by JJ Lamb
But he had to go. It was growing late, only twenty minutes to get to the drop. His stomach tightened as he turned the key in the ignition. He could still remember Tracy's trembling voice giving him detailed instructions, making him repeat the time and place several times before she'd been satisfied he understood everything perfectly.
Traffic seemed more congested than usual; he was so cautious he almost caused an accident, slamming on the brakes at a traffic light when the anticipated red remained green. Simultaneously there was the whooping of a siren. Blinking red lights challenged him in the rear view mirror. He tried to stuff the briefcase under the passenger seat but it was too bulky. If the cops pulled him over, how would he explain the money; explain that he didn't have time to stop; explain he was in a life-and-death situation; explain that he couldn't do anything right because he was scared shitless?
He felt his face flush, then burn as an ambulance zoomed around him. Fumbling, he loosened his tie, yanked at his collar button until it popped off, allowing a sudden rush of air to raise chills; Goosebumps immediately popped out all over his flesh. His loud, labored breathing assaulted his ears; he almost didn't identify the ragged and frightened sounds as his own. Without warning, his stomach flip-flopped and he vomited bilious liquid all over the front of his shirt, tie, and suit.
“Shit!” he yelled, groping for a handkerchief. He daubed helplessly at his clothes as he drove, not daring to stop for even a moment.
In the midst of everything, it hit him like a sledgehammer, pounded away at his brain in rhythm with the disappearing blinking lights of the ambulance.
Tracy’s going to die! Not in the far, distant future … not twenty, not thirty years from now. Maybe next week. Maybe even tomorrow!
His eyes watered as he visualized her dead, her remains in an urn.
Dread surged through him like a viscous tar that wouldn't wash away no matter how much he scrubbed. He tried to stem the rush of tears, but his chest heaved with emotion. As he flipped away the salty drops from his face with a flick of his head, new ones quickly replaced them. He looked up and slammed on the brakes, barely seeing a red light in time.
“Oh, my God!” He draped his arms and chest over the steering wheel while the sound of his voice, his loud sobs echoed in the car. “Not Tracy!”
Blaring horns roused him; he looked around in a daze, trapped between the reality of the bustling Geary Street traffic and his searing pain. The truth was so simple, so stupidly apparent:
I love her, damn it! I still love her.
* * *
It was like entering a tomb, he thought, as he spiraled with loud squealing tires down into the bowels of the Ridgewood Hospital underground parking complex.
Down through Level B he reacted with tightness in his chest.
At Level C, he was breathing shallowly.
At D, his mouth was open, taking huge gulps of air.
At E, he was drowning in claustrophobia, mumbling syllables in guttural sounds while sparks of light flashed in front of his eyes.
He was near total exhaustion, light-headed. All he wanted was to go home, leave behind the sour smells and wheezing chest noises that filled his car. The underground plunge assaulted his senses like a drug-induced surrealistic journey. He was diving into a large hole—an ugly, frightening gateway to nothingness. Soon he would be gone, sucked under the earth in this massive burial chamber.
Enough, already! Enough!
Only a few cars were parked at the bottom level of the complex.
Swallowing hard, he started his second circuit of Level E, as Tracy had instructed.
When he completed the second lap, he pulled into the designated slot. A row of light bulbs was out, leaving the space in shadow. He couldn't see his watch, but he knew he was five minutes late. He sat still for a moment, aware of his reeking, sodden clothing—clothing that was long beyond absorbing the sweat that continued to drip from under his arms, down his back, and in his crotch. In the suffocating silence, he gripped the wheel in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking.
I can do this! I can do it!
He mopped the sweat from his forehead with his coat sleeve, wiped away the salty perspiration stinging his eyes.
He looked around the garage. It was deadly quiet.
He knew someone had to be waiting.
Do it!
He grabbed the briefcase, resisting the temptation to flick on the headlights.
I can’t botch this.
