Dead Med, page 29
“No, Patrice. My mind is made up.”
And then I hung up. I fully expected her to confront me about this in person, but then, the knock at my door turned out to be Rachel. And the things she told me changed everything.
Do I believe Rachel when she says she was blackmailed and that’s the only reason she took the exam? Maybe. I suppose I do. Nobody’s that great an actress. It’s easier to believe Rachel because I love her. Even when I hated her, I still loved her.
And because I love her so much, I refuse to let her die today.
96
Now, we come full circle, back to that damned gun pointed at my face.
Mason is much more frightening as a shooter than Kurt was. Part of it is how disheveled he looks, his face covered in a half beard, his dark hair greasy and uncombed, his clothes wrinkled and stained. Yet his hand holding the revolver is unwavering and steady, whereas Kurt was shaking like a leaf. Mason looks like a guy who knows how to handle a gun and knows exactly what he’s doing. And he seems so angry.
He’s demanding answers about the cadaver he’s been dissecting this year, but I don’t know what he expects me to tell him. For privacy reasons, I can’t divulge any information about the cadavers. I do know that the man on Table 13 is a former police officer who died at age seventy-three from a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot in his lungs. I could tell Mason this information, but from the look on his face, I doubt he’d believe me.
No matter what I do, he’s going to fire that gun.
Most people who get shot in the head don’t survive. In that sense, I really am lucky. Surviving two gunshot wounds to the head doesn’t seem within the realm of possibility. I am done here. And this time, there’s only one thought running through my head:
I can’t let him kill Rachel too.
“I’m really sorry,” I hear myself say out loud.
I’m not saying it to Mason. I’m saying it to Rachel, partially for having taken advantage of her when she was my student. And partially for getting myself killed when I know she loves me.
Rachel keeps tugging on the leg of my pants, and I can tell she’s worried. She wants to come out. That would be an incredibly bad idea, but it’s very hard to transmit that sentiment to her without giving away to Mason that someone is hiding under my desk. It’s a very delicate situation. I keep pointing to the ground, signaling to her to stay hidden until this maniac is gone.
I’ve got to save Rachel if it’s the last thing I do. And it most likely will be.
Rachel, stay down!
PART VII
ABE
97
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE ANATOMY FINAL EXAM
The gun is in my coat pocket as I march into the hospital.
Nobody searches me. Of course they don't. I’ve got an ID badge, and I come in through the garage from the student parking lot, which requires ID access. Despite my size, I am utterly unsuspicious. There’s a guard by the entrance from the parking lot, but he barely glances up at me.
He certainly doesn’t know about the gun in the pocket of my coat.
I don’t know what my intentions are—I haven’t decided yet. But when I think about Patrice, my chest burns with anger. And I feel a little better when I wrap my fingers around that gun.
She said she’d be around Sunday night because we’ve got our final exam tomorrow. She said she wants to “be there” for us. Which I assume means she’s hoping to score some drug sales. Anyway, she said she’d be physically here.
I’m counting on it.
I take the elevator up two stories, and when I get out, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I consider ignoring it, but then I pull it out. There’s an unread text that I missed while I was driving, and Heather’s name is flashing on the screen. That is a call I’m definitely taking.
“Hey!” I say, trying unsuccessfully to hide my eagerness.
“Hey, Abe.”
She doesn’t say anything right away, so I prompt her: “What’s up?”
I realized I love you, Abe. I don’t care why you had blood all over your scrubs. Let’s never speak of it again.
“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you.” Her voice trembles slightly. “But I didn’t know who else to call…”
“Okay…”
“I’m worried about Mason.”
That’s the last thing I expected her to say. “Mason?”
“I came upstairs to find you,” she tells me. “And the door to your dorm room was unlocked. I went inside and… well, your room was a total mess—I’m sure you know that. But especially Mason’s desk.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And I know it was none of my business,” she continues, “but I thought it was your desk at first, and you’ve been acting so strange. And then, by the time I realized it was Mason’s desk, I had already started looking through all the papers, and none of it had to do with our classes. It was all these weird articles about dead police officers. And there were random sentences highlighted, notes scribbled in the margins. I didn’t know what to make of it. It was really weird.”
“It’s kind of weird,” I agree.
“And then,” she says, “I found a bullet on his desk.”
A bullet?
My heart speeds up as I pull the phone away from my ear. I look down at the text message alert that I had missed while I was driving. I click on it, and sure enough, it’s from Mason:
If I don’t return tonight, make sure the police know that Dr. Matthew Conlon killed Frank.
Huh? What the hell does that mean? Frank, meaning our cadaver? What is Mason talking about?
It must be some kind of mistake or joke.
“Heather,” I say, “I don’t know what’s going on with Mason, but I’m sure—”
My reassurance gets cut off by a gunshot echoing through the hallway.
“Shit,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Heather.” I struggle to keep my voice steady. “I need you to call 911 now and tell them that someone fired a gun at the hospital.”
“What?”
And now there’s a second gunshot, even louder than the first one. Closer. But I don’t mention that to Heather.
