Going Places

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“Ok, I’m going to call it. Any objections?” 

Silence from the room. 

All motion stopped. No more CPR. No more rummaging for the next medication in the crash cart. The nurse on the phone calling for another two units of pack red blood cells simply stopped mid sentence and hung up.

I dropped the empty syringe that had spent the past hour and a half clutched in my right hand into the pocket of my white coat. The fingers were stiff and achy as I stretched them out. “Time of death….” I cranned my neck around the greying head of the house supervisor so that I could see the wall clock by the door. “…. 0325.”

“Good job, everyone. Let’s clean up so we can let the family back.”

Syringes were counted and recorded by the clerk to make sure the amount of each med given was accurately reflected in the log. Debris was swept up. Hands gently covered the emaciated body with a gown and pulled up the sheet, the eyelids were closed. A nurse took out the IV and another pulled the tubes from his nose and mouth, wiping the blood and mucous from the now lifeless lips. 

He looked so peaceful.

Cancer of the stomach. He had certainly suffered. He was not willing to die peacefully, refusing hospice and refusing to sign a “do not resuscitate” order. He fought even at the end. 

My wrist still hurt. 

I liked being around death. It was hard to explain to people. They would stare at me with a puzzled and slightly horrified look on their faces, lost for words so I stopped talking about it altogether. I always wanted to ask the dying to put in a good word for me when they got to where they were going, but I never did.

One by one everyone left the room.

In a minute I would go out to his wife and children and explain that we had done everything we possibly could but I needed a minute before facing the onslaught of grief.

I put a hand on his chest and said a silent prayer for his soul, then one for mine. I looked back up at his face. Strangely, his eyes were open. They were a bright blue. The bluest blue I think I had ever seen.

Then they blinked.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me closer. 

His hand. 

My heart skipped a beat as fear rushed through my body and into my fingers and toes. 

Then the hand let go and fell back to the bed with a flop, as if there was no more energy left. It must have been some sort of cadaveric spasm…

“She knows.” 

The rasping sound came from his lips but how could that be? He was still attached to the heart monitor, someone had forgotten that detail, and there was no heartbeat. I checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing. No breathing.

“What do you mean? Who is she?”

The eyes bore into me. 

His lips moved. “She knows…” I touched the lips. They were cold.

“Who is she?!?!??” I asked again.

No response.

My voice rose as I asked again and again but the blue eyes just stared back at me never wavering. I grabbed the shoulders and shook him but he still provided no answers.

Anger and terror rose up into my throat, swelling into a tight lump that lodged there. My brain raced from irrational thought to irrational thought. I could not breathe. 

Someone knew what I was doing? But how? I’d been so careful!

My hand touched the pocket with the empty syringe.

Rage. 

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Hard. I punched the chest. I yelled at the blue eyes, tore at his lips…

Someone pulled me away.

“Doc! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows….”

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New Outlook

Lookout at Rockefeller Center in NYC

The beeps. 

I know those beeps.

From where? 

I don’t have the energy to find out. My head hurts something fierce. I slip away, choosing to remain in the darkness for now.

*****************************************

The pain at my sternum is excruciating. 

Make it stop!

Except that I don’t have a voice. There is a tube down my throat and I cannot speak. I try to grab the hand at my chest by my arms do not respond.

“Dr. Slaughter? Wake up. Can you hear me?” The voice is much too loud and the words are spoken slowly as if the man enunciating them were speaking to an imbecile.

The pain stops. Then I realize…

A sternal rub!

My eyes are open. He moves his face close enough to mine that I can smell his aftershave. 

“Dr. Slaughter? My name is Dr. Holcomb.” He was too young to be a doctor. Too young to be competent. “Wake up!” he shouts into my ear. 

The pain again. Stop with the damn sternal rubs you f***er! I AM awake.

*****************************************

“The patient is a 45 year old male who happens to be a local physician. A neurologist. He suffered a brain stem hemorrhage two weeks ago and is currently in a persistent vegetative state. He has no family we have been able to locate.”

