Mother's Milk (29 page)

‘There's another place,' Jerod said. ‘I don't know the address, but I could show you.'

‘We need to hurry,' Barrett said, inching her legs toward the bed's edge. Before Justine could stop her she yanked the IV needle out of her vein, and bent her arm to stop the bleeding.

‘Are you out of your fucking mind?' Hobbs swore.

‘Where are my clothes?' she asked, not caring that her flimsy hospital gown was giving them a scenic view of her backside.

‘Get back in bed,' Hobbs said.

‘Where are my clothes?' she repeated, trying to appear steady on her feet, when it felt like her knees and ankles wanted to drop her to the floor.

‘The EMTs cut them off you,' Justine said, ‘in case you forgot you just had a near-death experience.'

‘Got it!' Barrett shouted back, her sudden anger surprising everyone. ‘I'm fine now, and I've got work to do … like finding the bastard who just tried to kill me and do it before he wipes out a group of kids.'

‘That's it!' Hobbs said. ‘I'm out of here. Jerod, come with me.'

‘Hobbs—' Barrett tripped on the ventilator cord, nearly fell, and managed to hang on by grabbing the side of the machine.

‘Look, Barrett, stop this. I'll check in with you later …' He looked at Jerod. ‘Come on, you have to show me where they are.'

‘Sorry,' Jerod said to Barrett, ‘you got to take care of yourself, Dr. Conyors. You got a baby. You can't do shit like this if you got a kid. Don't be a shit mother.'

And he was out of the room, following Hobbs back toward the nursing station and the exit.

Barrett looked around at her mother, Max, Sanjee, and her sister. ‘I should go with them,' she said, but felt powerless, weak and stung by Jerod's parting words.

‘Dear,' her mother said, gently pushing Barrett back toward the bed, ‘I think that Ed put it best, “You're out of your fucking mind.” Now back to bed. I hate to say this, sweetie, and you know I love you more than you'll ever know, but there is something wrong with you. You're not a cop, and even if you were, just look at you … You have to sit this one out, Detective Hobbs will do the right thing … so let it go.'

Looking a bit embarrassed, Sanjee said his goodbyes, ‘I hope to see you back soon,' and left the three Conyors women and Max.

A half-hour and then forty-five minutes passed with little conversation. Ruth unstrapped Max from the baby sling and put him on the bed beside Barrett; he was fast asleep, occasionally making a little chirping noise, or moving a chubby arm as though swatting at something in his dream. Barrett sat up, wondering where Hobbs and Jerod were, if they'd gotten to the kids in time; it was agony.
There really is something wrong with you.
She ran a hand through Max's silk-fine hair and tears flowed. She sank down into the bed, holding him close. He woke and turned his head into her chest, looking for her breast. ‘Mom,' Barrett said, ‘do you have a bottle with you? I don't want to nurse with God knows what still in my system.'

‘Hold on.' Ruth fumbled through the diaper bag. ‘Here.'

Cuddling Max, feeling his warmth against her body, his heartbeat fast and regular, his hair smelling of shampoo, she gave him his bottle, positioning it as if it were a breast. Outside her curtained room, she heard the dings and beeps of the intensive-care unit. She thought of Hobbs and of how much he cared for her, she looked at her mother, who in the midst of all this mayhem had managed to bring along needles and yarn and was working on a red-and-blue-striped baby beanie, having already completed the matching sweater.

Justine came to the side of the bed. ‘He is so beautiful,' she said.

‘I know,' Barrett said, ‘he's a good boy.'

‘He is,' Justine said, meeting her gaze. ‘And he needs his mother.'

‘I know,' she said, holding him tight, feeling his lips suckle the bottle while his chubby fingers kneaded at her breast.

Just past midnight, Justine's pager went off. She picked up. ‘How many?' she asked. ‘I'll be right down.'

‘What is it?' Barrett asked.

‘They're bringing in a group of young adults from a shooting gallery. They'd all overdosed … they need all the cardiac code teams in the ER.'

At which point the overhead pager system sounded. ‘Code red, emergency room areas B, C, and D … Code red, emergency room.'

‘Got to run, sweets,' and leaning over she kissed Max on the top of his head and Barrett on her forehead.