“Just do it,” I say. “Right now. I have to go.”
“Abe!” she cries. “What’s going on over there? If someone is shooting, you need to get out of there. Or… or hide.”
“Don’t worry.” My voice is dripping with false confidence. “Come on, I could take down anyone in our class no problem. Right?”
“Abe…”
“Please, Heather. Call the police right now. I… I’ll talk to you later.”
And then, before she can try to talk me out of what I’m going to do next, I end the call. Almost immediately, the phone starts ringing again. Heather’s name is flashing on the screen. I decline the call, put the phone on silent, and shove my phone back in my pocket.
The hallways are very deserted, given it’s the middle of the night—my rapid footsteps sound like thunder on the floor. Only half the overhead lights are lit, and several hallways aren’t lit at all. But on the plus side, I don’t hear any more gunshots.
I round the corner to my first stop, which is Dr. Conlon’s office. I figured it was smart to go there first given the content of Mason’s message. I hope this is all some weird mistake. That there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Heather found a bullet on Mason’s desk, and now there are gunshots echoing through the halls.
But when I see the body lying on the floor, any hope vanishes.
It’s Dr. Patrice Winters. She’s lying on the floor, the pool of blood beneath her growing wider by the second. Her eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. I don’t need to bend down to feel her pulse—she’s definitely dead.
I wonder if she made any money tonight, before someone put a bullet through her chest.
I reach into my coat pocket, feeling the gun nestled within. I had been on my way to Patrice’s office when I came to the school, and if things had gone differently, would I have been the one to pull the trigger? I was mad as hell, that’s for sure.
I yank my hand out of my pocket, wishing I hadn’t brought the gun. It sickens me to think of what I might have done—I’m not a killer. And the last thing I want is for the police to find it on me.
The door to Dr. Conlon’s office is still closed, although light is coming from below the door. I listen for a moment, but I don’t hear anything from inside. No voices—nothing. But if Dr. Conlon were here, surely he would have come out of his office at the sound of gunshots in such close proximity. So does that mean…?
I put my hand on the doorknob, not wanting to turn it. Maybe it’s better to wait for the police. But what if Dr. Conlon is injured and bleeding? What if I can save him?
I start to turn the knob, but before I can, my attention is jerked away by a sound from around the corner. It sounds like a door slamming shut. It’s coming from the direction of the anatomy lab.
Mason must have gone there next.
But there’s nobody in the anatomy lab. It’s so late. Who would be in the lab with the dead bodies at this hour, even the night before the final? If that’s where Mason went, he can’t possibly do any harm, can he?
And then the scream cuts through the air.
98
I start running.
Most people would run in the opposite direction of gunshots, especially after the police have already been called. I always thought I would have. But I’m either an idiot or braver than I thought or a little of both, because here I am.
When I reach the anatomy lab, I can tell from the window in the door that the lights are on in there. My heart is doing cartwheels in my chest as I peer through the window, trying to see what’s going on inside without opening the door. Unfortunately, I can’t see a thing.
Just as I’m contemplating my next move, I hear a familiar voice from inside the lab: “Do exactly as I say if you don’t want to die.”
It’s Mason. He’s in the lab, and there’s someone else in there with him.
I crane my neck, scanning the hallways for signs of the police. Heather called them several minutes ago. How long does it take for the police to arrive? I bet they’ll be here soon. Maybe I should wait.
But if I do, it could be too late. Patrice is already dead in the hallway. If someone else dies and I could have stopped it, it will be my fault.
I know what I’ve got to do.
I take a deep breath and crouch down on the floor. As quietly as possible, I punch in the code that opens the door to the lab and slowly turn the doorknob to enter the room. The second I crack open the door, I can see that Mason has a gun pointed at my classmate, Danielle Stern. The fans in the lab are very loud, and I pray I can sneak in unnoticed and that I don’t knock down something on the way inside, giving away my position. I wish I weren’t such a clumsy oaf.
I hold my breath as I slide inside the room. I don’t look up or even breathe again until I close the door quietly behind me. To my relief, Mason is still pointing the gun at Danielle and has no idea I’m here. I’m not sure if Danielle sees me, but she isn’t giving anything away. She’s too busy sobbing.
“What do you want?” Danielle whimpers.
I pause, waiting for Mason’s answer. “I need you to help me get rid of something… someone…”
My legs quiver and, to my horror, I stumble against one of the tables. Mason whips his head around at the sound. So much for being stealthy.
“Abe?” Mason blinks in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“Mason, what are you doing?” I hiss, taking a step toward them.
Mason is still holding the gun, but it’s no longer pointed at Danielle. I consider taking out the gun in my own pocket, but I worry that’s just going to escalate things. And when the police arrive, I don’t want to be the guy holding the gun. That’s a great way to get shot.
“Her,” he says. “She heard the gunshots. I have to get rid of the other witness.”
His words cause Danielle’s sobs to intensify. She buries her face in her hands, swaying as if she might faint.
“Shut up!” Mason screams at her.
Please stop crying, Danielle. You’re just making things worse.
