Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  "Lady, you're gonna have to move," he told her in a brusque voice.

  "I'm not leaving her." Her eyes never left Fran's face, now chalky white against the blacktop.

  "You don't leave on your own, I'll move you myself," he said, placing his hands on his hips.

  Cassie wrapped her arms tighter around her body. She couldn't feel her feet, they were as numb as blocks of concrete. She shuddered as the corner of the sheet covering Fran's body danced in the wind, giving the illusion that Fran was still moving, still alive.

  "Please, lady," the cop's voice dropped now, almost pleading. "Just move back a little. We got to take care of her now. Won't you let us do that for your friend?"

  Blue and red flashing lights surrounded her, bathing her in their surreal colors. Cassie nodded and shuffled back a few steps, still in eyeshot of Fran, but out of the way.

  She choked back tears of frustration. Why didn't the killer come after her instead of Fran? It wasn't fair, wasn't right.

  No one ever promised the world would be fair, she heard Gram Rosa's voice whisper through her mind.

  Cassie raised her hand to her lips, sealing in her cries of anguish. Her vision blurred as she stared at Fran's body.

  It should have been Cassie.

  Chills cascaded over her flesh as she stood in the sleet, her friend's blood soaking her skin and clothes.

  "Harley, would you move this lady," a uniformed officer called out, this one with Crime Scene Unit emblazoned on his jacket and carrying a tackle box. "Jeez, this place is a circus."

  "Yeah, we're gonna do a lot of good here," his partner said, banging Cassie's hip with his camera bag. "Fucking rain just won't give us a break."

  "Harley," the first one shouted. "Who taught you to secure a scene? Would you get this woman out of our way?" He glared at Cassie as if his eyes held enough force to move her. She merely stared back, willing her trembling to stop.

  The uniformed cop returned to plead his case. "Miss, I asked you before--"

  "I'm staying with her." Cassie was surprised by how level her voice was.

  "C'mon lady, give me a break. It's freezing out here, don't you want to go inside where it's warm?"

  She turned her gaze back to Fran and ignored him. She liked the cold, it numbed her to her pain. Right now the cold was her only friend.

  "I've got it, Harley," a familiar voice came from behind her.

  She didn't turn. Drake was the last person she needed right now. He might try to reason with her, talk her out of this rage building within her.

  "Hart, go inside," he told her, his voice commanding. When she didn't respond, he moved in front of her, blocking her view of Fran. Cassie shot him a quick glare and took a step to one side. He paralleled her movement.

  "I mean it. Your teeth are chattering, you'll make yourself ill. Then what good would you do Fran?"

  Logic. Just what she'd expect from him.

  "I'm staying." She took another step.

  Instead of moving with her, Drake stepped toward her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, snugging her close. But he didn't try to force her to move. Together they stood, his body pressed against hers, sharing his warmth, as they stared down at Fran.

  "I'm sorry." His whisper barely carried over the rain bouncing off the pavement.

  A wave of exhaustion crashed down on Cassie, crumpling her strength. She leaned against his shoulder. He wore an old wool peacoat that smelled of lanolin and musk. The rain had curled his hair, and there were goosebumps on the back of his neck. His arm tightened, pulling her closer.

  "You ready to go inside, tell me what happened?"

  Too numb to speak, she nodded. Fran was gone.

  Drake led her through the maze of cars and cops and gawkers, then into the shelter of the ER. They moved down the rear hallway, and he turned slightly to bump through a swinging door.

  "You can't come in here," Cassie said when she saw where he had brought her. The women's locker room was empty. Drake didn't seem to notice, steering her past the gray metal lockers and wooden benches to the shower stalls. He reached out an arm and turned on the water as hot as it would go.

  "You're freezing." He slid her leather jacket from her shoulders and pushed her under the hot water.

  "Let me out!" The tiny jets stung her frozen skin. She raised her face to the stream of water. God, it did feel good.

  "Not until your lips stop turning blue."

  Newly awakened by the warmth of the water, Cassie looked down at her body. Her fingertips were blue, and shivers rippled across her flesh. She tried to pull her sweater off, but her hands fumbled uselessly at the sodden cotton.

