Blood in the Past (Blood for Blood Series) (6 page)

“Lyla?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m not headed anywhere. I can take a walk.”

Lyla strolled beside CJ but contributed little to the conversation. She felt a plan forming. She wondered if revenge was one of the five steps of the grieving process, but that thought was quickly dispelled by the memory of something even more magical about succinylcholine: it was virtually imperceptible in a dead body. It metabolized too fast, and whatever components it left behind were already present in the human body. Elevated levels could be expertly argued away in a court of law. She recalled the Coppolino case of 1966 where the jury acquitted the infamous doctor of murder. Sure, he was convicted of a second murder, but Lyla chose to focus on the positive. She tried to keep her face solemn, but she still grinned like a fool, which served her well: CJ had apparently just made a joke.

Lyla needed to get a hold of the drug. It was perfect, the sign she’d hoped for. But how could she obtain it? Unused vials were brought right back to the pharmacy. Lyla’s forehead furrowed and her grin dissolved into a frown as she puzzled over her newfound purpose and the obstacle it presented.

Lyla and CJ neared the operating room where Dr. Chambers would soon perform laparoscopic surgery. She smiled briefly at those prepping the room before remembering that she was supposed to be grieving, not giddy with the idea of exacting revenge on her father.

CJ knocked on the outer door, and an anesthesia tech emerged from the inner O.R., already donning her sterilized paper accessories. She received the tray and returned to the inner room. Through the window, Lyla watched the tech peel the film back and slide the tray into an empty slot in the anesthesia cart. On Lyla’s way back out to the hallway—CJ was already there, gazing at her—she nodded at the nurses. Then a collection of boxes in the corner caught her attention.

The receptacle that had caught her attention was similar to the biohazardous waste and sharps receptacles next to it. Doctors used it to discard vials of drugs used during surgery—even those not entirely empty. The vials’ occlusive rubber stoppers kept the unused portions from leaking out and sloshing around in the box. 10ccs of succinylcholine was a lethal dose. A few leftover vials would be more than sufficient.
How often is that box cleared out
?

With her head down, she joined CJ. His gaze had morphed from longing to quizzical, either because of the length of time she’d lingered or because Lyla had realized she wasn’t ready to return to work and it showed on her face. Not just yet, she thought, but not due to conventional reasons. She didn’t need to
grieve
the loss of her mother, but rather
avenge
the loss of her mother.

CJ placed a sweaty hand on the small of Lyla’s back. She felt the moisture through her scrubs and her mother’s favorite yellow shirt, which she was wearing under her scrubs.

“So, you said you weren’t scheduled anywhere?” he asked.

“Yeah. Actually, I think I’m gonna see if I can get out of here. Take that leave they offered, even if only a day or two. I’m not ready to be back. I thought I was, but...Plus, I want to gather some things of my mom’s and bring them to my new apartment,” she lied. “Do you think they have empty cardboard boxes in the supply room?”

Lyla hoped that sounded like a plausible reason to visit the supply room. She
did
need a box she could conceal the receptacle in, but she could swipe some empty syringes there as well.

“They should. Do you need help? I get off in a few hours.” CJ looked at his watch.

“No, thanks. Anthony’s gonna meet me at my parents’ house.” Another lie.

“I didn’t think you two were still...I mean...I’m sorry, I just haven’t heard you speak of him in a while.”

“It’s been rocky, but he’s been pretty supportive since...”

“Well that’s good. I’m glad someone’s there for you.”

Lyla’s phone rang. She tugged it from her pocket and scanned the caller I.D. It was Anthony. She held the phone up and shrugged at CJ. “Speak of the devil, huh?”

CJ frowned even though Lyla let the call go to voice mail. They parted ways, and when Lyla passed another operating room, she peeked in to gauge the size of the box. Perhaps she’d return later under the guise of retrieving more cardboard boxes. The hospital would be emptier, especially the operating rooms. Proud of her plan’s infant stages, Lyla called Anthony back and let him know she was, in fact, working—and working late.

***

The day of Lyla’s mother’s funeral, it rained. Not a heavy rain, but a fine mist that encompassed the mourners in added sadness. Though Lyla sat wedged between her aunt and her father, her mind couldn’t have been further from the diminutive woman to her left, the aunt who suspected Lyla of killing her own mother. Nor could her heart have been further from the man to her right, the father whom Lyla suspected was the catalyst of her mother’s suicide. The three of them sat stoically at the front of the rows of attendees, tear ducts barren, their usually olive skin pale against their dark hair and attire.

At the conclusion of the services, Lyla rose to her feet. If she stared at her mother’s coffin any longer, she’d be tempted to jump in the grave beside it. When LeeAnn and her father approached her parents’ next-door neighbors, Lyla joined them.

“I’m gonna head home,” Lyla said, addressing neither of them in particular. She’d already made up her mind to skip the repast altogether. Besides, she had plans for that evening.

Her aunt’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not going to join us at your parents’ house for lunch?”

“It’s not my ‘parents’ house’ anymore. It’s just
his
house now, isn’t it?” Lyla indicated her father with a shift of her gaze.

Calvin said, “I think your mother would have wanted you to celebrate her life with family and friends, Lyla.”

“What do
you
know about what Mom wanted?”

Her words stung them both, but neither retorted, so Lyla spun on her heels and left, drifting through the crowd and misty rain. The damp, spongy earth made a sucking noise with each footstep, and she almost didn’t hear her phone vibrating against her keys in her pocket. She answered without looking.

