Angels Weep

by C. J. Lyons

  Maybe that was why Nick’s response was a lot like Andre’s. He rolled his shoulders as he released a sigh.

  “Andre said it could be the drugs or just being cooped up for so long that made her paranoid—well, more paranoid than usual. But I’m not sure.” She couldn’t believe she was the one defending Morgan. Usually it was Nick or Andre taking Morgan’s side against Jenna. “I believe her.”

  “Did you find anything when you did background checks on the staff?” Andre asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I was reading about this type of killer. An angel of mercy—”

  “A form of Munchausen by proxy,” Nick said.

  “Right. There have been a few deaths recently—all long-term patients, all DNR. None received an autopsy.”

  “They wouldn’t need one unless the family requested it,” Nick told her. “They died under a doctor’s supervision.”

  “But that’s just it. The only thing they had in common was that they all died under Dr. Lazarus’s care. He was there. Every time. Just random chance can’t account for that, not when both he and Dr. Paterson share nighttime coverage.”

  Nick shook his head—not shaking off her concerns, more like he’d seen past them to a deeper problem. “Dr. Lazarus lives on the campus.” He jerked his chin, indicating past the parking lot to the well-maintained farmhouse on the other side. “Of course he’d be the first one here if a patient were in trouble.”

  “You think Morgan is making it up?”

  “Worse. I think she has no idea she’s making it up. It’s called anosognosia. An extreme form of denial where patients think they are normal and the rest of the world is wrong. Like Alzheimer’s patients who insist they can still drive. Then when they’re in an accident, they make up stories about imaginary obstacles.”

  “So it’s like a paranoid delusion?” Andre asked. “Or maybe PTSD?”

  “Hopefully not,” Nick said. “Hopefully it’s just a bit of confusion. But over a third of patients who’ve spent a significant amount of time in an ICU do end up with PTSD.” Suddenly he didn’t sound so hopeful.

  “Andre said he had friends who got psychotic from all the sedation in the ICU. Said some of them were never the same again.”

  Nick nodded. “It happens. More often than people think. But it’s too soon to tell what’s going on with Morgan. It could be temporary, or it could be permanent hypoxic brain damage. Once all the drugs are finally out of her system and she has more time…”

  Time. It always came down to more time. Jenna squinted at the sun. Maybe that’s why she agreed with Morgan—neither had any patience for waiting for explanations or results. It was so much easier to grasp at an answer that didn’t require waiting, something they could dig into here and now.

  As the three of them walked to the clinic’s glass entrance, she caught sight of their reflection in the window: a large black man with scars masking his face, a trim thirty-something who could have been a college professor, both flanking a slender redhead. Her scarf really did bring out her eyes. Make that a fashion-forward slender redhead.

  They made for an unusual family, claiming a feral child like Morgan as their own. As much as Jenna would love to deny it, Morgan was theirs, in a way that transcended genetics. She was the glue that held them all together, gave them a purpose, and even, God help them, made their lives better for her being in them.

  What if they lost her? The doctors had healed her body, but her mind, that tremendous albeit warped intellect that even Jenna envied, what if that was forever broken?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Escorted by both John Lazarus and Dr. Paterson, Morgan arrived back in her ward. “I’m late for a meeting,” Paterson told her, as John pushed the wheelchair to Morgan’s bed.

  “But when we get back, we’re going to have a serious discussion about rules and consequences,” John added as they left.

  Morgan couldn’t help but smile as the door shut behind them. Clearly they had no clue who they were dealing with if they thought their rules were going to keep her from doing what she wanted. She climbed out of the chair, one hand in her pocket still gripping her phone, and joined the other kids at the table. They’d just finished their own lunches—all except Maria, who was still determinedly scooping mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “Does the whistling man come every night?” Morgan asked.

  She’d been serious when she told Micah she wanted to leave the clinic, but she couldn’t go until she was certain that the others were safe. Well, she could—in fact, not so long ago, she probably would have. But these kids, they were so…vulnerable. Someone had to protect them from the Wolves.

