Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 9

Sure enough, Bochowitz's half-bald head, complete with wispy tufts of white hair r.i.m.m.i.n.g his skull, is visible across the emergency room. His lumbering, slightly off-kilter gait is bringing him straight for us. Bochowitz and I have a bit of a soft spot for one another; he taught me so much when I used to go and visit him down in the very bowels of the hospital, where the morgue is situated. And in return I used to keep him permanently stocked in nicotine replacement patches. If I didn't bring him the patches, he'd be smoking a pack a day at least. The man's usually obscenely happy, but today he gives me a grim smile as he reaches us.

He gets right to it. "It's not a contagion. There was a laceration to the dermis at the back of her neck. That looks like the point of entry. There's no evidence of any poison in her system whatsoever, but her symptoms before death indicate she was poisoned."

"So what, it's vanished from her body?" Oliver asks. He sounds a little disbelieving, like he's been waiting for it to be Sarin or something really nasty. Something we can all get good and worried about. Dr. Bochowitz exhales impatiently.

"No. I'm saying I haven't found it yet. It's something highly sophisticated. Something that's going to take longer than three hours to detect, Dr. Ma.s.sey."

"So we can open up the hospital again, then?"

"We can, but Chief Allison won't. Not until I can figure out exactly what this is. Apparently it would be bad for relations if we were seen to be releasing patients without ascertaining the exact cause of Nanette's death." Most pathologists would refer to a patient as Ms. Richards, or something a little more formal, anyway, but not Bochowitz. She's been Nannette to him ever since she was wheeled into his morgue. The way he talks to deceased patients used to freak me out just like it freaks everyone else in the hospital out, but I quickly realized that he doesn't do it because he's crazy. He does it as a kindness, so that when the bodies of the dead undergo their final, most invasive medical examination, they aren't left alone with a stranger. They're left to go through it with a friend. That was the first thing that made me love the man.

"The EMT is recovering," Bochowitz continues, "so she obviously only came into contact with a negligible amount of the toxin, and that was through direct contact. Those of you who did touch the patient should have a blood test just to be sure, but I'm a.s.suming you would have fallen sick and died by now if you were going to."

Oliver shoves his hands into his pockets, raising his eyebrows at the mortician. "You're a ray of suns.h.i.+ne, Bochowitz. Thank you for brightening my day." He hurries off down the hallway toward the canteen, trying not to look like a man who is terrified of needles and is running from the prospect. Which is exactly what he is.

"I'll take your blood for you if you like?" Dr. Bochowitz offers.

"Sure." I follow him into an examination room, my body relaxing now that the threat of imminent death is off the table. Though I tense up pretty quickly when I see the look of concern on Bochwitz's face. His expression, usually serene and unaffected by much, is drawn into a contemplative frown. He folds his arms across his chest as soon as I've sat down.

"What? What is it?"

"Did you get a good look at the girl's abdomen?"

"What do you mean? I saw the blisters on her ribcage and I raised the alarm."

"Nannette had something written on her side. I found it when I carried out the autopsy."

A sinking feeling of dread twists through me. This something that he's found written on her can't possibly be good if he's this stern about it. Dr. Bochowitz retrieves his cell phone from his pocket and tampers with the b.u.t.tons until he finds what he's looking for. He holds out the device for me to see and suddenly it feels like my whole stomach is trying to escape my body via my mouth.

Property of Dr. Sloane Romera.

The letters are drawn in a slanting, messy scrawl across pale skin in what looks like sharpie. How the f.u.c.k did I miss this? And why? Why would anyone have done that? My name? On my patient? In my hospital? Oh my G.o.d.

"It's relatively fresh," Bochowitz tells me. "Usually sweat or natural sloughing of the dermis means that things like this fade fairly quickly, but the ink on Nannette is still prominent, which means it happened very recently."

"Was there..." I swallow, feeling bile rise at the back of my throat. "Was there anything else?"

Bochowitz's mouth pulls to the side; he scratches at a tuft of hair on the side of his head. "Aside from the remarkably personal tag marking the victim as your personal property? No. No, so far I haven't located any other clue as to why Nannette was targeted for this attack. Or anything to really confirm that it was an attack. I just saw the ink and thought I'd better tell you first, before I showed anyone else."

