Authors: Eileen Dreyer

Head Games (7 page)

BOOK: Head Games

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“I know you want to make sure the patient's upstairs before they try it. It's a one-on-one nursing situation.”

“He wants me to give it now.”

“He who?” Sasha demanded.

“Spizer.”

“Does the guy fit the criteria?”

The nurse, a young Korean girl named Nancy, shrugged. “I don't know. What's the criteria?”

“See, that's what I love about working here,” Molly philosophized, capping the syringe that held her patient's Ativan. “It's so challenging that for a few hours I can forget all about silly things like the rest of my life.”

“You were going to quit three days ago,” Sasha reminded her.

“Three days ago I didn't have a family to support. You want to do the TPA or shall I?”

“I'll do it. You pick up my other ten patients.” They were already walking as they talked. “Room five is waiting for films, room six is old Mr. Peabody, and Wilma's in five for her regular pelvic.”

“We have any new staff I should know about?”

“You mean housekeeping cross-trainees? Not tonight. Tonight we're lucky.”

“Yeah. Tonight we have a ten-year-old nurse and Spizer, who wants us to treat everything right here, just like he sees on
ER.
”

Sasha shrugged as she bent for IV equipment to start treatment on the cardiac patient. “It could be worse.”

Molly smacked her on the ass. “Bite your tongue.”

Because, of course, it would almost certainly get worse. Especially when called like that, like an incantation.

And it did. At least it did for Molly.

She was in trying to talk Spizer out of doing a lumbar puncture on a lady with a bladder infection a couple of hours later when she was paged to the desk. Molly only had to step out into the hall to realize that whatever the secretary wanted her for, it was definitely not business as usual.

“This came for you,” Marianne said, just pointing, her eyes wide with disbelief.

So were Molly's, but for a completely different reason. After working with Molly for less than a year, Marianne Senkosky, a snotty blonde with a sincere aversion to effort, simply couldn't imagine that anybody in his right mind would send Molly long-stemmed roses. Molly took one look at the box that rested at the secretary's station and knew that the question was far more complicated.

“Don't touch it,” she warned, her hands suddenly sweaty.

Marianne lifted a penciled-on eyebrow. “Afraid I'm going to contaminate it?”

Yes, Molly thought, her head whirling. Behind her Sasha and Spizer showed up for the surprise. Molly didn't even turn to acknowledge them.

“Who brought this in?” she asked Marianne, trying her best to see something identifiable on the box.

It was just plain. White. Long. Full.

“A florist, I assume. But heck, I could just be jumping to conclusions here.”

“You want to explain this sudden paralysis over horticulture?” Sasha asked quietly.

Molly sucked in a breath. “Can you do me a favor?” she asked just as carefully. “Get me a pair of forceps.”

There was silence all around the desk now. But leave it to Sasha. She just reached into her lab coat pocket and lifted out what, in lay terms, would have been called big tweezers. Then she handed them off to Molly as if assisting in surgery.

“Is this about the notes?” Sasha asked.

“Kind of,” Molly responded, sliding one side of the forceps up under the lid to make sure there weren't any barriers. “I, uh, got a kind of weird thing landed in my yard the other night â¦ in a box like this.”

“What?”

By now, several more people had shown up, all facing the box that lay on the high secretary's counter like a sacrifice on an altar. Molly was busy trying to get a good grip on the lid without contaminating it.

“Oh, something just a little twisted.”

Considering the fact that anyone who worked in an urban trauma center
was perfectly acquainted with twisted, each person there leaned a little closer. If Molly thought this deserved special merit, it must be memorable.

Molly barely noticed. Her attention was on the effort it took to lift the lid off the box, which was only happening in fits and starts. She could hear paper rustle inside. She could feel the sudden thunder of her heart. Her stomach was churning, and sweat trickled down her temples. After all, one bone could be a joke. Two was definitely a problem.

The lid lifted clear, and Molly smelled it. Faint, fresh, familiar enough to send her into a rage.

“Aw â¦
shit
!”

It was Marianne, of course, who offered the first comment. “Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who'd think it's weird that somebody'd send you flowers.”

Roses. A dozen of them. Garnet red, exotic and lush, their perfume tickling Molly's nose and inciting even greater frenzy. Because there, tucked in the folds of the tissue, was the note.

