Fatal Reaction (19 page)

CHAPTER 48

Colby’s eyes rolled open and she drew a ragged breath. Her stomach growled and her head ached, either from the crushing impact of the lamp or from whatever she was injected with.

A faint crack of light found its way between the paper covering the windows of what appeared to be an old storage shed or a garage where she was being held. Sweat poured from her, even as she shivered from the near-freezing temperature. Duct tape held her in place, her right arm so that her hand bent over the curve of the armrest, and her left facing up with something running through an IV line into her vein.

She squinted and tried to make out the label on the bag.

In . . .

The bag was turned so that she couldn’t read it. She pulled against the tape, finding no give, and bent herself as far in half as she could manage. Her back and neck burned as she leaned farther into position.

She rocked in the rickety chair, testing its strength. If she could break the frame, there was a chance she could slip her arms over the railing and get free. The crosshatched nylon webbing, frayed from years of age, creaked and groaned against the metal frame, but the construction was ironclad. She pressed her legs downward, against the tape holding her ankles, until her stocking feet hit the cold cement floor. She rocked back and forth, managing to move the swaying chair in a very slow circle until the IV line tugged and she was facing the pole.

Insulin.

Her worst fear was confirmed.

The woman who abducted her intended to kill her.

Colby scanned the room for something to cut herself free and spotted a pair of pruning shears on the corner of a utility shelf covered in gardening tools. She jerked her body forward, hopping with the chair and gaining forward motion. The IV line went taut, setting fire-like pain to her arm and reminding her she was pushing the limits of the end of her leash.

A row of damp, moldy bags filled with rotting compost blocked her way as she reached with her mouth for the pruners. Her teeth narrowly missed the handle and she scooted forward, pressing her knees into one of the moist bags and tearing it open. The smell became exponentially worse, and she coughed when the taste of mold coated her dry tongue. She knelt in the wet dirt and leaves, the chair on her back like a turtle shell, and closed her teeth around the textured handle.

A metallic taste filled her mouth as flakes of rust fell from the blades. A single lever held them shut, and she positioned them under her armpit, careful to make sure they didn’t spring open and slash her. Dirt caked her lips and turned to coarse mud as she used her tongue and teeth to bite at the metal tab, which, once unseated, would give her something to cut the tubing with. Her front teeth ached to the point that she feared they would crack. The stiff metal released, but no matter how she positioned the handles, the shears didn’t open. The blades were rusted shut.

CHAPTER 49

Jared’s tires skidded on the fresh snow as he turned into his driveway and headed toward his house. He opened the garage door and tensed at the sight of Colby’s car. There was no avoiding answering for the divorce paperwork, though the anticipation of her reaction was probably worse than the argument itself. He opened the door between the garage and the house, exhausted from the hours of questioning that accompanied finding Marco’s body, and sighed.

“Colby?”

The house was unusually quiet.

“Colby, are you here?”

The hallway light had been shattered, the hardwood covered in tiny glass shards that crunched under his shoes. The visceral feeling that something was wrong, the same feeling he had when walking into Marco’s apartment, resurfaced.

“Colby, answer me.”

The hallway table was tilted at an awkward angle, and the metal lamp was unplugged, on its side on the floor.

Jared bent down, careful not to disturb the scene, and took a closer look. Droplets of blood clung to the lamp shade, spattered the floor, and dotted the beige wall. He consoled himself with there not being enough blood for Colby to have bled out, but guilt intruded on the moment, the feeling that if he’d just come home, rather than straying with Ana, Colby wouldn’t have been alone.

Sunlight settled on a glass vial on the floor under the table. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and rolled it to read the label: “Succinylcholine
.
”

Suddenly, bleeding wasn’t the only cause of death on the table.

Succinylcholine wasn’t something one could get their hands on easily, and he wondered what connected Colby to Marco Prusak. Two medical professionals and a hard-to-obtain drug? There had to be something that tied the two together, and he was afraid it would look like he was that tie. Coincidence or not, the evidence was damning, but wanting a divorce didn’t mean he wanted Colby dead.

He ran up the stairs and checked each room, all of them turning up empty.

Colby was gone, vanished without a trace, and for the second time that day, Jared placed a call to the police.

Margaret fluffed her red curls and used the key Derrick had given her to let herself in to his and Emily’s house. She was an hour late due to a nail appointment, but she was sure Derrick’s asking her to come was unnecessary. The last three times she’d called the house, Derrick said Emily was sleeping. He was worried she’d been taking too much pain medicine, but Margaret told him there was no harm in her taking what she needed since she wasn’t yet pregnant.

“Hello,” she called out. “Emily, I’m here.”

She picked up the remote control and turned on the end of her soap opera, making sure the volume was loud enough that she could hear it in the kitchen.

The kitchen was a bit of a mess, the sink full of cups and bowls. Margaret emptied and reloaded the dishwasher before filling the kettle with water and setting it on the burner.

“Emily, would you like some hot tea?” Margaret opened the door to the first-floor master and found Emily asleep. She opened the room-darkening drapes, filling the stale room with winter sunlight. “Honey, wake up.”

Emily’s hair was drenched, and the washcloth lying on her forehead was scorching hot. Her skin had taken on a waxy texture and was pale, even for her. Margaret shook her clammy hand, attempting to bring her around.

“Emily, honey, wake up.”

Margaret pried Emily’s eyelids apart, and her eyes rolled back so that all Margaret saw were the whites.

Gripped with panic, she dialed 9-1-1.

CHAPTER 50

Ana sat on the edge of an EMS station bunk, placing her sixth call to Jared since that morning and going directly to voice mail. Last she knew, he was headed to Marco Prusak’s apartment, and she was eager to hear what happened.