*****************************************

I take inventory. What can I move? Arms? No. Legs? No. I try to tense my abdominal muscles. Nothing. A shift or a scoot to take pressure off of my hips. Not even a millimeter. Smile? No. Wrinkle the nose? No. Tongue? Not that either. Blink? Ok. Yes. A blink. I try to move my eyes. Left. No. Right. No. Up? Yes. Down? Yes. 

Not much to work with but it’s something.

*****************************************

My dog! Who is feeding my dog?

He was probably dead by now.

*****************************************

“Well, his catheter caught on the IV pole so when they were wheeling him down for the MRI, it got rippped right out. We have to place a new one.”

“Should we use the lidocaine jelly?”

“Nah. He can’t feel anything anyway.”

I felt it, bitch. I felt that catheter rip right through my urethra. Use the goddamn lidocaine jelly. Come on. Look at my EYES. See me moving them? Blinking? 

Please? Just LOOK at me. Really look look at me. Someone?

I can make tears.

The night nurses here suck. 
*****************************************

The woman is smiling at me. 

Who is she?

She’s gorgeous. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Long lashes. I have this strange feeling. I think I should know her. 

“Remember me?” She whispers. 

No. No, I don’t.

“I was the intern you came on to ten years ago. A newbie. You told me to go get some gauze and then followed me into the supply room, locking the door and forcing yourself on me. I made it seem I was flattered.” She fixed her gaze onto my eyes and leaned in closer. “But I wasn’t.” 

Her hand was under the sheet, stroking my genitals. An erection. Horror and pleasure washed over me.

Oh, God.

The heart monitor registered the increase in heart rate. A nurse stuck her head in. The hand was withdrawn.

“Oh! Dr. Rutherford. I didn’t realize you were in here.” 

“Dr. Holcomb asked me to see the patient.”

The nurse nodded then stepped out, drawing the curtain closed behind her.

“I hate you.”

Suddenly, fingers wrapped themselves around my scrotum and squeezed tight. Painfully tight. I closed my eyes, fighting the excruciating pain.

“You have locked in syndrome, don’t you, Dr. Slaughter?” She laughed. “You can feel everything but you cannot move. Well….” she chuckled again. “You can move your eyeballs up and down and blink but they haven’t figured that out yet, have they? You taught me well about so many things…”

Another squeeze. More pain.

“You probably know better than anyone that you likely won’t recover.” She smiles sweetly. “But I’ll be back to check on you. Every single day…”

Friday the 13th

Ellis Island building detail

Every Friday the 13th I tell myself I am NOT going to work. I am so over the bad luck. 

Is it really that much worse than other days? Are people sicker? Is it maybe that everyone is walking around irritable and more afraid than usual and it boils over into how they interact with others? Am I just hypersensitive? Is it a self fulfilling prophecy? 

I dunno. 

All I know is that I don’t want to do it anymore.

Then it sneaks up on me. Every single dang time.

BAM! 

There is nothing to do but just get through it. Buckle down and get it done. 

Survive. 

And we do. 

We always do.

This Friday the 13th it was different, though.

“She looks yellow…” the medical assistant whispered as I pulled up the chart. 

I scanned her info. I’d never seen her before. Hypertension. Diabetes. Cholesterol. Nothing else remarkable.

Knocking authoritatively on the exam room door, I entered.

“Hi! I’m Dr. Denisof. Tell me what’s been going on?” I shook her hand, taking in her appearance. She was quite jaundiced. 

“I don’t know. I woke up this morning and pretty much freaked out when I looked in the mirror.”

“Any other symptoms?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“No fevers? Abdominal pain? Nausea? Diarrhea?” She shook head no each time. 

“Hmmmmm.”

I started examining, working my way from her head down. Eyes, ears, nose, throat all fine. Lungs clear. Heart regular rate and rhythm, no murmurs. 

“Let’s have you lie down.”

She complied.

Her abdomen sounded normal. I pulled off the stethoscope and palpated her abdomen. No masses. Liver felt maybe a bit enlarged. No pain. 

I helped her sit up.

A strange look came over her face and she doubled over, gagging. Blood poured out of her mouth and into her hands, dripping onto her lap.

