Zero at the Bone (12 page)

“No to all,” Jack said, thinking rapidly about which responses would be the least memorable and produce the fewest follow-up questions. “Just feeling a little nauseated.” She got up and went to the cabinet by the exam beds. Underneath the counter was a small refrigerator. It wasn’t locked. That was where Jack would find what he needed for D. The nurse pulled a small bottle out of the cabinet and returned to the desk. “You just want two?”

“That’ll do for now, thanks.” Jack took the pills, smiled, and left the office.

He walked down the corridor a short distance and then sat down on a couch, pretending to study the “chart” on his clipboard.
Now what? Sit here and wait? I feel like
I’m wasting time. I don’t dare leave; what if she goes for lunch and I miss it?
He leaned back and watched the doctors and nurses walking to and fro, full of purpose, patients to see, people to fix. The directory on the wall told him that the operating rooms were on the third floor.
Maybe I could just pop up there and scrub in on a cleft-palate repair.
The thought was ridiculous, but seductive. He hadn’t had a scalpel in his hands since the day he’d witnessed Maria Dominguez’s murder, and he missed it more than he would have imagined possible. Wielding the knife, parting the skin, repairing the damage, fixing what had gone wrong… it was all a heady experience, and he could easily see how surgeons developed God complexes. He hoped he didn’t have one of his own brewing. The delusions of omnipotence displayed by his supervisors and mentors had been irritating enough that he and his fellow residents had sworn never to think so well of themselves, but he’d started to suspect that it just came with the territory.

I ought to look on the bright side,
he thought.
Maybe my profound helplessness at
the hands of drug lords and being a fugitive will keep me from getting a swelled head.

Mortal danger seemed like a high price to pay to avoid a God complex, all things being equal.

He pulled out a cell phone. It wasn’t his. It was one of a half-dozen cloned, untraceable cell phones that D had retrieved from the bunker in Quartzsite. He’d brought it along in case D needed to reach him, although he wasn’t entirely sure that D had understood him when he’d explained. His eyes had been open, but his attention had been fading in and out. At least it was useful as a prop. Jack held an imaginary conversation with a colleague, keeping one eye on the employee health office, which he could just barely see from his vantage point on the couch.

He took some notes, spinning an ever more elaborate tale in his head of a four-year-old patient with severe Treacher Collins syndrome. He told the phantom pediatric plastic surgeon he was not talking to about the bone grafts he’d need, the imaging they’d have to have done before surgery, the stages of facial reconstruction, and the post-op care that the girl—little Susie, he’d decided she was called—would require.

He got so caught up in his fictional patient that he almost
did
miss it when the red-haired nurse left the employee health office. He caught a glimpse of her retreating back, and the small placard she’d hung on the door handle. He casually wrapped up his conversation with thin air and got up, trying to project nonchalance, and walked back down the corridor. The placard said “Back in One Hour.” Perfect.

Jack took a quick glance up and down the hall, and then slipped inside, leaving the placard where it was. He went right to the fridge and opened it up. Tetanus vaccine was the first item on the shopping list; he had a bad moment when he thought she didn’t have any, but then he found it in the corner. Two vials of Ancef ought to be enough to knock out D’s infection. He added a third just to be safe, taking the vials from the back of the 50 | Jane Seville

row so it wouldn’t be noticeable. He opened up her cabinet drawers and pulled out a few syringes. The entire heist took less than a minute.

Jack left the office and rejoined the traffic flow in the corridor. No one seemed to have taken the slightest note of his presence. He walked quickly but calmly out of the hospital, got in his car and left, profound relief washing over him as the building disappeared from his rearview mirror.

LYING in bed in the grip of a raging fever, D discovered, was kind of like hanging for hours in that not-awake-not-asleep hinterland where dreams started and stopped every few seconds and reality seemed hazy, like a bad acid trip.

Not that D had ever dropped acid. God knew what he might do or say. Too risky.

Sweat was pouring off him, but he felt like he was freezing. His shoulder throbbed with a sharp ache that spread in waves through his whole torso and his stomach was rolling in unpleasant flip-flops of nausea. He had a vague recollection of Jack making him drink water and take an aspirin before he’d… he’d….

