“Maybe half a liver. Or a kidney. Or who knows what else.”
“How much can you get for a kidney or half a liver?”
“No idea.” Rachel set down her lemonade.
“Well, if there’s a lot of money in it, no wonder they didn’t like you nosing around.”
“If it really is a lot, and it just might be, I can even see how they might send somebody to take me out—because I got too close. I watched that surgery and then I saw that ward, both on the same morning.”
“And the thug they sent got Hank instead,” Goldie said. “Which means you’re livin’ a risky life right now. Real risky.”
“Mind if I join you?”
They both looked up, startled, to see Gabe standing there with a tray.
Rachel brought her napkin to her mouth, tried to think of an excuse to say no, but couldn’t. “Sure.” She gave Goldie a look that said, “Why this, why now?”
“You got me, kid,” Goldie said.
When Rachel had introduced them, and moved her tray to make room for Gabe’s, Goldie stood up. “I’m going to get some lemonade. You make it sound good slurping it through that straw.”
“Good sandwich,” Gabe said when he had taken a few bites.
Rachel was wondering how much he had heard. “I guess that’s why this place has been around more than a hundred years.”
“You must know all the funky restaurants.”
Goldie returned with a cup and straw. “Yessir, she does. What she doesn’t know is how to stay out of trouble.”
Rachel tried to think of something innocuous they could talk about until Gabe finished his meal.
Goldie solved that by asking, “You’re a pharmacist, right? One of those guys who just fills prescriptions all day.”
“Well, not exactly “just.” At Jefferson, we work with various medical teams. I work with the pain program. There are so many medications these days, no doc could keep up with them all. We give advice to MDs, DOs, even to dentists, as well as to patients. And yes, of course we count out pills and fill prescriptions.”
“You must have to take a course in reading bad handwriting,” Goldie said.
Gabe chuckled. “Well, yes. That is a problem.”
“I guess prescription drugs are pretty expensive these days,” Rachel said.
Gabe nodded, chewing.
“I mean, that OxyContin they accused me of stealing, you said that was worth maybe a thousand bucks.”
“Drug prices are getting worse by the day,” Gabe agreed.
“Is OxyContin the most expensive one in your pharmacy?”
“Oh, no.” Gabe shook his head. “Not even close.”
Rachel wished he would finish his sandwich and leave. She was wondering about something else now and wanted to talk to Goldie. If she shut up, maybe he would chew faster. But that might seem rude. “What high-priced drugs do you sell the most of?”
Gabe thought about that. “Jefferson has a big transplant program. So for our pharmacy it might be immunosuppressants.”
That was a more interesting answer than she expected. Rachel forced herself not to shoot a look at Goldie.
“Immunosuppressants are expensive?” Goldie was asking in a voice that sounded half bored.
“You better believe it.” Gabe finished his sandwich and stood up. “Sorry to eat and run, but I gotta get back.”
“Oh, no problem,” Rachel said.
“Nice meeting you,” he said to Goldie, and to Rachel, “Good to see you again.” And he was gone.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Goldie said. “Immunosuppressants. Isn’t that what they give to people who get someone else’s kidney, or whatever?”
“You got it. To keep the body’s immune system from rejecting foreign tissue.”
Goldie narrowed her eyes. “You think he heard anything?”
“Didn’t seem like it.”
Goldie stacked their paper plates and cups. “That doctor friend of yours, you think she might be in on something?”
“I’ve been wondering about that, but I really don’t think so. If she is, she’s the best actress I’ve ever seen. Emma has a real strong feeling for the Mexican people. It seemed hard for her to even talk about how poor they were down where her clinic was.”
The two women made their way out of the diner.
“I ran out of time this morning,” Rachel said. “I’m going back tomorrow.”
“If you get caught, girl, it’s gonna be splat. There won’t be enough of you left to mop up with a paper towel.”
A cell phone tootled. They looked at each other.
“Mine.” Rachel pulled it from her handbag. “Yes?” Her face went startled, then puzzled. “You’re kidding….No, that’s crazy. I have no idea….Can you take it off? Yes, for God’s sake, get rid of it.”
“What’s going on?” Goldie asked when Rachel had disconnected.
“You won’t believe this.”
“From your end of the conversation, you may be right.”
“That was Johnny Mack.”
“That’s all you need. Something expensive is wrong with your car?”
“No, the car’s fine. This is totally bizarre. I’d been wondering why some random goon took it into his head to shoot at Hank and me.”
“I’m kinda hoping it was just some lunatic hunter gone postal,” Goldie said. “Like the cops suggested.”
Rachel gave her head a couple small, slow shakes. “I was, too. But apparently that was no accident, no coincidence at all.”
“How would Johnny Mack know anything about that?”
“He found a tracking device under the Civic’s rear fender.”
Chapter Fifty
When Rachel got back to the garage, there were four voice-mail messages. Three were from places where she had applied for loans and she enjoyed deleting them. The fourth was from the attorney, Edgar Harrison. Her attorney. Her arrest. She was out on bail. It wasn’t even a month ago, but it seemed like a year, almost another life.
She dialed Harrison’s office.