“Call the ambulance!” I yelled out the door then grabbed an emesis bag, thrusting it under her mouth. She gasped and the vomit stopped for a moment before another retch wracked her body, bringing up more. The room filled with the scent of rust and iron. 

“Need help?” An MA stuck her head in:

“You called 911?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Can you print a chart summary and her last set of labs for the EMS?”

“Sure thing!”

“And let the other patients know I am going to be running late while we deal with an emergency.”

“No problem.” 

Sirens were audible in the background, growing louder. Having a clinic so near the fire station definitely had its benefits.

Another retch, more blood. 

I put my hand on the patient’s back and looked into her frightened eyes. “You are going to be OK.” She nodded but did not look convinced.

My mind was running through the differential diagnosis. Causes of rapid liver failure, fulminant hepatitis…. infection? Some sort of aggressive cancer? Drugs? A closet alcoholic? 

The sound of a stretcher came from outside the door and two hunky firefighters in dark blue uniforms stepped in. 

“What do we have here?” the tall one asked.

I gave the run down of what I knew, pointing at the bloody emesis bag. 

As I spoke four sets of eyes grew bigger and the firefighters suddenly backed out of the room. 

What the hell?

“Hang on, I’ll be right back,” I told the patient. I left the door cracked so I could hear any more vomiting or any sounds of distress.

One of the men muttered into a radio receiver on his shoulder. The other took a step toward me, his hands raised.

“Doc, we need for you to step back into the room.”

“Why? What’s going on.”

“You are quarantined.”

What?” More sirens. Through the windows I could see police cars racing into the parking lot, surrounding the building.

“Look, no one can leave this clinic. No one. The CDC will be here shortly and they’ll explain everything.”

*****************************************

The above was a bit of fictional doctor horror brought to you by the month of October…

Cirrhosis 

Laundry room, Ellis Island hospital

He sat silently weeping in the corner. His hand shook terribly as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Misery was etched across his face.

“You didn’t stay at the treatment center.” He had not even lasted a day. “What happened?”

“My wife cried so hard when she left me there. I couldn’t stand it.”

“What about an outpatient center? A day program?”

“Maybe,” he said, noncommittal.

Each visit, fewer family members came until finally it was just him. 

Alone.

And each visit there was less of him. His body was swollen and bloated, faded. A once strong man, now made a shadow. It was hard to stand by and watch. Not as hard as living it, though, I was sure. How he could continue to do this to himself was a testament to the power of addiction.

“You’re going to die.”

“I know.” Then he smiled. “This is the one way I can kill myself and the family still gets the life insurance payout…”

The Tasty Trinity

Some years ago I stumbled across Teagan’s blog while she was in the midst of a serial story. I was drawn to her characters and the images she included as part of the story. Each episode involved soliciting three things from a reader, then she would skillfully weave each item into the tale. Now she has knit these tales together into another book. You have GOT to check it out and if you have not been following her blog, you’ve been missing out.

See below:

**********************

Announcing the Launch of
Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I

Introducing the second “three things” serial, in novel form Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I.

Bijou front only 2

Yes, that’s the cover. (I love making covers!) I kept it similar to the one for the first serial, The Three Things Serial Story, but with different 1920s photos.

For those of you who are not familiar with my blog serials…

Ages ago I developed a writing exercise. I asked friends to give me three completely random things. Then I would write until I had mentioned all the things. I brought that exercise to my blog (Teagan’s Books), but I had the readers send me their things. I let the random things drive every detail of a serial story, setting, plot, and characters. That resulted in The Three Things Serial Story, which gave birth to this culinary mystery. However, this time the “things” are food related — or ingredients.

About the Book

As with the first serial, Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is a spontaneously written, pantser story. I wrote by the seat of my pants and let the “ingredients” readers sent each week drive a new serial story. This is the “bookized” version of that serial.

This time the Jazz Age setting is Savannah, Georgia where our flapper, Pip, is “sentenced” to live with her grandmother and learn to cook. Pip gets caught up in a layered mystery that includes bootleggers, G-men, and the varied challenges of being a young woman in changing times. She meets new friends, including some animal characters.