  “Most nights,” Nelson answered. “I’ve tried to stay awake and get a good look at him, but…I just can’t. None of us can.”

  Maybe someone was sedating the kids? If so, the whistler had to be someone on staff, with access to the medications. “Is he a nurse or an aide? Someone who works nights?”

  The children looked at each other, shaking their heads. “Emily is our night nurse, usually,” Tia said. “She gives us our medicine at bedtime.”

  Maybe this Emily was in on it. Hell, maybe the entire night shift was in on it—after all, a clinic full of kids at their disposal, kids no one would believe, kids they could do anything to… Morgan knew she should feel revulsion, but instead she felt a thrill of excitement. These kids were in danger, and she had the power to help them.

  She was glad now she hadn’t had a chance to tell Micah about the whistler. Too many times in the past, she’d put him in harm’s way by asking for his help. This time, she’d take care of things. Her way.

  “What does he do?” she asked. Not because she wanted any intimate details, but rather because she needed to strategize, figure out when and where the whistler would be vulnerable.

  One after another, the kids shrugged, except for little Justin, who folded his arms on the table and laid his head down as if he were too tired to follow the conversation.

  “That’s just it,” Nelson said. “None of us can remember anything. I’m not even sure he comes in here. We just hear footsteps and that awful whistling.”

  So a drug that didn’t just make them sleep but made them forget? She’d have to ask Nick what kind of drug did that. Her father had used several date-rape drugs that caused semi-paralysis and amnesia; maybe there was a legitimate medical variation? Something Lazarus would prescribe?

  Lazarus…she didn’t like or trust the man. Could he be the whistler? But he’d never risk documenting anything by actually writing an order for drugs. Which brought her back to either the nurses being complicit or someone slipping the kids illegal drugs. No, wait—how would they get the drugs to the kids? Had to be a nurse—unless maybe the pharmacist filling their medication orders? Or a transport aide who brought the orders from the pharmacy to the nurses’ station? The nurses’ station to which the doctors also had access. Plus, the whistler would show up on the safety cameras in the ward, not to mention the security cameras outside—how had he avoided them? She added security guards to her list of possible suspects.

  Her mind spun as she tried to force her brain to follow logical paths. All she ended up with was another violent headache that made her eyes hurt as she forced away visions of her father’s victims and what he’d done to them after he drugged them. His laughter filled her ears. She batted the imaginary noise away, slapping at her head.

  Maybe she couldn’t figure out who the whistler was with logic—not the way her brain kept twisting like a kaleidoscope, mixing up shattered pieces of both past and present.

  “Tonight we don’t take the pills,” she told the kids.

  They nodded eagerly—little Justin and Maria had no idea what they were talking about, she was sure, but the older kids seemed to understand. It would be easy for them to hide or spit out their pills. But Morgan couldn’t swallow pills yet—she got her meds via the damn PEG. She’d have to figure out a way to sabotage it.

  The ward door opened, and
a tall blonde breezed in. She ran to Justin, gathering him in her arms, her designer silk shawl dipping into Maria’s mashed potato gravy.

  “Darling,” she crooned. “How’s my big boy today?”

  Despite her elegant cream-colored pantsuit and heels, she sat on the floor, hauling Justin into her lap. “I’m sorry I missed lunch,” she said, between smoochy cheek kisses. “I had to meet with the lawyers. We’re getting you out of here—tomorrow you’re coming home. Won’t that be great?”

  “With Daddy?” Justin asked, in a tiny voice that wrenched at Morgan’s heart. “Can he come home, too?”

  The blonde sighed and arranged her face in a smile. “No, darling. Daddy’s not coming with us. But you and me, we’re going on a trip. Far away to the beach! We’ll have so much fun.”

  Despite her gleeful tone, Justin appeared unconvinced. “And when we come back home, Daddy will be home again? Can’t he come to the beach, too?”

