Unfinished Business (27 page)

And damn if for once, girlfriend hadn't turned out to be right, Erica realized with a sudden rush of emotion that might have been gratitude and might have annoyance, she couldn't say for certain.

Bitsi was staring at her like she'd sprouted horns, but before she could say anything, the door to the lit
tle suite opened. Two figures—one male, one female, both clad in green scrubs and white coats—entered the room.

“I'm Dr. Cortez,” the woman said, her dark hair bobbing briskly in its bun, “and this is Dr. Penwatha.” The man nodded his head in a curt little bow. “We have news about Senator Newman…and I think you all better brace yourselves.”

Erica felt her breath catch in her throat.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“He'll be all right,” Dr. Penwatha said, his voice lightly accented and reassuring. “But—”

“The senator was poisoned,” Dr. Cortez announced abruptly.

“Poisoned!”

The word was repeated by every voice as Erica, Angie, Chase and Bitsi each registered its shock in turn.

“Poisoned?” Erica repeated, shaking her head.

It was unbelievable, outrageous and horrible beyond anything Erica could have ever prepared herself for. The room reeled a little and she reached out for the solidness of the wall behind her, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“We have to run a few more tests, but yes. We believe Senator Newman has been poisoned,” Dr. Penwatha repeated in his gentle, soothing way. “Cyanide poisoning, to be exact.”

Cyanide poisoning
? Erica shook her head as if the motion would clear her ears and help make sense of what the doctor had just said. The past several weeks replayed in her mind like a silent movie: the queasiness that he'd complained of so frequently, the sudden sweaty clamminess…but
poison
?
Cyanide?

“B—but how can that be?” Bitsi stammered, her white face even paler than usual. She sank onto the
arm of the chair Angelique sat in, looking as sick as Erica felt. Erica thought she saw the woman's pale eyes fill with tears as she turned her unlit cigarette again and again in her fingers. “Wouldn't it kill him?”

“Not in small-enough doses,” Chase said, stroking Bitsi's back in a calming, friendly gesture.

“You're right, Mr. Alexander.” Dr. Cortez turned toward him and Erica noticed for the first time how really young she was: she was like a dark-haired, bespectacled, female Doogie Howser. “Cyanide is contained in certain foods, like apricot pits, and lots of everyday chemicals like nail-polish removers, photo developing fluid, metal cleaners. Very small doses aren't lethal…at least not immediately lethal. Over time, they can ultimately kill.” She paused, letting the information she was dispensing sink in. “It appears that, somehow, the senator has been exposed to cyanide—and in greater doses than one would be exposed to just by eating apricot pits or using developing fluid.” She paused, looking first in Chase's face and then Erica's—then Bitsi's, and then Angelique's, as though weighing in on the drama of this revelation. “I've already notified the police; they'll be here shortly. But they'll want to know what he's been exposed to that might have been tampered with. Cyanide sometimes has a nutty smell. Like almonds. But other times it can be completely odorless. For the patient man or woman, it can be the perfect poison.”

Bitsi's face crumpled. “Someone's trying to kill him?” she whispered.

The doctor nodded. “It appears that way.”

“Oh God,” she moaned. Then her eyelids fluttered and she did the last thing Erica ever would have expected of the tiny powerhouse: She fainted. Slumped right into the arms of a surprised and uncertain Angelique.

Dr. Penwatha glanced at Dr. Cortez. “Told you: your bedside manner needs some work,” he muttered, helping Chase and Angelique lay her out on the bed. He glanced over at Erica. “You're Ms. Johnson, right?” he asked, searching her features for confirmation. “I saw you on the news with the senator a while back. Funny how two people can be on different sides of something and both be right.” He jerked his head toward the recesses of the ER. “He's doing better. We should be able to transfer him to a private room in a bit. But he's asking for you. If you want, I can take you to him right now.”

Later, she would realize how her face changed at these words, know how quickly she'd stood up to follow the doctor. In that moment, though, all Erica heard was “I can take you to him” and she was on her feet.

 

She wasn't sure what she'd expected: something out of a bad hospital drama, a haggard-looking patient in a hospital gown, hooked up to machines of every size and kind. What she found instead was Mark Newman, handsome as ever, still in his pants and open tuxedo shirt, propped up on the bed and smirking at her like he'd just said something obnoxious and was feeling particularly pleased with himself for it. In fact, the only hints of the ordeal he'd been through were the tubes in his nostrils and the IV tubing taped to the back of his left hand.

Erica had to work to suppress a smile of relief, had to work even harder to keep herself from rushing into his arms and sobbing out her fears.

I'm cool, I'm cool
, she told herself as her heart leaped and quivered and danced in her chest.
It's just been a scary experience, that's all.

He surveyed her like he was reading her mind,
smiling and silent and completely frustrating.

“You look a mess,” he gasped in a gravelly, jagged sounding voice, even while those cerulean eyes did a jig in their sockets. “Your hair is wild, you've lost your headband, and your makeup's smeared. What have you been doing with yourself, woman?”

“Don't you wish you knew?” she quipped without missing a beat.

No hysterics, no histrionics. Just her usual classy, sassy, self.

Thank God
, Mark thought, taking what felt like his first deep, slow breath in a long time. He winked at her, trying to let her know he was okay by rubbing a spot on the gurney beside him with a hand that felt like lead. He inhaled, intending to launch into a long-winded commentary about what had happened, about how he was fine—too tough to be down for the count. But instead, all he had the strength for was a wheezy-sounding, “Sit with me.”

