“You mean, when you turn it on, it will either save her or kill her.”
He sighs, and worry, or perhaps guilt, creases the corners of his eyes. “We will know immediately if it will kill her. If the device does not work properly, the transfer will happen inappropriately or in some way hamper your mother’s cardiac function. Her heart is weak and will not sustain any level of damage. But if the device functions properly, it will still be some time before we will know if it will heal your mother’s heart. The device wraps itself around the heart muscle, and the field which activates the transfer will likewise completely surround the heart. In this way, the life energy that is transferred—all that the device has drained from her kidney—will be constrained to stay within her heart, bathing it in a concentrated amount and bringing all the healing properties of that immersion. After a while in that environment, my hope is that we will see improvement in your mother’s heart function.”
I can’t quite squash the hope that those words dredge up. “How long will it take before we know? Hours? Days?”
“I am sorry,” he says. “I don’t know the answer to that. The animal tests were still preliminary, and nothing like this has been tried before—”
I cut him off with a wave of my hand and stuff the hope back where it belongs. I have to prepare myself for the inevitable result of this experiment. “Can I speak to her before you put her under?” I need to say goodbye.
Dr. Brodsky bows his head. “Of course.”
He takes his creepy flesh-device off to the side while I cross the dozen feet to where my mom lies on a hospital-type bed. It’s adjustable, so she’s sitting up for now, resting with her eyes closed. An anesthesiologist stands by, waiting.
I touch my mom’s hand to let her know I’m here. When she opens her eyes, I say, “Hey.” Not very articulate, but how do you say goodbye to someone you love? It’s an impossible thing.
She gives me a strong smile, like the ones I remember from my childhood. “Joe. I’m glad you’re still here.” She squeezes my hand but it’s weak. Much weaker than the smile. “I thought maybe it would be too hard for you to watch.”
It will be too hard for me to watch. Staying to watch her die is harder than saying goodbye, which is already impossible. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” I try to keep my voice steady for her. “Would you like me to give you a small life hit before you go under?” I hope she says yes, just so I can give her one last thing.
“I don’t think you should,” she says. “The anesthesiologist says it might complicate putting me under.”
I nod. She’s right, of course. Mixing life energy with any kind of medication is dangerous. That’s what medical needs training is for, to keep you from killing the patients you’re trying to help. “I’ll be watching from the office.” I tilt my head towards the glass-window-enclosed area just off the makeshift operating room. “Dr. Brodsky wants everyone not involved in the operation to clear out before he starts. I think he’s flushing the area with some kind of sterilization gas.”
She nods, but I can tell just my few words are tiring her. I want to say something about how proud I am of her, but I don’t want her to think I expect her to die. Which is how it would come out, because that thought is pounding in my head, over and over.
Instead, I say, “I’ll see you when you wake up.” I bend down to kiss her cheek, and she pats mine while I’m there. Her skin is cool from the low room temperature. I don’t know if the coolness is part of the procedure, or just that Dr. Brodsky’s warehouse-turned-operating room is drafty, but I can’t help thinking that the warmth of her body is already fleeing. That I’m already losing her.
I turn away, before I start to cry, and stride back to the office.
Elena is there, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She bites her lip. “Are they starting?”
“Soon.” I stand next to her, arms also crossed to hold in the anxiety. Dr. Brodsky soundlessly orders his assistant to do something. A thin, gray gas rains down from some overhead system lost in the shadows. It shrouds the entire operating theatre in a mist that makes it all seem even more mad-scientist than normal. The anesthesiologist places monitor patches on my mom, talks to her briefly while her bed reclines to flat, then places a mask over her nose and mouth. We’re about thirty feet away. I can’t hear anything through the closed door of the office, but I see my mom’s eyes close and her body grow still under the sedative.
Now we wait.