Thought this time you'd like something more fun than hearts and crosses.

love

Frank

“That son of a bitch,” Molly breathed, shaking with the effort it took to control the urge to take that box and heave it out into the street. To heave something at Frank's head.

“You're right,” Marianne sniped. “I'd think a guy was a total jerk if he sent me flowers.”

“Frank the lawyer sent you those?” Sasha asked.

Most of the rest of the staff was laughing and walking away. Molly couldn't quite put the lid back in place. “Yes,” she snapped.

“And you think that's â¦ what?”

Molly finally turned on her friend. “Pretty goddamn typical. He's not being sweet, Sasha. He's being a jerk. Because he was there when I got the last box.”

“The last box. That being?”

Molly sucked in a breath. “A human femur decorated in paint.”

Even Sasha reacted to that. “Really.”

“Addressed to me. In paint. On the bone.”

Unfortunately, Sasha couldn't seem to help smiling as she shook her head. “He is something, isn't he?”

Molly wasn't in the least amused. “He's going to be one of Winnie's clients pretty damn soon.”

Sasha wasn't particularly impressed. Pulling one of the roses from the box, she expertly broke it close to the bud and slid the bud into her lab coat like a boutonniere. “So let me get this straight. You're mad because you
didn't
get a bone instead of flowers?”

“I'm mad because he isn't taking this seriously.”

Molly hadn't, either, of course. Well, she'd been trying not to. Not until she'd seen this second box, anyway. But Sasha didn't need to know that.

Sasha shrugged. “In that case, don't give him the satisfaction. Enjoy the flowers. We'll talk about this bone business later.”

And Sasha walked off. Molly took a couple of minutes to dump the other eleven roses in the trash and then headed the other way.

By the end of the evening, everybody sported roses in their lab coats courtesy of Frank Patterson. And Molly, still furious, had to at least admit that Frank had served a purpose. Not only was the staff looking pretty darned dapper, but Molly found herself resettled into her “It's all a mistake” frame of mind.

Unfortunately, that only lasted another twenty-four hours, until she opened her back door to find her dog licking something in the backyard.

Something that glittered.

CHAPTER 4

Molly had put in another long evening shift, this time in the Medical Examiner's office, where she cleared nine natural deaths and investigated a suicide and a double homicide. It was always this way so close to Christmas. The quotas for the Heavenly Immigration Bureau had to be met by New Year's, and as, usual, St. Peter was playing catch-up.

So, by the time she pulled into her driveway at about one in the morning, Molly was ready for some tea, some quiet, and a good stab at sleep. What she got instead was company.

There on her front porch, in the cold, waiting for her.

Molly really wasn't surprised to see her neighbor Sam standing there. Eighty years old and alone, he didn't sleep much more than Molly, and knew this was his best time to bring her any little problems that needed solving.

He was perched right under her porchlight; small, square, hunched, and panting with the exertion of crossing her lawn, a cigarette in his wide mouth and his eyebrows bushy enough to take flight. But he wasn't watching for Molly. He was in the midst of a discussion with Sasha.

Sasha, who rarely saw fit to cross another thresholdâespecially bearing gifts of alcohol and cheese.

Molly's first thought was that she wasn't sure she enjoyed all her sudden company. Her second was, of course, that it was better than putting up with a still-sulking Patrick. So she stepped out of her Celica and slammed the door shut.

“Why didn't I get an invitation to this party?” she demanded.

Sam beamed like a kid and let go a racking, emphysema-fueled cough. “Molly,
bubbe
. Such lovely company you give me for waiting.”

Molly headed up the walk. “And what's Myra going to say when she finds out you're ogling blondes behind her back?”

Sam laughed. “I'm not meshugge, sweetheart. Myra never needs to know.”

Sasha was watching them both as if they were mimes. Sam patted her like a five-year-old.

“And such a shiksa,” he said. “Being lucky enough to spend time with both of you, I could die happy,
nu
?”

Molly had lived in her house for five years. In that time, she'd seen Sam go from Lee Iacocca to Georgie Jessel. Of course, she'd also seen his wife, Myra, disintegrate into the morass of Alzheimer's in a nursing home, and both of his children move away with his grandchildren.

But heck, who really minded being cosseted by the grandfather of the year? Besides, it was huge fun to see that great white business shark peek out from those apple-doll eyes every so often.

