Dead Med, page 23
I glance over at the computer, trying to remember what it is I had been reading when I drifted off. The phone is still ringing, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I gingerly take the phone off the hook and hold it close to my ear, listening.
“Mason?”
It’s my mother’s voice. I try to answer, but my throat feels really dry, and no sound comes out of my mouth.
“Mason?”
“Hello,” I finally manage.
“Oh, thank God,” she says. “Are you all right? I haven’t heard from you in weeks!”
“Yes,” I say.
“How is school? How are your classes?”
“Fine.”
“Sweetheart, you sound really tired,” she says. “I know your dad puts a lot of pressure on you, but you need to take care of yourself. Are you sleeping enough?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be coming home for Christmas?”
“I don’t know.”
“But, Mason—”
“I have to go.”
I’m twenty-two years old and an adult now. She knows she can’t intrude on my life if I don’t let her.
“Okay, honey,” she says. “But… let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
The truth is that I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to class or to the lab. It somehow all faded into the background. I’m trying to save my reputation. My reputation and my life. And put a murderer behind bars, where he belongs.
But nothing I do seems to bring me closer to that goal. As it is now, I have nothing. No evidence of wrongdoing. Conlon’s just going to get away with this.
Unless…
The idea, once in my head, suddenly seems so obvious. I check the date and time on my computer. The date registers as familiar, and it takes me a second to connect to the fact that our anatomy final exam is tomorrow. That means it’s a Sunday—Sunday night. If I go to the hospital, there will be students in the library but no classes going on. I’ll have the place to myself… all the time in the world to bust into Dr. Conlon’s office and search for dirt on him.
I throw on a pair of scrubs over my boxer shorts. I haven’t changed shirts in over a week, at least, but it’s not like I need to look presentable. I shove my bare feet into my sneakers and pull on my dark-brown jacket. I grab my car keys off my dresser, and as I drop them into my pocket, I feel the cold metal against my fingers. My father’s Magnum.
I hesitate, my fingers still on the gun. Something deep inside me is telling me to take the gun out of my pocket and leave it in my room. There isn’t going to be anyone at the hospital this late. And if there is… well, maybe it’s better if I don’t have a gun.
And then, I hear that horrible voice again in my ear.
Take the gun, Mason.
I slowly remove my hand from my pocket, leaving the gun inside.
Not so fast. You still have to load it.
74
I drive to the hospital at a steady pace, keeping my eyes pinned on the road. I’m completely focused on the task at hand, like a secret agent infiltrating enemy headquarters. I keep my lights off, though. I’m not sure, but it seems like there is a good chance someone might be following me. Well, it’s not impossible.
I flash my identification at the security guard by the entrance from the parking garage. The guard barely looks at me. That’s good… better if nobody can identify me later. If I find evidence to incriminate Dr. Conlon, everyone will understand—but if I don’t, well, this might look really bad. And I’m certain that Dr. Conlon will do everything in his power to destroy me when he discovers I busted into his office.
The building is empty, and the sound of my sneakers hitting the tiled floor sounds like claps of thunder. I try to walk quietly, but urgency gets the better of me. My heart is racing. Hell, I can hear my heart thumping in my chest.
I pass by the anatomy lab, where the lights are on and there’s movement inside the room. Two students from my class are in there. Leave it to med students to be spending their Sunday night in a lab with a bunch of dead bodies. I’m irritated because it means that I’ll have to make an effort to be quiet.
When I reach Dr. Conlon’s office, however, I’m shocked. There’s a light on under the door. It’s almost midnight on a Sunday night—how could Conlon still be in his office? Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
Of course, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I can persuade Conlon to tell me the truth.
I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets and feel the reassuring cold metal of my father’s Magnum. It’s true—nobody says no to a gun in their face. At least, certainly not an anatomy professor.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door.
There’s loud shuffling on the other side of the door. I hear Dr. Conlon’s voice: “Who’s there?”
“It’s Mason Howard.”
More shuffling. This is far longer than he ought to be taking to unlock the door. What the hell is going on in there anyway? Is he hiding evidence? I wait, my hands still in my pockets. Finally, the lock turns, and Dr. Conlon is standing before me. The professor’s black hair is tousled, and his glasses are somewhat askew.
“Mason… what are you doing here?”
I slip through the opening in the door. Dr. Conlon gasps slightly when he sees me in the light.
“I could ask the same question of you,” I reply.
Dr. Conlon rubs his eyes and limps around the side of his desk, where he collapses into his seat. “I had some work to catch up on.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “Is that the excuse you’re using?”
Dr. Conlon’s face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
“What did you come here for?” Dr. Conlon demands. “To blackmail me? Is that what this is about?”
“No, I came here for the truth!” I punctuate my statement by slamming my fist onto the desk. The professor jumps in his chair and stares up at me.
“Look, Mason…” Dr. Conlon is getting nervous now—it’s painfully obvious. Good. “If you need help, I’ll help you. There are still a few days left before the exam. Whatever the problem is…”
“I want answers,” I say. My fist closes around the handle of the gun.