A small screen Elena configured to mirror the monitor patches is mounted next to the window. The blips show my mom’s heart is still the chaotic mess it’s been ever since we rescued her from the hospital. Only the beats are slower now that the anesthesia has taken hold. The screen doesn’t make any sound, just pulses electronic beats that scrawl out my mom’s living energy in a blue line.
The silence makes the anticipation a sharp knife on my nerves, so I talk to Elena while I watch Dr. Brodsky and his preparations. I had already told her my bean counter wasn’t satisfied with her stolen records—he needed proof that the kids were actually being transferred out. Which meant catching a debt collector in the act of killing a ten-year-old girl. A terrible plan, but the only way to get proof that it’s happening.
“Were you able to put a hold on smuggling out Sophie?” I ask.
“Yeah, that wasn’t a problem,” Elena says. “But, honestly Joe, I’m glad you’re going to be there when they try to transfer her out.”
I frown and peer at her. “Why is that?”
She unlocks her arms, but now her delicate fingers twist themselves red. “It’s not that easy to convince the parents, sometimes. No one wants to believe a debt collector is coming for their kid.”
I take a breath and look back at my mom. Brodsky has brought the blue cylinder and a tray of shiny operating instruments to my mother’s bedside. I decide I really don’t need to watch this part, so I turn half away from them and face Elena. “So, you couldn’t arrange to smuggle Sophie, because you couldn’t convince the parents that a debt collector was coming for her?”
She stops wringing her fingers. “I just haven’t had enough time. Usually it’s the nurses who know the patients and their families. My nurse-friend, the one who would smuggle Sophie out, doesn’t know the case. Or the parents. So, she’s walking in cold, trying to convince them that something impossible—something unthinkable—is going to happen to their child.”
“I can see how that wouldn’t be what they want to hear.”
She peers up into my eyes, solemn. “Which is why I’m glad you’re going to be there to stop it.”
I shake my head, because of the craziness of this idea, not because I disagree. “I won’t let this Moloch character kill Sophie, if there’s any way to stop it. But the whole thing is risky. I don’t know how strong this debt collector is going to be. If he’s going around doing illegal collections…”
Elena’s brow scrunches up. “Does that make him stronger for some reason?”
“It means he might be doing a lot more collections than normal, in which case, yes, he could be a lot stronger than me. And if I catch him in the act of killing Sophie, he’s going to have a lot of incentive not to let me live to tell about it.”
The scrunch transforms into a frown. “Maybe you could bring a gun or something?”
I let out a small laugh. “Well, yes. That might help. If I had one. And if I could get it past the hospital security scanners.” My half-smile dims. It’s going to be a lot more brutal than just waving a gun at him, but I don’t want to get into the details of that with Elena. “If it comes down to him or me, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough. And I’m worried about what that means for the girl.”
“Because he’ll kill her, too.”
“That’s what he came to do.” I don’t want to admit the possibility, but Elena should be prepared, in case I fail. I should probably give her Flitstrom’s number, just in case. “I’ll do everything I can to stop him. But if I can’t, if I don’t come back—”
/> Something in the operating room catches her eye. I twist around to see Dr. Brodsky signaling us. When he sees us watching, he and his two assistants take hold of my mother’s bed and slowly wheel it toward the giant metal cylinder that comprises the imaging machine. I suck in a breath and lose whatever train of thought I had in the realization that Dr. Brodsky must have already implanted the creature-device in my mom. My hands fall to my side, clenched tight, as I watch my mother disappear into the machine. It swallows her whole, and a door slides down at the end so I can’t see her. This makes my chest ache. A warmth slides over my hand. Elena’s small one slips into mine, and I grasp onto it, hoping the tension that’s stringing my body doesn’t make me squeeze it too tightly.