Gaining the small porch, she bussed him on the cheek. “You can lighten up on the Sholom Aleichem roadshow a little, Sam. Sasha makes it a point never to be impressed by local color.”

He wagged a finger at her. “There's an old Jewish saying, you know.”

Molly laughed. “I know. Respect your elders. Especially when they bring you tea.”

Sasha lifted an eyebrow. “This is getting much too Catskills for this Episcopalian.”

“You should get out of West County more, Sash,” Molly said, then shook her head with an amazed little grin. “But then, it seems that you have. Hello, Sasha. What are you doing here? Natural disaster? Impending scandal? Or did you finally kill Spizer and just wanted to help me with the paperwork?”

Sasha didn't so much as smile. “Illegal blood alcohol level. I was at a Christmas party and decided it wasn't prudent to try and make the wilds of Eureka right now. This seemed a likely way station.”

Molly pulled out her keys to open the door. “Sure. What the hell? You want me to adopt you till Christmas, too?”

“God, no. A cup of coffee and a Breathalyzer will do.”

As she attacked the front door lock, Molly cadged a quick look at her surprise guest. The wine in Sasha's hand was a rather vintage ChÃ¢teaux Margaux, and the cheese something even Molly didn't recognize. She wished she got invited to that kind of party. She wished she looked quite as well put together as Sasha with an illegal amount of alcohol in her system. Sasha was in a sleek black silk pantsuit and tailored cashmere coat. Molly, coming off duty in her moss green death investigator business suit, looked for all the world like Tootsie after a hard day under the television lights. But then, it didn't take Sasha to impress Molly with the fact that life was unfair.

“Come on in,” she invited them both.

Sam patted Sasha again, which was threatening Molly's composure. “You're a good girl. I'll make tea for you,
nu
?”

Molly punched the alarm code and ushered the way in. “Not if she wants to drive home sober, Sam.”

Sam waved her off. “
Feh!
It's just a little added warmth on a cold night.”

“There's an old Irish saying, you know,” Molly retorted as she ushered everyone in.

Sam just chuckled and headed for the kitchen, where Magnum greeted him with joyous barks. Magnum loved Sam. Sam fed him the leftovers Molly wouldn't.

“Good God,” Sasha drawled when she got a look at the dog. “Is there any small wildlife left in your neighborhood?”

Molly set things down and turned on the bright kitchen lights to uncover dirty dishes in her usually spotless sink, a milk carton on her kitchen table, and her African violets on the windowsill pushed aside to make room for a CD player. She sighed. This other person in the house business was beginning to wear.

Blithely ignoring the mess, Sam creaked and clattered his way over to fill Molly's teapot. Sasha sank into a kitchen chair and laid down her booty. Magnum took one step her way. Sasha stopped him in his tracks with a single glacial look.

Molly shook her head in wonder. “How do you do that?”

“I practice on residents and nursing students.”

Molly gave her dog a consolation rub and let him out.

“Myra sends her love, by the way,” Sam wheezed, his attention on stove settings. “If you don't mind, I have a few forms for her I need help filling out.”

“No problem.”

“And a few questions about her new medicines. You know so much about medicine. I just know the
momzer
insurance companies are screwing me.”

“Then you know more than most people, Sam. I'd be happy to. Is Myra doing well?”

“Beautifully,
kine-ahora
. She loves the new television.”

Myra wouldn't recognize a television if somebody implanted the definition straight into her cerebral cortex. Molly smiled anyway. “Good, Sam. That's wonderful.”

“Oh, another thing,” he said. “When you were over before, did you see my milk money?”

His milk money. The money he kept squirreled away for the delivery boy who brought all his groceries. In this day and age of superchains and discount stores, one chain in St. Louis, Straub's, still held by tradition and cosseted their special customers by delivering groceries without resorting to the Internet. And Sam was a special customer.

“It was in your cookie jar,” she said. The one shaped like Winnie the Pooh for the grandkids who rarely got to see it anymore.

Setting out mugs, Sam nodded. “Ah. I thought I'd put it out for Little Allen. Such a good boy.”

Little Allen being thirty and taller than Sam. But then, if a guy was still delivering groceries at thirty, maybe he did deserve the appellation “Little Allen.”

“Speaking of good boys,” Sasha said. “How is the great experiment coming along?”

Molly was busy cleaning dishes out of her sink. “I'll let you know in a week.”