“I have some news,” he said. “I think it’s good news.”
“Okay,” Rachel said warily. At this point it seemed to be getting more and more unlikely that there was good news anywhere.
“They’re offering a plea.”
“Like what?”
“They drop the charge to misdemeanor. You plead guilty and you’ll just get thirty days and a year probation.”
“No.”
“Rachel, you should think about this. The drug was found in the jacket you were wearing. Trials can be iffy. Thirty days would be over in no time.”
“And on my record for the rest of my life. No. Not just no, hell no. I didn’t do it and I’m not going to say I did.”
“I’m going to wait until Monday to respond. If you change your mind, give me a call.”
“I won’t change my mind, Mr. Harrison. I’m not going to say I did something I didn’t do.”
“Okay, okay. But remember, I won’t call them until Monday.”
Rachel disconnected, then dialed the main number of Pasadena Memorial General.
“Could you ring the room of Hank Sullivan?” she asked the receptionist. “I think it’s six-fourteen.”
The phone rang five times before he answered, and it sounded like the receiver had been knocked off the cradle rather than picked up.
“Hank?”
It seemed like a long time before he said, “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Another pause. “Yeah.”
“You don’t sound too good.”
“Prob’ly the drugs.” His voice sounded hoarse.
“What drugs?”
“Hospitals.…They stuff you full of ’em.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Mmmm….”
“You got the pajamas I left for you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You like them? At least they’re better than those stupid gowns.”
“Uh-huh.�
��
“I’m going to try to get over there this afternoon. Anything you want me to bring?”
“No. Won’t be here.”
“You won’t be there? Why not?”
This time the pause was longer before he said, “Tests.”
“Well, maybe this evening?”
She was still waiting for an answer when the line went dead.
999
Rachel spent the rest of the day worrying. Who the hell had put a tracking device on her car? Maybe it was there when she bought the car—which was not all that long ago. But in the end, that didn’t seem nearly as likely as the possibility that the device was what brought the shooter to the Angeles, and ultimately to their campsite. Which meant he was no mere hunter, berserk or otherwise.
Goldie thought Rachel should call the police about the device, but she put it off . Johnny Mack had already dumped it, but the cops would want to talk to him. He, like Rachel, had an arrest record, and she didn’t want to subject him to questioning when it was unlikely anything could be learned.
Why was Hank sounding so out of it? They sure weren’t kidding when they said he was sedated. Or was everyone lying to her? Was his condition worse than she thought?
999
She had trouble finding a parking space at the hospital in Pasadena. The whole area was humming with activity. Families with hyperactive tots with runny noses and teens who looked like they would rather be elsewhere were streaming through the lobby when Rachel finally reached the main door.
The line for visitor sign-in was long and slow. When she finally got to room 614, Hank was asleep in the bed by the window, his mouth slightly open, his sandy hair looking a bit damp, his face a little flushed.
This time, the other bed was occupied as well. An elderly man in a dotted blue hospital gown was sitting upright gazing at the television high on the wall. He seemed to be all bone except for wisps of reddish gray hair that stood out at odd angles.
Nodding at Hank, he said to Rachel, “Been like that all day. Sure wish he’d quit the snoring.”
Rachel moved one of the green-marbled plastic visitors’ chairs close to Hank’s bed, sat down, and took his hand in both of hers. He only snored a little louder.
“Hasn’t he been awake at all?” she asked the old man.
“Not when I was watchin’.”
Touching Hank’s cheek, she softly called his name. He turned his head but slept on. The bank of instruments next to his bed showed numbers, but she wasn’t sure what they meant.
She found a clean washcloth in the metal cabinet next to the bed and took it to the bathroom. There were pools of water on the floor. At least she hoped it was water. She tiptoed to the sink, dampened the cloth, went back to Hank, and gently wiped it across his face.
He felt warm. Was he running a fever? He turned his head back and forth as if trying to avoid the damp cloth, but still not waking.
Rachel folded the cloth, laid it on the cabinet, found the nurse call button, and clicked it on. Then she sat down, taking Hank’s hand again.
The old man was watching a sitcom and from time to time he cackled, although Rachel thought the show was seriously unfunny.
At least half an hour went by and still no nurse came in response to the call button. Rachel checked to be sure it was still on, then went down the hall to the nurses’ station. Inside the big square of countertops, five people in white were staring intently at papers or computer monitors.
She waited, cleared her throat, then tapped on the counter. “Excuse me?”
A dark man with long, straight jet-black hair and eyes that showed white all the way around the black centers looked up. “Yes?”
“The patient in room six-fourteen. Hank Sullivan. What’s going on with him?”
The man behind the counter tapped several computer keys and stared at a screen. “Sullivan, yes. Gunshot.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes. His condition is stable.”
“Are you sure? He doesn’t wake up.”
“Gunshot damage like this, you can’t expect too much yet,” the man said, still looking at the screen, that and the counter-level fluorescent lights giving his face a bluish cast. “But he is stable, really, ma’am.”
“He seems feverish. Is there an infection?” Rachel asked.
The man scribbled something on a pad of paper. “I’ll have someone check.”
