SIN & BONE
Other novels by Bette Golden Lamb & J. J. Lamb:
Bone Dry
Bone Pit
Bone of Contention
Bone Dust
Heir Today…
Sisters in Silence
By J. J. Lamb:
A Nickel Jackpot
The Chinese Straight
Losers Take All
No Pat Hands
SIN & BONE
by
Bette Golden Lamb
&
J. J. Lamb
TWO BLACK SHEEP PRODUCTIONS
NOVATO, CALIFORNIA
Sin & Bone
Copyright ©2012 by Bette Golden Lamb & James J. Lamb
www.twoblacksheep.us
Published March 2012
All rights reserved
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover Designer: Rita Wood www.ritawoodcreative.com
Print Edition produced by CreateSpace.com
For Rita and Mike Wood, once good friends,
who were always there for us through the
good, the bad, and the ugly.
If we did not acknowledge the members of
our Critique Group for their comments,
input, and motivation, we would risk
very bad Karma. So, here’s to
Margaret Lucke, Pat Morin, Shelley
Singer, Nicola Trwst, and Judith Yamamoto.
Thank you.
₪ CHAPTER 1
Gina Mazzio glared at the call-waiting board high above her desk. The flashing red lights signaled every active phone line into the Ob/Gyn Advice Center; the display made her sick. It was a relentless reminder of all the people waiting to speak to a nurse. Speak to her.
The Eye of God.
That’s what the clinic nurses called it – among other things.
She pushed back into the chair, stretched her neck, and ran fingers through short, black, hair; her eyes fixated on the sea of pulsating dots.
Three desks were crammed into the tiny office, and normally two other nurses would have been wedged into seats on either side of her. But a sick call and a family emergency had pared the Ob/Gyn advice staff down to one – her. Even without her co-workers, the claustrophobic room had about the same appeal as cramming her five-ten bod into a linen closet.
The Eye continued to flash, all her desk lines rang and flashed. She wanted to fling the phone against the wall and run. Instead, she answered the next-in-line call.
“She’s all cut up.”
“Sir, this is Ob/Gyn. I think you want the ER.”
“No!” the caller said. “Listen to me! She’s all cut up.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. Who’s all cut up?”
Silence.
“Sir, what’s the problem? Is it your wife?”
“No!”
“You’re going to have to explain so I can help you.”
“She’s all cut up.”
“I don’t understand. I’m going to transfer you to the ER now.”
“No–“
The red light blinked out.
She felt uneasy as she glanced at the finger-smudged plaque in front of her that told where Gina Mazzio, RN, sat, then glanced again at the two empty desk chairs. A sharp pang of resentment stabbed through her. Alone, she’d handled more than 100 patient calls during her eight-hour shift, with no break or time out for lunch. She was beat. So whoever was at the other end of those flashing call lights would have to wait until she got caught up with her paperwork.
She jerked the cord out of its jack, yanked off her headpiece, and let it dangle around her neck like a funky necklace.
I need to finish these nurses notes:
11/02/09 4:45pm
Margee Donlevy, 32-year-old primigravida, 34 weeks pregnant, complaining of more than 5 contractions/hr. Good fetal movement,
(-) bleeding, (+) hydration. Working two jobs – on her feet all day.
To L&D for monitoring.
As she tapped the info into the computer, the ringing phone lines scrambled her thoughts.
“Mama mia! That’s enough.”
For her sanity, she needed to take the damn calls, get it over with. But exhaustion and pure stubbornness kept her from hooking back into the network. She checked her watch, then ran a finger across a framed photo of her fiancé, Harry. She smiled.
“Four-fifty, baby! Only ten more minutes!”
This was the weekend they were finally getting married. Her heart skipped a beat, the joy morphed into fear and lodged itself at the base of her neck.
Scared? No, she was terrified and willing to admit that to anyone, other than everyone who knew her already knew. She’d re-set the date three times for three different flimsy excuses and it had reached the critical point where Harry had had it with her. He’d told her last night that he doubted they’d ever tie the knot.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she couldn’t do it.
But Regina and Bill had gone overboard to make all the arrangements, and she did love the guy, so she was doing it. Everything was set – set for them to run away to the Mendocino Coast to become Mr. & Mrs. Lucke, RNs.
Gina continued to study Harry’s picture and wondered why he couldn’t be happy for them to just go on living together. He’d been a bachelor all these years, and as a traveling nurse, his out-of-town assignments kept him up to his ass in alligators most of the time.
What was the hurry to get married?
She finished her notes, plugged back into the network, and hoped it wasn’t the “she’s-all-cut-up” thing again. What was that all about, anyway?
“Ob/Gyn. This is Gina. May I put you on hold?”
“Fi-nal-ly. Don’t you people ever answer the phone?”