“Why didn’t you tell me your mother’s
funeral
was
today
?” Anthony bellowed.

Lyla was startled by his volume. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted you there, and I didn’t know how to tell you that.” Her boyfriend kept shouting, so Lyla continued sarcastically. “I’m doing fine after just burying my mother, though. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I just wish you would’ve told me. I wanted to be there for you. I’ve asked you over and over when and where the services were being held.”

He paused, and Lyla didn’t know what to say. He was right. But after seeing what her father had driven her mother to, something about having a significant other by her side made Lyla’s stomach sour.

“Can I pick you up?” he asked, finally ending the silence.

“No.” Realizing she’d responded too curtly, Lyla sighed. “I have...plans. I mean, I just want to be alone tonight. Please try to understand. I don’t know how to deal with this, but I do know I wannna deal with it alone.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind, which I hope you do, please call me.”

Lyla agreed and hung up. She wished she hadn’t mentioned having plans. Hopefully, Anthony wouldn’t dwell on her tiny slip-up later on.

Lyla reached her apartment and readied herself for the evening, laying several items out on her bed. The days between her mother’s death and burial had allowed Lyla’s need for revenge to fester in her heart and mind. She’d suffered many emotions during the past few days, but revenge was the only one remaining, the only thing that mattered. Her father was responsible, that much was clear. She had to make him pay. She had to get justice for her mother. She had to make things right.

That night, her father would take his last breath.

***

Lyla waited while the clouds marched in from the horizon, thickening with every mile and blackening Philadelphia with gloom. The somber mist that had engulfed the day was followed by a deluge of heavy rain and thundering fury that night. When the sky opened up, the late summer humidity dissipated, but Lyla’s anger towards her father hadn’t cooled.

She stared at the items she’d laid out on her couch. Her gaze lingered on the receptacle she’d stolen from the hospital the other night. Lyla had needed to break its lock open to retrieve the vials inside. Shards of hard plastic still lay scattered on her living room floor. Lyla stepped over them, snatched several vials of her chosen drug and a syringe, and tossed them in her bag. Then she grabbed the liter of Jack Daniel’s whiskey—her father’s preferred brand—and the lighter.

Lyla eased her car to a stop a few blocks away from
his
house. A low-hanging branch scraped the roof. Lyla cringed at the sound, almost as if it were begging Lyla to return her foot to the gas pedal. But she did not. She parked, drew 10 ccs of succinylcholine into the syringe, and slithered out of the car into the wet night. She hurried to her destination in a half-crouch, trying to blend into the darkness of the asphalt.

She sneaked around the back of her father’s house through the shadows of the maple trees. They still clutched their leaves in denial of the approaching autumn. Every now and again, the rain would tear a leaf from its branch and the fluttering shadow would frighten Lyla. But instead of cursing the rain, she thanked it. It softened the ground, cushioned her footfalls, and tethered the neighbors to their couches. Few, if any, people would witness her arrival.

Searching for signs of life in
his
house and finding only the soft flickering of a TV in the living room, Lyla entered through the back door. Despite burying his wife hours earlier, her father had gone on a date that night. She’d overheard him bragging about it to a group of his colleagues at the funeral. A few were impressed by his gall, but most were repulsed.

However loathsome Lyla found it, she’d learned from her mother that, following a date night, her father would drunkenly pass out on the couch, which was good for Lyla, logistically. She imagined his stench: sex and a perfume so cheap the woman probably purchased it at the cosmetics counter of the nearest drug store. For a second, she marveled at how he at least had the decency not to bring the girls to the house where his wife—her mother, for God’s sake—had lost her life.

She knew the bristles of the doormat made a
scritch
-
scritch
noise, so Lyla bent each leg and thoroughly and silently dried the soles of her sneakers on her pants’ legs. Without squeaking, wet shoes, she tiptoed down to the basement, pausing to grab a candle from the emergency kit at the top of the stairs. The old house’s circuit breakers were notoriously fickle, so she switched off the main breaker, drowning the house in complete darkness. Lyla paused in the spot where she’d overheard her aunt’s suspicions only days earlier. With her ear toward the ceiling, she strained to hear any indication of her father’s stirring over the din of rain pelting the house. She heard nothing, so she removed the hypodermic needle from her over-sized bag, almost piercing herself as she fumbled for it.

“
Here I come, Daddy
,” she said in a singsong whisper, creeping back up the stairs.

Lyla found her father prone on the couch, three quarters of his face buried in a pillow dampened by his own sweat and drool. Before she’d hit the circuit breaker, the TV had probably been playing a rerun of
Law & Order
. An empty whiskey bottle stood on the coffee table. She imagined her father being too drunk to notice it obstructing the television, partially distorting the image through the curvature of the glass. Lyla squatted between the sofa and the table, holding the needle firmly. She punched the tip into the sluggish pulsing of his jugular vein and plunged the chemical into his bloodstream. He didn’t budge, and he never would again. Calvin Kyle didn’t deserve such an easy ending.

In the following minutes, Lyla toured the house. The carpet runner that once lined the upstairs hallway had been removed, revealing dull, unfinished hardwood. Exposed staples tugged at her shoe soles. Fresh paint fumes tickled her nose. None of it fooled Lyla. She still saw the blood. She still wrestled against tears as the copper odor assaulted her with every breath.