“Mason, you need to put down that gun,” I say quietly, knowing it’s already too late. Patrice is dead, and I’m scared Dr. Conlon is too. “Seriously, put down the gun, and we’ll figure this out.”
Mason just stares at me. Wow, he looks really bad, like he’s been sleeping in the gutter. How did this all happen right under my nose?
“You trust me, don’t you, Mason?” I say. I very slowly move toward him, careful not to make any sudden moves.
“I… I guess so…”
“You need to put down that gun,” I repeat.
Mason’s shoulders relax, and his hand lowers as I continue to move closer. Thank God, it’s working—Mason is calming down.
At that moment, there’s a sound from right outside the anatomy lab, and Mason turns his head in the direction of the noise. Even though I’ve got the gun in my pocket and I have time to use it, I don’t want to hold Mason at gunpoint. It won’t stop him, and the last thing I want to do is kill my roommate. I don’t want to kill anyone ever again.
So I take a risk. I lunge forward and tackle Mason, putting all two hundred and fifty pounds of my weight behind the effort. I may be a clumsy oaf, but I can be fast when I want to be, and before Mason can react, he goes down hard, the gun falling from his right hand. I pin him down before he has a chance to try to get away.
“Abe… what the hell?” Mason manages as he stares up at me. “Are… are you in on it too?”
I don’t reply, although I’m not sure what I could have said. I keep him restrained until the police arrive and help me to my feet, and Danielle breathlessly tells them everything that happened. Mason is taken away in handcuffs, mumbling to himself the whole time.
He’ll never be a doctor.
EPILOGUE
KIERA
Seven Years Later
I’ve been on my emergency medicine rotation for over two weeks, and I officially hate my life.
It’s the third rotation of my third year of medical school. For your third rotation, you’re supposed to schedule the specialty you’re interested in doing for the rest of your life. That way, you have enough time in the hospital that you don’t look like a complete idiot, but you take the rotation early enough that you have plenty of time to get letters of recommendation or change your mind in case you end up hating it. The latter is the case for me.
Actually, I like the pace, the patients, the procedures, and even most of the staff. But what I hate is the senior resident, Dr. Sasha Zaleski. And somehow, that’s enough to make me completely miserable.
“Kiera!”
I look up from the computer monitor at the sound of Dr. Zaleski’s voice. Most residents allow me to call them by their first name, but Dr. Zaleski does not. I groan inwardly and brace myself.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Zaleski demands to know.
“I was just writing up the last patient,” I explain. I silently curse the fact that Dr. Zaleski is working during nearly all of my shifts in the ER. I checked the schedule last week, hoping maybe it had changed. It hadn’t. Somehow, I have angered the scheduling gods.
“I told you to see the woman with suspected appendicitis in Room 3,” Dr. Zaleski says accusingly.
Yes, but she also told me that I had to write up patients I’d seen before moving on to the next one. Mixed messages, seriously.
“Sorry,” is all I say.
“Well, because you were so slow,” Dr. Zaleski says snippily, “I already saw that patient myself. Why don’t you make yourself useful and call Surgery to come see her?” She pauses. “And after that, go get me a cup of coffee.”
I nod, afraid to say anything to further incur her wrath, even though technically, the residents have been scolded for sending medical students to perform menial tasks like fetching coffee or doing laundry. I don’t mind grabbing her some coffee, though. At least it’s something I’m less likely to screw up. I know exactly how she likes it after two weeks on this rotation. (Black—like her soul.)
I heard Dr. Zaleski is bad-tempered because she matched for a residency spot at the lowly DeWitt. Apparently, stellar grades don’t make up for mediocre evaluations from attendings on rotations. Dr. Zaleski can’t even be nice to the people she’s sucking up to.
Not that DeWitt Hospital is so bad. The medical school is one of the best, especially now that it’s no longer known as Dead Med. Everyone knows the story about that old nickname, though—it’s huge gossip in our school.
So apparently, DeWitt used to have a bad drug problem. Several students overdosed, but they still couldn’t manage to crack down on it. Also, the former anatomy professor was this real player, a total Casanova, who frequently used to have affairs with his students. He was having an affair with this girl in the class, and another student found out about it and tried to blackmail him. The whole thing went horribly wrong, and that student ended up murdering the professor and some other staff member. And that anatomy professor was the one distributing the drugs, so after he died, the students got clean.
The student who killed the professor was sentenced to life in prison—first-degree murder charges, I guess. They thought part of the reason he did it was because he’d been abusing drugs, and it was all tracked back to some clinic off campus that was handing them out like candy. It goes without saying that the doctor who worked there lost his license and went to jail too.
Of course, all of these are rumors passed down over seven years. Who knows how much of it is true?
I was always curious what happened to the girl who had the affair with the professor, and that’s never been clear, aside from the fact that she transferred to a different school. My friend Meg, who is usually right about this kind of stuff, says she quit med school entirely. I’ve heard people say she went on to become a yoga instructor, a kindergarten teacher, a ballet dancer, or just that she married rich and doesn’t have to work.