F
eeling sick at heart and desperate, Chase ignored the stench of rotting alley garbage; he needed information and needed it fast. Dinner with Barrett had gone terribly wrong. She'd treated him like scum, her transparent word-games had revealed her true colors – a first-class bitch, no, not for him. He smiled in the dark.
And if not for me, for no one.
Too bad things hadn't gone better; he had liked her and could have seen her as his partner and wife. Doctors Strand and Conyors, or maybe she would have taken his name, or they could have hyphenated. They looked so good together, and their children would have been gorgeous. Too bad, the bitch got what she deserved – a lethal dose. Pity that stupid Indian had got in the way. But she was gone, and New York was a big place, that restaurant host didn't know his name, and probably was an illegal immigrant anyway who wouldn't get involved. ‘It's going to be OK,' he told himself as he cowered in the shadows of an alley on the north side of 13th between C and D. He looked up to the top floor of the decrepit tenement in front of him. One by one these six- and seven-floor roach hotels had been eaten up by developers, harassing the rent-stabilized tenants, getting them to leave and then overhaul and hike up the rent. He desperately wanted to get inside and pictured the scene unfolding in Marky's sixth-floor walk-up. While the date with Barrett had gone south, if this went well … ‘Almost home,' he whispered. There'd be no one left to trace him back to the dope or the silly girls they'd auctioned off. He had a moment of near nostalgia; he thought of Janice. They'd had some fun, although lately not so much, and her constant reminders of how she'd helped him, how if it hadn't been for her …

Is it done?
The uncertainty was killing him. He emerged from the alley, waited for a taxi to zip past, and darted across the street. Keeping his head down, he took the half flight to the double front doors and keyed in. Four years ago he'd helped Marky find this place. The other tenants – mostly illegal sublets and monolingual Latinos – kept to themselves. The flights of worn marble stairs were a bit of a pain, but it was cheap, and like all the locations he selected, it had roof access. Being here was risky, but he pushed that aside; too much had gone wrong. He needed to know that this final ploy had worked, that they were all dead.

He cleared the final flight and turned to the right. He'd pulled out his keys when a loud crash came from six floors below. He froze, someone had just busted in the security door. He heard a shout, ‘It's all the way up,' then pounding footsteps.

Without pause, and moving silently, he raced back to the building's only staircase and flew up the last flight. He pressed on the wood door to the roof. Someone had tried to put a lock on, but at least here Marky hadn't screwed up. The lock was broken and Chase pushed through. He ran across the roof and looked down at the street. A single dark sedan parked in front, but then a cruiser with lights and sirens appeared at the end of the block, followed by a second. They honed in on the building, the flashing lights sending swirls of red and blue around the dingy brick buildings. He wanted to scream; there was no getting away from it, everything was coming undone. Medical school, life as a top Manhattan plastic surgeon, a beautiful wife and children … it was gone.

He started to shake, there was no one he could go to; he was entirely alone. He looked back at the door and heard movement from the floor below. He needed to get out, but a part of him still wanted to see. Maybe things weren't so bad. Maybe one of the kids had called 911 on a cell phone, or maybe a neighbor had heard something. He had to see, but every minute he stayed here was a horrible risk.

He padded back to the roof door and pressed his face against the wood. He opened it a crack and could see the top of the stairwell. A tall man with a scarred face appeared with a young guy in baggy jeans and a hoodie – Jerod. ‘This one,' Jerod said and Chase heard the man pound on the door to Marky's.

‘Police, open up, now!'

Chase heard the rattle of a doorknob. He swore under his breath when he heard the creak of hinges. Marky, the fucking moron. He didn't even lock his door!

‘Jerod, stay back,' the man said.

Chase felt his breath pass slow through his nostrils, his face pressed to the crack in the door. He saw Jerod's back – the crazy kid must have been here before. He'd led the cops. Chase had to get out of there, but he also had to know. Marky was the only one left who could identify him. If he was dead, maybe he could salvage things … still go to medical school. Then more footsteps on the stairs, fresh sirens screaming up the avenue. Over the clamor he heard the man's voice from inside Marky's apartment. ‘Jerod, get in here. I need help now.'

