nap. Even His servants needed rest. She unlocked the door.
A scattering of mail lay on the floor, deposited that morning through the door slot. Bills and church newsletters and appeals for donations. So many needy people in the world! Brenda gathered up the mail and shuffled through the stack as she went into the kitchen. At the very bottom of the pile, she found an envelope with her name on it. That's all there was written there, just her name. No return address.
She broke the seal and unfolded the enclosed slip of paper. There was one typewritten line:
Your aunt did not die a natural death.
It was signed: A friend.
The stack of mail slipped from Brenda's grasp, the bills and newsletters scattering across the kitchen floor. She sank into a chair. She was no longer hungry, no longer serene.
She heard a cawing outside her window. She looked up and saw a crow perched on a nearby tree branch, its yellow eye staring straight at her.
It was another sign.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Frank Zwick glanced up from the patient on the operating table and said, 'I understand congratulations are in order.'
Abby, her hands dripping from the obligatory ten-minute scrub, had just walked into the OR to find Zwick and the two nurses grinning at her.
'I never thought that one would get hooked. Not in a million years,' said the scrub nurse, handing Abby a towel. 'Just goes to show you, bachelorhood is a curable illness. When did he pop the question, Dr. D?'
Abby slipped her arms into the sterile gown and snapped on gloves. 'Two days ago.'
'You kept it a secret for two whole days?'
Abby laughed. 'I wanted to make sure he wasn't going to suddenly change his mind.' And he hasn't. If anything, we're more sure of each other than ever before. Smiling, she moved to the table. The patient, already anaesthetized, lay with chest exposed and skin stained a yellow-brown from Betadine. It was to be a simple thoracotomy, a wedge resection of a peripheral pulmonary nodule. Her hands moved through the pre-op routine with the ease of one who's done it many times before. She lay down sterile cloths. Fastened clamps.
Lay down the blue drapes and fastened more clamps.
'So when's the big day?' asked Zwick.
'We're still talking about it.' In fact, she and Mark had done little but talk about it. How big a wedding? Whom to invite. Outdoors or indoors? Only one thing had been decided for certain. Their honeymoon would be spent on a beach. Any beach, as long as there were palm trees in the vicinity.
She could feel her smile broadening at the prospect of warm sand and blue water. And Mark.
'I bet Mark's thinking boat,' said Zwick. 'That's where he'll want to get married.'
'Not the boat.'
'Uh oh. That sounds definite.'
She finished draping the patient and looked up as Mark, freshly scrubbed, pushed through the doors. He donned gown and gloves and took his place across the table from her.
They grinned at each other. Then she picked up the scalpel.
The intercom buzzed. A voice over the speaker said, 'Is Dr. DiMatteo in there?'
'Yes she is,' said the circulating nurse.
'Could you have her break scrub and come out?'
'They're just about to open. Can't this wait till later?'
There was a pause. Then: 'Mr Parr needs her out of the OR.'
'Tell him we're in surgery!' said Mark.
'He knows that. We need Dr. DiMatteo out here,' repeated the intercom. 'Now.'
Mark looked at Abby. 'Go ahead. I'll have them call one of the interns to assist.'
Abby backed away from the table and nervously stripped off her gown. Something was wrong. Parr wouldn't pull her out of surgery unless there was some kind of crisis.
Her heart was already racing as she pushed through the OR doors and walked to the front desk.
Jeremiah Parr was standing there. Beside him were two hospital security guards and the nursing supervisor. No one was smiling. 'Dr. DiMatteo,' said Parr, 'could you come with us?'
Abby looked at the guards. They had fanned out to either side of her. The nursing supervisor, too, had shifted position, taking a step back.
'What's this all about?' said Abby. 'Where are we going?'
'Your locker.'
'I don't understand.'
'It's just a routine check, Doctor.'
There's nothing routine about this. Flanked by the two guards, Abby had no choice but to follow Parr up the hall to the women's locker room. The nursing supervisor went in first, to clear the area of personnel. Then she beckoned Parr and the others inside. 'Your locker is number seventy-two?' said Parr. 'Yes.'
'Could you open it please?'
Abby reached for the combination padlock. She made one spin of the dial, then stopped and turned to Parr. 'I want to know what this is all about first.'
'It's just a check.'
'I think I'm a little beyond the stage of high school locker inspections. What are you looking for?'
'Just open the locker.'
Abby glanced at the guards, then at the nursing supervisor. They were watching her with heightened suspicion. She thought: I can't win this one. If I refuse to open it, they'll think I'm hiding something. The best way to defuse this crazy situation was to cooperate.
She reached for the lock, spun the combination, and tugged it open.
Parr stepped closer. So did the guards. They were standing right beside him as she swung open the locker door.
Inside were her streetclothes, her stethoscope, her purse, a flowered toilet bag for on-call nights, and the long white coat she used for attending rounds. They wanted cooperation, she'd damn well give them cooperation. She unzipped the flowered bag and held it open for everyone to see. It was a show and tell of intimate feminine toiletries. Toothbrush and tampons and Midol. One of the male guards flushed. He'd gotten his thrill for the day. She zipped up the bag and opened her purse. No surprises in there either. A wallet, chequebook, car keys, more tampons. Women and their specialized plumbing. The guards were looking uncomfortable now, and a little sheepish.
Abby was starting to enjoy this.
She put the purse back in the locker and took the white coat off the hook. The instant she did, she knew there was something different about it. It was heavier. She reached into the pocket and felt something cylindrical and smooth. A glass vial. She took it out and stared at the label.
Morphine sulphate. The vial was almost empty.
'Dr. DiMatteo,' said Parr, 'Please give that to me.'
She looked up at him. Slowly she shook her head. 'I don't know what it's doing there.'
'Give me the vial.'
Too stunned to think of an alternative action, she simply handed it to him. 'I don't know how it got there,' she said. 'I've never seen it before.'
Parr handed the vial to the nursing supervisor. Then he turned to the guards. 'Please escort Dr. DiMatteo to my office.'
'This is bullshit,' said Mark. 'Someone set her up and we all know it.'
'We don't know any such thing,' said Parr.
