Last Run (35 page)

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Grace had tried to reassure him. ‘I
thought
Lucia might have put something in my tea, so I imagined I was feeling bad, but I hadn’t
been feeling so great before I left home, so it had nothing to do with poison.’

That was when Sam had insisted on driving her to Jackson Memorial. Mercy might be closer, but he was afraid Grace might want to see Lucia – if she was still alive – and with Dr
Walden still away, there was no point going further to Miami General.

‘I should have realized what she was building up to,’ Grace was still berating herself in the car. ‘It was textbook stuff – she’d lost the last person who mattered
to her, she’d done awful, wicked things, and now she was spilling it all before dying. I
should
have known what was coming, found a way to help her before—’

‘Grace, stop,’ Sam called a halt. ‘Lucia wasn’t your patient, you’re not her psychologist. What you were today was just
human
, a pregnant woman faced with a
killer
.’ He glanced sideways at her still taut, pale face. ‘Sweetheart, you called the paramedics, you gave them all the facts, you did what they told you to do. There was
nothing else you could have done.’

She didn’t answer.

Grace was still in shock, though not the kind – according to the doctor who’d examined her – that required hospitalization or treatment. ‘Take her home,
spoil her and keep an eye on her,’ had been his advice to Sam, since there was, so far as anybody could tell at that stage, no evidence that Lucia had poisoned her.

Except that the local police still needed her statement, and – perhaps because they were unaware of what had gone on in Naples – Sam was able to convince them to let him remain at
Grace’s side during their questioning. And even as he listened to the horrors – filling in blanks in ways almost impossible to reconcile with the
nice
lady who’d been
coming to work in his wife’s office, in their
home
, for two years – all he really wanted was to keep watching Grace, touching her, holding on to her.

One of these days he supposed he might get around to telling her how mad at her he’d been for getting herself into danger, how frustrated he was by the infuriatingly protective part of
Grace’s nature that had made her keep her angst over Terri from him and that had made her drive straight to Key Biscayne to comfort Lucia Busseto instead of waiting to talk to him first.

‘I left a message,’ she’d told him earlier, a little warily.

‘Yeah,’ he’d replied. ‘Big help.’

But then he’d left it alone, because all that mattered now was taking care of her and their unborn baby son, getting police business out of the way as fast as possible, and getting her
home.

‘I want to see Cathy,’ Grace said, the instant the questions were finished.

‘She’s being driven back as we speak,’ Sam told her. ‘So all we have to do is get there ahead of her, OK? So you’ll let me take you home, put you to bed, lock the
front door, turn off the bedroom phone?’

‘All sounds good to me,’ Grace said.

‘And no one’s going to come into our house except Cathy and, maybe later, my dad,’ Sam added. ‘And if anyone – I don’t care
who
they are – thinks
they’re going to ask you another question until after you’ve rested for a good long time, they’ll have to break down the door and take me on first.’

Which was, more or less, how it had gone.

Cathy had arrived soon after they had got home – having looked in on Saul so that Grace could satisfy herself that he was no worse – and they had told her, as briefly and gently as
possible, about the drama that had unfolded in Key Biscayne that afternoon.

‘So Lucia really was Kez’s aunt.’ Cathy had been reeling. ‘It’s all just so hard to believe.’

‘Believe it,’ Sam had told her grimly.

And then he had heated them up two bowls of Grace’s homemade minestrone (which was always on hand in the freezer), after which he had finally tucked up both his girls in their beds, and it
was a measure of their sheer exhaustion that neither of them had argued.

So the house was very quiet when, in the early evening, satisfied that Grace and Cathy were both sound asleep, Sam took some time out to switch on the machine and fix himself a
super strong espresso.

Strong
exactly
what he needed.

No sleep intended until much later, until he was as certain as he could be that no one was going to need him. And tomorrow, he guessed, was going to be pretty much of a bitch in terms of himself
and Terri catching varying degrees of hell from their respective chiefs and Internal Affairs. But with luck and a fair wind at least Cathy ought – as evidence stacked up against Flanagan and
Lucia over the next week or so – to find herself wholly accepted as innocent victim rather than suspect associate. That would be tough enough on her, Sam realized, but knowing she’d
made an unlucky decision in love had to be a hell of a lot better than facing even one more
minute
of jail time.

