Neil McMahon - To The Bone

"Are you really a doctor?" she asks teasingly. Are we really talking drugs?

"Really." You show her your medical license, making sure she also sees plenty of credit cards and crisp cash.

Then you lean close, lips just brushing her ear, and say very quietly, "Look, we're both grown-ups. Let's not be coy. I like to party, and I've got a whole pharmacy at my clinic."

She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you, but it's just what she wanted to hear.

"Why don't we talk it over in my car?" you say.

You're parked several blocks away, and the two of you don't talk much on the walk. She's wondering whether she made a bad move.

But when she sees the car, her eyebrows rise.

"Nice," she says.

You unlock the passenger door for her. As she's getting in, you press a folded hundred-dollar bill into her palm.

"Just a little fun money," you say.

She acts surprised, even offended. "This isn't really what I do. What do you – you know – want from me?"

"Maybe you can help me with a fantasy."

"Well, maybe," she says warily. "But nothing weird, okay?"

"Of course." You start the engine. It has a smooth, reassuring purr.

"You mind if I smoke?" she asks.

"Go ahead."

She takes cigarettes from her purse and lights up, then relaxes back into the seat. This is looking good. There's money and drugs.

You're a doctor. You can give her what she wants.

When Monks woke up, the house was dim, with the only light coming from down the hall. He was still on the couch, covered with a blanket. Memory of the earlier hours began to return, and then, the fear that Martine had gone home.

But she was still here, a small mound in his bed, buried under covers in the now cool night. He put a hand on her lightly to assure himself and heard a slight pause in her breathing before it evened out again. Omar, the big Persian, was curled at her feet, looking almost half her size. There was the sense that he had been posted as a guard while the other two were out taking care of nightly cat business.

Monks went to the bathroom to urinate, rinse his face, and brush his teeth, then back to the kitchen to put out fresh spoonfuls of cat food in their bowls. He turned out the light. The green LED numbers on the microwave clock said 1:08 a.m. The previous day's events were flickering through his mind like a videotape now.

He stood in the dark room, grappling with the urge to start drinking again, to blast on through the night, to reach that feverish black edge between this reality and a further one that lured, promising that it was realer still. He had been there many times, but not in several years.

He walked back down the hall to the bedroom. When he undressed, he realized, with surprise, that he was half-hard. He lay down beside Martine and touched her small breasts, an exploratory caress, not sure how welcome he would be.

But she stretched luxuriantly, then turned and cupped his tightened scrotum, hefting it curiously, as if judging its weight. Her hand moved to stroke his shaft, using the inside of her wrist, then pricking it with her fingernails.

Her touch was exquisite. He adored her. He tried to concentrate all his being on her, knowing that this would soon be gone, too.

And yet some lewd uncontrollable part of his mind kept playing the image of Eden Hale as she had been in that film, luscious, intense, braced on hands and knees and wide open to the ramming bursting need of men.

The night is yours now. You move through the pitch-dark woods without light or sound. The trail is steep and overgrown, but your steps are sure. Power surges through your veins and pounds inside your skull, burning and brilliant and supreme. You are beyond all limits.

Inside the plastic bag you carry is a warm limp weight.

You come to a deep cleft in the mountainside, a spring that was diverted years ago, to fill the swimming pool for the mansion below. No one comes here anymore. You pull away the rocks and brush that you had piled in the entrance. A strong odor seeps out, but musty, like copper and wet earth. The lime has done its job.

This is where you keep the leftover parts.

You lay her down on top of the others, then remove her silver-and-turquoise bracelet and wind it around your own arm. It burns with her heat, right through your skin.

Your body is tired, but your mind is full of her song, a song of worship, for the beauty you have given her.

Monks arrived back at Mercy Hospital before eight o'clock the next morning. He had slept poorly – had lain awake beside Martine for a long time after making love, finally dozing a little. But the memory tapes had kept playing in his head, and he was wide awake by six. He had gotten up, showered and shaved, and driven to the city.

He stopped first at the Emergency Room to check for messages. There were two. One, a hand-scrawled note from Roman Kasmarek, just said, "Stop by."

The second was an official hospital message, typed by a clerk and computer-printed: "Dr. D' Anton wishes to extend the courtesy of examining the records of Eden Hale. Please call at your convenience."

Monks rolled the paper up and tapped it against his thigh as he walked down to the morgue. There were such things as changes of heart, but by and large they made him suspicious.

The hospital's cafeteria food was good and usually tempted Monks, but this morning he settled for a scoop of scrambled eggs and toast. He and Roman found a table in a corner. The place was busy, filled with staff in different colored uniforms and a few visitors who were early, or who had spent an anxious night waiting with an ill friend or relative and were not done with their vigils yet.

'The initial tox screen is in," Roman said. "And I had a chance to look at the body before the city took her. This isn't all official, but here's what I'm sure of." He held up his forefinger, ticking off points. "She had a relatively high level of Valium in her system, but nowhere near lethal. There's no direct connection to the death." A second finger appeared. "You were right about the DIC. She bled out. That's what killed her."

Monks felt a measure of relief. His diagnosis had been correct.

But there remained the question of his treatment. "What caused the DIC?"

Roman's ring finger rose to join the other two. "I saw no evidence of surgical infection. No pregnancy, no obvious signs of trauma, carcinoma, any of the other usual causes. It's possible they'll turn up on autopsy, but I doubt it. But there was an infection. We found salmonella in her bloodstream."

"Salmonella," Monks said, laying down his fork. "Salmonella doesn't cause blood clotting. Just the opposite."

Heads at nearby tables turned toward them. Monks lowered his voice.

"She might have had salmonella, but I can't believe that's what did it," he said.

Roman's hand opened, palm out, for patience. "Take it easy, Carroll. I'm just telling you what the tests show."

"Have you ever known salmonella to act like that?"

"Not the common stuff, enteritidis" Roman said. "Which is what this is, or at least what it looked like. There are other kinds."

"You're sure it's not typhoid?" Monks said. "I thought about that." Typhoid fever was caused by a type of salmonella, and he feared that he might have missed it after all.

"Almost positive. I'm doing cultures, so we can verify it. But there are no other indications of typhoid, and it doesn't fit with the DIC."

Monks waited.

"But we've got to keep in mind, there are new strains of everything cropping up all the time," Roman said. "It's possible that this is some form of salmonella that looks like the regular thing, but has a much more severe effect."