Shadow Tag, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  I mentally reviewed everything I’d read about inserting an intravenous catheter. I slipped a blood pressure cuff over the rubber strap to act as a venous tourniquet. Even with it inflated, I felt nothing. Her blood pressure was too low.

  Choking back tears, I said to my father, “I can’t start the IV.”

  “Use a winged infusion set,” Dad said without raising his eyes.

  I found the butterfly needle and snapped my forefinger over the site to stimulate the vein. The constant thud of hurricane rain was an ominous reminder of our isolation. During my repeated failures, Pearl lost consciousness, her expression of forgiveness before her eyes fluttered closed accentuating my sense of incompetence.

  Panicked, I screamed at my father, “You have to do it!”

  “She’ll bleed out if I move. You can do this, Blu. Breathe and concentrate,” he said.

  I tried again and again, to no avail. Finally, I closed my eyes, breathed out, and felt a soft flutter beneath my fingertips. My eyes snapped open and I anchored the skin over the vein by pulling it with my left thumb so it wouldn’t roll. With my right hand, I carefully inserted the catheter tip and guided it into the lumen of the vein. Weeping with relief, I taped it down and hooked the saline bag over the top of the bedpost.

  “Get me a scalpel,” my father said grimly. “I have to get the baby out.”

  My mother uttered a terrible yowl and flew at my father. “Don’t you cut my angel!” she shrieked. Gone was the harmless, deluded woman who drawled dreamily about southern plantations and simpler days. She was a raving lunatic now, a dangerous animal protecting her young.

  Outside, I heard a gunshot crack as a branch broke under Rita’s wrath. From somewhere in the house, glass shattered. I grabbed the sterilized surgical kit and tore open the blue paper.

  Mom howled like a jackal, pounced on my father’s back, and beat her fists against his head. This crazed woman who furiously attacked Pearl’s only hope of survival was unrecognizable to me. I stood paralyzed, watching in horror as she bit down on his ear, shaking her head like a pit bull.

  Dad bellowed in pain as his blood dripped from my mother’s locked jaws. His arms flailed and a propane lantern fell with a clatter. Adrenalin flooded my system with electrified strength. I threw the instruments on the bed, gripped my mother’s shoulders, and wrenched her off him. I shoved her so hard she flew across the room and bounced against the wall. She lay dazed and snivelling on the floor.

  “Pearl will not die because of you.” I pointed an unsteady finger at my father. “He’s the only hope we have.”

  I thrust a scalpel into my father’s trembling hand as he stared in astonishment at the slobbering beast his wife had become.

  I clutched his chin in my hand, the blood from his earlobe slick against my fingers. “Pearl can’t die,” I told him. “I believe in you.”

  His eyes cleared. “Do you remember what to do?”

  I nodded. The steps he’d taught me after the clinic’s idiot doctor had dismissed us were razor sharp in my mind’s eye.

  Dad made an incision in Pearl’s lower abdomen with a swift movement that resulted in minimal bleeding. Underlying yellow fat burst out, which I had anticipated, but theoretical study hadn’t prepared me for the emotional trauma of operating on my sister. I took a step back, feeling lightheaded and dizzy.

  “Blu, detach and perform the steps.”

  My father’s calm voice centred me and the encroaching black dots that twirled around me receded.

  Fighting the urge to gag, I stuck my fingers into the incision and shoved the gelatinous fat out of his sightline. Deftly, he executed a series of cuts and nicked an opening through a shiny, fibrous layer. Swallowing a mouthful of bile, I handed him the scissors and stood ready to part the abdominal muscles at his cue.

  Hunched in the corner, crone-like, my mother uttered an explosive shriek. The vileness of her piercing, inhuman growls caused the hair on my arms to rise. I watched her with a wary eye, wishing I had taken the time to restrain her.

  When I glanced away from Mom, my father was opening Pearl’s womb. I quickly suctioned the amniotic fluid and my father stuck in his hands, manoeuvring the baby back and forth until it was born.

  It was a boy. He was dead, far beyond resuscitation. My father silently placed the tiny body on the bed, reached into Pearl’s body once more and removed the placenta, and then began to repair her uterus.