The sounds told him his espresso was ready.

Sam loaded his favourite
Tosca
CD (Callas and di Stefano, still sky-high compared to the others), set down his cup and two
biscotti
on a small saucer on the low table, sank down on
the sofa, slipped on his headphones, picked up the remote and pressed the play button.

The overture began to feed, gloriously, into his ears, a little of the ugliness of the last couple of days seeping away. He didn’t plan to listen for more than a few minutes, wanted to be
sure of hearing Grace or Cathy if they called him, but he needed just a little beauty, a little tranquillity.

Woody jumped up beside him, snuggled close the way he loved, and Sam fondled his ears for a moment or two, then took his first sip of espresso.

He frowned.

It tasted a little off.

He shrugged, figured it had to be his imagination, his taste buds screwed up by the bitterness of the past many hours.

Took another, bigger drink.

Wrinkled his nose, then sighed, started to shift, to get up, because he’d really wanted this espresso to be the best, so maybe he’d better start over.

Too tired.

Drink this, wake up,
then
start over.

The headache hit him first, right along with the nausea, so violent that he ripped off the headphones and made a run for the bathroom near the staircase, Woody, startled out of
contented sleep, following and lying down outside the door to wait.

Sam finally emerged, shaken but sufficiently recovered to make it back to the sofa, where he sank down on to the cushions, trembling and sweating.

‘Man,’ he murmured.

He looked down at the cup, wondering.

Remembering that Lucia had a key to the house.

‘Jesus.’ He stood up again as the pains hit him hard, stomach pains as bad as anything he’d ever known. ‘Oh,
Jesus’

He made it into the hall, staggering, knowing about halfway there that he needed help fast.

‘Grace!’

He thought he cried out her name, but something was happening to his heart, something weird and frightening.

The floor came up to hit him.

Chapter Thirty-five

Grace heard the barking about three seconds before the phone started to ring.

Still a little groggy she waited for Sam to get it, but after three rings she realized he must have gone out, and answered herself.

‘I woke you.’ David’s voice. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

‘It’s fine.’ Grace had a clutch of anxiety. ‘How’s Saul?’

Downstairs, Woody was still barking in his shrillest voice.

‘He’s fine,’ David reassured. ‘He loved seeing you, knowing you were OK.’ He paused. ‘It’s Sam I’m after.’

‘I’m not sure he’s here.’ Grace decided she’d have to go down to stop the dog’s noise before Cathy got up. ‘Do you want to hold on while I
check?’

‘Can you just tell him I’m a little concerned about Terri?’ David said. ‘Saul asked me a while back to call her to see how she was doing, but she’s not answering
her phone. I guess she could have turned it off, but that’s not so likely with Saul in hospital.’

‘Doesn’t sound likely,’ Grace agreed.

‘I was wondering if maybe Sam could ask someone from her unit to go knock on her door? She lives so close to work, after all, and—’

‘I’ll tell him.’

The scream tore the air.

‘My God.’ Grace started to scramble out of bed. ‘David, something’s happened.’

‘I heard it.’

Grace had already dropped the phone and was through the door. ‘Cathy, I’m coming!’

‘It’s Sam!’ Cathy screamed. ‘Grace, call 911!’

The terror felt like ice-lava filling her as she started down the stairs – freezing for a second as she saw them. Woody first, still barking, skittering around. Cathy on her knees, just
outside the bathroom.

Sam was on the floor beside her.

‘Oh my God!’ Grace started towards them. ‘Sam!’

‘I’ve got a pulse.’ Cathy’s first-aid training had kicked in. ‘Make the
call
!’

Grace ran for the phone – and she
could
still run – keeping her eyes on Sam all the time, watching Cathy putting him into the recovery position, which meant that he
had
to be breathing, or Cathy wouldn’t . . .

‘Cathy, is he
breathing
?’

‘Yes, but he sounds really bad – ’ Cathy was terrified – ‘and there’s vomit, and . . .’

Grace began to press keys, heard something tinny – her father-in-law’s frantic voice, and she’d forgotten he was holding. ‘David, Sam’s collapsed, so we need you to
call the paramedics, get them here
fast.
Woody, be
quiet.
No, I don’t know, I don’t know
anything
except he’s vomited and he’s breathing, but he sounds
bad, so – yes, I’m sure – Cathy, have you checked his airway?’