“I can’t tell you the answers,” Dr. Conlon says, shaking his head.
“Maybe I can convince you then,” I say.
I pull my father’s Magnum from my pocket and point it at Dr. Conlon’s face.
All of the color drains from the professor’s face. He stares at the gun in disbelief, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turn white.
He looks up at me. “Mason, don’t do this. It’s not worth it.”
“Tell me the truth then,” I say, shaking the gun. “Tell me how Frank died.”
Dr. Conlon’s dark brows knit together. “Frank?”
“The body lying on Table 13!” I nearly scream the words. “Tell me how you killed him.”
“Oh, Christ,” Dr. Conlon mutters, shaking his head. “Listen to me, Mason. I didn’t kill anyone. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You need to calm down.”
“Don’t try to trick me!” I snap. I press the muzzle of the Magnum into Dr. Conlon’s forehead. “Who has the gun, huh?”
“You do,” Dr. Conlon says through his teeth.
“Tell me how you killed him,” I say.
Dr. Conlon slowly raises his hands into the air. “Mason, I swear to you. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He’s lying. He’s so obviously lying.
“I swear to you,” Dr. Conlon repeats. His light-blue eyes are calm.
“There isn’t time for this bullshit,” I say. “I need to know the truth!”
“I swear to you, Mason,” he says again.
I cock the gun. I want to see Conlon squirm, but he’s not doing it. He’s just slumped down in his seat, staring down the chamber of the Magnum with resignation in his eyes.
Enough of this bullshit. Time to show him I’m serious.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” I say, the gun now pointed directly at my professor’s forehead. “Tell me how you killed Frank.”
I pray that Conlon will come clean with me. Because I don’t have a choice anymore.
Dr. Conlon shakes his head. He speaks the next sentence slowly and clearly: “I’m really sorry.”
He’s sorry. It’s as good as a confession as far as I’m concerned.
So I squeeze the trigger, just like my father taught me to do when I was a kid.
The force of the gun firing travels up the length of my arm and knocks me back slightly. I haven’t fired a gun in a long time, and I’d forgotten to compensate for the backward momentum. When I lower the pistol, I feel a sharp ache in my shoulder.
Dr. Conlon’s head is slumped forward. There are little pieces of skull and brain splattered all over the wall behind him. It looks so… real. Unlike the cadaver, which never looked quite like a real human being. I let the gun slip from my fingers and fall onto the floor. I stare at my anatomy professor’s dead body as the bile rises up my throat.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” I whisper the words over and over again as I fall to my knees on the floor.
He deserved this. You did what you had to do.
“Shut up!” I scream. I bury my face in my hands and rock back and forth. I’ve done something too horrible for words.
There’s no taking back what I’ve just done. My hand rests on the gun on the floor. I pick it up and place it back in my jacket pocket. I struggle to my feet and leave Dr. Conlon’s office for the last time.
But as I’m shutting the door to the office, I realize I’m not alone in the hallway. Dr. Patrice Winters is coming around the corner, wearing a dress suit that seems so bizarre since it’s practically midnight. She is absolutely the last person I want to see right now.
Her symmetric features are filled with alarm as she hurries toward me. “Mason,” she says, “what was that sound?”
Then her gaze drops to the gun in my hand. She freezes in her tracks as her lips form a little surprised “O.” She has put two and two together, and now her fate is sealed.
Patrice opens her mouth as if to say something, but I don’t want to hear it. I raise the gun, and for the second time tonight, I pull the trigger.
It’s easier the second time.
Much like Dr. Conlon, Patrice drops instantly. I shot Dr. Conlon in the head, but I hit her square in the chest, possibly right through her heart, judging by the amount of blood pooling beneath her body. She dies almost instantly, right before my eyes.
The Magnum holds six rounds, and I’ve used two, which means I have four more bullets left in the chamber. And I’m not leaving here until every single potential witness is dead.
PART V
SASHA
75
THE FIRST DAY
“Look to your left and look to your right.”
It’s a ridiculous exercise, but I do it anyway. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to check out my classmates, and now I’ve got one. I look around and scope out the competition.
I’m underwhelmed.
Everyone talks about how talented and brilliant med students are. Nobody in this room looks particularly talented or brilliant, though. For the most part, they look like a bunch of kids. Most of them are dressed in jeans and T-shirts with dumb slogans on them. One girl has the word “sweet” written entirely in glitter across her chest. I’m sure she’s going to be a stellar physician.
People ask me all the time if I’m still in high school, but I’m actually twenty-six years old—older than most of my classmates. In college, I worked as a waitress to help pay my tuition and then took on a second job as a nanny (for a spoiled three-year-old brat) when Dad got sick and needed help paying bills. Do you think it’s easy to be premed while working two part-time jobs? It isn’t. I ended up having to take a bunch of postbacc classes just to finish my premed requirements.