“The call button has been on for more than half an hour.”
“We’re extremely busy tonight. This wing is full up first time all year. Accident on the freeway.”
“You won’t forget to check him? Room 614.”
“I promise.”
Rachel made her way back to Hank’s bed. Still no sign of consciousness. She sat, took his hand, and put her forehead down on the blanket next to it until a voice on the PA system announced the end of visiting hours.
Wanting to scream, wanting to be hysterical, she instead stood, then bent and kissed his forehead.
“Sure wish he’d quit snoring,” the old man said as she left.
Chapter Fifty-one
When her alarm clock went off at 4:30 Rachel tried to remember why she had set it so early. Then the reason came to her and she hauled herself out of bed to begin the exact same routine she had followed the day before. Except this time, she opened the box that had been delivered while she was up in the Angeles with Hank. The box Irene had put in the apartment. Inside was the hospital scrub suit she’d ordered, and she was glad to see it looked very similar to most of those worn at Jefferson.
As soon as she had finished her coffee, done her jog along the sleepy city streets, showered and changed, and eaten some trail mix, she slipped the flat, folded scrubs under her shirt.
Having stuffed as much of the folded green fabric as she could into the side of her jeans, where her arm could keep it from falling to the sidewalk, she made her way to the hospital.
Entering this time by the lobby door, because only from there was she sure she could find a ladies’ room, she waved boldly at the night-shift security officer, betting that there was no way he could remember the face of every single Jefferson employee.
He nodded and gave a small wave back.
Inside a stall in the restroom near the main lobby, Rachel shucked her jeans, shook out the scrubs, and donned the pants and top. She rolled up her jeans, shirt and jacket and shoved them down into the trash bin below the paper towel dispenser.
She took the elevator to the fourth floor and headed immediately for Miguel’s room, arriving a little earlier than she had the day before. This time all three boys in the room were asleep.
She went to Miguel’s bed and touched his shoulder.
He jolted awake, eyes startled, and sat up in bed frowning at her. “Que paso?” he asked sharply.
Didn’t he recognize her?
The boy in the next bed either hadn’t been asleep or was a light sleeper. He rolled over, sat up, and shot a sentence of low staccato Spanish at Miguel.
Miguel went on frowning and Rachel realized it was the scrubs that kept him from recognizing her.
“Remember me?” she asked. “From yesterday. I told you I would come back.”
“Sí?” Miguel sounded unsure.
Rachel pinched some of the pale green material at her shoulder. “I’m wearing this so people will think I work here.”
“Disfraz?” Miguel asked.
Not understanding the word, but recognizing the first syllable as sounding the same as that of “disguise” or “deceive,” Rachel ventured a tentative, “Yes.”
“Comprendo.” The boy’s face relaxed.
“I thought maybe you would go with me to Soledad’s room.” The limited English of both Soledad and Miguel would double Rachel’s chances of being understood.
He nodded, got out of bed, and padded barefoot across the room. At the door, he stopped and touched an index finger to his lips, then motioned for Rachel to wait. The other boys, both awake now, sat on the edges of thei
r beds, apparently unwilling to be left out.
Miguel inched his head past the door. Trying to do something without being seen clearly was not new to him. He looked both ways, then signaled her to follow him. She heard the bare feet of the other boys traipsing behind her.
Soledad’s big dark eyes were open and watching the door of her room. Had she heard them or had she somehow known Rachel would come back at this time on this day? The girl frowned and peered at her visitor suspiciously.
Miguel said, “Disfrazo.”
The girl opened her mouth in a silent “ah,” and her face lost its tenseness.
All four youngsters watched Rachel expectantly and she wondered why these kids were so interested. They had no real reason to be fascinated by her own comings and goings. Maybe it was unusual for an adult to pay attention to them. Or maybe they were bored. Hanging out in a hospital couldn’t be much fun.
Soledad pulled her sheet and blanket chastely around her, as she had the day before.
The girl’s unwavering eyes met hers as Rachel asked, “Why are you here?”
Soledad gave an exaggerated shrug.
Rachel looked at the three boys, who had clustered around the bed. “Why are you here? Any of you. Why are you here in this hospital?” She pointed at each of them, then jabbed her index finger at the floor.
“Porque aquí,” Miguel said.
“Doctor say eat,” the girl said. “Señora Doctor furiosa. No girl. More fat. More old. Muchacho. Boy.”
Miguel took Soledad’s hand and encircled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. “Muy pequeña. Too little.”
Rachel nodded. “Yes, she looks too young, too small, to even be away from home.”
“No es verdad if home es mal, bad,” Miguel said.
Rachel tilted her head, examining Soledad’s face again. “I guess that’s true.”
Miguel pointed at Soledad and rubbed his belly. “Éste muchacha, she eat and eat and eat.”
Puzzlement deepening, Rachel glanced at each of the boys. All were barely a notch or so above skinny. “Is that why you’re here? All of you? To eat? To fatten you up?” The latter suddenly struck her as macabre.
“No mas que.” Miguel pantomimed, moving a finger in diagonals across his abdomen. “Knife. Hacerce operar.”
Lifeblood Page 21
