Everyone has their mask that they wear, and for Ben it was that black eye make-up. Sam remembered the day he’d crawled through their apartment window, his eye bruised black-and-blue after one of his many confrontations with his inebriated mother. She remembered blotting the tears from his fourteen-year-old face, then gently tapping on concealer to hide the ugly bruise. And she remembered the mixture of fear and amusement on his face as she took out the liquid eyeliner to finish.
From that day on, he had worn the concealer and eyeliner every day. Sam could never be sure if he did it because he got hit more than she even knew, or if he just grew to like it, but she’d concluded that it was probably a bit of both.
“Well?”
Sam noticed that Ben was frowning. She’d hesitated too long. “Well, what?”
Ben sighed, completely exasperated. “My eyes, hello?”
Sam grinned. “Nothing. Not a smudge.”
Ben smiled broadly, closed the drawer behind him. “Good.” He stopped, looked Sam up and down for the first time, noting her disheveled appearance, the tears in her clothes. “Are you okay? You’re a mess.”
Sam caught a glimpse of herself in the metallic gleam of the drawers and winced. Damn, and I thought I felt bad... “Yeah, I’m okay, really. You wouldn’t happen to have a clean tee shirt anywhere, would you?”
Ben folded his arms across his chest, glared at Sam. “In my locker.” He continued to frown at her, his gaze stern and serious. At least, as much as it could be when you look like you’re sixteen years old instead of twenty-six.
“Can I have the shirt, please?”
Ben unfolded his arms, walked toward the plastic strip barrier and the front room beyond. “You can borrow one, yes, but only if you promise not to bring it back looking like the one you have on now.” He opened his locker, the metal on metal scrape sending a chill up Sam’s spine. If you could call it a chill. For some reason, it felt more like someone taking a carving knife and sharpening her spinal cord ... very... slowly. Maybe just residual from the fall... the doctor had said there would be lingering pain... but still...
Ben returned, tossing Sam a black tee shirt. Sam caught it expertly, slipped off her jacket. “How often do you lay in those drawers anyway?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Sam chuckled. “No. A world of no.”
She started to slip her shirt up slowly then stopped. Ben was still looking at her. Sam motioned for him to turn around. Ben was slow to react but finally turned his back to Sam. Grabbing up a rag, he wiped down one of the already cleaned tables as he watched her reflection in the mirrored door of a cabinet.
Sam carefully slipped the ripped shirt up over her head. The fabric pulled at her skin where the dried blood from the scratches had adhered it to her. She winced, quickly whisked the shirt up and over. She tried to look over her shoulder at the scratches on her back. They didn’t seem too bad considering.
She glanced up, almost catching Ben staring at her. He quickly looked down, furiously cleaning the surface of the table in front of him.
“To what do I owe this pleasure? What brings you to this City of the Dead, this dock upon the river Styx, this -”
Sam tossed her ripped shirt by him and into the garbage can nearby. “Enough, please, I just want to check on a body. MVA in the Village this afternoon. Armed robber versus bus... Bus won.”
Ben walked behind the counter, pulled the logbook out and slapped it on the counter. “This afternoon? Didn’t get much this afternoon.” He began leafing through the log sheets one after another.
Sam leaned on the counter. A nearby pile of books caught her eye and she hopped up onto the counter, pulled the pile of materials closer and began flipping through them. One after another, the insignia of the NYPD came into view. Sam closed the book in her hand – Principles of Criminal Justice. “Benny, I thought you already took the exams.”
Ben glanced up briefly before speaking. “Just trying to see what I got wrong.”
Sam waited expectantly for Ben to elaborate, but he had returned to the log sheets, a frown creasing his pale forehead. “And?”
Ben sighed, slapped the log sheet in front of him. “Everything!”
“Nothing.” Sam arched an eyebrow at her exasperated friend. Ben glared at her for a moment before returning to the pile of log sheets and flipping through them again. She watched her friend for a moment before speaking again. “Benny?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do when you’re on the job and you can’t wear eyeliner to work anymore?”