I close my eyes, trying to get my head around this. A woman. A random woman off the street, dying. My head pounds as I consider the life of this woman. Her fiance in Florida who still doesn't know she's dead; the children they might have had together; the career Nannette worked so hard for; whether she has parents who will be grief stricken by her death. I'm hit with each new thought like a succession of bombs going off inside my head. I know it with a sickening surety: her death is linked to my relations.h.i.+p with Zeth. It has to be. I never had any bodies addressed to me before I started spending time with him, that's for sure. I draw as much air into my lungs as possible. "Have you pa.s.sed this onto the cops yet?" I ask.

"Our systems are linked. I'll have to go down and submit my findings now. There's a lot of people waiting on this information, Sloane. I doubt it will be long before they come looking for you."

I nod, eyes still closed.

"They're going to want to question you, you realize?"

"I know." I take in another deep breath. Open my eyes. Bochowitz's face has softened with worry now. He reaches out and places his hand on my shoulder.

"It's amazing what goings-on can be gleaned from my lowly bas.e.m.e.nt vantage point," he says softly. "I may be out of sight, Sloane, but I tend to see a lot of things. And I tend to hear a lot of things, too. You've been absent, but you've also been troubled. I have no idea what complications may be affecting your life, dear girl, but there are further complications on the horizon. I hope..." He sighs, sounding faintly regretful. As though everything is already lost. "I hope that you're ready. And I hope that you are safe."

Poor Bochowitz. I want to tell him I am, that everything is okay, but honestly, at this point, the last thing I'm feeling is safe.

"I don't think I want to see Dr. Newan anymore."

Lacey is sitting on the sofa, teasing a piece of thread between her fingers in a cat's cradle. She's insisted on having the television on all morning, even though she's not watching it, while I've been pacing the warehouse, trying and failing to prevent myself from feeling like an increasingly stressed animal trapped in a motherf.u.c.king cage. A cage that's my own admittedly very comfortable home, but still. I want out.

"I thought you liked Newan?" I scratch at the stubble on my jaw, carefully stretching out my body. I'm sore-not only my f.u.c.king stomach where I was stabbed, but everywhere else, too. Moping around in bed sounds mighty appealing right now, but I know my body and I know what it needs: it needs to be challenged in order to heal. I've been still for too long. I'm used to working out every day. To pus.h.i.+ng my body to the limits. Being wracked with a fever and on my back for four days has royally f.u.c.ked me over.

Lacey holds up her cat's cradle to me, the thread manipulated around her fingers and thumbs, and looks at me expectantly. I pull my eyebrows together, glaring down at the thing. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she replies. She has that look on her face; the stubborn one that lets me know I can either acquiesce to her demand, or I can deal with the consequences. And I can't be f.u.c.ked dealing with a Lacey that's been pushed over the edge this morning. I huff, pinching the taut lines and folding them around and under, pus.h.i.+ng up so that the thread transfers to my hands in a new pattern.

A childlike surprise takes over her features. "How do you know how to do that?" she asks, laughing.

I consider telling her to mind her own d.a.m.n business, but then I figure what's the point. "My mother liked to do it with me," I tell her. Her smile fades.

"You remember her?"

"I remember her," I confirm. "Imperfectly. I remember small bits and pieces of her. Like this." I offer out the cat's cradle to her so she can take her turn at manipulating the pattern. "But those bits and pieces don't make up a whole person."

Lacey takes her turn. She stares down at the game we're playing, now looped and twisted around her fingers once more, and looks...impossibly sad. "Was she beautiful?" she asks. "Your mom. Was she really beautiful?"

I clear my throat, reining in the desire to clam up and avoid the question altogether. "Yes. Yeah, she was."

"Do you..." She hesitates, as though she's unsure whether she should continue on her train of thought. "Do you have any pictures of her? I'd like to see her."

Her interest is understandable given that I've never mentioned my mother before and here I am suddenly talking about her. Lacey's probably intrigued about the sly remark Newan made about her, too-And then of course there's the history with your mother. A history I have no intention of ever openly talking about. I'd show Lace a picture, but I only have one photo of the woman who sometimes visits me when I sleep. I've kept it secreted away for years, and even though I haven't looked at it, the knowledge of its presence here within this warehouse is f.u.c.king torture enough. I haven't been able to look upon her face without experiencing a dark rage that consumes me for days, so I think of my f.u.c.king self instead of Lacey's curiosity. "I don't. I wish I did."

Lacey just nods. She curls her hands into fists, loosening the threads and signalling that my duties are now over. I go back to pacing.