My gaze falls to the monitor screen, the only indication I have that my mom’s still alive inside the machine. A low thrumming starts up, followed by a mechanical pumping sound that is loud enough to reverberate through the office windows. Its rhythm is about twice the pace of my mom’s beating heart, only more steady, and it grates on my nerves. Dr. Brodsky stands at the control panel on the far end of the machine, intent on his own display. Suddenly, a tremendous racket starts, a clacking of something within the machine that makes my own heart stutter in response. I’m glad my mom is unconscious for this part, but then I see something on her screen jump. Her heartbeat picks up speed, seemingly in response to the noise.
I clench my jaw shut against the tears threatening to come and hold tight onto Elena’s hand. The electronic pulse of my mom’s heart races, and it seems too fast. Impossibly fast. It would have to give at out this pace, even I know that.
The tremendous clacking sound shuts off, leaving a hollow of noise beating on my eardrums. The heart signature continues to pound at its wild speed.
And then stops.
I gasp and brace a hand against the window.
My own heart stops with it.
We wait.
I hold still in that breath of space.
The monitor beats out a pulse.
Once. Twice.
Again and again. The rhythm is slower. Steadier. I suck in a ragged breath of air and drag my gaze up to the operating room. I can’t see my mom—she’s still enclosed in the machine—but even from here I can see Dr. Brodsky’s smiling face as he hugs his assistant.
I push back from the window and stare at my mom’s steady heartbeat on the screen.
I wait for a full five seconds, just to make sure my eyes aren’t lying to me, then I turn to Elena. The smile is huge on her face. Without thinking, I drop her hand and take her in my arms, squeezing her small frame tight and burying my face in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. My gulps of breath bring in the apple scent of her hair, and that, combined with her arms around my neck, drain the tension from my body in one, stomach-dropping gush.
It’s real. The procedure worked. My mom is still alive.
I slowly realize that Elena may not want this hug as much as I do.
I ease back, dropping my arms and ducking my head. Avoiding her gaze, I look back to the screen. The heartbeat trace looks like every one I’ve ever seen: regular, rhythmic, identical one beat to the next. I let out a long, low breath, the leftover tension leaking from my body.
“Dr. Brodsky said it would take some time before we knew if it would really help,” I say, turning back to face Elena. “That the device has to bathe her heart in life energy for a while to see if it will heal. And she’ll probably be under sedation for some time, too.” I pause and swallow the dryness leftover from the wracking tension of the procedure. “I should go. That debt collector might show up early, and I need to be ready for him. Can you… can you tell her, when she wakes up, that I stayed for the procedure? That I’m proud of her for doing this?”
Elena frowns. “You should tell her yourself. When you come back.”
Her confidence fills me with warmth. “I meant, in case I don’t come back.”
Her fingers do that twisting thing again. “You should have a gun. Maybe Madam A can lend you hers.”
I take her hands in mine to stop the agitation. “It won’t help, Elena. Shooting a debt collector in a hospital… it won’t get us the evidence we need to stop these guys.”
“But you could—”
“It’ll be fine,” I reassure her, even though I’m not sure at all. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t said anything. “Just promise me you’ll tell my mom. Okay?”
She nods once, ducking her head and studying our hands, mine still gently holding hers. When she looks up, the fierce seriousness is back. I think it’s my favorite look on her.
“No matter how this turns out, Joe, you’re a good man for trying.”
A rush runs through me, like a burst of life energy coursing up through my body and flooding my brain. My mouth hangs open for a second, unspoken words filling the space, wondering if she knows what her words mean to me. Her deep brown eyes are a well that I’m all too ready to tumble down. How can she look at me like that, say those words, and expect me to resist kissing her?
So I don’t.
I slip a hand to the back of her neck and bend down. Her silky hair brushes my hand, and her lips are soft against mine. She’s surprised by it. I should stop. Even though it’s the last thing on earth I want, I start to pull back. She lifts up on her toes to chase after my retreating kiss. Her fingertips find my face and dance across it to weave into my hair. All thoughts of gentleness sweep out of me. I crush my mouth to hers. My hand slides around to her back and presses her body into mine. There’s no air left between us as every pent-up desire I have welds her to me. Her hands skim my hair, roam my shoulders, press their fingertips into me, and I’m just as hungry for her. Her mouth opens to me, and she tastes of sweetness and goodness and light. I’m starving for this, for all of it—her lips, her approval, her body—in a way that feels wild and freeing.
