Body Parts (Rye & Claire 1) (8 page)

With surgical precision, they
ripped away his shirt and painted his chest with an antibiotic wash.
One of the men palpated for the liver, then with a black marker drew
several lines and an oval. The second man leaned over Mason’s inert form
and began a series of incisions.

The anesthesia was only a
local and Mason began to moan, driven to consciousness by the pain. The
man paused in his cutting, picked up a syringe and drove the needle into
the young doctor’s chest, penetrating the heart. He then pushed the
plunger emptying its entire contents in a matter of seconds. The
doctor’s body arched as his heart seized, his eyes flew open as he
gasped and just for a split second, Dr. Frank Mason thought he was
having a heart attack.

The first man handed over a
cooler lined with ice bags and placed it on the floor across from the
second man, who handed him the liver. He placed it in the cooler, gently
sat a bag of ice on top of the organ and closed the top, flipping the
latches that sealed it shut.

The newly harvested organ was contaminated but the new owner wouldn’t figure it out until it was too late.

The two men then ran Mason’s
body, still on the gurney, out the back of the ambulance and along the
road until they were next to the Fiat. They unstrapped him, placed his
body behind the wheel, fastened his seat belt, started the engine,
placed it in neutral and rolled the sports car over the embankment.

Chapter Twelve

It was a hollow echo of a voice
that drifted up out of the depths of the well.

“I’ve found her, I’m going to need a second line.”

Paul dropped to the edge of the well and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Is she alright?”

“She seems fine, drop me that line.”

A child’s toneless humming drifted down to Claire as she watched a weighted line descend, and began to sing along.

“And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”

When she turned to glance at Amy, the little hand was reaching for the rope again.

Claire lurched forward. “Amy,
no!” Thrusting her arm out as she shot her feet against the opposite
wall, she propelled herself toward the child.

Amy’s bottom slipped to the
edge of the ledge as she stretched for the rope. As if in slow motion,
the ledge crumbled and the little girl seemed to hang in thin air as if
waiting for Claire to rescue her.

Fingers that had thrown a
thousand punches, connected to hands that had done a hundred pushups,
wrapped around a pudgy little wrist and with one yank a cold and scared
little six year old was pulled to Claire’s chest. With two muddy arms
wrapped around her neck, Claire encircled Amy’s waist with her other
hand and for just a minute they swung back and forth at the end of the
rope.

“Claire, can you hear me? What’s going on?” Rye shouted.

“I have her, pull me up.”

With adrenaline born of
success the two men began to pull, reeling Claire and Amy toward
freedom. With inches to go, Paul fell to his stomach at the edge of the
well.

“Daddy!” Two little arms shot up, fingers clenching open and closed. “Daddy!”

Paul grabbed his daughter in both arms and pulled her to him as he rolled away from the edge.

Claire reached a shaky hand
up and over the edge. Rye came to her aid, grabbing her arm and reaching
down for the back of the harness, then pulling her up with a grunt. The
two fell to the ground.

Claire pushed up to her hands and knees and crawled away from the well, shaking and retching.

Chapter Thirteen

Rosie drove onto the film site
at
six the next morning; she liked to watch the production day begin. The
catering truck was just arriving; the driver got out and opened the
side. Climbing into the back he started the coffee and put out a dozen
doughnuts along with some yogurt and orange juice chilled in ice. He
noticed Rosie watching.

“Good morning, Miss Rehnquist. Get you anything?

She hired the driver as an extra once and was tempted, but thought better of it. She had other business to attend to.

She gave a friendly wave. “No thanks, Mario.”

Everything from the truck was free; it was part of Rosie’s plan to keep her actors happy.

She sat in the director’s
chair and watched the cameramen set up, and then checked her watch. She
still had some time before the actors started arriving.

The stage manager and two
gofers started putting together the sets, assembling three-sided
bedrooms, arranging furniture in the living rooms according to the
storyboards. Watching all the activity that went into just getting ready
for a production always fascinated Rosie even though she’d seen it a
thousand times. This morning though, she was on the set to solve a
problem.

