by C. J. Lyons
“Help her become that physician,” Nora urged. “Put down the gun and help her. You can save her life, I know it. She’s defending you—even now, knowing everything, she doesn’t believe you could hurt anyone. Prove her right.”
She thought she was getting through to him when he removed his hand from the gun and picked up a picture from the desk. “Amanda took this. Faith and I holding little Joey before he died. He was so tiny, so very tiny.” He looked up, his eyes blazing with clarity. “Tell Faith everything I’ve done, I did for her.”
Before Nora could move, he raised the gun and placed it to his temple, pulling the trigger.
FORTY-FOUR
Friday, 9:12 P.M.
“WE CAN’T WAIT ANY LONGER FOR NORA,” LUCAS said, glancing at the clock on the wall of the office shielded by thick glass. The hyperbaric chamber was in the basement, on the other end of the hospital from pathology and much creepier. They were in the control room just beyond where the two single-patient chambers sat. “I guess she changed her mind—sure you don’t want to as well?”
Amanda did. She’d seen pictures of hyperbaric chambers before, but had never realized how small and claustrophobic one was until she got up close.
She crossed into the other room and tapped the thick glass wall of the torpedo-shaped cylinder. The sound had the same hollow thud as clods of dirt hitting a coffin. She shivered, pulling her patient gown tighter. No metal was allowed in the hyperbaric area, nothing that could potentially create a spark or any static electricity. All the better not to blow up the hospital.
She shook herself, pushing her fears aside—although she was certain they weren’t out of reach. “No. Let’s do this.”
“You didn’t tell me you were claustrophobic.”
“Guess it shows, huh?”
“Only the pulse throbbing in your neck, the fact that you’re suddenly paler than my lab coat, and the sweat breaking out—”
“Ladies don’t sweat, we perspire.” Bantering with him was easier than imagining herself squeezing inside that tiny circular coffin. Once inside she wouldn’t have room to move, her face would be only a few inches away from the walls, and she’d be strapped to a stretcher.
“Maybe we should wait.”
“No. You saw how fast Tracey and Becky went downhill. We can’t risk waiting if we’re going to save Tracey. And the IRB won’t give you approval, not without proof.”
“At least let me sedate you.”
“Then you’ll lose your neuro exam.” She faced the chamber and tried to ignore her heart, which was pounding so hard it was choking her. “I can do this.”
“You sure?”
“It’s the only way.” With his help, she climbed onto the stretcher that lay on rails extending from the outside world into the airtight chamber. He slid her inside but didn’t strap her down or close the door. Even knowing that escape was mere inches behind her, she still began to hyperventilate with panic.
Her breath fogged the glass immediately before her, making her feel as if she were suffocating. Her lips grew numb; her fingers began to curl into futile claws, numb from hyperventilating; and her heart thudded against her chest wall.
As her vision dimmed, she heard the whisper of well-oiled ball bearings and suddenly fresh air blanketed her.
“Slow down, Amanda, you can’t let yourself panic.” Lucas’s voice filled her awareness.
Slowly her vision cleared again and she saw his face staring down at her in concern as he raised her hand. His fingers on her pulse were warm, steady.
“If you hyperventilate, you can precipitate more protein deposition. You have to calm down, breathe slowly. In, out. That’s it.”
She matched his slow deep breaths, and the panic subsided.
“That’s better. Can you squeeze my hands? Any after-effects?” He quickly did a neuro assessment. No change. Her left leg was still useless, her left arm numb and weak.
“I’m okay now. I just need a minute.” She hated lying here, so vulnerable. Hated even more the worry that consumed his expression.
“No. We can’t risk it. If you have a panic attack and hyperventilate it could be devastating.”
Lethal was more like it, but she was glad he hadn’t chosen that adjective. “I won’t panic.” She wished she sounded more confident—then maybe she could convince herself. “Let’s go.”
His fingers taking her pulse slid around to grasp her hand and squeeze it. “Amanda. We’re talking about your life here.”