  “Your father can’t leave the state, much less come anywhere near us. The lawyers fixed it so he’ll never hurt you again. From now on, it’s just you and me.” She hugged Justin tight, but over her shoulder,

  Morgan saw that Justin was crying. And they weren’t tears of joy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jenna waited with Andre while Nick checked them in at the front desk and got their visitors’ badges along with directions to the conference room. She hated hospitals—who didn’t?—but Angels didn’t really feel like a hospital. Instead, it reminded Jenna of one of her boarding schools when she was young—the one near Monterey, where her parents had sent her when she was seven. Same bright and cheery ambiance, all windows and skylights and open spaces, same quiet focus on the work being done, same smiling staff who could be androids for all the real emotion they revealed. God, she’d hated it there.

  Even the flooring here was the same weird vinyl that muffled the sound of their footsteps, making her feel small and inconsequential—just like when she was seven. The same bland cheerfulness continued into the administration wing. As difficult as it was seeing kids sick, Jenna much preferred the messy noise of Morgan’s ward.

  The conference room door was open, muffled voices coming from inside. Nick tapped on the open door, Jenna behind him, Andre bringing up the rear.

  “Sorry, are we early?” Nick asked, obviously concerned about intruding upon another patient’s conference.

  “No, we just got started.” Dr. Lazarus was ensconced in an executive chair at the head of the table. To his left was a woman in a white lab coat—Dr. Paterson, Jenna remembered. And on his other side was a man in a business suit whom she hadn’t met before. Several of the clinical staff also sat at the table. “Come in, have a seat.”

  The only empty chairs were at the far end of the table, and the room quickly felt crowded once Jenna, Andre, and Nick joined the others. Lazarus squared off a sheaf of papers, while everyone else in the room had tablet computers in front of them.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lazarus said—as if he’d invited them instead of Nick bullying him into letting them attend. “We usually don’t include relatives—er, outsiders—”

  “Family will do just fine,” Andre said, settling back in his chair as far as it would allow and crossing his arms as if he were the original immoveable object. “We’re the closest Morgan has to family. We know her better than anyone.”

  Lazarus inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, Miss Ames does pose an interesting conundrum. Not just legally, but clinically.”

  Paterson tapped her index finger on the stack of papers before Lazarus, redirecting his focus. He cleared his throat. “Before we get to that, allow me to introduce everyone. You’ve already met my associate, Dr. Paterson. And Kristyn, Morgan’s therapist. She not only performs Morgan’s physical therapy, she also coordinates her other therapy modalities, such as speech, occupational therapy, cognitive functioning, and education. Think of her as the team leader.”

  Kristyn gave them all a wave and smile. “Hi, guys. Thanks for coming. Can I just say, Morgan is an exceptional young lady? I’m so pleased by the progress she’s made in such a short time.”

  “We’ll have time for that later, Kristyn,” the man to Lazarus’s right said in a friendly but firm tone.

  Kristyn bobbed her head. Lazarus continued, “Across from her is Gino, our head nurse. He oversees the nursing staff and their aides on the wards.”

  Gino, a tall, skinny black man, was typing on his tablet, and simply gave them a quick nod.

  “And finally, I believe you’ve met my brother, John.” He indicated the man to his right. John Lazarus was at least ten years younger, but he shared his brother’s expression of superiority, his gaze dismissive of Andre and Nick, homing in on Jenna—probably because he knew she was the one with the money to pay for Morgan’s stay at Angels. In his mind, the only one worth his notice. “Our chief administrator.” Lazarus made the title seem dismissive.

  John gave an absent nod to his brother’s words, smoothing out invisible wrinkles from the sleeve of his Armani jacket. “I’ve met Dr. Callahan and Mr. Stone, but haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Galloway before today.”

  “You’ve been cashing my checks just fine,” Jenna pointed out.

  With the state taking custody of Morgan, the only way they’d agreed to allow her to come to a private rehab clinic was if someone else footed the bill. Jenna figured it was the least she could do—and it was one more point in favor of her and Andre eventually becoming Morgan’s foster parents.