It had started with notes
from the director that one of the male actors was abusing the women
during the shoot, several of whom had quit. Rosie had never seen the
problem actor; she’d enjoyed watching the sex when both actors were
enjoying it. That happened seldom enough, there always seemed to be some
kind of complication that involved multiple takes, something everyone
hated.

The actors provided valuable
revenue to the other part of the business, and she had to retain as many
as possible. Most of them had no connections with the structured world,
no friends outside the industry. Most were estranged from their
families.

Simms had followed up on
yesterday’s meeting, calling to make sure that Rosie had arrived on the
set to take care of their “Italian problem.” But Rosie had her own
plans.

It was her practice to work
with the director and make sure that all scenes were scripted and shot
based on a storyboard. There was no gratuitous sex, only as much or as
little as the story demanded, or the director instructed.

It was easy for the man to
get carried away while the woman was in a submissive position. During
almost every sexual encounter, the man experienced orgasm while the
woman didn’t. But Rosie knew that the men didn’t have it so easy either.
They were required to retain an erection through several takes,
surrounded by cameramen and lighting technicians.

Director Erin Von Seagram
adjusted his headset. “Camera two zoom out and get a wide shot of Clovis
undressing, we’ll use it for B-roll later.”

As director, he took it upon
himself to keep track of personality conflicts that might interrupt the
production. Shading his eyes, he scanned the sky. “Not a cloud in sight,
perfect day for the outdoor shots,” he said. Occasionally, the actors
didn’t want to follow the script and sometimes their suggestions were
better, and he incorporated them into the scene.

Looking at the roster for the upcoming scene, Von Seagram knew there was probably going to be a problem.

Having just had a fight with
his wife, Michael Lambrosco would enter the apartment of his mistress
and they would then engage in vigorous sex. It was a simple scene. Von
Seagram had double-checked the camera angles the night before. That’s
when he noticed Michael would be the male lead, and decided to call the
owner of Lewd and Lascivious. She was usually around the set, but he
hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. When she didn’t answer her phone,
he left a message.

He set up the cameras in
preparation for the potentially volatile scene. The woman would be on
all fours and Michael would enter her from behind.

“Alright, listen up. Camera
one, camera two, this is to be a simple scene. Camera one, you’re
looking the woman in the face; two, you’re on the profile. The scene
will open with the mistress answering the door.”

As Von Seagram readied for
the take, checking lighting and calling for quiet on the set, he quickly
glanced around for Rosie, but she was nowhere in sight.

He picked up the loudhailer.“Quiet on the set…and…action!”

Looking through the
viewfinder of the tracking lens that allowed him to see what the camera
was seeing, he watched Michael enter the set and undress. The woman
playing the part of the mistress was already nude and on the bed.

Rosie stepped out of the shadows to stand next to the director.

“I got your message,” she whispered in the director’s ear. “Is that him?”

Von Seagram nodded.

“Let me see the storyboard.”

He reached over to the clipboard sitting on a stool, looking at it as he handed it to Rosie.

“Calls for an all-fours,
plain and simple, no ad-libs. She knows that and so does he,” said Von
Seagram. He nodded toward the nude female on the set. “Most of the time I
like the guys to ad-lib, the girls know that and go along with whatever
the guy does. But not this time, not with this guy.”

Rosie took a minute to scan
the various scenes on the storyboard. Looking up at the scene, the man
was just entering the young brunette.

“Is that Michael?” Rosie said.

“Yeah, that’s him, Michael Lambrosco. Thinks he’s a real stud.”

Rosie watched as Michael worked like a jackhammer.

“See what I mean? Not just
that he’s over the top but he’s messed up the scene. Look how he’s
grabbing her hair, that’s not called for.”

He turned to Rosie. “Thank God she was oiled up. She must have known who her partner was going to be.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Michael said over his shoulder as he stepped from the scene.

