Peter Clement - Mortal Remains

“No!” said Charles. “They’re lying-”

Chaz leapt at his throat.

They crashed over backward as his son’s fingers closed around his neck. Charles tried to yell, but already the thumbs were crushing his windpipe. He attempted to claw them off.

“You never had faith in me,” Chaz screamed. “Never. You ruined everything I ever tried to do. But Kelly! How could you ruin Kelly?” He broke into a wail as raw and screeching as a wounded animal’s.

Charles struggled to draw breath and couldn’t. His hands pried and twisted at the fingers, but didn’t budge them. If anything they squeezed harder. A loud ringing filled his head, drowning out the shouts that rang through the room. His vision grew dark around the edges, and his son’s terrible, pained eyes, circles within circles, spiraled him toward two black pits.

Melanie found Earl lying flat on his back, the IV in his arm, a cardiac monitor attached to his chest. The latter surprised her. Had he already started to complain of palpitations? Deplete his potassium and give him a lethal arrhythmia – that had been her original plan. Too bad she couldn’t wait.

She walked over to the bedside and stood over him. His face hung slack, his mouth drooped open, and his respirations were shallow, the way she’d expect to see any patient who’d been brought down with a major tranquilizer. It gave her a sense of total control over him.

So look how we ended up, Earl. Couldn’t have guessed this when we were classmates, could you? Who’s the hotshot now? You’ll be remembered as Kelly’s killer, and I’ll be wringing my hands and saying, Who would have thought it?

She pulled out the syringe, uncapped the needle, and jabbed it into the side portal of the plastic tubing.

Still, you very nearly got me.

She pushed the plunger all the way down and opened the intravenous valve wide, flushing the solution into his vein.

Except it wouldn’t run through.

The normal stream of drops that should be dripping from the bag into the plastic tubing wasn’t there.

Was the line blocked?

She bent down to check where the tubing joined the angiocath that had been inserted into the vein. Usually the first sign of obstruction would be a backup of blood.

It looked clear.

Then the problem had to be the angiocath itself. It might have torn the vein, and the IV was simply seeping into the tissues of his arm, not through the bloodstream where she needed it.

Damn.

She’d have to change it. But most of the insulin would still be in the tubing. In a few minutes she could make the switch, run it in, and be out of there.

She quickly found an equipment tray on the counter, located a new angiocath, and broke it out of its package.

Then she stooped over Earl’s arm, removed the bandage anchoring the old one to the skin – and stared.

It had never been inserted in his vein. It lay taped to the surface of his skin, the needle capped.

“What the hell…”

She looked up, and saw Earl staring at her, eyes wide-open and alert.

The bathroom door opened, and out stepped a resident with red hair and the short-haired nurse who’d been taking care of Bessie.

Melanie felt warm, as if the room had gone on fire. “What are you doing here?” She mustered her most imperious tone, intended to make underlings out of anyone she used it on.

“They came to do the DONT on me, Melanie,” Earl said, before they could answer. “You remember. N is for narcan, as in reversing the effects of narcotics, such as morphine. Then, after they brought me around, they heard what I had to say about you.”

Earl’s quiet voice cut into her like a scalpel. It became hard to breathe. She cast around for some way to regain control. “What are you talking about, Earl? Now you let me restart your IV before I call a code forty-four.” She looked over at the others. “He had a psychotic episode this morning, and his infection is getting worse.” She’d adopted her confiding manner, the one used to bring friends and families over to her side and away from the patient’s. She also scanned their name tags. “So Tanya, and Dr. Roy, I know you two meant well, and if you will just get back to your business, we’ll say this little episode never happened-”

“You know, I talk to Bessie McDonald every day,” Tanya interrupted, speaking so softly it might have been a whisper.

Melanie’s fright escalated. “You what?”

“When I brush her hair and clean her nails – she used to be fastidious about that. Oh, don’t worry, she can’t speak back. Never will. I do it in case she can somehow hear or sense that I’m there, caring for her.”

“Well I’m sure that’s very commendable-”

“How could you have harmed her so?” Tanya continued. Her voice floated across the room. It made Melanie shiver.

Dr. Roy took a step toward her. “And I want to know if I’d given her sugar when we found her, would it have made a difference?” He had a harder edge to him. “That will haunt me until the end of my days.”

Testosterone defined an adversary so much better; it made him far easier to deal with. “You come an inch closer, Dr. Roy, and I’ll lay charges of intimidation and menacing behavior, not to mention libel-”

The sound of ripping tape cut her off. She turned to see Earl holding up the tubing that had been attached to his arm. He’d wound it into a loop. “You won’t be laying charges, calling any code forty-fours, or doing much of anything once we analyze what you injected in here.”

Her mouth went dry, and her insides felt trapped in ice. The coiled green plastic caught the light like an emerald ring. She fought the urge to make a grab for it. “I’m sorry, Earl. You leave me no choice but to get the orderlies.” She spun on her heel and walked out of the room.

She heard Tanya and Dr. Roy offer to stop her.

“Don’t bother,” Earl said. “She’s finished, and knows it.”

The day before Nixon left the White House and Kelly gave her the ultimatum leapt to her mind.

Go to the dean and confess what you’ve done within twenty-four hours, or I’ll do it for you.

At Kelly’s insistence they’d met around noon by the southeast entrance to Central Park – the place across from the Plaza where horse-drawn carriages waited for tourists. Melanie had felt as helpless to save herself then as she did now.

The fear had only worsened as the deadline expired and she waited for the police to knock on her door. Just as the fear would build and eat into her now. Except this time there would be no reprieve.

She walked briskly toward the nursing station, and right on by to the exit.

Thirty minutes later Melanie sat in her penthouse sipping coffee. It had turned out to be a pleasant day after all. The sunlight crept across the white birch floors on schedule, illuminating her trophies one by one. The designer kitchen, the living room ensemble, the four-poster bed.

She watched the edge of its shadow reach the glass-topped table in front of her and slowly pass by the items laid out on it. She adjusted her gaze to the southwest, looking out the windows toward the Statue of Liberty and to the sparkling water beyond. A cruise ship glided by the lady, bound for who knows where. She’d known the excitement of that moment, embarking on a Saturday morning, leaving New York and work behind, anticipating what adventures lay ahead.

Those trips didn’t hold a candle to where she’d be going now.

There would be plenty of time. At least an hour. Probably double that. No one would believe Earl at first.

“The drugs – they’ve made him hallucinate,” everyone would say.

Testing for insulin would also take a while.

He wouldn’t have the cops at her door anytime soon.