Pulse

by Edna Buchanan

  He reached for her in the dark, his lips finding her throat.

  “Do you think that we … ?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” he whispered.

  “Are you sure you can … ?”

  “They say the Captopril affects some men. So far, no problem.” He guided her hand to his penis. “I’ve been this way all afternoon.”

  “Isn’t it too soon after surgery? How—”

  “If you help me, love. You know they said it’s okay, I just can’t do any strenuous pushing or pulling for a few weeks.” He sensed her hesitation.

  “So,” she said lightly, “you expect me to do everything.”

  “I could live with that.”

  Her silky gown brushed across his face as she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Her fingers gently traced the still angry scar.

  “Let’s turn on the light,” he whispered.

  “The light?” she murmured.

  “I want to see you.”

  “Aren’t we full of surprises.” She reached across him, her bare breast resting against his cheek as she switched on the bedside lamp, then sat on her heels, back arched, eyes focused almost shyly on his face. The sight of her naked startled him for an instant, it was as though he had expected another body, more compact and muscular. Had it been so long that he did not even recognize his own wife?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, as he stared.

  “Nothing,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.” More softly rounded after twenty years and two children, she was still the same blue-eyed girl he had married.

  “You were right.” She gently straddled him. “You definitely do not suffer the dread side effects from your medication.”

  “Lucky us,” he breathed.

  Gingerly she caressed and fondled him, never fully relaxed. “Are you sure this is all right?” she kept asking.

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Frank, I really think we should talk to the doctor to be certain …” He wilted against her thigh as she pulled away at the wrong moment.

  Not the greatest sex they had ever enjoyed together, he thought; she was nervous and uncertain and he felt … different. But it was no total fizzle either. God bless modern medicine and pharmaceuticals. He was home, alive, still a man.

  He felt the delayed reaction of his transplanted heart, nowpounding passionately, and smiled ruefully. The doctors had explained that his new heart would not immediately respond to a sudden scare or the sight of a naked woman. Like pumps, transplanted hearts are hooked up to all the vital plumbing but not to the sympathetic nerves that deliver instant messages from the brain, speeding the pulse. Enzymes in his blood stream would do the job instead, accelerating his heartbeat, but they take longer, requiring more time to warm up and to cool down after exertion.

  Getting used to his new heart would take time. His thoughts were scattered and restless. Sex was not the problem, he knew that would get better. He was lucky to be alive, lucky to have Kathleen’s soft presence beside him in the dark. When working his way through college, he had had two jobs, ambition and no time for love. Then he had seen her. He had earned extra money chauffeuring a retired professor who no longer drove but still babied the ancient Cadillac in his garage. Frank drove him to the supermarket, to medical appointments, on errands, and studied while waiting. He had had a four-o’clock class that afternoon and was rushing the old professor through the library, when there she was, reading Peter Pan to a group of rapt preschoolers.

  He perched on a pint-sized chair, as enthralled as the other bright-eyed listeners until the professor finally came looking for him. Frank had returned to the library several times, lurking like a pervert in the children’s section, but she was not there. Then, by chance, he spotted her on campus and followed like a puppy.

  She was from Connecticut, a drama major who volunteered to read to children bussed in from disadvantaged neighborhoods. Soon they were on their first date in the professor’s borrowed Caddy and Frank was the disadvantaged child basking in her nurturing radiance. Who would havethought, he wondered, that he still would be, nearly twenty-two years later?

  He should have been totally content at this moment.

  “What are you thinking?” Her words were dreamy in the dark.

  He paused. “Being home today with you and the kids was insanely awesome, as Casey would say, but something’s bothering me and I just realized what it is.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I keep thinking about the donor.”

  “But he’s gone,” Kathleen said softly, taking his hand.

  “I know.” He sat up. “I’m surrounded by the people I love. What about his family?”

  “Your job now is to take good care of yourself.”

  “But what about his wife? His kids? There must be something I can do for them.”