Ben froze mid-flip, looked up at Sam. His movements were exaggerated in their slowness as he responded with a long, drawn-out “Wh-a-a-a-a-a-t?” He grinned at the end, returning briefly to the log sheet before closing it up and slapping the top papers with a bang. “You sure they sent him down?”
Sam frowned. “They must have, where else would he be?”
Ben shrugged. “Well, I don’t have him.” He put the log sheets back under the counter. “Got an interesting one earlier, though. A woman, which is weird ‘cause I don’t usually get my women until later, when I order pizza.” He watched for Sam to react to the last bit, but she seemed preoccupied.
“Can I see her?”
Ben looked at Sam for a moment then shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”
He turned and headed back toward the Coolers. Sam followed him into the back and right up to drawer number 27. She watched Ben pull the drawer out and unzip the body bag. Inside, the cold, rigid shape of a dead woman in her early twenties stared back at them with lifeless eyes.
Ben grabbed a clean latex glove from a box on the autopsy tray and used it to touch the body as he attempted to close her eyes to no avail. “I hate it when they do that.”
“What happened to her?”
Ben gave up on the eyes, tossed the soiled glove in the nearby garbage can. “They found her in the bathroom of Club Pulse in the Village. Had enough heroin in her system to bring down a water buffalo. Or two.”
“That’s a lot of heroin.”
“I’ll say.” Ben zipped the body bag up, slowing slightly as the zipper passed over the dead woman’s face. He finished zipping, slid the drawer back in and closed the door. “Is something going on, Sam?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced at the wall clock – 5:30AM. Sam closed her eyes wearily. “If he turns up -”
“I’ll let you know.” Sam exited with a wave.
Ben picked up a mop, started in on the wet floor. He mopped over to the garbage can, looked in at the bloody, torn tee shirt Sam had taken off. He reached in, grabbed it and held it up.
Four large tears, equally spaced, each six to eight inches long, ran across the back.
Ben let out a long, slow whistle. “Damn.”
7
“THEY’RE EVERYWHERE. Watching you. Hunting you. They know where you live, where you work, what you eat, who you fuck, EVERYTHING!”
Diane Weber closed her eyes wearily as she listened to the tirade. Once a week like clockwork Luther stumbled into the ER smelling of cheap vodka, garbage, shit. He was a quiet drunk, but once he started to sober up, he started talking... It was the same spiel she’d heard so many times before... they were watching, they were lurking, and they were up to no good... Who they were remained to be seen. She sighed. Luther really needed to learn a new tune; he was beginning to get on her nerves. And seriously, Luther, you do not want to get on my nerves. She opened her eyes, looked up at the clock on the wall above the nurses’ station. 6:15... forty-five minutes to go. Damn, this shift dragged. And Luther is still talking.
“Well?”
Weber sighed again before responding, “Well, what, Luther?”
Luther’s grizzled jaw clenched, his teeth gritted as he answered her tightly, “Don’t you think something should be done about it?”
“About?”
“Them!”
“Right. Sorry.” Weber glanced around the ER. Night shift had finally all-but-cle
ared-out the people who had drifted in during the night looking for a bed to sleep it off, or just sleep period. The quiet was a welcome relief. Weber turned back to Luther, motioning him to lean in closer as she spoke in low tones. “I think maybe it would be best if we didn’t talk about any of this anymore, don’t you? I mean, they are listening, after all, aren’t they?”
Luther jerked back, stared at her for a long moment then nodded his head. “You are a wise woman. Good thinkin’.” He looked around furtively before making a break for the door.
Weber watched him shuffle toward the exit. The doors slid open in front of him and just as he started to step over the threshold, Weber called out, “Luther? Be careful out there.” Luther shivered, nodded, and scurried through the doors, disappearing around the corner.
“Couldn’t resist, could you?” Rey Morales leaned on the nurses’ station counter, smiling at the statuesque blonde in front of him.
Weber closed the charts in front of her, sliding them into the rack as she stood up. “Psych 101, Rey-Rey. Sometimes it is better not to orient the patient.” She winked at the desk clerk, grabbing her lab coat and heading for the staff lounge.
