Water from Stone - a Novel (2 page)

“They dumped her in front of the house. Just threw her out of the car and kept on going.”

“And the guards at the house?”

“Didn’t see a thing.”

Jack grabs his suit coat and tie and moves past the nursery to his home office. His notes are strewn across the antique mahogany desk Lindsey gave him as a graduation present. He gathers them up and stuffs them into a folder.

“Lanski and his wife rushed her to the hospital, they didn’t know whose blood it was. By the time they got there, she was puking, throwing up even more of the stuff.”

“What’d Krillov do? Make her eat glass or something?”

“No, blood. Cow’s blood.”

“Fuck.” This stops him.

“I’m telling you,” Elena continues as if she cannot get the words out fast enough. “They poured it down her throat, probably used a funnel. Poor little thing spit up volumes.”

Jack shudders. Christ, he’d run, too. “How is she?” he asks.

“In shock. What can you expect?”

“Yeah.” These guys aren’t brain surgeons. As messages go, this one is pretty damn clear. “Have they tested it?” Jack’s battered leather briefcase is on the credenza behind the desk. He flips it open and shoves the file inside.

“They’re doing it now. Lanski grabbed the kid as soon as he knew she was OK and took off, but Thompson caught the case. He asked for the blood to be tested.”

At least there is that. If the blood is tainted, if it came from an infected cow, then this would be a new case of attempted murder the D.A. can bring against Krillov. Now if they can just find Lanski. Jack looks at the time. 6:48. He is seriously late.

“Look, Elena, call Sy,” he says, referring to the P.I. they regularly hire. “Tell him to track down Lanski. I’m on my way.”

***

Lindsey drags the heavy, limp hair back from her forehead, lifts it up and waves at the back of her neck, desperately trying to dry the sweat that has accumulated there so quickly. August in New York.

Perhaps on another day it wouldn’t bother her so much, but she is nine months pregnant and the central air in their building has failed. Again. Ceiling fans, floor fans, freaking hand-held flap-them-in-your-face fans can’t come close to keeping up with the trickle of sweat that drip, drip, drips down her spine, pools at her lower back and slyly tries for access farther south. Her cotton maternity panties have soaked up about as much moisture as they can handle and gravity will soon cause the overflow to course down her legs and intensify the heat rash that flourishes between her chafing thighs.

She twists the foot-long wheat-blond cascade into a knot. The weight of it, when she lets go, is enough to make her scream, “
Nooooooo-arghhhh
!” Lindsey grabs the pizza shears they keep in the knife rack and begins sawing at her hair.

***

Jack flips his good-luck tie around his neck, his eyes raking every surface in the office one last time. It isn’t here. Perfect. He’ll ask Lindsey. She probably already has the pager clipped to his keys so he can’t forget it. That, of course, will solve only one of his problems. He still has to swing by the office, grab the copy of the Lanski tape telling Jack why he is taking off. With it, the judge just might give Jack an extension until Sy can track the guy down. Jack pushes through the swinging door to the kitchen and freezes. “Holy shit! What’d you do?” 

Lindsey flings the scissors across the room and covers her mouth with both hands. Eyes wide, she begins to wail.

He catches her just as her legs begin to buckle and lowers her into a chair. “It’s OK, Lindsey, it’s going to be OK.
Shhh
…”

Jack’s heart pounds. Seeing her like that, the crazed look in her eyes, the scissors in her hand, Jesus, after the last miscarriage. He shuts that thought down, hard. Leaving her, he tries to open the window.  It is swollen in its frame and won’t budge. Struggling with it, banging it doesn’t help. It only starts him sweating again. He mutters under his breath and grabs a handful of paper towels, soaks them, and brings them back to her. Kneeling, he wipes the tears from her flushed cheeks, cools her neck. “There, babe, it’s going to be OK.”

“But, my hair, Jack. Oh, god, I cut it all off. It’s just so hot, and then the window wouldn’t open and I wanted to make you breakfast and I didn’t have a rubber band and I couldn’t stand it.” 

“
Shhh
, breathe.” Jack strokes her back until Lindsey’s cries settle to hiccups and her breathing slows to normal. As he kisses her slick forehead, he is fully aware of the
tick, tick, tick
of the clock on the wall behind him and has to consciously unclench his jaw. Judge Gordon is going to skewer him if he is late. New York, used to mob bosses and gang warfare, had been riveted by the criminal case. But that had failed. Now, three years later, the civil trial for “The Mad Cow Murders,” as they’d been dubbed, has turned even the most blasé New Yorker manic. Not only Jack’s, but the judge’s entire professional future is on the line. He calculates the time it will take him to get to the courthouse. If he bypasses the office and takes a cab instead of the subway, he should make it with just minutes to spare. Elena will have to send the tape over, and maybe she can find his pager, too. Maybe he left it at the office.