“And your career—if anyone finds out that you circumvented the Institutional Review Board, it will mean your job.”
He shrugged. “That’s not important.”
“I can do this, Lucas. I know I can.”
“Okay. But listen to me on the intercom. I’m going to give you a few minutes to acclimatize before I seal it.”
Once the double seals on the door were applied, the chamber was unable to be opened from the inside. She’d be totally helpless, locked inside the glass tube smaller than a coffin. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry, so instead she nodded her understanding. He slid her inside once more, closing the hatch without locking it.
“Can you hear me?” His voice came over the speaker.
“Yes.” She felt the panic rise, pounding against her like hurricane-driven waves against the shore.
“Focus on my voice and your breathing. Doing okay?”
His face was oddly distorted by the thick glass that encased her, making his features look like an anxious old wise man from a fairy tale. Guess that would make me Sleeping Beauty. She giggled—laughing seemed to ease the panic.
“I’m okay.”
“Good. We’ll take it slow. Try putting the mask on. Let’s make sure you’re okay with that.”
She fumbled for the black mask—it was thick and bulky and looked like what a fighter pilot would wear. Once the chamber was flooded with pressurized hundred-percent oxygen, she was at risk for oxygen toxicity, so Lucas would monitor her status and send regular air through the mask when she needed it. The mask felt heavy on her face, clammy with her sweat, and smelled like a rubber dog toy, slick with doggy spit.
At first the smell made her stomach roil, but she simply closed her eyes and thought of home. The way the sun made the salt marshes shimmer like sapphires and the spartina grass became waves of emerald and gold spun from magic. The graceful glide of a blue heron, the lazy-dazy roll of dolphins in the surf, the tickle of sand between her toes. In her mind she was walking on the beach near home—and Lucas was there with her, strolling at her side, holding her hand.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
She nodded, relaxed and blissful, then realized that it was the real Lucas who had asked—and there was no way he could see her nod beneath the mask. She opened her eyes. The overhead light framed him in a rim of silver. “I’m fine.”
“Give me a minute to set up the computer and we’ll get started.”
He vanished from sight. She lay there, trying to be patient when all she wanted was for this to be done with. She’d have a few hours trapped inside the chamber; she hoped her imagination was strong enough to keep her mind occupied and panic-free that long.
“How much air does this thing hold?” she asked, not certain she wanted to hear the answer. “I mean, if the oxygen cut off, how long would I have?”
“We could find out if you like.” Faith Nelson’s voice cackled through the intercom. Then her face appeared, grotesque and contorted by the glass separating them.
Amanda tried to squirm around, but ended up with the mask falling to one side and her palms pressed against the glass above her. “Where’s Lucas?”
“Incapacitated. I don’t think it’s permanent. Yet.”
Faith’s face grew larger as she peered down at Amanda. Her eyes were impossibly wide, the whites showing all around her irises, and her cheeks were flushed crimson red. It was the face of a madwoman, not the Faith whom she’d come to rely on as her surrogate mother. This wasn’t
the woman who had steered her to pediatrics, brought her homemade cookies at Christmastime, given her a calendar filled with beach scenes to ease her homesick heart. This woman was a total stranger … and appeared completely insane.
FORTY-FIVE
Friday, 9:52 P.M.
AFTER TREY LEFT, LYDIA SURPRISED HERSELF BY falling asleep. At first she’d paced, racing up the steps at every slightest sound, checking on Deon. But somewhere along the line she’d finally collapsed on the sofa and dozed off.
Until a large furry mass hurled itself at her, landing with a thud on her chest.
“No Name, get off,” she moaned, trying in vain to roll over and dislodge the heavily muscled and extra-large cat. No Name stayed with her, balancing like a lumberjack dancing on logs. “Okay, okay, Ginger Cat, get off,” she tried again. No luck.
Then the cat sank its claws into her arm, bringing her fully awake. Deon. Was something wrong?
