Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (24 page)

He always knew when looking at crime scene
photographs if the techs had been there already. The booties left
their own distinctive marks, fuzzy oversized. He'd seen photos like
that just the other morning, but something about them wasn't right.
Dammit. He knew he'd hit on something important to think about. He
just couldn't connect the dots through the cloud of whatever drugs
they had him on. He closed his eyes to help him concentrate and the
next thing he knew, Dr. Krueger was talking to him. He must have
dozed off for a minute, because now the room was cleared of everyone
but him and the cardiologist. "The angiogram showed a
ninety-five percent obstruction in your left anterior descending
artery" Dr. Krueger said without preamble. "If we do
nothing besides pharmaceutical therapy there is a fifty percent
chance that you'll have a heart attack in the next five years."
She paused. "And there's a ninety percent chance that that heart
attack will be fatal. When I was in medical school, they had a
nickname for this particular lesion."

"What was that?"

"Widow maker."

"So what's your recommendation, Doc?" he
asked. His tongue felt thick and furry like his brain.

"We're going to review the film and discuss the
best method of treatment. We've left the sheath in your groin in
place. We'd like to do a procedure called an angioplasty. Dr. Patel
will go into your femoral artery again with a catheter. Only this
time there will be a balloon attached. He will snake the catheter all
the way to your lesion and then inflate the balloon. Hopefully he'll
be able to get past the plaque and reestablish good flow through the
artery. "

"
Hopefully?"

"We have a ninety percent success rate with the
balloon."

"What are the risks?"

"There's a two percent chance of rupturing the
artery And in that event we'll have to go in and do immediate
surgery. But don't worry we'll have a team of cardiac surgeons on
standby in case of that eventuality."

"
You said a ninety percent success rate. What
happens the other ten percent of the time?"

"We can't get the balloon into the artery that
is obstructed. In that case, you still have the option of surgery."

"Some option," St. John said.

"We've done this procedure hundreds of times.
Dr. Patel is an excellent interventional cardiologist."

St. John smacked his dry lips. “Have you talked to
my wife?"

"I'm going to speak to her now."

"When do you want to do all this?"

"Sometime tomorrow after we've all had plenty of
time to discuss our best plan of attack. Meanwhile, we need you to
stay quiet."

"I'll be good,"
he said.

* * *

Caroline looked up when Dr. Krueger entered the
waiting room. Asia was asleep on the Naugahyde sofa and snoring
loudly

"How's he doing?" Caroline asked.

"Fine, fine. He's sedated. The procedure went
well." Then Dr. Krueger went over with Caroline what she had
just explained to her patient.

"I don't know what he told you," Caroline
said, "but he smokes a box of those little cigars a day."

"Don't worry" Dr. Krueger said. "Whatever
a patient tells us that he smokes and drinks, we know to
automatically double it."

"Can I see him?"

"Sure. He's going to be groggy You can leave
your daughter here. I'll have the nurses keep an eye on her."

Caroline stroked Asia's cheek and didn't bother
correcting the doctor. Maybe they'd all do a better job if they
thought Mace had a young child.

The ICU was protected by electronically locked doors.
Caroline had to identify herself by speaking into an intercom before
they would buzz her in. Mace was in an alcove near the center of the
ward. His color was better, but not by much. She lifted his hand to
her cheek and willed health to his body, his heart. He started and
grimaced, then opened his eyes. She saw him struggle to get his
bearings.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He smacked his mouth. She found the water bottle on
his bedside table and lifted the straw to his lips. He drank.

A nurse bustled into the room and headed right for
him, speaking in a loud voice. "Mace?" she practically
shouted. Caroline jumped back out of the woman's way.

St. John fixed a bloodshot eye on the woman. "I'm
here," he said.

She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm,
rather roughly Caroline felt. "How are you doing?" the
nurse said.

"Better?"

St. John looked at her with an expression of
annoyance bordering on contempt. "You don't get it, do you?"
he said. "I feel like shit."

Caroline stifled a giggle and said, "He's pretty
out of it."

"You should hear the names they call me after I
pull out the breathing tubes," the nurse said with a smile.

Caroline decided she wasn't so bad after all.

After the nurse was gone, Caroline picked up her
husband's hand, being careful not to tangle the wire clipped to his
index finger. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I guess we go for it," he said.

"I'll sign the forms," she said.

"Yeah, and call my dad."

Caroline didn't remind him that his father had been
dead for almost a year.
 

Chapter 20

R
obin's first steps were
tentative. Her limbs felt watery from lack of use.

"Protein," he said. "You need more
protein in your diet. Don't worry I'll take good care of you."

He grabbed her arm, but gently and helped her to the
bathroom. All her makeup, soaps, creams, and hairbrushes were already
there, lined up neatly on the counter.

"You'll feel better," he said, "when
you clean up a bit."

"Can I please have some more light?" she
asked.

"Coming right up."

She leaned in the doorway and watched him set up his
apparatus. He had some sort of machine with a crank handle on it.
Wires trailed from the machine. He showed her how they were fitted
with tiny cylindrical sockets made of what looked like copper. Each
socket had a rubber insulated boot that slid along the wire. He
lifted a multicolored hank of wiring from the floor. Each of those
wires had solid extensions soldered to their ends. He selected three
from the harness on the floor and plugged them into the sockets on
the wires attached to his box, being careful to slide the rubber
insulators over the mated ends.