Jack leans back and blots Lindsey’s forehead. “Honey? You know, it looks kind of cool. A Meg Ryan kind of thing. You know, choppy, but sexy.” The eyes that rise to meet his test for honesty. He smiles. “Really.”

Jack’s hands skim her face, her neck, round her swollen breasts and come to rest on the sides of her belly. The heel of a very small foot kicks out at him and they both smile.

“I’m done, get me outta here,” Jack says. “There, you see? Even she wants to come out and see her beautiful mama.”

“More like she doesn’t want to be inside a crazy woman any longer.”

Jack puts his mouth to Lindsey’s belly. “Mia? Don’t talk about your mother like that. She may be crazy, but she’s my best hope of getting laid any time soon.”

“Jesus, Jack!” But she is laughing.

Leaning in, Jack catches her bottom lip between his teeth. “
Mmmmm
, Meg, yummy.”

“Yummy you.” Her hands grip his wide shoulders and then suddenly she is pushing at him, heaving herself upwards. “Jack! You’re going to be late!”

Jack follows her eyes to the clock and swears. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to go.” Taking her face between his hands, he kisses her again, his eyes searching hers. “You OK?”

Lindsey ruffles what is left of her hair. “I really did it this time, didn’t I?”

“You really did,” he says. “But you still look gorgeous. Maybe just go to the salon and get it cleaned up, make it look like you meant it.”

“Yeah, right.” But she smiles.

“Do you want to go out to your parents’? I’m sure their air’s working. I can have the car brought around for you.”

“No. They’re coming into the city for lunch with me and Naomi. I’ll just lie down for awhile and maybe the air’ll come back on.”

“Lindsey…”

“I’m fine.”

“OK. Call me if…”

“I feel anything,” she finishes.

“I love you.” Even with all the crap with the trial, she can center him with a look. As soon as this trial is over, he’ll take her, take them, on a vacation. Take his family on vacation.

“I love you, too, Counselor. Now go.”

Jack grabs his jacket and briefcase and is on his cell phone when the front door slams shut behind him.

***

Several hours later, Lindsey wakes with an image from her dream tugging at her, trying to pull her back into its grip, even as her conscious mind yells at her to wake up.  She focuses on the clock, which is way over on the other side of the bed, and groans. It is late and she’ll have to hurry to meet her best friend, Naomi, and her parents, but the thought of shoveling her swollen feet into shoes makes her want to cry. That the restaurant is sure to have air conditioning makes dressing seem worth it. Just.

“A-one, a-two, a-three, OK, let’s go.” She prods herself into a sitting position, takes a deep breath, and then heaves upward, belly first, until she is standing. As the weight of her pregnancy shifts and lowers onto her hips, Lindsey reaches behind her back and braces herself. Everything in place, she waddles to the bathroom.

The first pain comes as she bend-squats to shave her right leg, but she dismisses the cramp as a Braxton-Hicks “fake” contraction brought on by bending over. Ten minutes later, as she rinses the suds from what is left of her hair, another sharp pain hits. She digs her knuckles into her lower back and prays that this is not another sciatic attack. 

It isn’t until the fifth contraction that it occurs to Lindsey that she might be going into labor.

As she dials the number for Jack’s pager, Lindsey’s fingers shake. In all their preparation, they hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that the baby would come early. When directed to enter a text message, she enters the number “32339,” for “Daddy,” her message that the baby is on its way. She then dials her doctor’s number and is directed to voice mail. Lindsey is just getting to her feet when another contraction tightens over her stomach and wraps around her back. “
Ohhhh
boy, ok, OK, OK,” she huffs as the band around her middle begins to loosen.  This is a lot more painful than she imagined and Lindsey realizes she might not be able to wait for Jack to call her back.

“Hello? Jack?” Lindsey answers her cell phone, relieved.

“No, it’s me, Dr. Harding. What’s up?”

“I think it’s time.”

“Did your water break?”

“Not yet, but I’m having contractions pretty regularly. They’re about ten minutes apart.”

“For how long?”

“I think for more than an hour. I didn’t realize it at first.”

“It could be a false alarm, but how about if we meet at the hospital just in case? I’ll wait for you at the Admitting Office.”

Lindsey looks at the clock. She is near tears. She dials Jack’s number again and adds “911” to the message. Next, she calls his office, only to be informed that Elena is out to lunch. Lindsey leaves her a voice mail asking her to get in touch with Jack to let him know she is leaving for the hospital.

After another contraction eases, Lindsey shoulders her overnight bag and takes one last look at the apartment. The next time they come home, they’ll have Mia with them. The front door shuts behind Lindsey as she is punching the speed dial number for her mother’s cell phone. She never notices the low rumble coming from between the cushions of the sofa, never realizes that Jack’s pager is vibrating.

