, I assume. Zavala wants in on the action and knows I’m the only man who can get him what he wants.
I’ve been that man to a lot of people—the man who can get them anything, be it guns, drugs, women, anything short of an actual conscience for the soulless motherfuckers who pay me—but for the first time in my life, the thing I want is hanging in the balance.
The demented leader of a Mexican drug cartel stands between me and my redemption, holding collateral that I never believed I’d be forced to fight for, not in a million years, much less want to fight for.
I grunt when the plane shudders as its wheels hit the runway, the pain in my shoulder flaring. The jolt of the quick stop knocks me back against the bulkhead and my teeth clack together from the force. Fucking hell, these assholes could have at least strapped me down. Their boss needs me alive if he wants me to come through for him.
Footsteps clomp toward me, echoing through the metal floor, and a pair of legs approach in silhouette. The interior lights come on, flooding the cabin, and I flinch, unable to shade my eyes with my hands still bound behind my back.