  Drake reached into the stall. With a firm grip, he turned her around and tugged the clinging sweater over her head. His hand, hot against her chilled skin, rested for a moment against the small of her back, steadying her. Cassie watched, mesmerized by the vivid, technicolor swirls of blood circling the drain. She wished she could drown out the memories as easily, muffle the gurgling noise of Fran's last breath echoing through her mind, bury the sight of crimson splashing through her fingers, smother the smells of blood and sweat and terror...

  "This has got to stop," she said through chattering teeth. She wasn't talking to Drake in particular, more to herself, but she heard him sigh. He removed his hand from her flesh. She missed his warm presence with a yearning that surprised her.

  "I know," he said. "Can you manage the rest on your own?"

  Cassie turned to him, clothed now only in her sports bra and jeans. His eyes were fixed on her face, searching for her answer.

  "I'll be all right."

  He stared at her for a long moment, the muscles at the corners of his eyes tightening into small crow's feet of concern, then nodded and left.

  CHAPTER 21

  Drake already had an account of Weaver's death from the security guard. He would've liked to hear more from Hart, but that could wait. She would've told him if she had any urgent knowledge.

  His footsteps echoed through the dimly lit tunnel to the pharmacy. Janet Kwon was supervising the scene. Kwon knew better than wasting effort outside in the rain.

  "What've you got for me?" Drake asked, resting against the door jam, hands in his pockets until she cleared him to enter.

  "Come on in. It's not much." Kwon handed him a pair of vinyl gloves. "Tons of prints--will take us a long time to go through them all. Looks like she was grabbed here." She gestured to an overturned cup of coffee at a debris-covered desk.

  "Didn't put up a lot of a struggle. Here's the tape he used to restrain her." She indicated a roll of reinforced strapping tape. "Our actor was too smart to take it with him. It's that damned Discovery Channel, it's like Criminal U."

  Drake nodded, he'd heard it before. At least it wasn't duct tape, that would have Kwon, who worked sex crimes before she came to Major Crimes, ranting about how the omnipresent silver tape should be bought by licensed non-rapists only. He was more interested in what was missing from the desk. "Where's the computer?"

  Kwon crooked a finger at him. "No disks or hard copy anywhere, but the CPU is over here." They rounded a corner and Drake groaned. The computer unit had been torn open, the individual components immersed in a sink full of, he sniffed, isopropyl alcohol. "Looks like he tried to torch it. It didn't catch, we can maybe recover something useful."

  "How long?" he asked. She shrugged her answer.

  "Not much else to see, except that the narcotics vault, if you can call it that, is empty."

  He looked past the sink to the corner of the room where a metal lock box sat on the counter, its door twisted off its hinges. "That can't be standard hospital issue. It wouldn't stop any serious thief for more than a few seconds."

  "Apparently these digs are only temporary while they're remodeling the real thing. You'll have to ask the boss man, Krakov's his name, for more details. Not too happy about finding his pharmacy a crime scene, either."

  Drake turned around, surveying the scene for anything Kwon might h
ave missed. As usual there was nothing. "Guess I'd better go talk to Krakov."

  "Did you know the vic?" Kwon asked.

  "I met her this morning," he told her. "Why?"

  "No reason, you just seem a bit off your pace, that's all."

  Drake stripped off his gloves, wadded them into a ball and aimed for the trash bag Kwon had hung at the entrance to the crime scene. He missed. "No sleep for a few days will do that to an old man like me."

  "If you say so. Just you haven't looked like this since what happened last summer."

  He frowned, retrieved the gloves and deposited them in the bag. "Where's Krakov?"

  "The office." She nodded her head toward the open door on the opposite side of the room. "It's clean, I already checked."

  He left her to do her job.

  Cassie bowed her head against the stream of hot water. Finally, she took in a shuddering breath, collapsing onto the tile floor beneath the stream of water. She hugged her knees to her chest and leaned her forehead against the wall.