“Hey fuck you,” she said, and
stomped off the set. She pulled on her terrycloth robe, and confronted
Von Seagram. “See what that son-of-a-bitch did to me? He coulda torn me
up and that sure as fucking hell weren’t in my script. I’m outta here.”

She turned and walked away without giving him a chance to respond.

When Von Seagram looked over
for Rosie’s response, she was gone. He looked down at the clipboard
she’d been holding, and at a harshly scrawled message she’d left on the
storyboard.

“You see that? Absolutely no gratitude,” Michael said shaking his head in mock concern. “Hey I hope you got the shot.”

“Give it a rest Michael, Rosie wants to see you in her trailer ASAP,” Von Seagram said.

Michael walked from the set,
pulled on a terrycloth robe, paused to tighten it, then knocked on the
trailer door. He was surprised to see the owner of the company answer
the door in a similar robe.

“Ah, hey Miss Rehnquist. Von Seagram said you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, thanks for coming so
soon.” Rosie stepped back, inviting Michael to come in. “Can I offer you
some coffee? Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

“Nah. That’s ok. I’m good.”

“Michael, let me get right to
the point. You don’t stick to the script and I’m losing girls because
of you,” Rosie said, as she set the little box she’d been holding on the
coffee table.

“Well maybe I’m a little more then they can handle, if you know what I mean.”

Rosie retained her best stone face. “Oh, I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Michael gave a silly grin. “Well, you know I’m Italian, right?” He gave a little thrust with his hips.

“Ok you’re Italian,” she said, keeping the blank look on her face.

“Like I said, maybe I’m more then they can handle.”

That was Rosie’s cue. She walked up to Michael and untied his robe. He never saw the syringe she held against her left wrist.

“Let’s just take a look.” She
stood staring at his growing erection, letting her own robe fall off
her shoulders. With Michael fully distracted, she reached out with her
right hand as if to pull him into an embrace and thrust the needle deep
into his neck.

Michael convulsed several times.

“You just scared the shit
out of me, baby,” Rosie said, jabbing a second needle deep, filling the
vein with pure heroin. “That’s for all the girls, you bastard.”

Michael’s eyes grew wide then slowly closed.

Chapter Fourteen

The vintage ambulance
sped
along the Oregon I-5 corridor north from Medford. No sirens, just a
simple blue light spinning to keep the police away. If pulled over, all
their papers were up to date and indicating the transport of an organ.
Besides, police rarely pull over a speeding ambulance.

Derrick looked over at
Hubble. If there was ever a man of few words, it was Hubble. He rarely
said anything beyond what was needed. Derrick didn’t trust him.

He loosened his seat harness;
it would be a long drive to Exit 40, which would take them to the coast
and the town of Denton. He slid his hips out so he could slump into the
seat and closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to try and figure out how he
had gone from a respected anesthesiologist working at a clinic
designated for donor organ extraction, to a murderer.

Simms, a doctor no one seemed
to have heard of, had originally recruited him out of his internship at
Medford General. It was to be a prestigious and lucrative position
working in a private clinic. He was to assist, in his capacity as
anesthesiologist, with the removal of organs from donors. He was told
that some went directly to recipients, others to universities.

He opened his eyes and
looked back over at Hubble, seat harness pulled tight, hands on the
steering wheel precisely at twelve and three, back pressed into the
seat, speed at exactly eighty-five miles an hour. Anal son-of-a-bitch.

Derrick closed his eyes
again. He remembered how less than a week into his new job Hubble had
been waiting to talk to him out side OR 13, after a heart extraction.

“Derrick I need a word. In my office in fifteen minutes.”

That was it, no greeting, no reason why, nothing.

He stared at Hubble knowing
the man wouldn’t so much as turn his head. He always figured Hubble
deserved his tiny office, bare of anything that might identify who he
was, dominated by a large wooden desk framed by dark wood-paneled walls
without so much as a picture frame.