Before hoisting the case, he rubbed his wet hands on his pants, opened the door, turned, and slid off the leather seat.
The money seemed to grow heavier as he wobbled toward the front of the car. Groping, he found the corner juncture and set the case down as instructed. He backed away from it—slowly back, back toward the car.
A forearm slid quickly across his throat, pulled harshly up and back. He struggled, tried to twist away. A knee smashed into his kidney. “Who—”
“One more word and the Mrs. will be nothing but a memory.”
Gary's kidney was pounded again.
“You hear me, asshole?”
Stabbing pain radiated, followed by numbness; a spasm of coughing clawed at his chest.
“Answer me, or you're going to be responsible for one dead broad.”
Gary nodded.
“Is it all in the case?” the voice rasped in his ear. The arm tightened against his neck.
He tried to nod again, but couldn't move against the stranglehold.
The arm crushed harder; he could barely suck air into his lungs.
Flashes of neon whipped before his eyes; his legs started to fold beneath him. He kicked back at his assailant without effect. As he collapsed, his arms reached out like a swimmer being strangled by a large, tentacled creature. Ripples of garbled words echoed in his head, words that ebbed and flowed in undulating particles of sound—louder, softer; louder, softer.
“You tell the Mrs. this little transaction better remain forgotten or I'll be back to see her. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow ... maybe the day after. Whenever! She'll be sorry she ever fucked with me.”
Gary could feel the throb of his heart, faster and faster. He tried to stay conscious.
My name is Gary … my name is Gary … my name is Gary.
“Tell her that cute little stunt with the buzzer almost cost her, her life. Tell her...”
Gary could no longer grasp the meaning of the words; he tried to hear, but couldn't. Instead, he swam silently away from all his fear, all the ugliness.
* * *
The phone rang. Faye grabbed for it, knocking over a rack of tubes filled with blood samples. “Cripes!” she said, watching the viscous circle spread like a heavy handed Rorschach.
“Damn it, Lindstrom!” another lab tech yelled. “Are you trying for some world record in clumsiness?” There were other catcalls.
“I'm sorry,” she said meekly, grabbing up the phone receiver. At the same time, she saw Gina waving at her from across the room.
“Sorry, hell! Get some absorbent on that blood,” yelled another voice. “Haven't you heard of AIDS? Jesus, isn't it bad enough we're exposed to this shit without you constantly splattering it all over the place?”
“Lab,” she said with a quivering voice into the receiver. “This is Faye.
“Hi, baby!”
“Frankie,” she whispered into the telephone. “Is everything all right?” She looked around and met the angry eyes of the Bob Ghent.
“Oh, yes. Everything is perfect, darlin'.”
Chapter 17
Faye hung up the phone and stared at the broken glass and sticky blood strewn across the counter. Silently, she cursed her clumsiness. The individual blood samples were oozing together to form a gelatinous blob, undercoating tube racks, overcoating lab reports, and finally dripping and splattering onto the floor—contaminating everything it touched.
Normally, the accident would have thrown her into a deep funk, but instead, she was merely impatient.
Ta
lking to Frankie had made her feel deliciously happy, almost cocky. It wasn't the $50,000—the money was Frankie's thing. What really mattered was that she could make things happen; she could be as clever as anybody else in the whole damn hospital.
Everyone around the lab had made her feel clumsy and stupid, especially the lab chief—always bawling her out, embarrassing her in front of the others. He'd called her stupid; she knew she wasn't stupid. She glanced smugly at the cabinet under the sink. Tracy Bernstein's marrow was safe there, in its special insulated container—a small box that she had designed. Stupid people couldn't do that.
She started the tedious job of cleaning up, following hazardous material control procedures. Because she'd had to clean up so often, she no longer needed to refer to the detailed OSHA-mandated instructions. Her co-workers were right: she had splashed a lot of blood around in the Laboratory lately, endangering them all.
Now, the unexpected appearance of Gina, and their conversation, unsettled her. What was the nurse doing in the lab?
