Resuscitation (20 page)

“I
wasn’t
thinking. But I’m out here and you’re in there.”

“You know what surprises me more than anything?” he said. “All I had to do was smile and wink and you were ready to spread your legs. You’re a bigger tramp than the four whores I crucified.”

She could feel her face ablaze. He was doing what he did best.

“And you know what the real irony is? As much as you wanted to have sex with me, I found you totally unattractive and repulsive.”

“Fuck you, Simon.”

“My dear Sami, is that the best you can do? Does the truth really hurt that much? Why did you come here?”

She couldn’t answer that question. She remembered that during the many hours she’d spent in Simon’s Room of Redemption, he was a champion at keeping her on the defensive. But now he seemed even more intense.

“You know what I regret most?” he said. “That I only had one opportunity with Angelina.” He licked his lips. “She was the sweetest flower I ever tasted.”

Now Sami wanted to kill him, her rage nearly uncontrollable. “You
miserable
son of a bitch! And you’re supposed to be a man of
God
?” She stood and pounded her fist on the Plexiglas.

In less than ten seconds, the two corrections officers standing ten feet behind Simon charged toward him. Each grasped one arm and stood him up. Sami had a few more things to say but Simon had dropped the telephone. He fixed his stare on her and smiled.

The officers led him to the door.

Al jogged back to his sister’s hospital room. Out of breath and frenzied, his thoughts were dark and unsettling. He wanted to remain optimistic, but he thought the worst. Al walked into his sister’s room and saw two physicians, one nurse, and Ricardo, Aleta’s boyfriend. He took one look at Ricardo and had every reason to be alarmed.

“Mr. Diaz,” Doctor Souza said, “your sister has taken a turn for the worse.”

Al didn’t utter a sound.

“The latest EEG,” Souza continued, “indicates abnormal brain activity.”

“What the hell does that mean in layman’s terms?”

“If the EEG goes flat, which indicates no brain activity at all, we can only sustain her with the use of life support. Now I must be clear. It is entirely possible that her current state is only temporary. That is not uncommon with head trauma. I just don’t want to give you any false expectations.”

“What’s the bottom line?”

“If her EEG remains abnormal, she could remain in a vegetative state.”

“For a week? For a month?” Al asked. “How long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“And if this happens?”

“Then as her only living relative, you will be faced with the decision of whether or not she should remain on life support.”

Still furious that Julian had to give a lecture in Los Angeles, Nicole sat quietly in her living room sipping her third glass of crisp La Crema Chardonnay. Not normally a drinker, tonight she wished to numb her brain. Isabel and Lorena occupied themselves playing the Wii in the family room.

When the telephone rang, she guessed it was Julian. Before picking up the cordless, Nicole glanced at the Caller ID and it indicated “Private Number.” Thinking it was likely a telemarketer, she let the answering machine pick up, but listened carefully.

“This is Ted Hastings calling for Julian—”

Nicole snatched the telephone. “Hello.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I’d like to speak with Julian, please.”

“Is this
Doctor
Ted Hastings?”

“Why yes, it is.”

“I’m Nicole, Julian’s wife. We haven’t met but my husband’s mentioned your name.”

“Nice to talk to you, Nicole.”

“I’m a little confused. Why would you be calling for Julian when he’s giving a lecture for
you
in LA?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you have the flu?”

“Um, well, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be giving a lecture in LA?”

“Sorry, but I’m not following you.”

The blood rushed to her face. “Maybe I’m confused.” She had to enlist every ounce of willpower not to bounce the cordless off the far wall. “Julian will be back tomorrow. I’ll tell him to call you. Unless you’d like his cell phone number.”

“Nothing urgent. I just wanted to speak to him about the upcoming golf tournament.”

“Have a good night, Doctor Hastings.”

“You as well, Nicole.”

“Where can Julian reach you?”

“He has my number.”

And I have his
.

Julian walked into Cutty’s Bar & Grill, located in North Park, an eclectic neighborhood in San Diego, and as he’d done before, he made himself comfortable at the bar. He didn’t expect that any of his colleagues patronized this place, unless, of course, they were living a double life like him. So, for the most part, he felt reasonably comfortable. Gazing at the crowd, he could see that men outnumbered women two-to-one. His goal tonight was to search for another young woman, so the selection was limited.

What troubled him most was that by researching only one subject at a time, he hadn’t figured out how he could possibly gather the data he needed in only six months. And when he added his limited availability to the equation because of his fulltime job and obligation to his wife and daughters, these responsibilities carved out a big chunk of time. There had to be a way for him to study multiple subjects. But how?

Julian swiveled on the barstool to get a better look at the crowd. No one of particular interest caught his eye. Then, a tall redhead walked in the front door, swinging her hips like a model walking a runway. Her curly hair grazed her shoulders and bounced in harmony with her stride. Her lips, full and glossy, pouted ever so slightly. She waved and smiled at someone as she headed for the bar. His expectations crashed when he watched her embrace a man and kiss him on the lips. Of one thing he was certain: the guy wasn’t her brother or best friend.

Julian’s first thought was to forget about the redhead and search for someone else. But then he wondered if he could benefit from the situation. Was there a way for the redhead
and
her boyfriend to become his next subjects? He had no plan. He couldn’t imagine that they would voluntarily go back to his loft. But his instincts told him to take the next step to see how things unfolded. What could it hurt?