“
Gottenyu
, such a sad thing,” Sam mourned. In front of him the teapot whistled, adding tenor counterpoint. “A beautiful child like that left on a doorstep.”

Molly grimaced. “He wasn't exactly left on the doorstep.”

Out in the back, Magnum suddenly began to bark. Excited, defensive,
anxious. Molly peered out the window to see a shadow drop down over the grille fence that separated her yard from Euclid. Ah, the great experiment itself.

Both Sasha and Sam looked up as the back door opened.

“Wow,” Patrick greeted them. “You sure keep odd hours, Aunt Molly.”

“Patrick,” Sam beamed. “How was work?”

Patrick shucked off his duster and smiled back. “Fine, Mr. Spiegel. How's Mrs. Spiegel?”

“Fine. She sends her love.”

“You're coming in kind of late from the restaurant,” Molly said.

Never making eye contact, Patrick tossed his coat onto a chair and opened the cabinet above the sink. “We had some deliveries we had to put away. Did you know Magnum's outside gnawing on something? He didn't even come to the fence when I showed up.”

Molly took a superstitious look out the back window. “Gnawing on something?”

He nodded, his eyes just a little too avid as he pulled out a mug to set in line with the others. “Uh-huh. I thought it was one of those bones Mr. Spiegel throws him, but he was acting weird. It was from you, Mr. Spiegel, wasn't it?”

Molly looked over at Sam, but Sam shook his head. “Not since that unfortunate accident on your aunt's new shoes.”

Molly took a careful peek outside. It was stupid. It was childish. But she was suddenly very nervous. “You didn't see it.”

Patrick shook his head, breathing a little fast, eyes really wide now. “He wouldn't let me close. You don't think â¦”

Molly sucked in a breath and pulled open the door. “Magnum!” she yelled. “Come here!”

She got nothing more than a single bark. Magnum never disobeyed. Except when Sam threw him one of his soup bones.

“Oh, I hate this,” Molly moaned to herself.

“You really did get a human bone?” Sasha asked.

“No, Sasha,” Molly snapped. “I made it up because I wasn't getting enough attention at work.”

And then, because there was nothing else she could do, she stalked out into her yard.

And found out that this time she hadn't gotten a bone.

She'd gotten something far worse.

Molly didn't call the police. She knew she should. She sat in her kitchen for five hours staring at the flower box she'd been able to get away from Magnum, and she still couldn't force herself to take the next step.

Eyes.

Someone had left her eyes.

Tucked into cotton this time. Cotton that had been drawn on, in glitter like eye shadow and Magic Marker for a nose. And eyes, real eyes, nested in a soft, cotton face. Part of a face. A slice of a face, as if seen through a fence.

Eyes.

Eye.

By the time Molly had gotten outside, Magnum had been stained with marker and glitter, and only one eye lay in the box.

A blue eye.

A blue eye surrounded by a child's art project face and addressed with the kind of gold letters teachers tacked to blackboards.

This is for Molly Burke.

Molly wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry.

Sam had begged her to call the police. Sasha suggested the
Enquirer
, so Molly could pay off her lawsuit. Patrick asked if he could call a couple of his friends in D.C. And Molly, wishing with all her heart she'd get a call from Frank saying it was somehow another joke, just sat there.

She simply couldn't face what was in that box. She couldn't face the fact that somebody was angry enough to send it to her along with those nasty notes.

No, though. That couldn't be it. Anybody might send nasty notes. They wouldn't go to the trouble of finding a femur.

And eyes.

Blue eyes.

Did medical supply houses have eyes? They supplied cow eyes. Molly had dissected them in training. Would ophthalmologists need human eyes to practice on?

Would somebody be angry or crazy enough that they would seek out someplace like that? To lay in a supply of body parts for the purpose of terrorizing a forensic nurse?

Molly simply couldn't wrap her brain around it. She couldn't face what would happen the minute she shared the news. So she put off the call. Instead she sat there at her kitchen table long after Sam walked home and Sasha drove out to West County. Long after even Patrick gave up and headed upstairs. She broke open a bottle of Stoly and gave herself a real cup of Sam's tea and still didn't feel better. But she didn't call.

She waited until she walked out into her foyer to get her mail the next morning and discovered her sixth note.

“You're threatening to become more trouble than you're worth,” Winnie warned.

BOOK: Head Games

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