  I stared at this thing that had ravaged Pearl’s young body, greedily perpetuating the unspeakable violence she’d endured at the evil hands of a rapist. Even through the blood, the infant’s striking resemblance to Virgile Landry was undeniable. Rage blossomed in my chest.

  “Check your sister,” my father said. “She lost a lot of blood.”

  I put my fingers against Pearl’s wrist. Her pulse was rapid and her breathing was shallow. The only speck of colour in her sheet-white face was her blue lips.

  “She’s in hypovolemic shock,” I said softly.

  “He murdered my angel.” My mother guffawed like a hyena, a hysterical sound that belonged in an asylum. She slumped into the corner, her mind fractured beyond repair, no longer capable of recognizing the man she had loved unconditionally for two decades.

  As my father worked, I lay beside Pearl, stroking her cheek and wiping the clammy sweat from her brow. My tears soaked into the sodden pillowcase beneath her head. When I found the strength to look up, my father’s hollow expression confirmed what I feared. His work was without fault, but we hadn’t performed the caesarian section in time. The expanding pool of blood beneath Pearl dripped steadily from the sheets to the floor, and we had no drugs to stop it. Hurricane Rita raged outside, cutting us off from any hope of obtaining help.

  My father refused to give up. He held his fist inside my sister, applying pressure while he massaged her abdomen with his other hand. He was making a high-pitched keening noise as blood ran down his forearm.

  In a moment of hypervigilance, a revelation hit me—a chance to save Pearl.

  “I have the same blood type. Do a direct transfusion.” I knelt beside the combat kits to look for the equipment. “We can keep her alive until the uterus contracts.” I heard the frenzied hope in my voice.

  My father’s shoulders slumped and he removed his gloves. “It’s too late.”

  “No! We pump my blood into her until she stops bleeding.” Tears streamed down my face. “Help me!”

  He turned and grabbed my hand. “Blu, she’s lost too much to sustain organ function.”

  I shoved him off me. “Take all my blood. Let me die. Save Pearl.” I tightened a rubber tourniquet with my teeth and jammed a needle into the crook of my arm, fumbling to attach a hose as precious blood spurted into the air. “Help me,” I yelled.

  My father tore the needle out of my flesh and pressed gauze against my inner arm. “It won’t work, and I can’t lose you, too. Be with her, now. That’s all you can do.” Tears dripped down his face, mixing with the blood that flowed from his torn earlobe.

  I fell beside Pearl and buried my face in her soft hair, inhaling the tropical scent of coconut oil. I could not let her go. I had to bring her back to me.

  “Six rows of sixteen. Ninety-six. Ninety-six carrots in the garden,” I whispered through my tears. “They want you to come on home now, chère. Please, fly o’er the bayou to me.”

  In my mind, I saw her dancing under the old cypress tree in the mellow pink light from the setting sun, smiling her radiant, innocent smile, her fingers tapping out the rhythm of the frogs’ requiem. I held her tight and sang our Cajun lullaby, praying for her to murmur the chorus.

  Her ivory skin grew cold under my touch. I hugged her tighter, willing the heat of my body to enter hers. Pearl drew a shallow breath that released in a rusty wheeze. It was then that I sensed her physical pain as acutely as if it were my own. I could not bear her suffering, and I knew in my heart that she was clinging to life because of me. She was suffering because
I didn’t have the courage to let her go.

  “I failed you, but I’ll make things right,” I promised. “Let go now, chère.”

  I kept my arms locked around her until she took a final rasping breath and lay still in my arms.