Jerod had known where Marky would bring the family. He'd never been inside, but Carly had pointed it out one day. ‘That's Marky's place, sometimes we go there to pick up shit and drop off money.' She'd even tried to talk Marky into bringing Jerod into the family; but he'd said no, and Jerod didn't need to ask why. He knew he didn't fit, Marky knew that, and only Carly … who'd seen past his sickness and weird behavior had thought he was just fine.

Detective Hobbs had told him to stand outside, and he heard other cops on the way up. As he stood there, struggling to catch his breath from the run up six flights, he felt gooseflesh on his arms and waves of nausea. He tried to think of something that could make him feel better, and Carly's face, her wavy brown hair, her soft eyes formed before him. ‘
Lots of people hear voices.
' It calmed him a little, and then the detective's urgent voice from inside; he needed help. Jerod entered.

‘Oh no,' he said, as he walked past the linoleum-covered entry and into the living room. ‘No,' his feet like lead on the floor, his mind screaming, just like Bobby and Ashley. He recognized them all. He looked to Detective Hobbs, who was bent over one of the girls. He was counting and then breathing into her mouth.

‘Do you know CPR?' Hobbs asked, while he placed his face against the girl – Kat's – chest and listened.

‘Yeah,' Jerod said, looking around at Marky's living room arranged in a semicircle of mattresses.

‘Pick one and get started.'

Jerod couldn't figure why, but he went to Marky, who less than twenty-four hours ago had tried to kill him. He was slumped against the wall, eyes partly open. ‘Marky, wake up!' Jerod tried to remember the CPR instructions from the times he'd taken the course. The last time by volunteers who did the needle-exchange program at the drop-in center. ‘Marky!' He rubbed his knuckles over the center of the blond man's chest; he did it hard knowing that it was supposed to hurt and get him to wake up. Nothing happened; he reached up to Marky's neck; it was still warm and he felt a faint pulse.

He thought about the other kids, maybe they deserved help more than Marky, but someone had to answer for this. And if Marky wasn't the one responsible, he was the only one who'd know who was. He grabbed Marky by the arms, awkwardly pulled him forward off the mattress and onto the hard wood floor. He turned him flat on his back. He breathed in deep, put his mouth over Marky's, and put in two long breaths. He felt the pulse again, just barely there. Counted the same way Detective Hobbs was and gave another two. The footsteps on the stairs were close, and then cops were coming through. He didn't look up as other officers attended to the kids. He tried not to cry as he listened to their counting, and the comments in the crowded space with its funky Christmas lights and pillows like the ones Ashley used to sew. ‘This one's got no pulse.' ‘Mine neither.' ‘One and two and three and four and …' ‘What's taking the paramedics?'

A woman officer who was working on a brown-haired boy next to Jerod looked at him between breaths. ‘You shouldn't be doing that without a face mask,' she said.

Jerod's finger was on Marky's pulse, and the parts of CPR he'd forgotten came back fast by watching Hobbs and the others. His cheek was turned against Marky's lips, he could almost feel a breath, but didn't want to take the chance by stopping. ‘I don't have one,' he said, ‘it's OK. I don't need it.'

‘Here,' she pulled a plastic mask from out of her belt, ‘use this.'

He took the clear plastic circle, looked at how she was using hers, and placed it around Marky's lips. ‘Thanks.' Tears streamed as he counted breaths, felt for a pulse, and listened for breath. He wasn't crying for Marky, and he wondered why he hadn't told Dr. Conyors or Detective Hobbs that he'd tried to give CPR to both Bobby and Ashley. Only they'd been dead too long, or he hadn't done it right. Maybe if he'd had Narcan like they'd handed out at the drop-in center. It killed him that he'd waited those minutes to call the crisis center, and that he should have just called 911. When he'd finally had the sense to look for a phone, and had found the two on Bobby, the first number that came to him was the crisis center and Dr. Conyors.

‘What did you do to her?' Jerod whispered to the unconscious man, feeling Marky's pulse, and this time certain there was breath leaving his mouth. ‘Where's Carly? What did you do to her?' He had the impulse to hit Marky, to get him to wake up, to force him to tell. Instead, he put his lips against the plastic and gave another two breaths, not sure if that was right, when Marky might have started breathing on his own. Someone had found the overhead light as paramedics with stretchers, oxygen tanks, and orange kit boxes piled in.