“May I put you on hold?” Gina repeated in a pleasant voice.
“Don’t let me wait too long.”
The woman’s voice bounced with impatience, but Gina could tell she would wait without further complaint. A pang of guilt cut through her.
Give her a break, Mazzio. She’s only trying to get some help. Isn’t that what I’m here for?
At least at 5:00 pm the 24-hour Call Center would start picking up the incoming calls. Anything in process before that would have to be completed by her, no matter how long it took. And she’d definitely have to take care of the “on-hold” call. But before she could act, three more calls piled up and it still wasn’t quite five o’clock. As she pressed the button, she yelled at the empty office, “Basta! Basta!”
She dispatched the “on-hold” call with a few simple instructions for self-treating a vaginal infection. The second caller was hoping to still get in for an appointment, but was just now leaving San Francisco’s financial district.
What is it about clinic hours you don’t get, lady?
Gina popped her – complaining – into a Monday slot and took the next caller.
“Nurse, nurse, help me! I can’t breathe…feels like someone’s sitting on my chest.”
“You need to call 9-1-1. Now!”
“No, no! Can’t you help me?”
Gina could hear a shortness of breath. “Ma’am, please call 9-1-1.”
The caller’s voice was f
aint, shaky. “Can’t you call them for me?”
“No! They need a direct line so they can monitor you.”
“I can’t handle that…those screaming sirens…it’s so embarrassing.” The woman began to sob.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. There’s nobody here. I’m scared.”
“Listen to me: Please call 9-1-1. You’ll get help right away.”
Silence.
“Please call them.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll check on you in a few minutes to see if you’re all right, to make sure that the EMTs are helping you."
The line went dead.
Gina would definitely make sure the woman was in the emergency system before she left for the day. Otherwise she’d continue to worry about her the whole weekend.
“Ob/Gyn. This is Gina.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“What did you say your name was?”
Damn! Him again.
“Gina. My name is Gina. Did you call the ER?”
“Gina what?”
A creepy tingling crawled up her spine; she shifted in her swivel chair.
“Gina’s good enough. I’m the only Gina here.”
A long silence was punctuated with labored breathing that made her think of someone running hard down a basketball court.
“Sliced her into pieces.”
Gina’s mouth turned to cotton. “Has there been an accident?”
More heavy breathing.
“Sir, I don’t think I can help you. This is Ob/Gyn.”
“Dammit! I don’t care. I need to talk to someone. If not you, someone else … someone who’ll listen.”
Gina stared hard at The Eye of God. Why couldn’t that thing give her all the information she could use – like Caller ID.
“I’ll help you if I can, but –“
“Don’t you get it? She’s all cut up.”
Sweat blossomed on Gina’s forehead. “I heard you. But I don’t know what that means exactly. Please–”
“It’s too late.”
Like the night Gina was cut up. It had almost been too late for her, too.
“If this is supposed to be some kind of joke, it’s not funny,” Gina said, putting steel into her voice.
Loud sobs morphed into chilling, high-pitched laughter. Then came a wheezing so intense Gina felt her own chest constrict with each gasping breath.
“Sir?”
No response.
“Sir?”
“I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” he said in a raspy voice.
Yes, she was scared, but she gave it her best Bronx effort: “Listen to me, whoever you are, there’s nothing about you that scares me.”
Yet the pit of her stomach was on fire; she was more than scared, she was angry. Angry with her vicious ex; angry with street bullies and anyone else who’d ever tried to beat her up, beat her down.
“What do you want? Do you have a medical problem, or are you one of those people who enjoy terrifying women?” She pretended to laugh. “If you are, you sure messed up this time.”
She should have been on her way home, but here was this ghoul, wheezing in her ear, holding her hostage. And she still had to check on the 9-1-1 patient.
Whatever was going on in this guy’s head was none of her business. Probably gets off creeping out people. Still, something warned her that he might be the real thing.
“Listen Mr. … what did you say your name was?”
“Who’re you kidding? You know I’m not going to give you my name.”
“If someone’s dead or dying, you need help.”
Hit the disconnect! Get the hell out of here!
But she knew she wouldn’t. Instead, she pushed her chair back and leaned out into the hallway. It was a quarter past five, on a Friday evening – fat chance of finding anyone around the place to help her. The clinic was as silent as a tomb.
She gave it another shot: “Why are you calling?”
The wheezing had lost its crowing pitch, the breathing had slowed.
“He says women are all alike. We love them and they fuck us over.” A tortured moan raised goose bumps on her arms. “Cut out our hearts and toss them to the dogs.”
“Who said that?”
“For God’s sake! Knock off the bullshit! Someone has to stop the cutting, the killing.”
“What—“
The line went dead.
₪ CHAPTER 2
The caller hung up, distraught, certain the nurse hadn’t believed him.