The heaving, retching sounds of vomiting greeted Weber as she exited the ER. Glancing toward the source of the noise, she saw a young woman bent over the nearby trash bin in the smokers’ nook. Lovely. Just what I wanted to hear after an entire night of listening to the same strained, stomach-churning sounds.
Sam stood up, searching through her pockets for a tissue or something, presumably to wipe the spew from around her mouth.
Weber hesitated then pulled a small packet of tissues from her lab coat pocket. She crossed the few steps separating them quickly and held the packet out toward Sam. “Here. You all right?”
Sam looked up at the proffered packet and took it with shaky hands. “Thanks.” Weber watched her carefully blot at her mouth, her forehead.
Sam leaned against the wall and took slow, deep breaths. “Sorry about that. I feel a little... lousy.”
“You look a little green. I have been seeing some flu cases already, a bit early but still...”
Sam shook her head slowly, “No, it isn’t flu. Something else.” She glanced around, but the area was surprisingly quiet and empty for the moment. Sam slowly slipped out of her jacket, turning so that Weber could see the back of her shirt. “Was in a bit of an altercation last night. My back feels kind of funny.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Again?” Sam strained to try to see the back of the shirt, finally pulling a part of it up. “Ah, shit, Ben’s going to be pissed.”
Weber glanced at her watch. What the hell, my break’s nearly over anyway. “C’mon, let me take a look at your back. How about that cut on your neck?” The electronic doors slid open in front of her; Diane stopped in the entryway.
Sam reached up to touch her neck as she moved to follow her, shook her head. “Its fine, I think.” Sam followed Weber as she moved through the ER. God, she’s fast. Or maybe I’m just that sick. She watched the blonde nurse speaking to the desk clerk, then motion to Sam to follow her to a small curtained area toward the back of the ER.
Sam eased herself into a chair and watched as Weber pulled bandages, gauze, alcohol pads and other paraphernalia from the cabinet nearby, laying them out on a rolling tray. She sat down on a rolling stool and slid over close to the chair, pulling the tray along with her. “All right, I’ll need you to lose the shirt.”
Sam nodded, slowly pulled the tee shirt up and over her head, pulling it across her chest to cover her breasts.
Weber looked at the wounds on Sam’s back. Long gashes, four of them, running parallel from her shoulder blades down and across the back from left to right. The shape of the wounds indicated they were scratches, but the size of them... She slipped on gloves and began opening alcohol pads. “This will probably sting... a lot.” Weber carefully touched an alcohol pad to the first scratch; Sam didn’t flinch. “So, what happened?”
“Ran into an old friend.”
Weber dabbed at the second wound. “Really? Was this friend, by any chance, a cougar? Your back looks like you were the special guest on ‘When Animals Attack.’” She paused then moved on to the next wound. “I should draw some blood, just to be safe. Has your Tetanus been updated recently?”
“A month ago.”
Weber nodded, reached into her lab coat pocket and pulled out a packaged disposable syringe, vial, and sterile needle. She quickly put the pieces together and pulled a tourniquet from the other pocket. “Turn around and lay your arm on the tray.” Sam turned in the chair and laid her left arm on the tray. Weber quickly tied the tourniquet just above the elbow and rubbed rather roughly along the inside of Sam’s elbow, pushing at the blood vessels there. A large greenish-blue one quickly popped to the surface.
Weber opened an alcohol swab and cleaned the area then quickly popped the needle in and began to draw up a vial of rich red blood. Sam watched for a moment then turned away. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Weber glanced up at her. “You all right?” Sam nodded, swallowing hard before opening her eyes up again.
Weber finished drawing the blood and removed the needle, placing a clean piece of cotton on the spot. “Hold that there for a minute.” Sam placed two fingers on the cotton and watched as Weber searched in her lab coat pockets.
“I thought I had a Band-Aid in here. I usually do... ah!” Weber pulled out a Band-Aid. A Scooby Doo Band-Aid. “Oh. Yeah, there were a few kids in here tonight. You like Scooby Doo?” Sam chuckled, nodded. Weber placed the Band-Aid over the cotton on Sam’s wound then returned to the wounds on her back.