‘It’s clear,’ Cathy told her, ‘but his pulse is crazy.’

‘David, get them here
now.
’

Grace cut off the call, got herself across the hall, down on to her knees on Sam’s other side, pushed the eager dog away. ‘Sam, darling, I’m here.’

He stirred, moaned, opened his eyes.

‘Sam, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,’ Grace said, gratitude soaring. ‘Don’t move.’

He moaned again, tried to sit up, sank straight back, his eyes unfocused, then closing again.

‘Oh my God,’ Cathy said. ‘Oh my God, Grace, what’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s going to be fine.’ Grace shot her a look telling her to feign calm.

‘I know,’ Cathy said, biting back tears.

Sam was trying to say something.

‘Don’t try to speak, darling,’ Grace told him, ‘you just rest.’

‘Coffee,’ he said.

‘Coffee?’ Cathy, bewildered, stared at Grace.

‘Sam, sweetheart, please.’ Grace stroked his hair. ‘Just rest. Help’s on its way.’

His right arm moved, his hand reaching for her, but seeming not to find her.

Coffee.

Grace suddenly remembered Lucia’s words near the end of the nightmare afternoon. What she had said about Sam and Terri, about understanding why they had done what they had. But never being
able to
forgive
them.

‘Oh dear God.’

‘What?’ Cathy’s eyes were wide.

Grace stared down at Sam, saw that he was stiller again, his skin clammy, his breathing laboured, and she tore through her panicked brain, trying to think about the things you were meant to do
in cases of poisoning.

‘Was he
drinking
coffee?’ she asked. ‘Before this happened?’

‘I don’t know, I was sleeping. I don’t
know
.’

‘Go see. If you find a cup, keep it for the paramedics.’

‘You think—?’ Cathy got up.

‘I think Lucia may have poisoned him,’ Grace told her. ‘
Go.
And don’t touch it, just
find
it.’

Lucia’s words were rushing back now, names of poisonous plants – hemlock and nightshade and aconite, and if she was not already dead, Grace swore she would kill her, take a pillow
and smash it down over her face and hold it there until every last . . .

Sam groaned, jolted, then vomited again.

‘It’s OK, sweetheart . . .’ Grace soothed him, cradled him, supported his head so he wouldn’t choke, started to call for Cathy to bring a towel but stopped, because
finding the cup – the
source
of this, she was certain – was far more urgent. ‘Let it go, Sam.’

‘I found his cup,’ Cathy called. ‘His usual espresso.’

‘Is it empty? Did he finish it? Don’t touch it!’

‘Half full.’ Cathy came back out into the hall, took in the situation, ran into the bathroom, brought a damp towel and crouched down on Sam’s other side, wiping his mouth, his
face. ‘Poor you.’

He grunted, too weak and limp to manage more. Grace stroked his hair, took his pulse, found it thready, wished the paramedics were with them.

‘Help is on its way, sweetheart,’ she told him again.

Sam’s moan was the only warning before the seizure took hold, seemed almost to roar through him, its effects terrifying, jerking him around as violently as if some sadistic puppeteer were
yanking on his head and body and limbs.

‘What do we do?’ Cathy’s training fell apart. ‘What do we
do
?’

‘We keep
calm
.’ Grace attempted to grasp at Sam’s arms, then remembered that was wrong, she had to let him flail; she
thought
she’d learned that you were
supposed to place a folded handkerchief between the patient’s teeth to stop them biting their tongue, but she didn’t have one, and anyway this was too
violent.

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

‘Thank God.’ Limp with relief, Grace felt for his pulse again and froze with fresh overpowering terror, because there was
nothing
, and Sam was motionless – and then it
was there again, erratic but
there.
‘Oh, thank you, God.’

‘Where
are
they?’ Cathy was weeping now.

‘Here soon,’ Grace said. ‘They have to be here soon.’

She bent lower over Sam, stroked the dark hair she loved, tried not to cry, kissed him instead, three soft kisses on his clammy, cold forehead, placed neatly in a curve, as if the placement of
them might make a difference.