  It should have been her. Why wasn't it? Why hadn't he killed Cassie? Maybe he would have if she hadn't grabbed the guard at the entrance. The thought should have left her cold with terror, but it didn't.

  She felt nothing.

  Cassie sat there long enough for her skin to prune. Trembling, she climbed to her feet and turned the water off. She stripped free of the wet jeans and underwear and threw her bloodstained clothes in the garbage. Wrapping one towel around her hair and another around her body, she went to her locker. Not much to chose from: her Nomex flight suit, bright with its reflective stripes and brass pins, a white lab coat, or a sweaty black cotton gi in a forgotten gym bag.

  Her hand brushed against the white lab coat and flinched away. No, she would not dress like a doctor, not tonight. The gi, with its flowing pants and loose fitting top, would be more comfortable against naked skin than the itchy Nomex. A spare pair of running shoes, sans socks, completed her ensemble.

  She sat on the wooden bench and dried her hair, exhausted by making the simple decision. How could that be? She made decisions all day long--life and death decisions. Like asking her friend to help her, introducing Fran to Drake.

  What was she going to do next?

  At first she fought against the need to make another choice--who would she hurt with this one? She flung her head upside down, rubbing at her hair with the energy of a maniac. She remembered Rosa combing it with infinite patience every morning before school.

  Gram Rosa, the one ghost whose presence she welcomed.

  What would Rosa say now?

  Suddenly Cassie heard Rosa's voice echo through the locker room with absolute clarity. You must live forever or die trying.

  Cassie straightened. The scent of lavender and lilacs filled the room. Despite the weight of sorrow and unshed tears, she found her lips easing into a reluctant smile. Rosa had outwitted the Nazis, fought with the Resistance, once even escaping from the Gestapo. But more important, Rosa was a Rom, a gypsy of the Kalderasha tribe. If anyone could speak from beyond the grave it would be her.

  Live forever or die trying. Typical Rosa advice. Not to be taken at face value. Rosa did not mean to cloister herself away from her problems and thus stay safe and sound until old age took her. Cassie knew her gram's wisdom better than that. Rosa's message was to go out fighting, to risk everything on what she did today because there may not be a tomorrow.

  Die trying.

  Maybe. As Cassie stood up and shut her locker door, she realized that she no longer felt empty. Where there had been a frozen void, she now felt anger, an anger as sharp and brilliant as a scalpel blade.

  The man who killed Fran made a mistake when he didn't take Cassie as well, she decided as she reached for her father's jacket on the bench. There was nowhere to hide. She would make certain that he was brought to justice.

  Whatever it took.

  CHAPTER 22

  Cassie stepped out into the hall and headed toward the ER. She blinked in the bright lights. Wherever she looked, rainbow halos glimmered around her. Before facing her co-workers, she leaned against the wall and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her top. When she opened them again the halos had vanished. But the knot twisting her gut, pushing against her lungs so that it was hard to breathe, remained.

  She turned the corner and saw a familiar figure ahead, near the med room. Richard spotted her immediately, his long strides quickly cutting the distance between them.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, taking her elbows in his hands and holding her at arms length as if inspecting her for damage. "What happened?"

  Cassie was silent, wishing she had an adequate answer. He wore a tan trenchcoat draped over a silk suit ruined with rain and mud splatters. His shoes were also soaked through, leaving gray smears of footprints in his wake. Her glance traveled past him down the hall the way he'd come. What was he doing here?

  "Ella," he gave her a small shake, returning her focus to him. "What happened? What did you see?"

  "Fran's dead." It was an effort to choke out the words. Her voice sounded small, tinny as if it came from a great distance.

  "I know. What were you doing, getting involved in this? What were you thinking!"

  She tilted her head, her gaze sliding from his shoulder to his eyes. Their dull, sheet metal gray had been almost swallowed whole by his dilated pupils. His rapid blinking couldn't disguise the slight twitch at the corner of his left eye. She jerked away from his touch, shifted her weight to balance on the balls of her feet. "Are you using again?"

  His upper lip pulled back in a sneer. She met his gaze without flinching. He couldn't scare her. Not tonight, not after what she'd just seen, after what happened.

