had ended. But even after seventeen years of ER nursing, it saddened her when the victim was young—even this guy, who died far short of his three score and ten. Sadder still that he had no identity, no name she could put on the toe tag.
She and Barbara cleaned him up. They put his shoes and shirt into a belongings bag and laid the bag on his thighs. They disconnected his monitors and left in the IV, the arterial lines, and the intubation tube for postmortem confirmation that nothing they did in the ER had caused his death.
Because only a physician could legally pronounce a patient’s death, Karen left to check her other patients. When she returned, Dr. Kennedy had completed the death certificate. The official time was listed as “3:25 A.M.” Karen entered the data into the computer. Later, the body would be delivered to the medical examiner’s office, where it would be held until identified and autopsied.
Karen prepared the toe tag and headed into cubicle four, where their John Doe had been left on the gurney. The gurney was still there and the lines were still connected to the IV and monitors, but the body was gone.
Karen shot out to the desk. “Where’s the dead guy in four?”
Barbara looked up from her paperwork. “Huh?”
“The John Doe. He’s gone. Did someone move him?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
Barbara shot down the hall with Karen to find the other nurses. Nobody had moved the man. And Dr. Kennedy said he hadn’t touched the body. The same with the orderlies. “Who would have taken him?”
“You think somebody took him?” Barbara asked.
“Well, he didn’t walk out on his own. Somebody stole him.”
Karen ran to the reception desk in the emergency room lobby. The waiting area was empty, and the desk attendant had just returned from the restroom and had seen no one wheel out a body.
Karen buzzed security, and in seconds a guard showed up. “We’ve got a missing body,” she said, and explained what had happened.
“Who the hell would steal a corpse?” the guard said.
“That’s
The image was a long shot of the row of cardiac bays. At 3:27, Dr. Kennedy left cubicle four. Two minutes later, Barbara and Karen left as they checked patients in adjacent cubicles. Then Karen headed down the corridor to the nurses’ station to enter the dead man’s data into the computer. There was no other activity until the digital clock said 3:43 A.M., when a man emerged from cubicle four.
It was the dead man—Karen’s John Doe, his toe tag in her pocket—still naked from the waist up, still barefoot, EKG electrodes still visible on his chest—shuffling down the empty corridor toward the exit with no pulse, no heartbeat, no blood pressure, no body functions, flatlined and moving on his own power.
Karen watched and bit down on a scream.
1
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, THE PRESENT
“Thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“You did. Two jacks staring at you from Anthony’s hand, and you draw another. Don’t you believe in counting?” Damian said. “Bro, you take some wild-ass risks.”
“But I won,” Zack said.
“Yeah, on pure luck. ’Least you don’t have to play beer money for a while.”
“More like blood money. Found a clinic that pays thirty bucks a pint.”
“You mean you’re selling your blood?”
“I’m down thirty-six hundred on my Discover card, and they’re threatening court action.”
“Maybe you should stop gambling.”
It was a little after one in the morning, and a mantle of clouds made a hefty underbelly in the Boston sky. Although it was midwinter, the temperature was above freezing, and the streets were free of snow. Zack Kashian was heading to his bike, chained at a light pole near where Damian Santoro had parked his car. They had just left a friend’s apartment where a Texas hold ’em game was still going on. After four hours, Zack had drawn a high-win hand—a full house, queens over jacks—and walked away with a $300-plus pot that put him in the black for the night.
“What about your mother?” Damian said.
“She thinks I’ve got a gambling problem.”
“And she refuses to support it.”
“Except I don’t have a gambling problem. I’ve got a losing problem.”
They crossed Tremont Street to his bike. Zack’s apartment was on Hemenway on the other side of Northeastern University’s campus. Because it was so close, he didn’t bother with his helmet, just a knitted cap. He unchained his bike and rolled it to Damian’s car.
“Whatever, get some sleep,” Damian said.
Zack patted his breast pocket. “And on Anthony. He sold me half his Lunesta.”
“Maybe you do have a gambling problem.”
“I’m not sleeping because I’ve got debts up the grunt, not because I’m gambling.”
“That’s nuts. You’re borrowing to pay down your debt. And now you’re selling your blood. I’m telling you, man, you might want to get off those online games. That stuff’s dangerous.”
Zack put out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Phil. Or is it Father Damian?”
Damian took it. “You know what you need?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“You need to consider finding God again.”
“I never found Him to begin with.”
“Then the first time. It doesn’t have to be a church. Just go where you can find enlightenment, some kind of spiritual enrichment.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You won’t, but I wish you would. I’m visiting a Buddhist temple on Sunday. You’re welcome to come.”
Damian was a devout Christian who went to different churches in Greater Boston each week. Sometimes even non-Christian places of worship. “I’ve got another commitment.”
“Yeah, the God grumblers.”
He meant the Secular Humanist Society Zack belonged to. “We’re not God grumblers, man. We don’t sit around making fun of religions. We’re planning an outing to the Museum of Science for inner-city kids. If there’s a God, He’d approve.” They had met as roommates in their freshman year at Northeastern. Despite the fact that Zack was an unapologetic atheist, they were still fast friends, held together in part by sniping each other’s dogmatism.
“Whatever, you’re too much the rationalist. You need enlightenment.”
“Would Foxwoods qualify?”
“A casino’s the last thing you need.” Damian gave him a hug and drove off as Zack began pedaling home.
Zack had never been to a casino. He preferred home games and the poker Web sites. Perhaps a little too much. Some weeks he’d rack up thirty hours, missing classes and staying up all night, running three and four hands at once. Yes, he made money because he played low-ante games—$25 buy-ins. He’d often win, but it took hours to amass a decent haul. With his face buried in a flash poker site, an easy seduction was an occasional $250 buy-in or a $500 game. And each time he felt the rush that came with laying money on the next card, telling himself that his time was