She gathered up the chemical blood absorbent she'd spread out on the counter and floor, scooped it into piles, and collected it in a red hazard bag. As soon as she removed all traces of the blood, she would return the marrow to its assigned place in the cold storage unit. It would be safe again; Mrs. Bernstein would be safe again.
I’ll be safe again; no one will be the wiser.
As she cleaned, she looked around to see what had happened to Gina. When she saw the nurse pass the Blood Bank and head for the marrow processing area, her uneasiness turned to panic. Gina could only be going there for one reason—Bernstein's marrow.
Damn!
The whole scheme was supposed to be like a game, something to show Frankie how clever she could be. But he had taken her seriously, grabbed onto to the idea, and turned it into something scary.
Why hadn't Chapman simply paid the money like the others? Why did he have to go and die without ever getting back his marrow? The marrow that she stole.
And now they were probably going to discover that Bernstein's cells were missing. Then they'd know for sure that the Chapman situation hadn't been just a screw-up.
They’ll find out it was me. I just know they will.
Jail! She hadn't thought about that before. Frankie had said everything would be fine—no one would get hurt.
But that wasn't true; someone had died. She was a murderer. Would they send her to the gas chamber?
Jesus!
Icy drops of perspiration slid from under her arms as she ripped off her protective visor and gloves—her hands were shaky as she held them under the faucet and scrubbed them clean. Reaching for a towel, she saw the marrow tech racing down the aisle, headed toward the deep storage vats. Faye stood with her back to the sink, her calves pressed tightly against the double doors of the cabinet as her stomach did a somersault. Gina came running back down the aisle and dashed out through the lab exit.
* * *
Gina paced back and forth in front of the elevator. Each time the door opened she held her breath, hoping for Mark Kessler's arrival. But it was a long ten minutes before he finally came down to the basement, despite the urgency of her call.
When she started toward the Lab, he took her arm and held her back.
“We have to wait for Vasquez,” he said.
“Mark, I wanted you to see this for yourself. Why did you call the administrator?”
“Look, Gina, I had no choice. Vasquez has made it a priority issue. We're out the door if we don't notify administration of any problems concerning the autologous marrow project.” He shrugged. “Besides, he'd have to be told sooner or later.”
“But Vasquez will talk to Bob Ghent. What if he's in on it?”
He looked sharply at her. “What are you talking about, Gina? The lab chief? In on what?”
“Don't you understand? I mean, doesn't it seem strange to you that within just a few days of losing Chapman's marrow, another batch is missing?”
Kessler shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Come on, Mark. Don't fight me on this. Cells can't continue to keep vanishing and still be attributed to logistics errors.”
Why do you keep focusing on that aspect of the Chapman case?”
“Damn it, Mark, he died because he needed those cells.”
“No! Chapman died because we let him down in some way I haven't been able to define ... as yet.” Kessler cocked his head at her. “You make it sound like there was some kind of plot. I don't buy that for a minute.” He shook his head. “I did something wrong ... Chapman died ... I have to take full responsibility for his death.”
“I disagree.”
He stared at her with large, sad eyes ringed with dark circles. “Chapman was ... you know ... a warm person ... upbeat about his recovery. I would have bet anything on his pulling through.” He suddenly looked away. “That man's going to haunt me forever.”
“I miss him, too,” Gina said.
Kessler ran a hand nervously through his hair and leaned against the wall. “You know that ranch I own up in Sonoma? I've been thinking a lot about it lately. It's the only place I go where I feel at peace with the world. Maybe that's where I should be ... leave medicine and move on to other things.”
“But, Mark, I thought you loved this work.”
“I don't know, Gina. Sometimes I love it; sometimes I hate myself for loving it. Maybe I'm not thinking straight at the moment, you know?” He gave her a weak smile. “I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we lost Carl. Each night I wake up in a cold sweat, go over it step-by-step. For the life of me, I can't figure out where I went wrong. It's a dead end, Chapman's dead end.”