If you have not read The Three Things Serial Story, be warned. This adventure contains a bit of a spoiler, but does not go into detail about it.

Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is available through and Amazon and Create Space. If you don’t have a Kindle, Amazon also offers a free app that will let you read Kindle books on your computer or other device. The purchase links are below. But first, here’s a snippet.

Blue Lucille Ball Stage Door Trailer

In my imagination, a young Lucille Ball would play Pip.

Excerpt

Rutabaga Limbo

Either I woke up feeling horribly nauseated, or the queasiness woke me. I’m not sure which. I opened my eyes to complete darkness. There was no light, no sound. The way my stomach tossed reminded me of a small boat on the ocean. It was as if I sailed in a lightless limbo.

Oh… that was a bad train of thought to have with an unsettled belly.

Think of something else! Anything else, I told myself.

I stood unsteadily. The sound of a cricket came to me. Good. The utter silence had been very disturbing. I became aware of the cool moist earth beneath my palms.

Where the Sam Hill was I?

I sat back on my heels, focusing all my senses. My eyes might as well have been closed — it was that dark. Bare ground was beneath me. The air had a musty odor. A sickly sweet scent clung to my bobbed hair.

The cricket’s chirping was the only sound. Still sitting, I turned. My eyes widened and strained, trying to see in that heavy darkness. When I looked up I was rewarded with the sight of a thin line of pink light.

The faint glow allowed me to see vague outlines a few feet away. I stumbled over something and stooped down to let my hands figure out what it was. I felt a burlap bag and round lumps. Rutabagas? I felt around and found another bag. That one felt like potatoes. I moved closer to the wall and a tall shape. Yes, a ladder, my questing hands confirmed for my still foggy brain.

Gazing up at the line of pinkish light I realized I was in a root cellar.

But how did I get there?

***

Purchase Links

Amazon USA

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-4

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-3

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-1&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

And https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-2&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

Amazon Japan: https://www.amazon.co.jp/Murder-Bijou-Three-Ingredients-English-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1502806623&sr=8-1&keywords=teagan+geneviene

Author Bio

Visual for Teagan_2017 Chris

Image by Chris Graham

Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, a southerner by birth, was “enchanted” by the desert southwest of the USA when she moved there. Now a resident of a major east coast city, she longs to return to those enchanting lands.

Teagan had always devoured fantasy novels of every type. Then one day there was no new book readily at hand for reading — so she decided to write one. And she hasn’t stopped writing since.

Her work is colored by her experiences in both the southern states and the southwest. Teagan most often writes in the fantasy genre, but she also writes 1920s stories and Steampunk. Her blog “Teagan’s Books” contains serial stories written according to “things” from viewers.

You can also visit me at:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/e/B00HHDXHVM
Twitter: https://twitter.com/teagangeneviene
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TeagansBooks
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/teagangeneviene/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoM-z7_iH5t2_7aNpy3vG-Q
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/teagangeneviene

Split 

Room in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC

Shadows watched from the corners of the room… ever present, ever vigilant. 

She waited.

Footsteps in the hallway. Raucous laughter. 

The door flung open and he stumbled in, drunk, clinging to the arm of a woman.

Who was it this time? 

It was hard to see clearly in the dim light. 

Her.

Their eyes met for a long moment. Silent words passing between them. Then she turned her attention back to him, allowing him to undress her. He fumbled. The process took much longer than it should have. 

Naked.

She glanced at the mirror again, seeing the other woman once more, the one who looked like her but was more charming, the one whose laughter came more easily. She was the one who was not ashamed of being naked, the one who demanded love and attention from everyone.

The drugs made her beautiful and charismatic. She knew the flame could not burn this high for very long. It would go out soon, extinguishing her in the process.

But it was worth it. 

Every day was worth the price to avoid the loneliness again.

Power Lines

Power lines

“Hey, Doc. Remember me?”