  "None of your business, Ella. None of this is any of your damned business. You'd better remember that."

  He took a half step toward her, trying to intimidate her with his height advantage. Cassie stood her ground. He stared at her for a long, hard moment, then lowered his hand.

  "Did you have anything--Richard, were you involved--" She broke off, unable to finish. The man she'd seen running away from Fran had seemed shorter than Richard, but it was dark and with all the mist and rain....

  "No! Of course, not. I'd never let anyone hurt you, Ella." His tone changed to one of possessive concern again. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder, frowning as if he expected someone to be there. "I have to go," he said abruptly. "I need to call Alan, the cops want to talk to me." He spun back to her in a move that caught her by surprise. He raised a finger to trace her jaw. His flesh felt icy against hers, as if he'd been the one caught outside in the rain. "I guess I have you to thank for that."

  Cassie climbed the stairs to the ICU, still puzzling over her conversation with Richard. If he knew who killed Fran, if Richard was somehow involved in the FX thefts....Her nails bit into her palms as she thought about the possibility. He was obviously using again, which made him a danger to patients as well.

  The glass doors of the ICU swished open, admitting her. She stopped at the nurses' station and called the Medical Board's 800 number.

  "I'd like to report an impaired physician," she said, leaving Richard's information on the anonymous recorded hot line. Richard was the one abusing drugs, not her, so why did she feel so guilty? But rational thought couldn't erase feelings reinforced during the three years she'd spent with Richard.

  Or the fact that she was betraying the man she once loved.

  Tapping her finger against her lips, she listened to the automated voice thanking her for her interest in aiding impaired physicians. She held onto the phone long after the dial tone began to buzz. Finally she lowered it back into its cradle. There, it was done.

  She found Brian, the young man who overdosed on the new combination of FX and MDMA, in a bed two spaces down from Jane Doe's. He was now on dialysis. A portable EEG machine sat at the foot of the bed, needles scratching against paper in a monotonous hum. His nurse glanced at Cassie's unusual garb, then looked away again. So, the
news had traveled up here already. Hospital grapevine, the original instant messenger.

  "How's he doing?" Cassie asked, glancing at the EEG tracing. The ink lines were flat and unvarying. Not a good sign.

  "They're still trying to find his parents, hoping they might consent to organ transplantation before..."

  Before his body deteriorated to the point where the vital organs became too damaged to donate. Which meant the boy in front of her was, for all intents and purposes, just as dead as Fran. Cassie reached a hand out, stroked her fingers along his well-muscled arm. She blinked hard, felt a pressure building behind her eyes as if something was trying to escape.

  "Kind of makes you think of that old commercial, doesn't it?" the nurse went on. "You know, the one with the frying pan and the egg. This is your brain on drugs."

  Cassie sighed and gave Brian's lifeless hand one last pat. "And my Jane Doe?"

  "Bed Four?" The nurse pursed her lips. "A little better, they're starting to wean her vent."

  At last some good news. Cassie left Brian and walked past two sleeping patients to bedspace four. She took the seat beside Jane Doe, holding her hand as she leafed through the chart, now the size of a bible.

  "It all started with you," Cassie told the sleeping teenager in a low voice. "If you would just wake up and tell us where those pills came from, we could end this before more people get hurt." She returned the chart to the bedside table and leaned over to straighten the girl's sheets, tucking them around her thin body.

  "I lost a friend tonight, to the same man who gave you those drugs. Fran was doing me a favor, she didn't want to get involved in this. She just wanted to get me to go out on a date, she thinks I spend too much time alone." She squeezed Jane Doe's limp hand in hers. "Fran's like that, always looking out for everyone else. She shouldn't even have been there tonight--"

  Cassie looked away, blinking hard against the glare of the overhead light. Once the tears had been subdued, she turned back to stroke the straight, blonde hair away from Jane Doe's face. "You know, when I was a little girl, I would have killed to have hair like yours. I begged and begged my father to let me bleach mine. I even tried washing mine in Chlorox. I was only six, didn't know you needed hydrogen peroxide."