“Let it go, Mark. You did the best you could.”
He moved away from the wall and gave her a wry smile. With a sweep of his hand, he said,” Maybe all of this is ... is you reacting to Carl's death. I think you need to follow your own advice and let it go, also.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe.”
“Anyway, I'll know about what happened to Carl when the final autopsy report is available.”
“When will Pathology have it ready?”
“I would have had it by now but the family tried to block the autopsy.”
“That surprises me. They must have known Carl signed a consent on admission; it's a standard condition for any marrow treatment at Ridgewood.”
“His parents knew that, they ...” Kessler paused, took a deep breath. “... I mean, it's harder when the actual time comes.” His eyes clouded with tears. “What a friggin’ mess!”
“If he'd had the cells, his chances would have been good,” she said, squeezing his arm.
The elevator door opened and Alan Vasquez stepped out. Gina ignored the nasty look he tossed her way before leading the procession down the corridor toward the lab. In the lab doorway, he stopped abruptly and confronted Gina.
“What were you doing in the laboratory this morning, Ms. Mazzio?”
She was stunned by the unexpected challenge. Avoiding a direct glance, she said,” I was here to pick up blood.”
“I see. Then how did you get in the middle of this marrow business?”
“After what happened to Chapman ... I was here ... I was just checking—”
“Our marrow tech is sufficiently competent to keep track of the specimens we store,” Vasquez interrupted.
“Apparently not,” she snapped back.
His eyes narrowed and a small smile creased his mouth. “We're not paying you premium wages to be a courier.”
“Tracy Bernstein is my patient, Mr. Vasquez. Everything about her is part of my job.”
“Well, I suggest you return to the floor and direct your talents to the patient herself.”
Gina's chin jutted out. “I will as soon as we're finished here.”
Vasquez's eyes hardened. “I want to see you later in my office. I'll have my secretary call the unit to tell you when.”
Gina pushed ahead and led the way into the Lab where the
y were immediately greeted by the lab chief.
“Bob, if you can't run things any better than this we're going to have to find someone who can,” Vasquez announced.
The lab chief's face turned a pasty white. “Look, this is all a mistake. Seems the marrow was there all along ... just deposited in the wrong slot.”
“It's not missing?” Gina asked. “But the tech and I checked and double-checked the entire cold storage unit. It wasn't there!”
“You mean Tracy Bernstein's marrow isn't missing after all,” Kessler said with obvious relief. “You do have it!”
“Yes, thank God!” Bob Ghent said. “I don't think I could stand another Chapman mess.”
“May we see it,” Gina asked, a look of distrust clouding her face.
“If Mr. Ghent says it's there, then that's where it is, Miss Mazzio,” Vasquez said sharply.
“I want to see it anyway,” Gina insisted.
“Oh, for God's sake, as long as we're here, let's take a look at it!” Kessler said.
The lab chief led the way back to the marrow processing section. Once there, they checked the CRT—it still displayed Tracy Bernstein's marrow and storage placement information.
Ghent walked to the refrigerator, donned a pair of protective gloves, and opened the unit. Icy clouds billowed into the room. From the midst of the haze he pulled out one of the marrow bags.
They all crowded in to read the identifying information:
Tracy Bernstein
#041589
Autologous Bone Marrow
“Miss Mazzio, I hope it's obvious to you now that you've unnecessarily alarmed everyone in the Lab, Oncology, Administration, and who knows where else in this hospital,” Vasquez said. “I will see you later in my office, like I said … along with the Nursing Administrator … to discuss your unprofessional behavior.”
Gina started to respond, but was waved silent by Vasquez, who turned to Kessler.
“Doctor, you have overstepped your bounds by involving yourself in Laboratory operations. You acted without consulting the lab chief, which is a serious breach of hospital protocol. Further, I intend to report this incident to the Chief-of-Staff, and recommend that you be censured for your inappropriate behavior today.”