The cat jumped silently to the floor, mission accomplished, and she sat up, listening intently. No noise from upstairs, but there was a strange shadow flitting past the front windows. Good thing the lights were off so whoever it was couldn’t see her. Bad news: she’d left the phone in the kitchen—the other end of the house from where Deon slept upstairs.
Not wasting time on debating her options, she crept through the shadows to the stairwell and silently jogged up the steps.
“Deon, wake up,” she whispered, nudging him awake with one hand while the other reached for the bedside phone. No dial tone and her cell was downstairs charging. Fear hummed through her, but she refused to let it hijack her focus.
She needed to protect Deon. That had to be her first priority despite the tightening of her gut and the spark of adrenaline flaring along her nerves.
He came awake quickly and silently. Long nights sleeping in a crowded shelter taught you to sleep light.
“Is it Gram?” he asked in a whisper as noiseless as her own.
“No.” The sound she’d been straining to hear came—the creak of the French doors immediately below them being forced open. “There’s someone in the house. I’m going down to distract him and when I do, I want you to go out the front door. You go through the backyard and cross the cemetery, you run until you find someone—there will be people at the ER in Angels, there’s plenty of lights on over there, you can’t miss it.”
His head was bobbing with her every word, eyes shining wide in the scant moonlight creeping in through the curtainless window.
“Can you do that?”
He nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing as he gulped. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby.” She hugged him close, quick and hard. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just do as I say and run and get help, okay?”
Another nod as he slipped from bed and stepped into his sneakers. Together they crept down the steps. She held him back on the landing, listening to the intruder’s footsteps thud against the linoleum. The intruder had turned on the kitchen light but not the dining room’s.
“Go,” she mouthed.
He squeezed her hand and as she flicked on the living room light, he ran to the front door, No Name following close behind.
“Who’s there?” she called out, covering the noise of the door opening.
Deon ran out into the night. The cat paused on the threshold, tossing her a glance over its shoulder, then vanished as well.
Deon’s safety assured—at least as sure as anything could be—Lydia closed the door. She sidled across the living room, grabbed the fireplace poker, and positioned herself against the wall at the edge of the large archway separating the living room from the dining room. It was on the opposite side from the staircase, so hopefully on the intruder’s blind side. His footsteps were now in the dining room, but she didn’t think he’d seen her.
She flattened herself, poker at the ready, waiting. She didn’t have to kill him, only slow him down long enough to allow Deon to escape. The familiar thrill of adrenaline surged through her veins. She didn’t have to kill him—but damn she wanted to, for terrorizing her and Deon this way.
“Now, don’t you make me chase you down,” a man’s voice cut through the dark. “I’d like to take things slow. Just like the way my baby is dying. Nice and slow.”
Kazmierko? Damn the man, she’d never thought he’d get violent. How the hell had he learned where she lived?
Adrenaline sharpened her senses, slowed down time. She focused on the target area, waiting for him to get close. Heard the creak of his step getting closer. His shadow loomed.
C’mon, c’mon. Just one more, one more step.
“DO YOU KNOW WHERE I’VE JUST COME FROM?” Faith demanded, pounding on the hyperbaric chamber.
“Faith, what’s wrong?” Amanda asked, panic seizing her. She was sweating, had her palms pressed against the glass, straining to see beyond the confines of the hyperbaric chamber. Then she saw what Faith was banging on the chamber with—the butt of a pistol.
“I just came from Norman’s office,” Faith continued, not waiting for Amanda to answer. “Where I arrived just in time to find him with his brains splattered all over creation.”
“Dr. Nelson’s dead?” Why? How? Amanda’s thoughts were buzzing faster than she could process. Why did Faith have a gun, why was she angry at Amanda, where was Lucas?
“He killed himself. Your friend Nora saw it, told the police that before he did, he confessed to killing the other women in his study, the ones like you. She also told them all about your little adventures in research, how you found out about the side effects of Norman’s newest project.”