Could he ever make it stop?
He grabbed his inhaler, puffed until his lungs opened and he was able to fully breathe again. His cell phone stared at him, squat, menacing, like a black widow spider waiting to strike.
When will he call?
The hairs on his neck stiffened. His thoughts curled around him like a shroud.
“No-o-o.” A familiar, paralyzing vision filled his head:
Flexed muscles, beefy fists, beady lancing eyes, sadistic snorts of laughter, cauterized hatred. Flashes of slashing, boning, chopping; gristle, fat, and raw, red butchered meat from giant carcasses. And always the metallic smell of blood.
The grotesque panorama made him scream; he swatted at the air to rid his mind of the butcher shop, where slaughtered animals enwrapped his memories like a rancid blanket.
He winced as his feet slammed onto the bare floor. A half-hour of rapid walking around the spacious apartment usually lessened the despair. Acrid sweat dripped from his body, splatters dappled the blond bamboo floor. After the final lap, he collapsed on the sofa, wheezing again, barely able to breathe again. When he calmed down, he reached out and placed a tentative finger on the cell phone. He tapped the hard case nervously, a rhythm as fast and as deliberate as a metronome.
How soon?
His reflection stared back from the expanse of the penthouse window that framed a view of The City, from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge – he pulled at his red, spiky, hair.
When will he call?
He looked beyond his reflection, studied the native plants he’d bought for the penthouse patio – they loved the rain, heavy limbs thriving, reaching up to the sky.
Restless, he started on another circuit of the living room, still concentrating on the patio plants. The trees attracted the birds – they would stop and rest in the branches, fluffing their gray, orange, white, and black feathers, then dart down to bathe in the large, variegated stone birdbath. Even in the rain they would chatter, peep at each other, then move on to Golden Gate Park.
At least that’s where he would go if he were a bird.
He envied them, envied their freedom.
Freedom.
* * *
He tugged nervously at his hair as he waited in his Jaguar sedan across the street from the main entrance to Ridgewood General Hospital.
He finally caught a glimpse of the nurse, the one he’d seen while passing through the ER last week – red hair, petite. Another one who matched his memories of Mother.
“Bring the package,” Father had said when he called an hour ago.
And he would have to do it.
He closed his eyes, remembered Mother. She used to protect him, absorb the fists meant for him. They would turn her soft, white skin purple
Shifting in his seat, his heart thrummed. He continued to stare at the nurse.
He told himself he had to do this. Told himself the same thing every single time. If he didn’t please Father, he would never find Mother. Father knew where she was hiding, but would never tell him if he didn’t help with the packages.
The washed-out blue scrubs draped the softness of the nurse’s small frame. Even before he’d seen her face in the ER, he’d stored the image of her body – young, pretty, red hair. Mother’s red hair. He concentrated on her chest, where large breasts were now smothered by the London Fog raincoat she’d wrapped tightly around her.
He sniffed the air, as though some aromatic secret was waiting
to be deciphered, some special scent that would riffle the cells, bring back another vision of Mother. Instead, his brain conjured up one of the bad memories: A girl in the butcher shop. Naked. Gray tape smothering her mouth. Hands tied behind her back. Father yelling. Calling her Mother’s name – Lola.
He sucked in more air, deeper, deeper. Tried to switch the vision back to Mother. But all he sensed was heavy moisture laced with the nauseating smell of billowing bus fumes.
He concentrated on the red-haired ER nurse’s face; it was animated, yet kind. She stood out among the three or four other nurses around her.
Wide-eyed, vulnerable.
One by one the others departed as their rides appeared, or they rushed to the nearby bus stop, or simply walked away.
She pulled a cell phone from her purse, held it to her ear. When she folded it, her shoulders drooped in apparent dejection. She ran toward an arriving bus and got on board.
He made a U-turn and followed the bus as it moved slowly along the busy street; watched her get off in the Diamond Heights district and start walking uphill.
He drove past her, pulled into a space guarded by a yellow fire hydrant, and surveyed the neighborhood. Even though it was still early, all he saw were wet deserted streets and sidewalks. He got out quickly, smiled without humor, and waited as she walked toward him.
The sky opened up and rain crashed down on his head, leaving him drenched and cold. Just before she was even with him, he raised one arm and held it straight out to block her progress.
She looked at the obstructing arm and gave him a startled, then angry glare. Her eyes widened in recognition.
“You!”
He smashed her in the face.
He expected her to cry out, scream, fight back. But she dropped in her tracks, out cold; blood streamed from her flattened nose.
His breath caught in his throat. He turned away and vomited in the gutter. After wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. He hauled her back to the Jaguar, grunting all the way, then held her upright against the back of the sedan. He opened the trunk and lowered her inside.
Sin & Bone: A Medical Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 2) Page 1