  Better them than some innocent civilian who’d have no clue what they were bringing home.

  “Yes. Thank you. But I expect that will no longer be an issue.” John’s tone was clipped and formal, dripping with disdain.

  Jenna felt Andre tense beside her. “Why?” he asked. “You’re not discharging her, are you? Children and Youth aren’t sending her away? They can’t do that, not after she’s made such great progress.”

  “No, Mr. Stone. Nothing like that, I assure you.” John glanced at Lazarus who picked up the conversational baton.

  “Just the opposite, in fact,” Lazarus told them. “Morgan’s progress has been quite remarkable, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss. She’s exhibiting signs of Lazarus Syndrome—”

  “What’s that?” Jenna asked before Andre could. Beneath the table, his leg was jerking, a jittery sign of anxiety. She slid her hand onto his thigh to quiet it and then took his hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly. His emotions always got the better of him when Morgan was involved—even before she’d risked her life to save his.

  “It’s a rare neurological phenomenon seen in patients suffering post-resuscitation neurotrauma,” Dr. Paterson answered. “Much like Korsakov’s or mild Alzheimer’s, its hallmark is confabulation. Dr. Lazarus is the premier researcher in the field.”

  Lazarus spread his hands as if accepting an award rather than a vague compliment, a pleased grin aimed at Paterson. The woman, despite her age, blushed under his attention.

  “That’s a real thing?” Jenna asked. “Lazarus Syndrome? Like the Bible story?”

  “The serendipity of my name has guided my life’s work. I did the original research and discovered the syndrome during my fellowship, studying the after-effects of clinical death and resuscitation.” Lazarus chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not talking about near-death experiences and all that religious white light mumbo-jumbo. I’m talking about clinical research, classifying the variety of physiological responses the brain exhibits after brief bouts of death, and developing treatments to assist patients during their neurorehabilitation.”

  Brief bouts of death? Jenna glanced at Andre, whose jaws clamped tight at Lazarus’s casual description of what Morgan had suffered.

  “My focus is on children because of their neuroplasticity,” Lazarus continued. “But my findings are applicable to all patients.”

  “Wait,” Andre blurted as he finally understood. “You’re saying all the kids here at Angels, th
ey’ve all died?”

  Lazarus looked irritated at the interruption, but it was his brother, the chief administrator, who answered. “Of course. That’s why we accepted Morgan as a patient in the first place.”

  “Her deaths are what make her special,” Lazarus continued. “Along with her brain’s response to being resuscitated. You see, Lazarus Syndrome is quite rare—many patients simply suffer too much hypoxic brain damage to even rise to the level of cognition where they can exhibit the symptoms. So when I find a patient exhibiting its symptoms, I enroll them in an observational study.”

  “Morgan won’t like playing the role of a guinea pig,” Andre said.

  “Observational study,” Lazarus repeated, irritation coloring his voice. “Besides, she has no choice in the matter. Her caseworker already signed off on it, and I’m her medical guardian ad liteum.”

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Nick asked.

  “Maybe if I were running a clinical trial. But this is simply allowing me to use her rehabilitation as a case study.”

  “But to err on the side of caution, we’ll no longer be requiring outside funding for Morgan’s care,” Paterson added.

  She didn’t seem so happy about the prospect—neither did Lazarus’s brother. Jenna wondered how often Dr. Lazarus’s obsession with the syndrome he’d named for himself interfered with the clinic’s finances. The man didn’t even bother to try to hide his egomania, barely cloaking it in the name of research.

  “We won’t treat her any differently,” Kristyn chimed in. “It’s data we already gather on all our patients anyway, part of best coordinating their therapy.” She clamped her mouth shut when Paterson glared in her direction.

  “Exactly,” Paterson said firmly. “Being the subject of a case study for Dr. Lazarus’s research changes nothing for Morgan. It’s simply a formality. And quite an honor.”