She pounded on the chamber wall again, producing a shock wave that made Amanda’s ears ache. “He died because of you, Amanda! After everything he did for you, you killed him!”
“No,” Amanda protested, still trying to comprehend everything that had happened.
Damn it, if only she were outside where she could face Faith, try to explain. Instead she lay here helpless, a wall of glass between them. Not to mention a gun. Faith was the most rational, calm, caring person she knew—even when her baby had died, it was Faith who had offered comfort to Dr. Nelson.
“Faith, let me out of here so we can find the truth. Dr. Nelson would never hurt anyone.”
Faith’s face morphed into something from a childhood nightmare as she pressed it against the curved glass. “Of course he never hurt anyone. I did what had to be done to protect him.”
Amanda sucked in her breath, tasting the rubber from the mask that still covered her face. No. Faith couldn’t mean what she’d just said. Could she?
Faith continued, “When Lucas Stone developed the perle manufacturing process, I saw the future. I did what Norman needed. When Norman needed capital to fund his research, I was the one who slept with two of the hospital trustees and blackmailed them into supporting him. Not that they haven’t profited handsomely from their investment. And when Norman’s latest creation had some unexpected side effects—side effects that affected a minuscule portion of the population—I cleaned up the loose ends. As usual.”
“You killed those girls?” Amanda blurted the words out without thinking, too stunned by Faith’s confession. Despite her shock and fear, she felt a surge of anger at Faith’s betrayal. Amanda had looked up to Faith, accepted her as a surrogate mother. Damn it, she had trusted this woman.
There was a long pause, and Faith’s expression softened. She looked like the Faith Amanda knew, the person to whom Amanda had confided her fears and dreams, her hopes and aspirations. “No. I was trying to help, to find a way to reverse the effects. But everything I did made things worse, and the first one died. One death is all it takes to shut down a study, so after that …”
Her voice trailed away as she eyed the oxygen supply lines. “Now Norman’s gone and there’s nothing left. Thanks to you.”
“Faith, no. Think of Dr. Nelson. He wouldn’t want this.” Amanda’s voice sounded weak and pitiful through the intercom.
Faith merely smiled sadly, shaking her head. Then she jerked her chin, looking over her shoulder as if something had startled her.
“Poor Lucas is starting to wake up. Let me take care of him. Then you’re next.”
FORTY-SIX
Friday, 10:11 P.M.
BY THE TIME GINA RETURNED TO THE TABLE both men were gone, sticking her with the bill. Or rather, her father. She handed the waitress Moses’s platinum AmEx and waited for the prerequisite electrons to filter through the phone lines and back again to Diggers’s ancient computer system.
“It’s not your name on the card,” the waitress said, digging around in her mouth with a toothpick that had bright red plastic furls twitching from its end. “Says Moses Freeman Esq.”
Gina scooped up a handful of the chalky pastel mints from beside the cash register. Yum. Powdery mint, stomach acid, cheap bourbon, and chicken fat. Mm-mm-good.
“Never heard of a name like that before. Esq.” The waitress stared at Gina with bug eyes.
“It’s Inuit,” Gina told her. “We’re part Eskimo.”
“Oh. Well, good for yunz.” The computer finally spit out its approval and a receipt for Gina to sign. The waitress craned her neck, watching as Gina painstakingly wrote Gina Freeman Esq, with a flourish curling off the q. “Have a nice night.”
Gina nodded her thanks. She was all talked out for the night, swimming with her binge-induced endorphin fest. She pocketed the slip of paper for Moses, who would find some way to use it as a tax deduction. Most of her life she’d been saving tiny slips and proofs of her existence so he could write her off.
She giggled as she opened the car door. She was just a little tipsy. Maybe she should call her father’s car service again.
Her father. Well, at least she had one. But she didn’t have a Daddy like Amanda. Or a Dad like Nora. Real men, involved in their lives. People who had earned a nickname for themselves. A nom de guerre.
