Jed Rubenfeld - The Death Instinct

'Afraid of a little shot, a big man like you?' said the nurse. 'Don't worry. You'll feel much better soon.'

Younger tried to lift himself; his arms looked powerful, but evidently it was too painful. He closed his eyes. 'No shot,' he repeated to Littlemore.

'Ma'am,' said Littlemore, 'he doesn't want the shot.'

'It's for his pain,' answered the nurse, paying no attention.

Younger shook his head.

'Sorry, ma'am, can't let you do that,' said Littlemore.

'Doctor's orders,' she replied as if those magic words preempted all further discussion. She tapped the syringe, forced a drop of clear liquid from the needle, and was just about to inject Younger when Littlemore seized her wrist and led her, protesting, out the door.

'Thanks,' said Younger.

Littlemore noticed matches and a packet of cigarettes on a table. 'I thought you were out of smokes.'

'One left,' said Younger.

'Want it?'

'Sure, let's do all the clichйs. I reject the morphine. You put a cigarette in my mouth.'

'Is that a yes or a no?'

'No,' said Younger.

'You're not going to die on us, Doc, are you?'

'Thinking about it.'

A silence followed. Younger's teeth began to chatter. With an effort, he brought the noise to a halt.

'How's the job?' asked Younger.

'Job's good,' said Littlemore. 'Don't have one, but it's good.'

'Family?'

'Family's good.'

A steady dripping came from the intravenous tubes on the other side of the bed. They could hear traffic outside the closed window.

'That's good,' said Younger.

'You wanted to talk to me?' asked Littlemore.

'Who told you that?'

'The Miss.'

'Ridiculous,' said Younger. His teeth began to rattle again.

'I'm lighting you that cigarette,' said Littlemore. He did so, fingers not as steady as they usually were. 'There you go.'

'Thanks.' Younger smoked; it settled his clattering teeth. 'You realize there's a silver lining.'

'Oh, yeah — what?'

'If I die fast enough, you'll be in the clear at my hearing tomorrow. They can't make you pay a man's bail bond posthumously.'

'I already talked to the DA,' said Littlemore. 'He dropped the charges against you.'

'Ah. Excellent. Then my death will be completely pointless.'

There was a long pause.

'Good thing I'm not a believer,' said Younger, smoke curling into his eyes.

Another silence.

'Not even to my own family,' said Younger.

'What's that?' asked Littlemore.

'Nothing,' said Younger. 'Ash?'

Littlemore took the cigarette, tamped it into an ashtray, and returned it to Younger's mouth.

'I wasn't kind, Jim,' said Younger quietly.

'What are you talking about?'

'I was never kind. Not to one person. Not even to my family.'

'Sure you were,' said Littlemore. 'You took care of your mom when she got sick. I remember.'

'No, I didn't,' said Younger. 'And my father. All he ever wanted from me was a show of respect. That's all. Never gave it to him.' He laughed through the smoke. 'Funny thing was I did respect him. I wasn't like you. You visit your father every weekend. You make him part of your life. You talk about Washington.'

'My dad?' said Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'My dad?'

Younger looked at him.

'My dad's a drunk,' said Littlemore. 'He's been a drunk his whole life. He cheated. And he was crooked. Got kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.'

'I know.'

'I know you know,' said Littlemore. 'But you let me tell my lies.'

Neither spoke.

'That was kind,' added Littlemore.

Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.

'I'll get that,' said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger's lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of the cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.

No one said anything.

At last Littlemore asked, 'You in a lot of pain, Doc?'

'I never understood it,' said Younger.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Why I was alive. Why any of us were.'

'You understand now?' asked Colette.

Younger nodded. 'Not happiness. Not meaning. It's just-'

He stopped.

'What?' asked Colette.

'War.'

'Only some people aren't fighting,' said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.

'No. Everyone's fighting. And I know what it's between, this war.' He looked at Colette.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Too late,' said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn't tell.

Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.

In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger's bed. A candle burned on the table. 'Can you hear me?' she whispered.

His eyes were closed. He was still prone, his back rising and falling so shallowly there was hardly any respiration at all. His forehead was drenched. A hollow light glowed in his cheeks.

'If you die,' she said quietly, 'I'll never forgive you.'

He lay there.

Abruptly she stood, letting go his hand. 'Go ahead and die then if you're so weak,' she cried. 'I thought you were strong. You're a weakling. Nothing but a weakling.'

'Not very sympathetic,' he said softly, without opening his eyes.

She gasped and covered her mouth. She took his hand again and whispered in his ear. 'If you live,' she said, 'I'll do anything you want. I'll be your slave.'

'Promise?'

'I promise,' she whispered.

His eyes blinked open — and shut again. 'Incentive. That's good. Nevertheless, I'm dying. You have to go.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Yes, you are,' he said, making a great effort to speak. 'I need to tell you what to do. I won't be awake long enough. Get Littlemore. Tell him to take you to a fishing tackle store.'

'What?'

'Break in if you need to. They'll have maggots — for bait. I should have thought of it before. Make sure they're from blowflies. Anything else will eat me alive. Tell the surgeon to open me up where the bullets entered. Cut as far down as he can. Drop the maggots in. Keep the incision open — use clamps. There's got to be plenty of air. Drain the wounds every couple of hours. After three days, clean them out.'

Dr Salvini, chief surgeon of the Washington Square Hospital, initially objected vigorously to the idea of embedding fly larvae to feast next to his patient's heart. But he knew Younger was dying, and in any event Colette gave him no choice.

'Um, what if they lay eggs in there?' Littlemore asked Colette early the next morning, peering at the seething stew in the troughs of Younger's back.

'First we have to hope they clean out the infection,' she answered quietly.

'I know,' said Littlemore, 'but what if the eggs hatch after he's sewed up?'

'They're larvae,' said Colette. 'They can't lay eggs. They only eat.'

'Oh — sounds good,' said Littlemore, swallowing.

How Younger held on over the next forty-eight hours, no one knew. His fever reached a hundred and five. He had no food, nearly no drink. They had to tie him to the bed rails because his convulsions were so violent.

On the third day, his fever broke. When the engorged maggots were flushed out of the wounds, Salvini was astonished to find clean, pink, healthy tissue, with all the necrotic detritus and seepage gone.

They took another set of X-rays. This time, Colette herself computed the depth and location of the bullet fragments — correctly to within a tenth of a centimeter. The bullets had indeed mushroomed, but they were stable and largely intact. Salvini didn't even have to break any more of Younger's ribs to extract them.