With each of his subjects, Julian faced the same major obstacle. How could he know for sure that a potential subject’s heart was healthy? The only factors he could rely on were their approximate age and physical appearance—both based on his visual evaluation. If potential subjects were young and slender, he had to presume that they were relatively healthy. But even if they weren’t ideal subjects, no matter what their health situation, every heart in every chest offered potential for data.

As much as he hated to admit it, good-looking women got his attention. The risk with this mindset was that he tempted fate by selecting women to whom he felt attracted. With Genevieve, he almost compromised his research by letting his lustful desires overpower him. Was it possible to satisfy both his research and his appetite for raw sex?

As inconspicuously as possible, he watched the redhead’s boyfriend downing bottles of beer as if he were chugging shot glasses of tequila. Soon, the guy would likely be stumbling drunk. Irrational. Disoriented. Defenseless. Julian guessed that eventually he’d have to empty his bladder.

Could be risky, he thought, but maybe there was a way for him to study two subjects at the same time. Maybe Lady Luck had dealt him a straight flush.

He waited as patiently as he could, nursing the last mouthful of his cocktail, a scenario playing out in his mind.

“Another drink, sir?” the bartender said, interrupting Julian’s deep thoughts.

Normally, he’d enjoy a second drink. But in a low-end pub like this, the best Scotch they offered was Dewar’s White Label, and Julian’s palate had grown accustomed to the silkiness of Johnny Walker Blue. Besides, he had drunk just enough to relax. The last thing he wanted was to compromise his alertness. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Glancing to his left every so often, keeping an eye on “Beer-Man,” Julian saw him ease off a barstool and hightail it in the direction of the men’s room. Not wanting to squander even a minute, yet having no idea how to proceed, he sucked in a heavy breath and headed toward the redhead.

“Anyone sitting here?” Julian asked her, smiling as innocently as he could.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, someone
is
sitting there—my fiancé.”

He found her tone particularly annoying. But she was as sexy as they come. “He’d have to be out of his mind to leave a looker like you alone.”

“A ‘
looker’
?” she said. “You’re shitting me, right? That expression went out with high-fives. What century are you living in?”

Julian forced a laugh.
She’s a feisty one
. “If I had a woman like you, I’d never leave her side.”

“Not even if you had to piss?”

“I guess that’s the only exception.”

“Then I suppose you’ll forgive my fiancé for emptying his bladder.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” Julian asked.

“Obviously, you can’t take a hint, can you?” the words flowed off her tongue with bold contempt.

He didn’t like the way things were going. He almost turned and walked away.

“I’m not trying to offend you, and I’m not proposing. I was just asking you to have a drink with me. Totally innocent.”

“And when my fiancé finishes business in the bathroom, are
you
going to explain why I’m having a drink with a stranger?”

Before he could respond, the fiancé returned, a little stagger in his walk. He eyeballed Julian, then put his arm around the redhead. He looked like a guy who could be leader of a biker gang. “This guy a friend of yours, Sugar?”

“He’s trying to be.”

“Is that right, Bud?”

“No harm done. Just being cordial.”

“How about being cordial someplace else. Or would you rather I tear your fucking tonsils out?”

Julian raised his hands, palms out, as if he were about to push a heavy object. “No need to get all hostile on me. I get the message.”

More humiliated than he’d ever believed possible, infuriated at Beer-Man’s threat, Julian worked his way to the front door for some cool evening air. Once outside, he paced up and down University Avenue angry with himself and angry with Redhead and Beer-Man. He had wasted valuable time and would have to go someplace else looking for a subject.

As he stood there, feeling a fever rise, it felt almost as if the couple had flipped a switch in him, that suddenly the whole A-Fib research project didn’t matter. He could never recall feeling so much anger. The more he paced, the greater his rage. Having a woman reject him was uncharted water for him. He never knew what it felt like to crash and burn. Overwhelmed with a strong primitive impulse, a desire for revenge, he could not find the strength to just walk away.

What am I
doing?
Get in the car, drive to another bar, and search for someone else! Forget about this couple. Let. It. Go. The only thing that matters is the research.

Julian found his way to his rental car parked at the curb only a hundred feet away from Cutty’s. When he got inside, he slammed the door harder than he intended to. What to do, he thought. Maybe there
was
a way for him to salvage the evening. He grabbed the leather satchel from the back seat, turned on the reading light, and pawed through an assortment of medical items. When he found what he was looking for, he grabbed the remote garage door opener clipped to the visor, got out of the car, crossed the busy road, and parked himself in front of a closed boutique, making certain he had a clear view of Cutty’s entrance.

I think I’m losing my grip.

About to abort his idea altogether, Julian spotted Beer-Man and Redhead walking out the front door of the bar. What were the chances, he thought. Maybe it’s an omen. The man, teetering slightly from left to right, appeared to be intoxicated.

Walking a safe distance behind the couple, Julian followed them. He hoped that they’d parked their car on a side street with less traffic and fewer inquisitive onlookers. At the next intersection, the couple turned left into a dark alley.

Julian picked up the pace a bit and closed the gap, mindful to remain in the shadows of the buildings he passed. What he was about to do violated everything he believed about right and wrong. To stay focused, he had to whisper his credo.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few
.

He watched the couple approach a black GMC Envoy. Beer-Man, apparently sober enough to remember the basics of chivalry, unlocked the passenger door for his fiancée. The moment before Redhead entered the car, Julian, unnoticed by either of them, snuck up behind Redhead, firmly grabbed her around the torso with one arm, and with the other, he pressed his Berretta .380 automatic handgun against Redhead’s temple. Neither she nor Beer-Man realized that the pistol was empty. But Julian seriously doubted they would call his bluff.