I need to get my head back in the f.u.c.king game. There's so much I have to do, and being injured is just not part of the plan. I need to figure out where Charlie is right now. I've been fuming ever since I learned about him setting me up and sending me to Chino, and I've wanted him to pay. And in order to keep Sloane safe, I thought the best way to make him pay was to kill the motherf.u.c.ker. Then there's no chance he can ever put her in danger again, but while that solution appeals to my more pragmatic side, the vicious side of me wants Charlie to suffer.

Chino was not a walk in the park for me. Neither was Charlie killing one of my closest friends-the same murder that put me in prison. The lies, the deceit, the surveillance, the colossal sense of complete betrayal. None of these offenses are going to be resolved by Charlie's quick and b.l.o.o.d.y demise. No, he deserves something a little more...appropriate.

He deserves to find out what Chino's like first hand. He deserves to lose all he holds dear. He's already lost the d.u.c.h.ess, and in all honesty there's only one other thing I know of that Charlie genuinely cares about in this life: his money.

It's a serious f.u.c.king shame that Rick's dead. It would have been great to know more about what those bikers were doing, scamming information about Charlie's businesses and their locations out of Rick. There is one other way of finding out, I guess. I could just ask the Wreckers. They might tell me, considering how much they clearly seem to dislike Charlie, but then again they might bury me up to my neck in sand, pour honey over my head and leave me to be eaten alive by f.u.c.king fire ants. The Wreckers don't usually deal in drugs or guns-Charlie's preferred method of paying his bills. They're fences and thieves. They'll steal and sell anything that's not nailed down, and if they didn't steal it, whoever did steal it can take it to them, knowing the gang will have no qualms about selling items in one of their many seedy p.a.w.n shops. For a healthy fee, of course. Their base is up on Aurora Lane, north of the city.

If I can just get them to- "Zee?"

-tell me straight what they want with Charlie's operation, then maybe I- "Zeth!"

I stop pacing, snapping my head up. Lacey's holding out the television remote, pointing it at the screen. "Are you listening to this?" she asks. She's frozen still, a bowl of dry Lucky Charms balanced on top of her knees.

"...say that there is no risk of a contagion affecting any of the hospital's patients at this stage, although no less than three nurses inside St. Peter's have confirmed a worrying detail. One of the paramedics who answered the emergency nine-one-one request for urgent medical care at the gas station in Burien where the unknown woman mysteriously fell ill, is also displaying the same symptoms. Doctors have no idea what caused the woman's death, or whether the staff and other patients inside are now at any sort of risk, but hospital administration have placed the building on lockdown, refusing to let anyone in or out. Our sources claim that-"

My heart is a jackhammer in my chest. "What the h.e.l.l?" My voice is steady, but with every pa.s.sing second the news reporter asks or answers more questions, I can feel a very unpleasant, sick feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. "That's St. Peter's?"

"Yeah," Lacey answers. "There are so many cop cars out there. They think this is some sort of attack. And Sloane's in there, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah she f.u.c.king is." Lacey's right about the cop cars; there are four cruisers parked up outside the hospital, visible over the shoulder of the female news reporter. But it's not the cruisers that have me on edge. It's the Aston Martin one-77 parked by the emergency entrance.

Charlie f.u.c.king Holsan.

This is another message. Except this one isn't written on paper. I know him. I know him all too f.u.c.king well. This message is going to be written in blood.

It's perfect, really. The perfect way to get my attention. Sloane's parents are no longer around for him to threaten, so he's upped the ante, knowing I won't be able to resist. Something ugly and very disagreeable sets my nerves on edge. I grab out my phone and dial quickly. I have to speak to Sloane. I have to let her know that motherf.u.c.ker is inside the building with her.

The line clicks as it connects, then begins to ring. Four rings. Five. Six. How many f.u.c.king rings does it take for someone to answer their phone? "s.h.i.+t."

"She's not supposed to have her phone with her while she's working, Zeth," Lacey says quietly. She's chewing on her thumbnail, her legs now tucked up underneath her, eyes intent on the television screen. "Don't freak out," she tells me.

She's telling me not to freak out. Oh, holy f.u.c.k I must look like a complete psycho right now if Lacey is trying to talk me down off a ledge. "I'm fine," I say. The phone rings out for the ninth time and I hang up, cursing under my breath. Well. There's nothing else for it. I s.n.a.t.c.h up my leather jacket and start heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Lacey leaps off the couch and practically sprints to beat me to the warehouse exit.