***

“Thanks, Robert,” Lindsey can barely find the energy to thank the doorman as she shuffles into the oppressive heat. The traffic, which is always a bear in their upper Manhattan neighborhood, has taken on a strident edge as drivers battle for space on the bottle-necked avenue, their amped-up rage apparent in the cacophony of horns and screeching tires.

“Any time, Mrs. Westfield,” Robert calls over the noise. He flicks the switch on the cab call light. “Where are you going?”

Shaking her head, Lindsey says, “I’ll take the car.” For the past several months and for the foreseeable future, Jack has had a car and driver on call for Lindsey. “Where’s Joseph? He’s not in the lobby.”

“He’s not back yet.”

Lindsey wilts against the side of the building. “But where is he? He’s supposed to be here.” Her voice sounds slow and distant, even to her own ears. Lindsey closes her eyes and concentrates on taking long, deep breaths.

“Your husband took the car this morning. He said Joseph would come right back, but he hasn’t.”

“Oh, god.”

“Mrs. Westfield? Should I call an ambulance?”

A new contraction clamps down across the mound of Lindsey’s belly. Her bag drops as she jackknifes forward and it is only Robert’s quick catch that keeps her from crashing to the pavement.
“Ah,
ah, ah
,” she gasps against the red polyester jacket of his uniform. The pain is unbelievable. It isn’t supposed to be like this. Where is Jack? He promised he’d be with her.

She begins to cry hot, noisy tears. He promised.

There is a concrete bench next to the building’s entrance and Robert lowers her onto it. The bench has soaked up a full morning’s worth of intense heat. Lindsey jerks up off it and feels something in her back shift. “Oh, oh, oh my god!” she cries, her sciatic nerve screaming.

“Oh, jeez, are you OK? Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, Jesus,”

“Mrs. Westfield, aw hell, tell me what to do.”

“I pinched a nerve,” she gasps. “I can’t move.”

“OK, OK. Look, stay here. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“Yes.” Huff, huff. “Please.”

With its horn blaring, a cab cuts across three lanes of traffic and pulls to the curb in front of the building. Robert has his cell phone out and waves the driver away, but Lindsey sees this as the quickest way to the hospital and an epidural. 

“No, no, Robert. Help me, help me up. I’ll take the cab.” She takes a deep breath and slowly straightens, every inch upward agony. Though Robert braces her and supports her weight, sweat pours from her scalp, burns her armpits and overwhelms her panties.  She leans fully on Robert and begins the long shuffle to the car.

The cabby is leaning across the front seat. “She having baby? No, no, no, I no want her have baby in my car.” Turning around, he slams into gear just as another cab noses itself in front of his car to let off its passengers. Robert yanks the back door open.

“She’s not gonna have the kid in your car. You’re gonna get her to the hospital and she’s gonna have it there.” He tosses some bills through the front window.

Lindsey concentrates on moving her bulk through the door. When she is finally settled, her head drops back in fatigue. She watches through half-slit eyes as Robert pushes her overnight bag through the window. “You can’t forget this,” he says. She could not care less.

“Mrs. Westfield, are you comfortable?”

Get the hell out of here,
she thinks.
Go.
She nods to Robert.

“Listen, none of that crazy driving, OK?” Robert says and slaps the roof of the car.

The cabby shrugs and pulls out into traffic. “OK, lady, what hospital?”

The hospital is in mid-town, not that far as the crow flies but, in the middle of lunch-hour traffic, quite a ride. With every bump, every slowing down and picking up of speed, Lindsey’s lower back screams. She reaches out to brace herself and finds the cabby’s eyes watching her in the rearview mirror. Whimpering, she shakes her head.
Why the hell isn’t he watching where we’re going?
Whether concerned for her or concerned for his cab, Lindsey can’t tell and really doesn’t care. About four blocks into the ride, a new contraction envelops her. On top of the pain from the pinched nerve, it is more than she can bear. A scream tears from her lips as her body arches off the seat.

The cabby turns around and stares at her through the Plexiglas that separates them. “No, no, no baby. No baby here,” he says and then, facing forward, settles into the seat and guns the engine. The car shoots through a red light, barely misses a garbage truck, a few pedestrians and another cab as they weave in and out of the havoc they create.

Lindsey clutches at the armrest and digs her feet into the floor but, regardless, she slides across the vinyl-covered seat and bangs into the opposite door. The pain is continuous and she can’t tell where the contractions leave off and the pain of the pinched nerve begins. She cries forcefully and tries to hang on. The cabby continues to barrel through traffic, picking up speed rather than slowing down as they approach each intersection. His eyes shift to find hers in the rear view mirror and the level of his voice rises to meet hers. “No, no, no baby! No baby!” is his mantra. “Slow down, slow down, slow down,” is hers, but it is more in her mind than on her lips, as her mouth is busy screaming.