He fought his way back to consciousness. “Jack?” No answer. “Jack!”
He’s gone. Took the money and the guns and the ID and left ya here ta die. Better’n
you deserve. You’ll probably just dehydrate and fall asleep, which is a nicer death than
you ever expected ya’d get. Fuckin’ left ya….
His eyes fell on the cell phone sitting on the nightstand and he sagged, remembering Jack hovering over him, saying he was going for the medicine D needed, that he’d be back soon.
Use the cell phone if you need to call me.

I programmed in the number of the one I’m taking.

D picked up the cell phone, his muscles feeling about as forceful as wet noodles. He opened the Contacts menu and saw the single, solitary entry, the name glowing there in blue letters: Jack. His finger hovered over the Send button.
Call him. Just put yer mind at
ease. Find out when he’s comin’ back. No, don’t call him. What are you, some kinda little
girl cain’t be left alone for a coupla hours? He’s gonna think yer a first-class pansy. Jus’

put the fuckin’ phone down and go back ta sleep, and you’ll wake up when he’s back.

He put the phone down. Just its existence was good enough for the time being.

JACK fought to keep himself from speeding, running lights, taking unnecessary risks as he went through the other tasks he’d set himself. First, the drugstore. Bandages, hydrogen peroxide, Tylenol, sterile gauze, a proper sling, some Epsom salts, topical anaesthetic, and anything else that seemed like it might be remotely useful. Next, the grocery store.

Some fresh food. Bread, juice, lunchmeat. Ginger ale—they had Vernor’s—and teabags.

Meat for grilling, vegetables, pasta. D would need to get his strength back up, and fighting an infection was very tough on a body. He’d be weak for a few days at least.

Some beer, just because he suspected he’d need to knock back a few himself.

Finally, he was back on the road to the cabin just after one o’clock. He’d been gone for about four hours.

It took him three trips to unload the car, between the groceries and the bags from the drugstore. The precious vials of medicine were carefully unloaded from the glove box and placed in the cabin’s refrigerator. He locked the front door again and went into D’s room to check on his patient.

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He was lying sprawled, half-uncovered, a sheen of sweat over the skin that Jack could see and dampness darkening his T-shirt. He had the cell phone Jack had left clutched in his hand and resting on his chest. Jack bent over him and felt his forehead. If anything, his fever was higher than when he’d left, and one look at his wound told him that the risk he’d taken to obtain the antibiotics had been necessary. He pried the phone from D’s hand, which made him jerk and stir. “Whu… huh….” He flopped like a fish for a moment, disoriented. Jack sat down on the edge of the bed and held him down, one hand on his damp forehead.

“Hey, it’s all right. Shhh, lie still. It’s just me. I’m back.” D’s eyes focused on him, bleary and fever-clouded. “Oh,” he exhaled. “Ya came back.”

“Of course I did!” Jack shook his head. “I guess it tells me something about the kind of people you’re used to dealing with that you thought I might just abandon you here to die like an animal.”

“How’d it go?” D’s voice was thin and weak. It didn’t sound like him at all.

“It went fine, actually. No problem.”

“Anybody seen ya?”

“Well yes, people saw me, but I don’t think anybody took any notice of just another doctor in scrubs and a lab coat. I’ll be right back.” He went into the kitchen and washed his hands, then got the syringes, the vials and the bags from the drugstore. “Okay, let’s do this. You’ve been malingering in bed long enough, don’t you think?”

“Ha, funny,” D rasped.

“Roll on your side.”

“Why?”

“Because, genius, both of these shots have to go in your ass, I’m sorry to say.” D grumbled, but rolled on his side. Jack lowered his boxers just enough to expose the injection site near his hip. He swabbed the site with alcohol, drew the tetanus vaccine into a syringe, and made the injection. D winced. “Ow,” he said.

“Sorry. That one hurts, I know. It’s a big dose, goes deep. The Ancef won’t be as bad.”

“Ansawhat?”

“Ancef. It’s a broad-spectrum cephalosporin. An antibiotic. It ought to kill whatever bugs are eating you.” He drew the dose and injected him. “There, all done.” D rolled onto his back again.

“How long… ’til….”

“Hopefully your fever will break by tonight. That’s when I’ll know you’re really on the mend, but I’m going to keep dosing you with this stuff until I’m damned sure you’re clear of it. I got plenty. Here,” he said, giving D more aspirin and a bottle of water.