"You want to try it?" he asked.

"What do I do?" she asked.

"Kneel down," he said.

She forced her knees to bend. Her legs collapsed. He
caught her before she fell and pushed the box between her legs.

"Just turn the crank here, like you're winding
up a jack-in-the-box." He took her hand and placed it on the
handle. "Don't be afraid," he cooed into her ear. "I
love you. I won't hurt you if I don't have to."

His warm breath against her ear raised goose bumps
along her arm. He hadn't lied to her yet. He had his principles. She
turned the crank.

"Faster," he urged.

She complied. The machine offered resistance that
seemed to drop off as it gathered momentum. It made a jingling noise;
she felt it grow warm. The lightbulbs above the bathroom sink glowed
dimly at first and then turned bright white.

"
Voilà
,"
he said.

"You're amazing,"
she said. He had to pry her fingers loose from the crank.

* * *

When St. John awoke he was shivering. They had him
hooked up to all the machines. A plastic tube blew oxygen gently into
his nose. The white, round adhesive EKG leads with the snaps in the
center were still taped to his chest and abdomen. Colored wires
trailed from the leads to the heart monitors just out of his line of
sight. Another contraption with a trailing wire was clipped on his
index finger. Clear fluid dripped into his arm via an IV needle
inserted there. He tried to read the label on the bag of fluid
hanging from the IV pole but couldn't seem to focus.

The sheath in his leg throbbed. It felt as if he'd
been stabbed with a knitting needle. His chest felt different. There
were new, scary burning sensations streaming out in all directions
from his heart but particularly from under the left side of his rib
cage.

He pushed his head into the pillow and pictured those
damaged, fragile blood vessels. They had looked like dark spaghetti
on the monitor. His legs cramped, but when he shifted positions he
was rewarded with a sharp stitch in his side. He let out a groan. The
nurse on duty poked her head through the doorway

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"
Yeah," he said. His tongue felt twice its
normal thickness.

"No more dope, though." His voice cracked.
He tried to clear his throat.

"Want some water, hon?" the nurse asked.

"Thanks, yeah."

She put a straw to his lips and told him to go slow.
Any slower I'd be dead, he thought. There was something he needed to
think about. Something important about footprints and photographs of
dead women. Had to be the Diane Bergman case.

He coughed suddenly as the water went down the wrong
tube. The sudden jerk brought sharp pain. He waved away the nurse,
closed his eyes, and visualized the crime scene on the shoulder of
the freeway. He saw Diane Bergman's body with the legs spread open.
Her face, depersonalized with silver duct tape. And around the corpse
. . . the footprints.

Footprints, something about the footprints. He felt
his consciousness slipping away and tried to hold on just a few more
seconds. He was so close to completing the thought. His body seemed
to weigh a thousand pounds. He sank deeper and deeper into the
bedding. His thoughts slowed to a floating blackness.

He felt a cold hand on his forehead and jerked in
response. He immediately regretted the suddenness of his action and
the renewed pain it brought to his chest.

"Sorry if I startled you," he heard
Caroline's voice say.

He opened his eyes. The nurse was gone. It was just
Caroline standing there. The clock on the wall read seven o'clock. He
didn't know if it was A.M. or RM. It was three-something last time
he'd checked. His utter helplessness annoyed him and he goddamn
didn't need or want her pity.

"Where have you been?" he said.

"They only let me in here a couple of minutes at
a time. Hospital policy "

She smiled down at him as she spoke. She looked
tired.

"What about the kid?"

"She's fine. I called Munch. She'll be here in a
little while."

"I guess you had to do that."

"I should call Lieutenant Graziano."

"Let's wait a day on that," he said. "I'm
not on call this weekend."

"But you have an ongoing case," she said.

"I'm still working on it," he said, tapping
his temple with his forefinger.

"Uh-huh," she said, sounding skeptical. "Do
you want to see Munch when she gets here?"

"Yeah, sure, send the
little munchkin in. We've got a few things to straighten out."

* * *

Munch and Garret parked in the lot for visitors. She
stopped briefly at the information desk and was directed to the
elevators that would take her to the third floor and ICU. They went
to the waiting room first. Caroline and Asia had set up camp in one
of the corners. Asia had a new coloring book with the gift shop's
price tag still pasted to the front cover. Caroline was reading a
magazine, but put it aside when she saw Munch and Garret.

Munch went to Caroline first and hugged her. "How
is he?"

"The same, we're just waiting now. "

Munch introduced Caroline to Garret. He shook her
hand and offered his sympathies. Munch wanted to tell him that nobody
had died yet.

Asia gathered her crayons and stuffed them back into
their box. Munch crouched in front of her. "And how are you this
morning?"

"We slept here all night," Asia said. "Mace
had a heart attack."

"So I heard. Was it scary?"

"A little, but the doctor said they would take
excellent care of him."

Munch smiled, always pleased when Asia used any
three-syllable word besides "whatever."

"He asked to see you," Caroline said.

Munch put her arms around Asia. "I'm going to go
say hi to Mace and then we'1l go get your stuff and take you to
softball."

"All right," Asia said.

Garret stayed with Asia while Caroline walked Munch
over to the intercom. She pushed the button and after a moment a
voice said, "Yes?"

"This is Caroline St. John, I have a visitor for
Mace."

"Come on in," the voice said. The door
buzzed and Caroline pulled it open.