“Hey, it’s me. Sorry to be a pest, but I’m wondering how things went. Thanks, again, for last night. Hope to talk to you soon.”

Insecurity bubbled to the surface; she feared that Jared, after hearing about her parents’ accident, Sydney’s life and death, and her feelings upon finding her sister’s body, had decided she had too much baggage.

Ethan leaned against the doorjamb. “What happened last night?”

Ana nearly dropped her phone. “Ethan. Shit, you scared me.”

“What. Happened. Last. Night?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?” Denial seemed the easiest route.

“You just said, ‘Thanks for last night.’ Who were you talking to?”

Ana held her hand on her hip. “I don’t answer to you, Ethan. It’s none of your business.” She knew it was a lie even as she said it. He’d been there for her too many times for it not to be.

“Oh, right, but it’s
my business
when you have no one else to talk to? I’m here every time you call, every time you need someone, but when I want to be there, when I try to be with you, you push me away. What do I have to do to get your attention?”

“Nothing, all right? There’s nothing you can do. I just . . .” Ana weighed her words carefully. “I don’t want to be with you.” It hurt her to say it after how great he’d been and the time they’d spent together right after Sydney’s death, but continuing to lead him on spelled eventual disaster.

“Because of someone else?” Ethan spread out across the doorway.

“We’re at work. Let me out of here. I’m not kidding.” Ana pushed past him, and he grabbed her arm. She whipped her head around and pried his fingers off her biceps. “Don’t
ever
touch me again.”

“It’s Jared Monroe, isn’t it?” The fact that he had noticed something between them left her speechless. “The guy’s married, Ana. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s
the matter
with me.” Dispatch conveniently intervened with another call. “We have to go,” she said, and unhooked the carabiner holding her keys to her belt loop.

There was no easy way to juggle a personal and professional relationship once things went bad. She couldn’t make Ethan understand that her platonic love for him wasn’t the same as her feelings for Jared, and she didn’t want to hurt him more than she already had.

There was nothing to say that could make things right between them, and so they drove to pick up their patient in silence.

The patient’s name was Emily Warren, daughter-in-law of Mayor Bill Warren, and Dorian Carmichael’s second transplant recipient, as per the report of the call. Dispatch insisted that her treatment be as discreet as possible.

“Are you sure you should be here?” Ethan said.

“Is there some kind of conflict of interest I’m not aware of? I’m fine.” Ana parked the ambulance and helped Ethan unload the gurney, thankful she hadn’t told him more about Sydney’s misdiagnosis.

A redheaded woman waved from the doorway of the elegant home, shouting for them to hurry.

Ethan rolled his eyes, and Ana smiled.

“She’s this way.” The woman, named Margaret, if Ana deciphered her panicked yammering correctly, led them to the bedroom where Emily lay unconscious and feverish, but breathing.

Ana immediately checked for a pulse.

“I’m Ana and this is Ethan,” she said, hoping a first-name basis would allay some of Margaret’s hysteria. “Can you tell us what happened?” She peeled back the comforter, finding Emily soaked through with sweat.

“My son asked me to stay with her because he had a meeting.” Margaret’s hands and voice were shaking. “I came in and she was asleep. I tried to wake her, but she wouldn’t wake up.”

Ana peeled the hot washcloth from Emily’s forehead and took her temperature. “One oh three point six,” she called out.

Ethan wrote down the number.

“Emily, can you hear me?” Ana noted Emily’s elevated heart rate. “Emily, can you wake up for me?”

The answer was a clear and definite, though silent, “No.”

Ethan started the IV.

“She’s going to be all right, isn’t she? She’s going to be fine?” Margaret buzzed around the room, a whirlwind of red curls and lipstick, as she packed an overnight bag. “We need to tell Derrick what’s happening. He isn’t answering his cell phone. He said he had a meeting, but I don’t know where, and I can’t get ahold of his father.”

“Margaret, calm down, please,” Ana said. “Is there anything you can tell me about how Emily was feeling before this?”

“Derrick told me she’s been taking a lot of pain pills, too many pills, and sleeping almost all the time.”

“So she’s been lethargic?”

“Or drugged,” Ethan said.

The thought had crossed Ana’s mind, but it was inconsistent with the fever as the cause of her unconsciousness. “Compile a meds list, would you?”

Ethan jotted down the names of the drugs and their dosages. “This bottle’s almost empty. It looks like she’s been through about twenty Vicodin since yesterday.”

“Is there anything else your son might’ve told you, maybe how long she’s had a fever?”

“Derrick didn’t mention a fever”—Margaret gestured at the small garbage can—“but Emily threw up when he brought her home.”

Ana called the hospital for orders.

“Who are you calling?” Margaret asked.

“The ER,” Ana said, listening to the phone ring.

“County Memorial,” Margaret said. “Emily absolutely has to go to County.”

Ana knew Ethan’s annoyed expression was because of Jared, though it was Wilson who answered.

“Wilson, it’s Ana.” She detailed Emily’s symptoms and listened as Wilson returned conservative orders. “Regular saline and one gram Ofirmev for the fever,” she said to Ethan.

The smell Ana had attributed to the congealed milk on the nightstand intensified when they transferred Emily from the bed to the gurney. Her nightgown stuck to her abdomen, held in place by a putrid, infected-looking discharge. Ana gently peeled the cotton away from Emily’s skin, heat from the wound radiating through her gloves, and inspected the surgical site.

“The drain is clogged,” she said. “We have to move her,
now
.”

They hurried Emily out of the house, into the back of the ambulance, and headed for County with flashing lights and sirens blaring.