“Drink all that down, now. And I’m going to make you some broth, which you will eat without arguing with me, and I got you Vernor’s.” D looked up at him. “Ya… got me Vernor’s?”

“You said you liked it. And ginger ale is good for stomach upset, which the Ancef might possibly give you.”

“Thanks,” D said, sounding amazed. Jack wondered if anyone had ever done anything considerate for D ever before in his life, because by the look on his face, no one had. That couldn’t be possible. Maybe he’d just become so accustomed to expecting nothing that even this tiny kindness of remembering his favorite soda seemed like a grand gesture.

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“You’re welcome,” he said. “And if you save my life a fourth time, maybe I’ll even spring for a Slurpee. Come on, I need to clean that wound and change your dressing again.”

GODDAMN, if I ever say anything rude, dismissive or remotely condescending about the
nursing profession ever again, please let me be immediately struck by lightning.
Caring for a sick person, nonstop, as opposed to breezing in and breezing out while bestowing the gift of his wisdom upon them, was exhausting. And in a relative sense, D wasn’t that sick. He had an infection but it hadn’t gone into sepsis and he’d heal. And he was Jack’s only patient. He didn’t know how nurses did it. He kept him dosed with aspirin, administered additional injections of Ancef, kept him hydrated, cleaned his wound, made him drink broth and water and Vernor’s and sponged his goddamned brow. D drew the line at helping him into the bathroom, though. He insisted on staggering in and back by himself, despite Jack’s reassurances that he’d seen penises before and he was a doctor and therefore capable of medical detachment, and furthermore he’d be damned if he was going to go back into town and steal an orthopedic surgeon when D fell on his ass and broke his leg.

In between, he sat on the couch and watched TV, drifting in and out of a fitful doze, and blessed his own good health. He’d been sick like D was a few times in his life and not only was it unpleasant, it made you feel weak and vulnerable, two conditions that he knew had to be antithetical to D’s very existence.

Just after midnight he shuffled into D’s room. The only sound was deep, even breathing. He flipped the lamp on and felt his forehead. It was cool. The fever had broken. He sighed, relieved, and sat down in the easy chair in the corner.
Just sit here for
a minute….

And then he was waking up, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Jack.” He blinked, the sunlight—
sunlight?
—hitting his eyes hard like a slap. D was leaning over him, some color in his cheeks, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. “Oh shit… what time is it?” Jack stammered.

“Bit past eight. You been here all night?”

“Guess I fell asleep.” He focused on D again, remembering their situation. “How are you? On your feet, I see.”

“I feel better.”

“Sit your ass down. I’ll be the judge of that.” D sat on the edge of the bed and behaved himself while Jack listened to his chest, checked his temperature, and inspected his wound. It was still reddish but wasn’t suppurating anymore; it was beginning to crust over and heal. “Well, thanks to the extraordinary gifts of your physician, I believe you’re on the mend.”

“I feel kinda… weak. Like I couldn’t walk more’n a few feet.”

“That’s to be expected. We ought to get you up and about if we can, though. Let me give you another shot—”

“Another one? My ass ain’t no pincushion.”

“For prophylaxis.”

“Prophyl-whatsis? Ain’t that a condom? What the hell you plannin’, doc?” Jack chuckled. “Prophylaxis is any preventative measure, like flossing to prevent gum disease. Condoms are sometimes called ‘prophylactics’ because they’re a preventive Zero at the Bone | 53

measure against insemination. More antibiotics are to prevent resurgence of your infection.”

“Oh. Guess so.” He sat still for the injection, then got to his feet. “I’m dyin’ fer a shower. And
no,
I don’t need no help with that!” he snapped.

Jack smiled, watching him shuffle into the bathroom.
He must be feeling better;
he’s all grumpy again.

D HAD to pause every few minutes and lean against the shower stall to gather his strength, but the hot water felt damned good. He had two days’ worth of sweat and sickness on his skin like an oil slick, and all he wanted to do was rub himself raw with the puffy scrubby thing he found hanging from the faucet handle.

Weakness was something he’d been taught to hate, and had been forced to deny by his lifestyle. It was something he could never afford, either to experience or to show.