She uncaps the needle and continues. “If I understood this accurately, calcium gluconate is a drug used to counteract the effects of hyperkalemia—too much potassium in the body—that can produce heart arrhythmias. An injection of too much calcium gluconate, however, initiates lethal electrolytic imbalances that disrupt the normal levels of sodium, potassium, and chloride in the body’s cells. These electrolyte imbalances interfere with and slow the heart to dangerously low levels, eventually creating a heart attack.”
After inserting the needle into the IV’s access port, Toni pushes the plunger. She stands, walks over to the biohazard box mounted on the wall, and drops the syringe in among the rest of the used needles.
In a short while, Alex begins exhibiting the initial symptoms of a toxic dose of calcium gluconate—flushed skin and profuse sweating.
As Toni gets the second syringe from the bedside table, she says, “Alex, when you taught me how to kill someone and make it look like a heart attack, you said that if I was in a hurry—if it was an ‘impatient disposal’—that I could add a second medication.”
Looking at the now-uncapped needle, she says, “This one is potassium phosphate. The calcium and phosphate in the two solutions will interact and form an insoluble bond that creates aggregate anaphylaxis—severe hypertension and right ventricular heart failure.”
Toni inserts the second needle into Alex’s vein. While pressing the plunger, she adds, “You were a good teacher, Alex. Oops. Did I use the past-tense? Sorry about that, but it won’t be long now.” She smiles. “I’m a good student. I remembered what you said. ‘When calcium gluconate and potassium phosphate solutions are mixed together, they form an insoluble precipitant. That’s why they’ve got to be injected separately—to prevent precipitate formation until they’re in the victim’s bloodstream.’”
Toni stands by the bed, listening to Alex’s moans weaken.
The second syringe joins the others in the biohazard box.
Toni walks out the door and is halfway down the corridor when Alex—known until now as Jason—flatlines.
Emma feels like she’s floating out of her body. She looks down on the shell of herself laying prone on a hospital table. Doctors and nurses in surgical masks and scrubs surround her. She hears someone’s shoes make gasping little sucks at the floor when they move. There’s a white sheet propped up over the lower part of my body. It reminds me of one of those temporary tents thrown up at an archeological dig.
She has a fleeting sense of something drifting up from her subconscious, almost within reach, but too fragile to grasp. A faceless man hovers like a specter at the margins of her mind’s eye, refusing to go away.
All heads in the ICU waiting room lift at the call of “Code Blue” over the intercom. Their exhausted faces now fully alert. Everyone’s aware that a patient—possibly their loved one—is having cardiopulmonary arrest and needs immediate resuscitation.
Mick notices a grandmotherly woman across from him fingering her rosary beads, eyes closed, her lips moving silently.
Please, God, don’t let Emma die.
As Toni leaves the hospital, she looks up at the night sky scattered with dense clusters of sparkling stars of every size and intensity and stretches languidly with her arms above her head. An agent from the FBI will be here in the morning. At least he won’t be able to get any information from Alex. She smiles.
I’ve got two more loose ends to tie up—the padre and Emma. She’s probably still in surgery, so my first priority is Father MacCullough. It’s been a long time since I’ve darkened the doors of a church. I’ll swing by St. Barnabas on my way home and acquaint myself with the lay of the land.
Dr. Zimmerman sees Mick before he sees her. She watches him pace the tension-filled room. When he turns toward her, she sees hope fill his face. She also sees shadows under his eyes, a healthy growth of stubble on his face and neck, and spikes in his hair from raking his hands through it.
He rushes over to her. “How’s Emma?”
“I’m happy to tell you that Emma has a good prognosis. The surgeon who removed the bullet and repaired the damage, Dr. Martin Timms, is one of the best thoracic surgeons in the Pacific Northwest. But Emma still has a pneumothorax, a collapsed lung. She also has some broken ribs, both front and back.” Dr. Zimmerman didn’t tell Mick that before they were able to get her stabilized—when her blood pressure was still all over the place—she’d flatlined. They’d lost her.
“Miss Benton is going to be monitored in the ICU for the next few days, maybe even a week, to make sure she doesn’t develop ARDS—acute respiratory distress syndrome. And there’s another thing you should know. The man who shot Miss Benton, Jason Hughes, is dead. He died from a massive heart attack while he was in recovery.”
“Jason Hughes is an alias,” Mick says. “His real name is Alexander Berndt. The FBI will be here in the morning. They’ll want DNA samples from him so they can match them against ten rapes and murders.”
“Oh, my God. I’ll let Dr. Marshall in the hospital morgue know.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’d like to go sit with Emma now,” Mick says. “I won’t say a word. I’ll just sit quietly in a chair.”
Dr. Zimmerman looks into his pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. McPherson, but there are no visitors, except for clergy, while she’s in recovery.”
A light goes on over one of the patient’s doors, followed by a low ping. A nurse in pink scrubs and white crocks that squeak with every step, approaches Dr. Zimmerman and Mick. “You’re needed on the floor, Dr. Zimmerman.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I’ll be right there.”
Turning to Mick, she says, “If there’s anything else I can do