"Where d'you think?"

"You know they're looking for you. Every worker at that hospital's seen your face because of Frankie's brother; Sloane said so. The cops'll arrest you the moment you pull up out front."

Inconveniently, Lacey has a valid point. f.u.c.king Frankie Monterello and his pain-in-the-a.s.s family still causing me headaches from beyond the grave. "I'm not hanging out here while Charlie's inside that hospital."

"Are you worried about her? You think he's going to kill her?"

My ribcage constricts just hearing her say that. It's like there's a block inside my vocal chords that cuts me off whenever I think about saying something that's not a threat or a curse word strong enough to turn the air blue, though. I can't admit to being this terrified. I clench my jaw and look away.

"Because that's what I'm worried about," Lacey says. "I'm really worried about that right now. I love Sloane." She loves Sloane? Well, this is news. I jerk my head back, narrowing my eyes at her. Lacey actually returns my scowl. "Not like that, you jerk. I love Sloane like a sister. That's the way she treats me-like family. And you love her, too. I am so sick of you guys-"

"Do you want to come with me or not?" I say. I can't listen to her complain about how useless I am telling people-Sloane in particular-how I feel about them. I have to do something to get her out of that hospital. Lacey blinks at me, shock marking her face.

"Yes, I want to come with you," she says.

"Then shut up and get your jacket."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. I'll bring Cade, too."

"Cade's with you?"

Michael makes an affirmative sound. "He and Carnie showed up earlier. Came to ask me something on behalf of my cousin. Cade wanted to see you, but I told him you were recovering. Which I'm guessing you've decided against, now?"

"I'm already recovered," I growl into the handset. "Make sure he leaves his cut behind. And leave Carnie, too. Three of us is enough. We don't wanna draw any unwanted attention."

"Got it." Michael hangs up, and I slam through my gear changes like the gearstick has done something personally to offend me. I barely lift my foot off the gas to take the corners.

"She's fine. You know that, right?" Lacey tells me, leaning through the gap between the driver and pa.s.senger seats.

"She's not answering her phone."

"She's probably just busy. It has to be mayhem in there."

"She should have answered her f.u.c.king phone."

"You're gonna go in there and you're gonna overreact, aren't you?"

I wrench the steering wheel round, swinging the Camaro into the hospital parking lot. The place is buzzing. The news vans haven't moved-they're parked as close as they can possibly get to the gla.s.s frontage of St. Peter's, and two different reporters are standing in front of the building, each talking into microphones as cameramen shoot them. Charlie's Aston Martin is still parked by the emergency entrance, too. The sky's darkened significantly since we left the warehouse, and it's just starting to rain. I may not have stuck around in high school for long, but that doesn't mean I didn't read. I read everything from Plato to Sun Tzu, all the way through to Vonnegut. Right now the weather smacks of a pathetic fallacy that perfectly matches my black mood. Lacey grabs hold of my wrist from the backseat before I can get out of the car. "You haven't answered me," she says. "Are you planning on overreacting?"

With a steely expression directed into the rearview mirror, I fix her in my glare. "Lacey, I never overreact. If I can't get in there, I will react accordingly. I. Will. f.u.c.k. s.h.i.+t. Up." She starts to object, but it's too late; I've already climbed out of the Camaro.

I a.s.sess the situation as quickly as possible. The entrance to St. Peter's is closed, and two cops are standing outside; besides them and the news crews, there are few people waiting in the parking lot. A handful of concerned bystanders wait in the cold, presumably for their loved ones inside. It looks as though the rest of Seattle has taken the threat of chemical poisoning on board and have stayed the h.e.l.l away. Smart f.u.c.kers.

Lacey gets out of the car, grimacing as a gust of frigid wind buffets us, hair flying around her face. "You won't leave me, will you?" she asks.

"No, I won't leave you, Lace." I wish I could. I wish she would stay in the f.u.c.king car if I told her to, but I know even saying the words is a complete waste of breath. The last time I told her to wait in the car, she walked in on me shooting Frankie, her ex-f.u.c.k buddy, in the face. "You don't need to worry. We're gonna do this nice and quiet. I don't feel like reacquainting myself with the penal system. There, does that make you feel any better?"

She shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders up around her ears against the cold. "Not really."

"Great. Then let's go."