I quickly glanced again at the name on the chart. He was a new patient. His name did not ring a bell. I squinted at his face. Dark beard and hair with some gray in it, a bit shaggy, but fairly well groomed. Lips. No. Then his eyes. I remembered the eyes from somewhere….

My heart caught and my fingertips went numb.

“How do I know you?” I asked, playing dumb. 

I knew good and well who he was. 

He smiled at me. “February 14th, 2016.” He paused a second to let it sink in. “That was the day you found me guilty of aggravated sexual assault and sentenced me to 10 years in jail.”

I quickly tapped a help message on IM to my office manager. 

“I don’t remember…”

“Sure you do, Doc.” He leaned forward close, too close, and spoke again in barely a whisper. “They made a big deal about who you were during jury selection. Got out a bit early. I had very, very good behavior. Not a day went by, though, that I did not think about what I was going to do to you when I got out. I have a very good memory.”

He sat up straight. There was a knock on the door and my office manager popped his head in. 

“This visit is over. Leave,” I rasped, embarrassed that my voice caught in my throat like a frightened fool instead of conveying strength and force. 

Damn.

A look of mock hurt crossed his face and he laughed. “Fine. See you around, Doc.” 

He sauntered out, slowly, pausing before rounding the corner to look over his shoulder and wink.

*********************************

In case it needs clarifying, this IS a work of fiction. 

Impact: Chapter Eight

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*Adult content warning…*

I knew what I needed to do next and it did not make me happy.

Not one bit.

Whipping out the phone, I tapped at it fiercely only to remember that it no longer functioned. It had been years since I had seen an actual payphone anywhere and good luck getting someone to let me “borrow” their phone, especially when I started to explain to him what I needed.

A groan of frustration escaped my lips. I was going to have to go to his office. Or apartment. But no. I needed to keep things professional. It would have to be his office.

I groaned again and chucked the useless thing into the trash can. It made a satisfying crunch against the metal canister as it made impact. I could imagine the spider web of cracks that must now stretch across the screen.

Good.

The sharply dressed middle aged woman walking past me at that very moment paused slightly, looking hard at my contorted face, while clearly debating internally whether or not she should check to see if I was OK. She ended up talking herself out of it, going on her way instead. That was good. I didn’t want to have to deal with a do-gooding stranger’s concern.

What time was it anyway? I glanced around for a clock somewhere, anywhere, and found none. He was a few blocks away. I could get there quickly, certainly before five, if I left now.

I started to walk down Jackson Blvd.

Everett Haydar

My buttocks burned at the thought of his name, feeling the echo of the stinging slap of his hand followed by a lingering caress before the burn of the next strike.

Why does memory have to be so physical?

He was protective but he was also controlling. I was not the naive, docile, sweet woman he wanted from me but he was physically attracted. Very strongly so. As was I. So much so that I was willing to play the role. Those neurochemicals are incredibly hard to resist once you get a taste of them. As such, we pushed and pulled each scrabbling for the upper hand, for control of the relationship, never quite getting what we desired from the other but trying harder and harder still to get it, working up to a fevered pitch that could only culminate in intense lovemaking.

The fact of the matter was that if he started undressing me even now, I would not stop him. I would gladly offer my body up to him. Even now I wanted him to posses me physically. I just could not allow him to possess my soul. I remembered the delicious wetness of him on my thighs afterwards, the heady feeling of power that came from knowing that even while tied up, I could make him do things….

Powerful things.

We were on a dangerous path, he and I. It had to end. We each wanted to believe we pulled the plug but in truth, it was mutual and it hurt in a way I was not prepared to accept. The sting of the memory even now was worse than that of his hand on my backside.

In the end I found that I could not stomach making love to anyone else.

So there had been no one else.

People didn’t like him, people that I knew at least. They did not like how he spoke to me, how he hovered and yet seemed to look through me rather than at me.

What do you like about him, anyway? 

liked having my nipples crushed between his thumb and forefinger but that was not the answer anyone wanted to hear. It was not the kind of relationship I could explain to friends, so they drifted off and away. Here I was in the giant city of Chicago, a place full of people of every type, and I had no one else I could turn to for help.

No one but him.

