Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-FIVE


Someone was touching his shoulder. He heard a voice—a woman’s. He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light. A nurse in a blue tunic was standing next to him, a glass of water in one hand, a pill bottle in the other.

“The doctor wants you to take your medication.”

“What is it?”

“Something for the pain,” she replied with a coaxing smile.

Kingston managed to shift himself up on the pillow into a half-sitting position, his arms outside the blanket. He looked at her more closely. She was quite tall and not unattractive, had a pleasant expression on her face, and was waiting patiently.

So why did he suddenly feel apprehensive? Nothing unusual about the pain medication; it would be expected after surgery.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“About noon.”

Kingston took the glass, sipping from it, trying to understand his unease. She was rather abrupt—was that it? Aren’t nurses usually a trifle more cheery, more sympathetic? After all he’d been through, he certainly deserved a little more, like a comforting “Well, how are we doing, Mr. Kingston?” or “Starting to feel better, are we?”

She smiled again, opened the bottle, and shook out two small pink pills. He sipped more water.

“Sorry, I’m parched,” he said. “Give me a moment.” He took another small sip. “By the way, what’s the name of this hospital?” he asked. “No one has told me.”

“It’s the Staffordshire Memorial Hospital.”

“And my doctor’s name?”

Her smile vanished, replaced by an unsettling look she quickly tried to cover. “Everyone in the hospital’s here to help you, Mr. Kingston,” she said brusquely.

Instantly, he knew.

It’s her voice. The huskiness. That’s why she said so little.

“I understand,” he said.

He held out his free hand for the pills, then suddenly threw the water in her face and grabbed her wrist. The motion, though short, sent a searing pain through his chest, but he was determined not to let go.

“Vanessa Carlson, isn’t it?” he shouted, tightening his grip. “Or would you prefer Decker?”

“Let me go, damn you,” she sputtered, pulling back and struggling desperately to wrench herself free, dragging him across the sheet with her. Yanked by the tube in his left arm, the IV stand and bag on the other side clattered down against the bedrail.

His eyes darted about the bed, searching in vain for the nurse’s call remote.

“Help!” he bellowed. “Help!”

Now half off the bed, Kingston’s chest was stabbing with needles of pain; what little strength he had was draining fast. Any minute, he would fall to the floor and it would be all over.

She realized it, too. She fumbled in her tunic pocket with her free hand.

A wave of panic, nausea, and raw adrenaline coursed through Kingston as he saw what she’d pulled out.

A syringe.

He let go of her arm and crabbed back across the bed. Immediately, she came at him, pointing the needle like a dagger. He felt for the chrome IV pole with both hands, gripped it, and shoved the bag end into her stomach. She howled and staggered back. He rolled off the bed, almost falling but managing to stay on his feet. As she recovered and came around the end of the bed, he yanked the IV catheter out of his arm, flipped the bag off its hook, and hoisted the IV stand off the floor to a horizontal position, the four-legged base away from him. The opened vein in his arm was bleeding, but he ignored it. With a primal strength and fury coming from someplace in him he didn’t know existed, he whirled and swung the stand at her. Her reflexes were quick and she dodged the first swing. But she didn’t count on it continuing full circle. Kingston was gripping the pole like an Olympic hammer, and on the next rotation the heavy base crunched into her back below her neck with a sickening thud. She collapsed like a rag doll; the syringe spun across the floor into the wall. Kingston dropped the IV stand and collapsed on the bed. He leaned over, picked up the dangling remote, and pressed the button to summon the nurse.