  “You don’t even know if the donor was a man or a woman.” She sighed. “It could be a teenager.”

  “It was a man,” he said, without hesitation.

  “How do you know?” She sat up, too, and began to massage his shoulders and the back of his neck. “I thought they didn’t tell you.”

  “They didn’t. But I know. It was a guy.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t know how, but I know. Maybe I overheard something at the hospital when I was groggy.”

  “Get some rest, sweetheart.” She kissed his shoulder and sank back down on her pillow. “Coming home was a big hurdle. You’re exhausted.”

  “There must be something I can do to thank them, to show my gratitude.”

  “Bad idea,” she said sleepily. “They’re grieving, trying toput a loss behind them. Intruding into their lives would only remind them of their tragedy.”

  She rolled over and curled into her usual sleep position. He stared at the ceiling, mind racing. His gut said it was the right thing to do. When our peril is past, shall our gratitude sleep? Who said that? Was it his father? What was it from? he wondered. Why did he recall it? The phrase repeated, an endless loop through his mind, until restless, he slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Kathleen. He tapped in the bypass code on the alarm keypad, then walked to the French doors, opened them quietly and stepped barefoot onto the balcony. The night was hushed, the stars pinpricks of white fire in the cool majesty of a vaulted heaven. The water shimmered like rumpled silk below the bridge, a skeletal rigging to the south. There was no traffic at this hour, only an occasional car overriding the yellow beacon of its own headlights.

  As he inhaled a deep breath of night air, a sudden movement caught his eye. From shadows below, as though emerging from a sudden crack in the darkness, a solitary figure appeared on the span. Frank blinked. The lone pedestrian was still there, on the bridge between DiLido and Rivo Alto. The figure was tall with a hint of urgency in his long-legged stride. Perhaps his car had broken down, Frank thought, as he watched, mesmerized. Though his features were obscured by distance and the night, the man looked oddly familiar. He paused at the crest of the bridge, his silhouette silvered by moonlight. Then, as though aware he was being watched, the figure turned to stare directly up to the balcony where Frank stood. Fear and foreboding rushing over him like water in an icy stream, Frank shrank back, retreated inside and closed the doors. When he peered through the glass a moment later, the bridge was empty in the silent night.

  Frank fought the urge to rush downstairs to check thedoors and the locks. He feared for his family. His daughters were out there somewhere sharing the same night with that spectral figure. Casey was sleeping over at her best friend’s on Bay Point. But Shandi … His stomach pitched. He forced himself to think rationally, crawled back into bed and lay there listening until she came in. He heard her visit the kitchen. The slam of the refrigerator door, minutes later the sound of her footsteps on the stairs to her room. He arose again once all was quiet, padded down the hall and saw the reassuring glow of light under her door as he went downstairs to be sure that she had turned the dead bolt behi
nd her and reset the alarm. Without switching on lights, he moved easily through each room. He knew this house so well, but tonight it seemed different, almost strange—and frightening.

  He returned to bed and a fitful doze, but someone called his name and he awoke disoriented. The room was unfamiliar. Who was he? Where was he? The answers came to him slowly as he lay there pondering how odd it was that the hospital had installed a ceiling fan in his room exactly like the one above his bed at home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He got star treatment. Other members of the transplant team looked in during his exam, exclaiming and beaming at his progress like proud parents. His tests had continued to go so well that after three months he was being released with only six-month checkups for the next year. After that, if all went right, only an annual exam.

  He did not ask the question that nagged at him until he was fully dressed, seated with Kathleen in front of a cluttered desk and a small bank of computer equipment in his surgeon’s small office.

  O’Hara frowned. “This sleeping problem you mentioned … I could prescribe—”

  “No, thanks.” Frank grinned. “I take enough medication now. Everything seems to be working fine, no point in tinkering with the formula. It’s annoying as hell, but I can handle it. I think I’m still adjusting to the new heart, to being home, and being healthy again. I’m catching catnaps during the day. You can hold the prescription for now, Doctor, but there is something I do want.” He took out his Mont Blanc pen and his small leather pocket briefcase, poised to jot down the information.