It takes all of two hours for the police to come looking for me. Two hours, where I numbly treat patients and go through the motions, just waiting and holding my breath. My first instinct was to contact Zeth, to let him know what's happened, but without my cell that's physically impossible. I really should have memorized his number. That way I could have snuck into one of the quieter areas of the hospital and used one of the landlines at a nurses' station, but it never occurred to me that I might need to do something like that. And now all of that is irrelevant, because my name is being called over the PA system and I'm being summoned to the Chief's office on level three.

"Here, Dr. Romera, I can finish this for you," Grace offers, holding out her hand to take the suture needle from me. I've been st.i.tching a nasty gash on an elderly woman's arm; Grace takes my seat and continues with the job, giving me a warm smile. Despite the unique turn of events today has taken, she's been totally normal with me; I'm beginning to think she wasn't instantly suspicious when she discovered me coming out of the blood bank with those units for Zeth.

"Thanks, Gracie." I take my time finding the way to the elevators. I'm in no rush to be questioned by the cops, especially because I haven't been able to figure out what the h.e.l.l I'm going to tell them. Basically, I can't tell them anything. Or certainly not the truth, anyway.

When I reach her office, the Chief is sitting on the edge of her desk, talking to a woman in her early thirties. The woman's clearly law enforcement; she's wearing a dark navy pantsuit and a crisp white s.h.i.+rt instead of a uniform, but she holds herself in that same way all authority figures do.

"Ah, Dr. Romera." Chief Allison smiles when she sees me. She's been the Chief since I started at the hospital, but she worked alongside my dad for years before that. Highly respected, an authority in her field-pediatrics-Dr. Allison is an excellent doctor, but also a hard woman. She never smiles. Never. Something is quite wrong here. "This is Agent Lowell from the Drug Enforcement Agency. She's requested a moment of your time."

DEA? Really? I would have thought they'd send the FBI instead, but then again, maybe this toxin is something the DEA have seen before. Maybe this has more to do with the drug than the actual risk of contagion. The agent looks like a bit of a blank slate-the generic pantsuit; the generic ponytail haircut; the generic flat shoes, made for running. Since she's not a member of the Bureau, she doesn't necessarily need to wear such formal clothing-I've seen DEA agents wearing Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts walking around this hospital-which means that she's chosen to wear the suit. That tells me a lot about her already. I give the woman a curt smile, offering out my hand. "Of course. Anything I can do to be of help." Except tell you the truth. Or generally disclose anything that might actually a.s.sist you in your investigation.

It's like this Agent Lowell woman can literally hear me thinking this as she reaches out and shakes my hand. Her business-like expression falters and I quickly see what lies beneath-out-and-out disapproval. She doesn't know me. She's never met me before, and yet I can tell she already suspects something. Perhaps I'm just being incredibly paranoid. It's comforting to believe this, until...

"If you would give us a moment please, Chief Allison. Ms. Romera and I need to have a little talk."

The Chief, despite her pa.s.sive att.i.tude since I walked in, still has b.a.l.l.s of steel. "Oh, I'd say that's entirely up to Dr. Romera, wouldn't you, Ms. Lowell? It seems to me that your request to talk with one of my employees comes without any official mandate that might force the matter." Dr. Allison didn't like the cop's flagrant put-down when she chose not to use my t.i.tle, so now Allison's deigned not to give Agent Lowell her t.i.tle, either. Agent Lowell's facial features go blank.

"Oh, I a.s.sure you, there will be an official mandate if I think that justice is being obstructed here. I can get a warrant for this woman's arrest at any moment of my choosing."

"Then perhaps you should-" Chief Allison starts to say, but I quickly jump in; I don't like where this conversation is heading. I really don't want this Lowell woman heading right out to get a warrant for my arrest.

"No! No, it's fine, Chief. I can talk to her. It's not a problem. I have nothing to hide." No greater a lie has ever been told, but much better that I spend half an hour being grilled by this woman here than be grilled for much longer at a police station. The truth of the matter is that I don't know anything about Nannette Richards, or why she ended up with my name scrawled across her skin before being poisoned and sent to this hospital for me to treat. I won't have to lie about that.

Chief Allison gives me a slight nod before turning cold eyes on Lowell and leaving the room. A moment of awkward silence follows where Agent Lowell slowly paces around the Chief's desk and shoves her paperwork out of the way, making room so she can perch on the edge, directly across from me.

And then she starts talking, and everything spins on its head. "Where is your sister, Dr. Romera?"