  “I’ll find you, someday,” I whispered through my tears. “We’ll be together again, I promise.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sam

  SAM LIKED HER home uncluttered, obsessively organized, and fresh smelling. She could live with a bit of dirt, but she couldn’t live in smelly chaos. Disarray didn’t begin to describe what greeted her when she entered the loft: pandemonium came closer. The floor was littered with dog toys and fawn-coloured fur. Pepin was running in manic circles, barking in ear-piercing yelps that supplemented the cacophony of blasting heavy metal music that thumped from Eli’s Bluetooth speaker. Danny had shoved all the living room furniture against the southern wall of windows and rolled up the area carpet, which she’d tossed onto the Italian leather sofa. A long, ugly table faced Sam’s eighty-inch flat screen. Cords snaked from numerous monitors on the white folding table. A thick coaxial cable ran across the floor and up the wall to the television, which was apparently serving as a computer monitor. Eli’s laptop, a second monitor, and an array of unidentifiable computer gadgets were strewn across the dining room table, along with the pocketknife Eli always carried. Beside a mouse pad, a gooey ring stained the weathered wood tabletop. Half a dozen cans of Mountain Dew and greasy, scrunched-up paper towels littered the Carrera marble counters in the kitchen. Something smelled weird. Her eyes fell on a plastic container that squatted on the kitchen counter. Sam put her armful of textbooks on the stovetop, the only clear space, and peeked under the takeout lid. With a gasp, she stepped back and held her hand against her nose.

  “What is that?”

  Eli glanced up. “A cloven hoof.”

  “Stuffed pig’s totters with morels,” Reece yelled over the blaring music. He removed the lid, holding it out for her inspection. “Compliments of Chef Chaudire from Cardoon Bistro.”

  Jammed into a beige mound of some gelatinous substance were slivers of greyish honeycomb that resembled an old sponge. Beside the lump was a greasy brown tube. On the end were two distinct toes with pointy bones that reminded her of toenails. Burgundy gravy, which looked disturbingly like blood, dribbled across the hoof.

  “It’s a difficult recipe, even for Michelin Star chefs,” Reece shouted. “I saved it so we could share.”

  Sam swallowed a mouthful of bile. “That’s okay. You can have it.” It was enough to turn a person into a vegetarian. “Put it in the fridge. Make sure you close the lid securely.” Hopefully it wouldn’t taint the leftover lasagna.

  “How was your day?” Reece hollered, snapping on the lid and tucking the container into the fridge.

  “Eli, turn off the music,” she bellowed.

  He said something she didn’t catch. Based on his surly expression, it was a protest, but he complied and she took a moment to delight in the merciful silence. A minute was all she got. Pepin filled the audio void by barking and pouncing on a stuffed elephant.

  Sam glared at the little demon as he vigorously shook the elephant clamped between his jaws.

  “Can you do something about that dog?” she exclaimed, completely frustrated by the bedlam.

  “He is not a dog,” Eli stated with a sour expression.

  “What do you think he is?” She was pretty sure the hellhound Cerberus wasn’t going to be Eli’s response.

  “He is a puppy. You need to play with him. He is bored.” He tugged the elephant out of Pepin’s locked jaws and hurled it across the room. Pepin ran after it, slid across the glossy floor finish, and careened into the windows.

  Sam winced as his solid little body bounced off the glass. She ran over and scooped him into her arms. He might aggravate her, but she didn’t want him smashing through the glass to plummet ten metres to the sidewalk.

  “Don’t forget we have dinner with your mom and stepfather tonight,” Reece said, stepping over to her and rubbing the top of Pepin’s round head.

  “Mother called me six times,” she said. “It’s not dinner. It’s a tasting menu for the champagne brunch. Did you know we were getting married at dawn?”

  He laughed. “We’ll discuss that. Brunch sounds better than a six-course sit-down dinner with five hundred of their closest society friends.”

  He had a point, but she wasn’t in the mood to nibble on froufrou appetizers. It was a Big Mac and double order of French fries type of day.

  “Based on your frown, I take it things didn’t go well at the clinic,” Reece said with a sympathetic smile.

  That was an understatement. After catching Aazar in Fadiya’s room, Sam had tried to talk with Bethany in the withdrawal unit. It hadn’t gone well. Ophelia had said Bethany was detoxing, but Sam didn’t think drugs came close to explaining the girl’s problems. She’d found Bethany in the garden, stirring mushy cereal around in a bowl of milk and ranting about a fox forcing Special K into her. She waved a tiny cereal box around her head as if she were swatting invisible bugs. It wasn’t even Special K; it was Corn Pops. When Sam had offered to get her something else to eat, Bethany had become irate, claiming the fox had sent Sam to poison her. She brandished a spoon at her in quick, stabbing motions and screamed that Sam was trying to take her to the fox’s den. Security had rushed over, restrained the girl, and escorted Sam out of the courtyard garden.