  The doctor listened to his request, his lean body relaxed in his leather chair, his long slim fingers pyramided in front of him. “No,” he said simply, then leaned forward and began to move around some papers on the desk in front of him. “The policy of the transplant program is to maintain confidentiality and I’m in total support of that.”

  “In no way do I intend to intrude upon the family,” Frank said confidently, “but I do want to help. I’m in a position to do so, and I owe them so much.”

  Dr. O’Hara shook his head. “Not necessary,” he said briskly, his voice pleasant. “Donor families know that their consent is a gift. Accept it in that context.”

  “Please understand.” Frank was firm, but polite. “I merely want to know if the family has a mortgage, or a child in need of an education. I was left fatherless myself at an early age. I know what that’s like. If I can spare some kid—”

  “And you turned out all right.” O’Hara studied him shrewdly, eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you?”

  “I only want to make their lives a little easier.” Refusals were foreign to Frank. He did not digest them easily.

  “Focus on your own life, Frank.”

  The two men, each accustomed to having his own way, studied each other for a long moment, tension building. Kathleen stirred uncomfortably beside him, placing her hand over his in a cautionary gesture. Indignant, he wanted to shake it off.

  “Look,” the doctor said, “in the early days of transplants, recipients and donor families were able to meet. Many did. In some cases it didn’t work out. There were some real problems, in fact. That’s why a policy of confidentiality was adopted, and believe me, Frank, it’s better this way.”

  “I agree.” Kathleen sighed in relief. “Thank you, Doctor. Frank, are you sure you don’t want the doctor to prescribe something that will help you sleep through the night?”

  He shook his head, he didn’t trust his voice.

  O’Hara got to his feet, smiling. “Go home, enjoy your life,” he ordered good-naturedly.

  The man’s refusal was too glib, too quick, Frank thought on the elevator. Perhaps he knew the question was coming. He studied Kathleen out of the corner of his eye. Had she spoken to the doctor? Gone behind his back?

  They celebrated his sterling checkup over lunch at the newest “in” restaurant on South Beach. He fought his frustration, relying on his usual allies, logic and reason. They never let him down. No need to go to war with the doctor, or with Kathleen. He smiled across the table at her as they dined on smoked pheasant served by a muscular waiter who wore a T-shirt announcing that Only my teeth are straight. His wife’s attitude and the doctor’s stubborn resolve confounded him, but there were other ways to learn the information he needed. And he did need it. He was right. He was never more sure of anything. The decision to track down the family of his heart was exciting and slightly subversive, an irresistible challenge.

  He could hardly wait to finish lunch.

  Selling F.D. Douglas, Inc., had been wrenching. Frank had built his business from nothing, lived it, breathed it, ate it. Itwas his life’s work. But selling was the wisest course of action when he was a dying man, a name on a list of forty-eight thousand patients awaiting organ transplants. His company brought even more than he had expected, a goddamn fortune he was too sick to enjoy. What good was the money? Money could not buy him a new heart. But he had known all along that if he beat the odds and survived, he could and would start over. He had kept a small but comfortable office in Miami Beach, on Lincoln Road Mall, and one employee, his longtime trusted secretary. Sue Ann was like family, devoted to him and the job. Divorced, fifty-five and efficient, she lived within walking distance, in a condo with her cat. Her husband had remarried and was raising a new family with the much younger woman he had abandoned her for. But Sue Ann was not alone in the world. Her son was a career Marine with a wife and children, and she had a daughter, a struggling would-be actress in New York. Frank had kept Sue Ann on the payroll even after he was far too ill to conduct business. He had arranged, in the event of his death, for her to remain on full salary and benefits for as long as necessary, one year minimum, to help wrap up his affairs, close the office and assist Kathleen with the inevitable details. His alternate plan, now in motion, was to ease back into business on a smaller scale, look into some investments and dabble in real estate.