I ease my grip on her and run my hands up to her face. I cup her cheeks and cool the fervor of our kiss with half-dozen smaller ones. She’s breathing hard. I’m hardly breathing at all. I’m lost in her, completely. All I want in the world is to stay and explore all the ways I can kiss her.
But I can’t. I have to go.
Ending that kiss ranks as one of the harder things I’ve ever done.
Our faces still close, it feels as if something new has sprung into being between us, fashioned from thin air and a hot kiss. Something alive and filled with potential. I peer into her eyes to see if she feels it, too.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers, avoiding my stare. Her hands retreat from my neck to rest lightly on my shirt.
It’s not quite what I was hoping for, and I pray this wasn’t just a good luck kiss. I take a chance, kissing her one more time, soft and longer than I should. Her lips are still eager, and the temptation to stay surges like a physical thing that wants to bind me to her.
I force myself to stop, turn, and walk away.
I’m dressed in scrubs and lurking in the dark recesses of the pediatric ward.
If I’m caught, I’ll probably get arrested for being some kind of pervert. At least I should be. It almost annoys me the ease with which Elena’s nurse-friend was able to procure a cover for me as an intern from another hospital doing charity visits with the kids. If there were tighter security in pediatric wards with dying kids, maybe a debt collector wouldn’t be able to slip in and kill them.
Sophie, the ten-year-old heart patient on Candy’s hit list, sleeps in her bed nearby. Luckily, the second bed in her room is empty, and with the curtain drawn between them, I have a convenient hiding place, wedged between a rolling cart of supplies—anti-viral gloves, wipes, and a bin of puzzles and toys—and a highly polished metallic bank of instrumentation at the head of the bed. The lights in the room are dimmed so Sophie can sleep, but I can still see my reflection in the silver surface next to me.
I look startlingly normal. The scrubs hang on me, because they’re a bit oversized, but the usual bags under my eyes are missing, and I’m cle
an-shaven for once. Even my eyes look like they’ve finally got some life behind them. I stare at my reflection, wondering in what alternate universe I could have been this image of a caring pediatric intern, visiting kids to brighten their final days with magic tricks and clean jokes.
Instead, I’m a debt collector here to record one of my own attempting to kill Sophie.
I check my palm screen for the tenth time, partly to see the time, and partly to make sure it’s muted. I don’t want it to make any sounds when I start to record. Stealth is imperative, at least until I have my recording. After that, this Moloch character will definitely be aware of my presence.
I shift from one foot to the next, flexing out the cramp in my leg from standing in one position too long. I’ve already been here an hour. I’m afraid the wait will be so long my feet will fall asleep just when Moloch arrives. Or I’ll be forced to take a bathroom break, and he’ll slip in to kill Sophie during the twenty seconds I’m gone. Elena’s records showed the collection—albeit for a “ghost” patient who doesn’t really exist—was scheduled for 10 am. It’s my fault that I arrived an hour early, but I’m only going to have one shot at this.
I start to contemplate how I’m going to feed myself if the wait goes on for hours, when I hear the slightest whisper of fabric and a familiar squeak—the kind that collector boots make on the scrubbed-clean tiles of a hospital floor. Every nerve in my body jolts fully awake, and I slip my hand, recorder started, to the thin crack between the curtain and the wall. I checked the angle before, to make sure that I would have Sophie in the recording frame. I glance at the blacked-out wall screen opposite Sophie’s bed and see him in the reflection on the dark glass: a thin figure in a trenchcoat that drapes like a shroud to the floor behind him. He stands at the foot of her bed and checks her chart.
Making sure he has the right child to murder.
The Debt Collector (Season 1) Page 33