  It was humiliating and had left her feeling completely incompetent.

  Sam took Pepin into the kitchen and gave him a chicken strip. He trotted into Brandy’s old crate with his treat clamped between his teeth. It hurt to see the puppy in Brandy’s bed; there was something traitorous about allowing him to use it. Brandy had been her rock for twelve years. They’d done everything together. Sometimes at night, Sam still woke to a phantom echo of Brandy’s toenails clicking across the living room floor. Sometimes, she’d make it all the way downstairs before the truth punched her in the face. Brandy was dead. She’d sit on the stairs and quietly sob alone in the dark. Nestled tight beside her grief was shame that she lacked the emotional strength to bridge the cavernous void in her heart.

  Choking back tears, Sam tucked Pepin’s elephant beside him. The crate was too big for the French bulldog, but Reece had made it cozy with colourful blankets and an array of toys. Pepin looked adorable, curled into a ball with his treat propped between his paws, and his bat ears twitching as he chewed. She blinked rapidly to prevent her tears from spilling. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she love him?

  “Want to talk about it?” Reece asked, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his body against her back.

  “Aazar had a cloned keycard to the lockdown unit,” Sam said, pretending he was asking about her bad day. “I caught him drawing Fadiya’s blood.”

  “Did he say why?” Reece asked.

  “He claims someone at Serenity is giving his sister hallucinogens.” She had her sappy emotions under control now, so she turned to face him. “He wants to test the blood to prove it. I’m not sure what to think.”

  “Well, we found something that may help.” Reece went over to the makeshift workstation in the living room. “Danny, can you pull up the file?”

  “This is one of the obstructed video files on the clinic’s security camera that I recovered,” Danny said to Sam.

  Sam watched silently as the video clip played on her television screen. A thin person with a backpack crept through the stairwell door. The figure wore a dark windbreaker and a baseball cap, the brim of which shadowed the face. The person sidestepped to Fadiya’s door, keeping their back to the camera. Fadiya’s door opened and the figure disappeared inside the room.

  “In about an hour, at about two a.m., the person comes out of the room and leaves through the fire exit,” Danny said. “It looks like a woman’s build. Do you know who it is?”

  “It’s Aazar Basha,”
Sam said. “I recognize the backpack. It’s a medical unit designed to carry portable oxygen. He had it with him today when I caught him in his sister’s room.”

  “What’s he doing in there in the middle of the night?” Reece asked.

  “Nothing good,” Sam said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be creeping around and tampering with the camera.”

  “The sophistication of the encryption on these files is crazy. That’s why it’s taking me longer to break it,” Danny said. “Aazar is a scientific genius. This would be a cakewalk for someone like him.”

  Sam felt the blood rush from her head. She had bought Aazar’s story about drug testing and had let an incestuous rapist walk out of the clinic. The lapse of judgment made her physically ill.

  “He was my hero.” Danny sounded like she was about to cry. “But now I find out he’s just another disgusting douche-bag.”

  “Maybe there is an explanation,” Eli said, patting her back.

  “He’s a rapist,” Danny snapped. “Look at him, skulking around like the douche-bag he is.”

  Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. Sam couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. Drawing Fadiya’s blood had nothing to do with testing for alleged drugs.

  “The clinic hasn’t disclosed the pregnancy to the family,” she said. “Aazar’s a medical doctor, and I think he’s suspected it. A blood test would confirm it.”

  “And he’d know that a DNA test on the baby could prove incest,” Danny said. “There will be multiple runs of homozygosity—parts that are the same on both parent donated chromosomes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said, embarrassed by how shrill and nasty she sounded. This wasn’t Danny’s fault. They were lucky to have her geeky, scientific mind working for them.

  “Simply put, Aazar needs to terminate the pregnancy,” Danny retorted. “If they run a DNA test, a clinical geneticist could probably prove that a sibling fathered the baby. Aazar’s her only brother. Get it?”