Maybe he had won our battle of wills, after all?

I stood at the foot of his building, at Wacker Street, squinting to block out the glare of the sun as I looked up to the 62nd floor. Right there at the corner was his office. He had pointed it out to me from the outside one day. A strange mingling of dread and desire rose up from within, making my heart pound and my fingertips tingle as I strode into the lobby working hard to maintain a facade of confidence that I did not feel.

The speed of the elevator always surprised me. 62 floors in as many seconds. The force pressing down on my shoulders always made me feel heavier than I really was.

A trim dark haired woman in a black dress glanced up as I entered the reception area through the thick glass doors. I recognized her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, Laura. No, I don’t have an appointment.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You know he won’t see you.”

The sentence was not even completely out of her mouth before I was down the hall, turning the handle on his office door.

My breath caught.

Him.

There he was, standing at the window looking out over the city, hands clasped behind his back.

He chuckled a bit then turned around.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

And then I knew.

———————————-

Want to know how we got to this point? Check out the other chapters of Impact:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Take Me Higher

Entrance to St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican.
The young woman glanced down at the distinguished, gray haired gentleman propped up on pillows as she hung the bag of potassium from the IV pole at the head of the bed. 

He was more handsome in person than he appeared on TV, she decided.

“This might burn going in,” she murmured. “The computer says your level was a smidge too low.” They were piloting a new AI program that made treatment decisions instead of doctors. It was said to be more effective and more reliable, better outcomes.

The patient looked up at her from his newspaper and nodded, winking. “Thanks for the heads up.” A great wracking cough rattled through his chest at that moment, leaving him gasping for breath. He sat down the paper. There was his face on the front page in an article talking about his admission to this very hospital for pneumonia.

“That sounds… better?” It was a statement and a question. She looked at him hopefully.

“Oh, believe me, I do feel better than I did yesterday.” He spit out the great glob of yellow phlegm that had caught in his throat, then wiped his mouth.

“On the mend, then!” She smiled down at her VIP patient. Her shift was approaching its end and she felt some degree of melancholia about that. Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous was quite fun.

Illness was the great leveler, after all.

She couldn’t wait to tell her fiancé! 

And her mom. 

And her best friend. 

Technically she was not supposed to tell anyone about this fellow, privacy laws and all that, but how could she be expected to keep a secret like this? She had really met him, spoken to him, touched him. The part she would not tell anyone about was the number in her pocket. He had slipped it to her after telling her she was beautiful and that he would like to hook up sometime. She patted her scrubs absently to make sure the paper was still there. Not that she would ever take him up on it, mind you.

Power was sexy…. but phlegm? Not so much.

She walked out of the room and back to the nurses station where she charted her activities of the past hour or so in the EHR. She caught sight of the man’s wife getting off an elevator and she found herself watching with envy. The woman was beautiful in a way she herself could never hope to be. His wife walked purposefully, a blue coat draped elegantly over her arm, a slight smile curled on her lips. No one at the hospital had ever seen her smile before. They were all warned to stay out of her way.

He must have called to tell her he was feeling better.

The nurse glanced back at the computer screen. There was a new order for another six bags of potassium for the fellow in room 432. 

How odd.

A quick check of the blood test results reassured her. His potassium level was indeed very low.

She checked her watch. It would be another 30 minutes before she could hang the next one. The next shift would be kept busy, that was for sure.

*********************************

The papers and news stations all shouted about his death. Across every front page. Leading every news program.

He was dead.

She couldn’t believe it. How? He was getting better.

Then fear. 

Did she do something wrong?

*********************************

The voice on the other line spoke a greeting in Russian. 

“It is done?” she asked.

“Da,” the voice said gruffly then hung up.

She smiled to herself as she dropped the burner phone into the crackling fire and poured herself a glass of champagne.

Yes. Of course it was done. A simple hacking right under their noses and no one would ever know. Cardiac arrest from a potassium overdose. In the hospital. They would do everything possible to keep it hidden if it were discovered. No one wants to be the hospital that killed someone like him…

It was a beautiful, elegant thing.

There would be no other women.