Rita Herron - Under His Skin

Still, the questions concerning the tissue transplants needled her. When she stepped into the hospital lounge for a midmorning cup of coffee, two surgical nurses hovered together in low conversation. “So far, we’ve had at least twenty patients affected,” one of the nurses said.

“The hospital will get flack for this,” the other nurse muttered.

“I just hope the police don’t ask questions,” the first nurse said.

“Why would they?”

“With this many patients involved, and with one of them a cop, the press will have a heyday. There’ll probably be lawsuits.”

Suddenly they spotted her and clammed up. But the rest of the morning, their conversation haunted Grace.

When she slipped into the hospital cafeteria for lunch, she spotted Dr. Whitehead and his colleague Dr. Nigel Knightly in deep conversation. She grabbed a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of sweet tea, half hoping to avoid Wilson Whitehead, but he cornered her and insisted she join them for lunch.

Dr. Knightly had performed Parker’s surgery so she decided to broach the subject of the tissue transplant with him. “The surgery with Parker Kilpatrick went okay?”

“Yes, it was a success,” Dr. Knightly said.

“This tissue was checked prior to surgery so we don’t expect any more problems,” Dr. Whitehead added.

She sipped her tea. “Did you get any more details on the recalled tissue?”

Dr. Knightly shrugged. “It wasn’t processed properly after extraction. That causes infection, rejection in some cases, and in one case now the patient has reacted, become septic and a limb had to be amputated.”

“Where do you think the problem originated?” she asked, digging for more information.

Dr. Whitehead arched his blond brows. “Why are you so interested, Grace?”

“Patients ask questions,” she replied quickly. “Sometimes they’re afraid or hesitant to go to the doctors. I just want to be prepared.”

He studied her for a long moment as if assessing the truth of her statement, then offered a small smile. “The problem didn’t occur in our hospital, that’s for sure. Probably an inexperienced or sloppy lab technician who didn’t know what he was doing.”

And since more than one hospital received tissue from designated tissue banks, other facilities and patients might be affected. “Then the problems might be far more widespread than our hospital here. Have the necessary parties been notified?” Grace asked.

The doctors exchanged an odd look, then Dr. Whitehead covered her hand with his. “Yes. Now, don’t worry yourself over this, Grace. We have the situation under control.”

She tensed at his patronizing tone. And the strange look in Dr. Knightly’s eyes sent a tingle of nerves up her spine. They obviously didn’t want her asking questions about the transplants.

THE NEXT WEEK passed in a blur of pain, physical therapy and frustration for Parker. Not wanting to grow addicted to the medication, by midweek he refused the pain pills.

By Friday, his leg felt remarkably better than after the first surgery.

He walked the halls with the help of one crutch instead of two, and hoped to be transferred to the rehab facility soon.

The only downside to the transfer was that he wouldn’t get to see Grace every day. Pathetic though it was, he looked forward to the five-minute, drop-in visits that she’d carved out of her busy day for him.

Unfortunately while he’d been laid up, several more bodies had been stolen from different morgues, two of which were involved in pranks. Three others had gone missing, only to be discovered later at a different morgue or funeral home. The coroner’s office had argued improper tagging and blamed a shoddy body-moving service.

Tests were being run to see if any trace evidence had been left on the bodies.

He’d also heard whispers about other patients being brought in for tissue replacement surgeries. One man had died from an infection.

He shuddered, knowing he should be grateful. And he wanted to repay Grace by finding out the truth about her brother’s death.

Dark storm clouds cast a gray fog over the sky, the rolling thunderstorms mirroring his mood. He hadn’t been out in days and missed the sunshine on his face and the fresh air.

The barometric pressure seemed to affect his knee and made it ache. Thunder burst into a roar, and the power flickered off then back on, making him think about the hospital and potential problems if a power shortage occurred. Backup generators would kick in, but what if they lost a patient during the time that took?

Funny how he never considered those issues before he’d been imprisoned in the facility. He had too damn much time to think. Which he’d been doing a lot of. The problems with the tissue banks disturbed him. He’d heard rumors that one of the doctors might have known about the problems but used the tissue anyway.

He was taking a final spin around the hospital wing when he spotted Grace approaching him. She looked tired and agitated but so beautiful his gut tightened, and arousal speared him. At least that part of him hadn’t been injured. The only pleasurable sensation he’d experienced lately.

Unfortunately he couldn’t assuage the ache.

He had to spend all his time and energy on getting better. Returning to his job was all that mattered.

HE CHECKED the toe tags on the stiffs in the crypt, choosing the one that had been preordained for his mission, a John Doe. It was past midnight, the place was deserted, and although corpses didn’t faze him, being inside the cold room alone at night reminded him of the chilling stories his grandmother told about ghosts rising from the dead.

The heavy scent of formaldehyde and other chemicals blended into the icy air, the shadows casting ominous shades of gray across the chalky-white pallor of the deceased. Sometimes he thought he heard their voices calling from the steel tables, heard whispers of lost ones trying to rise again.

Dressed in surgical scrubs, he blended in with the other staff members as he zipped up the body bag and pushed the gurney through the side door for transport by the body movers.

There would be no rest for him tonight, though. He had work to do and only hours to perform his tasks. He’d better get started.

Parker sucked in a sharp breath and walked toward Grace, proud of his progress, that he could stand upright instead of having to look up at her from a hospital bed. He’d also asked Bradford Welsh, his partner, to get him Bruno’s file so he could study it while he was recuperating.

“You look amazing,” Grace said.

He nodded, pride filling him. “The leg is feeling better.”

“Obviously the healthy tissue made a huge difference.”

Something about her tone disturbed him. “Yes. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”

She frowned. “You heard about some of the other patients?”

He nodded. “One dead of infection, and three lost limbs.”

Her eyes flickered with worry. “That never should have happened.”

He frowned. “What’s wrong, Grace?”

She glanced around the nurses’ station, then lowered her voice. “Are you up for a walk to the coffee machine?”

He’d pushed himself to the limit with his therapy this morning, and his leg was throbbing, but damned if he’d admit it. “Sure.”

She began walking down the hall, obviously slowing her gait to match his. Irritation nagged at him, but he wrestled it under control. “Okay, what’s on your mind?” he asked as they settled in a deserted corner with coffee.

“I probably shouldn’t say anything. The hospital staff doesn’t want gossip.”

“Did someone ask you to keep quiet?”

“Not exactly. But I can’t help but wonder if someone here knew the tissue was faulty and used it anyway.”