“Speaking of blood, I was hoping I would run into you again. I wanted to ask you about your grandfather.”
Sam whirled; her expression fearful. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, no, no! Sorry, yes, he’s fine.” Weber began to apply ointment to the back wounds. “It’s just, when the bloodwork came back it indicated that his white blood cell count was a bit on the high side. Normally, that would indicate infection, but Mr. Karolyi’s wounds are healing without incident. Has anyone ever mentioned anything like that to you, a doctor maybe?”
Sam shook her head. “No. Is it something I should be worried about?”
Weber shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’ll keep a close eye, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” She laid the ointment tube down on the tray. “There, all done. I’m not going to cover them with anything. Just keep them clean and dry, okay?”
Sam nodded, pulled her shirt back on carefully. “Thanks, Diane.” She slipped her jacket back on and stood to leave.
“I heard Dr. Hudson invited you to participate in his genetics study.” Sam turned back, unable to hide the surprised look on her face.
Weber smiled, a Mona Lisa-esque upturn at the corner of her mouth. “You can’t keep things quiet in a hospital. Eyes and ears everywhere.” She paused for a moment, pocketing the materials from the tray in front of her and standing up. “Are you going to do it?”
“I told him I’d get back to him.”
Weber smiled genuinely this time and crossed the room, stopping beside Sam in the doorway. “Well, don’t let him pressure you into something you don’t want to do. That accent of his could make one do just about anything.”
“Oh, you mean the Double-O-awesome accent? I hadn’t really noticed.” Sam smiled. “Don’t worry. I never do anything I don’t want to do.”
“Good. He always has plenty of research subjects available. It is New York, after all.” Weber glanced at the clock in the hall... 6:55. “Go home, Sam. Your grandfather will be fine. He’s got the best doctors and nurses in the city looking after him. Get some sleep.”
Sam nodded and started down the hall toward the exit. Weber smiled and watched until Sam disappeared around the corner and out the ER doors.
Weber’s smile faded. She reached into her lab coat pocket and pulled out the vial of blood, fingering it carefully, turning it in the light. Sh
e closed the vial within her hand, her fingers quickly surrounding it and hiding it from view. She glanced at the clock again. He should still be up there... She hurried past the nurses’ station and hit the button to call for the elevator. Moments later, the doors opened, and she stepped inside quickly, pressing the “close door” button several times. The doors began to close, and she quickly hit the number “7,” then stood and watched as the door closed completely.
SEVENTH-FLOOR SATELLITE Lab
Filled with microscopes and the paraphernalia of medical research and scientific study, the seventh-floor lab, dubbed “The Sanctum” by many of the first-year medical residents, was curiously devoid of research and study.
Usually at this early hour, at least some residents still peopled the room, attempting to at least give a good facsimile of studying through the catatonic haze of a post all-nighter.
Jack Hudson glanced up from his microscope, scanned the room. It had been like this all night; a blessing for him, since his work was not exactly part of the standard curricula. He preferred the solitude, as it spared him the necessity of explaining... anything. The time would come when all that he had learned so far, and all that he had yet to learn, could be presented to the world, but not yet.
He turned back to the microscope, looking carefully into the eyepiece at the slide beneath, adjusting the dials slightly to clarify the image before him. Amazing... absolutely amazing!
Hudson took a moment to note down the time. Nearly five hours and there is still no change in the cells. Mitochondria, nucleus, cell wall... all intact and functioning normally, despite the presence of the retrovirus. Even more impressive, the virus and the cell appeared to be coexisting, possibly even symbiotically working together. Hudson sat back, ran a hand through his hair and down along his jawline. Wish I could have seen the specimen under better circumstances. He rubbed his jaw again, glanced at his reflection in the metal cabinet nearby. Speaking of better circumstances... He noted the heavy stubble scattered across his jaw, the gray hairs showing in his dark hair, the dark circles under his eyes. Hudson looked up at the clock on the wall. Rounds in an hour... Enough time to shower and shave... and coffee. He’d have to worry about the gray some other time.
The Bloodline Series Box Set Page 6