I also took care of my father. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease when I was in high school and declined pretty fast. Lots of people live for decades with Parkinson’s, but my father wasn’t so lucky. By the time I was in college, he had to give up his job, and I moved back home to help my mother take care of him. It all fell on my shoulders.
Dad hated how much I had to give up for him. I’m his youngest daughter, and he came to this country from Russia in his twenties and worked hard his whole life at minimum-wage jobs so I could have every opportunity available to me. He kept saying to me, “Sasha, don’t worry about me. Go become a doctor. I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. Soon after I graduated from college, he started having difficulty swallowing. Shortly after, he developed pneumonia and was admitted to the local hospital. He never came out.
For a long time after he died, I was angry. At pretty much everyone. I was angry at the doctors that took far too long to diagnose him, even though in retrospect, his tremors were a dead giveaway. I was angry at the hospital that gave him the wrong antibiotics for his aspiration pneumonia and then talked my mother into withdrawing care while he lay in the ICU.
And my mother—I don’t even want to get into how angry I was at her.
But I got over it. My father wanted me to be a great doctor. That was his dream for me. And wherever he is right now, I want him to see me achieve my dream and graduate from medical school. And not just graduate. I intend to be at the very top of my class.
And honestly, as I look around at my classmates, that goal doesn’t seem too unreasonable.
Anatomy is the central class of the first year. If you ace anatomy, you ace the year.
One of the key components to acing anatomy is Dr. Conlon’s book, Anatomy: Inside Secrets. That’s what all the upperclassmen told me. So early on the morning of orientation, I travel to the hospital bookstore to buy myself a copy.
A lot of people had the same idea as me. There’s an entire shelf dedicated to Dr. Conlon’s book, and now, about half of those copies have been sold. I pick up a fresh copy of the book, flipping through diagrams of the human body, mnemonics, and something called “Conlon’s Law of Finger Flexion,” whatever that is.
Our professor is a bit of a dork, what with the bowtie and all.
There are at least a dozen copies left on the shelf, and I’m suddenly seized by the urge to buy them all so that nobody else can have them. The bookstore would order more copies, but at least this way, I’d have a head start for the first lab.
Of course, I don’t do it. Mostly because this book isn’t cheap, and I can’t afford twelve copies. I can barely afford the books I need.
Instead, I pull out the stack of paperback texts and load them into my arms. Conlon’s book isn’t that thick, but the stack is fairly heavy. I glance around to make sure nobody’s watching then relocate the stack to a little nook behind a life-sized skeleton. For good measure, I toss a DeWitt Med sweatshirt on top of them.
I check once more to make sure nobody saw me before I get in line to purchase my copy of Anatomy: Inside Secrets. As I hand over my credit card, another student I vaguely recognize enters the store. He sees my purchase and smiles.
“I’m about to buy the same thing,” he comments.
“Oh, sorry,” I say regretfully. “I just bought the last copy.”
76
It’s not too hard to shine in the anatomy lab when put side by side with my lab partners. For the most part, they’re all disasters. Heather McKinley—a total airhead. It baffles me that she’s here when it took me years to finish my requirements to earn a spot in the class. Abe Kaufman seems intelligent enough but also appears more focused on Heather than he is on studying. Rachel Bingham talks big, but I can tell that she’s struggling to master the material. And then there’s Mason Howard.
I hate Mason instantly.
He’s way too good-looking, for starters. Guys who look like that annoy me because they think they’re God’s gift to the world. If I ever get married, I’m going to marry someone butt-ugly who knows what it’s like to be shit on by the world. Also, Mason is super charming. I can just see the girls in our class eating it up. It’s so annoying. Heather ogles him all through the lab.
He acts like he’s some sort of anatomy genius, but I know the truth: he studies his ass off. He doesn’t mess around—he takes med school very, very seriously. He’s the only person who stays at the library as late as I do.
But you know what pisses me off about Mason?
Even if I study night and day nonstop, even if every grade I get tops Mason’s, he’ll always have the edge over me. No matter what. Because Mason has one quality that I don’t possess: charisma.
A little charisma goes a long way. And Mason has a lot of charisma.
“He already looks like a surgeon,” Heather says to me as we stand on the far end of the cadaver table, Mason cutting as we flip through the lab manual. Heather is practically swooning.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I say.
“Yes.” Heather blushes. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” I murmur.
Heather clears her throat and flips the page in the manual. “How about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
I dated a boy named Alex before med school started. It wasn’t very serious. He was the son of a woman my mother knew from work, and he was short. I’m short, so I always get set up with short guys, even though I’m not that attracted to them. Anyway, it wasn’t a big loss to break up with him when school started. I couldn’t have any distractions.
“Not really,” I say.
Heather’s eyes light up. “Really? Because you know, Abe is available...”
Seriously? Is Heather so dense that she doesn’t realize that Abe is head over heels in love with her? He’s about as interested in me as he would be in a candy wrapper on the street. Which seems to be the reaction most guys have to me.
