Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

"No keys in the car? No note?"

"No, sir. Nothing. It was clean as a whistle inside."

Katzka looked back down at the water. He wondered how deep the river was at this point, and how fast the current was moving.

"I did try calling Dr. Hodell's home, but no one answered," said the patrolman. "I didn't know at the time that he was missing."

Katzka said nothing. He just kept gazing down at the river, thinking about Abby, wondering what he should tell her. She had looked so heartbreakingly fragile in that hospital bed, and he couldn't bear the thought of inflicting any more blows. Any more pain.

I won't tell her. Not yet, he decided. Not until we find a body.

The patrolman looked down at the river, too. "Jesus. Do you think he jumped?"

"If he's down there," said Katzka, 'it wasn't because he jumped."

The phones had been ringing all day, two L?N's had called in sick, and charge nurse Wendy Soriano had missed lunch. She was in no mood to be pulling a double shift. Yet here she was at 3.30 p.m., facing the prospect of another eight hours on duty.

Her kids had already called twice. Mommy, Jeffy's hitting me again. Mommy, what time is Daddy coming home? Mommy, can we use the microwave? We promise we won't burn the house down. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.

Why didn't they ever bother Daddy at work?

Because Daddy's job is so much more fucking important.

Wendy dropped her head in her hands and stared down at the stack of charts flagged with doctors' orders. The residents loved to write orders. They breezed in with their fancy Cross pens and scribbled such earthshattering instructions as: "Milk of Magnesia for constipation," or 'bedrails up at night'. Then they presented the flagged charts to the nurses like God passing instructions to Moses. Thou shalt not tolerate constipation.

With a sigh, Wendy reached for the first chart.

The phone rang. It better not be the kids again, she thought. Not another Mommy he's hitting me call. She answered it with an irritated: "Six East, Wendy."

"This is Dr. Wettig."

"Oh." Automatically she sat up straight. One didn't slouch when speaking to Dr. Wettig. Even if it was on the phone. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I want to follow up that blood alcohol level on Dr. DiMatteo.

And I want it sent out to MedMark Labs."

"Not our lab?"

"No. Route it directly to MedMark."

"Certainly, Doctor," said Wendy, scribbling down the order. It was an unusual request, but one didn't question the General. "How's she doing?" he asked. "A little restless."

"Has she tried to leave?"

"No. She hasn't even come out of the room."

"Good. Make sure she stays there. And absolutely no visitors. That includes all medical personnel, except for the ones I specify in my orders."

"Yes, Dr. Wettig."

Wendy hung up and stared at her desk. During that call, three more flagged charts had been deposited there. Damn. She'd be taking off order sheets all evening. Suddenly she felt dizzy from hunger. She still hadn't had lunch, hadn't even had a break in hours.

She glanced around, and saw two LPN's chatting in the hallway. Was she the only person working her butt off here?

She tore off the order for the blood alcohol level and deposited it in the lab tech's box. As she rose from the desk, the phone began to ring. She ignored it; after all, that's what ward clerks were for.

She walked away to the sound of two lines jangling. For once, someone else could answer the damn phone.

The vampire was back, carrying her tray of blood tubes and lab slips and needles. "I'm sorry, Dr. DiMatteo. But I need to stick you again."

Abby, standing at the window, merely glanced at the phlebotomist. Then she turned back to the view. "This hospital's sucked all the blood I have to give," she said, and stared at the dreary view beyond the window. In the parking lot below, nurses scurried for the hospital doors, hair flying, raincoats flapping in the wind. In the east, clouds had gathered, black and threatening. Will the skies never clear? wondered Abby.

Behind her came the clatter of glass tubes. "Doctor, I really do have to get this blood."

"I don't need any more tests."

"But Dr. Wettig ordered it."The phlebotomist added, with a quiet note of desperation, "Please don't make things hard for me."

Abby turned and looked at the woman. She seemed very young. Abby was reminded of herself at some long-ago time. A time when she, too, was terrified of Wettig, of doing the wrong thing, of losing all she'd worked for. She was afraid of none of these things now. But this woman was.

Sighing, Abby went to the bed and sat down.

The phlebotomist set her blood tray on the bedside table and began opening sterile packets containing gauze, a disposable needle and a Vacutainer syringe. Judging by the number of filled blood tubes in her tray, she had already gone through the motions dozens of times today. There were only a few empty slots remaining. "OK, which arm would you prefer?"

Abby held out her left arm and watched impassively as the rubber tourniquet was tucked into place with a snap. She made a fist. The antecubital vein swelled into view, bruised by all the earlier vein punctures. As the needle pierced her skin, Abby turned away. She looked, instead, at the phlebotomist's tray, at all the neatly labelled tubes of blood. A vampire's candy box.

Suddenly she focused on one specimen in particular, a purple-topped tube with the label facing towards her. She stared at the name.

VOSS, NINA

SICU BED

"There we go," said the vampire, withdrawing the needle. "Can you hold that gauze in place?"

Abby looked up. "What?"

"Hold the gauze while I get you a Bandaid."

Automatically Abby pressed the gauze to her arm. She looked back at the tube containing Nina Voss's blood. The attending physician's name was just visible, at the corner of the label. Dr. Archer.

Nina Voss is back in the hospital, thought Abby. Back on cardiothoracic service.

The phlebotomist left.

Abby paced over to the window and stared out at the darkening clouds. Scraps of paper were flying around the parking lot. The window rattled, buffeted by a fresh gust of wind.

Something has gone wrong with the new heart.

She should have realized that days ago, when they'd met in the limousine. She remembered Nina's appearance in the gloom of the car. The pale face, the bluish tinge of her lips. Even then, her transplant was already failing.

HARVEST

Abby went to the closet. There she found a bulging plastic bag labelled: Patient Belongings. It contained her shoes, her bloodstained slacks, and her purse. Her wallet was missing; it was probably locked up in the hospital safe. A thorough search of the purse turned up a few loose nickels and dimes in the bottom. She would need every last one.

She zipped on the slacks, tucked in her hospital gown top, and stepped into the shoes. Then she went to the door and peeked out.

Nurse Soriano wasn't at the desk. However, two other nurses were in the station, one talking on the phone, another bent over paperwork. Neither was looking in Abby's direction.

She glanced down the hall and saw the cart with the evening meal trays come rattling into the ward, pushed by an elderly volunteer in pink. The cart came to a stop in front of the nurses' desk. The volunteer pulled out two meal trays and carried them into a nearby patient room.

That's when Abby slipped out into the hall. The meal cart blocked the nurses' view as Abby walked calmly past their desk and out of the ward.

She couldn't risk being spotted on the elevators; she headed straight for the stairwell.

Six flights up she emerged on the twelfth floor. Straight ahead was the OR wing; around the corner was the SICU. From the linen cart in the OR hallway, she picked up a surgical gown, a flowered cap, and shoe covers. Completely garbed in blue like everyone else, she just might pass unnoticed.