  He called the office after lunch, from the privacy of his study, and instructed Sue Ann to arrange an appointment ASAP with Nicolas Lucca.

  He could probably handle this little job himself, Frank thought, but he might tread on some toes. Lucca was a pro, discreet and efficient, and Frank trusted him.

  From a Chicago family of cops, Lucca had resisted the badge until moving to South Florida for the health of a chronically ill child. He joined the Metro-Dade police departmentat age thirty-nine, largely for the benefits and the medical plan, he said later. Transferred to homicide, he quickly established a reputation. The new man on the squad was always saddled with the missions impossible: unidentifiable victims left in fields or murky Everglades canals. More than whodunits, they were whoisits, nameless victims who could be drug dealers, illegal aliens or felons on the run from anywhere. Luck, they said, when Lucca solved the first one. He solved the next one, and the one after that. Then his superiors dusted off an old, cold case nobody could crack. He solved it. He closed eleven in a row. He had a talent.

  The local newspaper, The Miami Herald, featured his accomplishments in its Sunday magazine. The detective scowled off the cover, wearing a rumpled trench coat and a menacing sneer. The story made him a local hero. Though they had never met, Frank dictated a brief note of congratulations after the article appeared, thanking the detective for his efforts on behalf of all crime victims.

  Murder always intrigued Frank. Homicide investigations had fascinated him since childhood, when a detective was kind to him and his mother during the worst moments of their lives. He had planned at one time to apply to the FBI Academy, but by the time he graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in accounting he was mad with love for Kathleen and driven by the same entrepreneurial zeal that had consumed his father, that tragic figure, the man he scarcely knew.

  The article spelled the end to Lucca’s police career. The publicity was priceless, the name recognition too valuable to waste. His streak unbroken at twelve, he turned in his badge, got rid of the rumpled raincoat, which had been borrowed for t
he photo shoot, bought some expensive suits and set upshop in North Dade where he practiced PI work for lawyers in Miami and Fort Lauderdale.

  Frank had forgotten his note until a reply arrived months later, Lucca’s new business card. From then on, Frank had hired him when he needed to sort out legitimate competitors, investors and would-be business associates from the con men, scam artists and fast-buck operators South Florida is famous for. Tough and plainspoken, Lucca was a straight shooter, a class act who took no window-peeping or divorce cases. He relished being his own boss and probably banked more in a good week than his squad-room buddies took home in a month. Frank looked forward to seeing him again.

  Kathleen strolled with him to the car. She had made it a habit since he resumed driving, urging him to be careful, kissing his cheek. She still fussed and worried, despite the fact that her once-dying husband now exuded more energy than he ever had. He often wondered if his recycled heart had belonged to an athlete, or someone much younger than himself. Kathleen had been right about one thing, he thought, the Mercedes. Smooth and responsive, it handled like a dream.

  Lucca was punctual, as always. He was a big man; his legs looked too long for his rugged torso. His black hair bristled, thick and shiny, with a brushy mustache to match and a deep, distinctive voice that evoked the shadowy hills of Sicily. In his well-cut dark blue suit and immaculate white shirt he resembled a suave soap opera villain or a Mafia kingpin more than a former cop.

  They exchanged a firm handshake as Lucca appraised Frank and the new, downsized office. “You still have a secretary?”

  “Yeah, she’s out.”

  “What you need here, boss, is security cameras to moni-tor the reception area so when you’re alone, you can see who arrives before they see you.”

  “Good idea. Handle it for me.”

  “Sure. Heard you had ticker problems and got rid of the business. How ya doing?”

  Frank took his seat behind the desk as Lucca folded his big frame onto the soft leather sofa. “Had some surgery,” he said evenly. “Kept my secretary and this small office and I’m about ready to get back into business.”