It was enough. She smoothed the white sheet covering the gurney with her slender brown fingers, hopped up on the offered space beside him and entwined her hand in his own.

“You okay?” she asked gently, those lovely eyes probing his face.

He nodded, wanting to elaborate, but the words wouldn't come. There were things he needed to say—
would
say—and it was probably better to conserve his energy for those.

“They said,” she began carefully. “You'll feel better in a couple of days. They said you're lucky—they're able to treat cyanide poisoning so well you'll be good as new.”

He nodded again, watching her face. Something flickered in her eyes and he had the sense of something omitted, something unsaid.

“I know…” he began, his voice like sandpaper in his throat. In spite of the antidote dripping into his body through the IV and the oxygen assistance, breathing was still an unpleasant effort. That's what cyanide did, they'd told him: deprived the body of oxygen, making it harder and harder for it to get air until eventually the person went into convulsions or lost consciousness.

“Relax,” she said, watching him struggle to find the breath to talk. “You rest. Whatever you have to say, I'll be happy to listen to it tomorrow.”

Mark frowned, shook his head and inhaled again.

“Police…” he began.

“They're here,” she said quickly, misunderstanding him. “At least the local police are. I've heard they've also contacted the Capitol police. Your Sergeant McAfee's probably on the way.” She gave him a slight smile. “I guess right now we're all suspects: me, Chase, Angelique, Bitsi.” A hardness came into her voice as she said the media director's name, and Mark knew instantly there'd been a confrontation in his absence that he'd have to hear about later. “Everyone who had access to your food and drink. That's how they think it might have been done, through something you ate or drank.” She frowned. “The problem is your dietary regimen. You eat the same
things on the same days from the same places…” She shook her head, and he knew she was going easier on him that she would have if he hadn't been connected to various machines. “Lots of suspects. It's going to take a while to sort out who did this.”

“No.”

The word came out right: firm and forceful, meant to be obeyed. Weak as he felt, he couldn't stop the smile from creeping across his face at her expression. She looked three-tenths surprised and seven-tenths like she wanted to throttle him.

“No?” she asked. “What do you mean, no? No to what? Which part?” She leaned closer to him, close enough for him to feel her breath on his face. “Mark,” she asked him sternly, busting him down to wayward fourth grader in a blink of an eye. “Do you know who did this?”

He shook his head, inhaled deeply and said slowly: “I know…how to…find her…”

“Her?”

He nodded. “Poison…a woman's way.”

“Bitsi,” she muttered, and he noticed the seething anger snaking through the words. “I wouldn't put anything past that bitch.”

He shook his head. “Not…Bitsi…”

“How do you know?” she demanded, mahogany eyes a-flash. “How do you know what
else
she's capable of?”

Else?
Mark frowned. He wanted to hear the story, but his body wouldn't let him. He could feel the last bit of his energy draining out of him. Even his eyelids felt like they were weighted and thick.

“Don't know,” he murmured. “But…I know how to…flush 'em out—”

She slid off the bed. “Let me get one of the detectives…”

“A press conference…” he finished in a rapid wheezing breath. “Announce our…”

“Our?” she asked.

“Engagement.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Tell the world…” he began, but a sudden wave of fatigue was washing over him, making it harder to make himself clear. “She'll make herself known…if you…Get Bitsi…press conference…marry me…”

She said nothing, but he watched her face as she processed what he was saying, thinking it through. When he saw understanding glimmer in her eyes, he let the last of his energy drain from his body.

“Do it,” he muttered. His eyelids fell, lifted, fell again. “Promise me. Promise…”

Still she said nothing, but he thought he saw something like resolve tighten her face. Then, exhaustion and medication overtook him and he surrendered to sleep.

 

“He wants us to call a press conference,” Erica heard herself saying. “He's convinced that's the best way to flush out who did this.”

Their numbers had increased substantially in the hours since Mark's collapse and the hospital had accommodated. Now that Chase, Bitsi, Erica and Angelique were joined by Detectives Alba and Malone of the state police, Sergeant McAfee of the Capitol police and a handful of uniformed officers, the little staff lounge where Erica had made herself comfortable in the first hour of waiting had been abandoned for larger digs. A large conference room, tucked in a distant corner far from the day-to-day operations of the hospital, had been outfitted as a sort of police comfort and command center.
The smell of strong coffee permeated the room.

Sergeant McAfee raised the space above his eye where an eyebrow would have been if he'd had one. But he didn't have one: His face was as smooth as a cue ball from the dome of his pale bald head to the point of his chin.

“A press conference?” he repeated.

Something about the man's shaved, albino appearance was a little unnerving, but Erica reminded herself that Mark trusted him completely.

“Yes. As soon as possible.”

Bitsi swung incredulous eyes in Erica's direction. “Of course we're going to have a press conference,” she said in her usual know-it-all voice. Apparently the brief fainting spell hadn't slowed her down much. “It's already scheduled for…” she glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes. In time for the local late-night news. We've already talked about all that. The doctors will speak, then the police…” She shrugged. “I don't see how that's going to help find out how Mark's been poisoned. Or by whom.”

Chase scratched at the top of his head. “I have to agree. People who do stuff like this love to get that kind of media attention, but from everything I know about it, they rarely step forward as a result.” He glanced over at the detectives. “Isn't that right?”

“Sometimes,” Malone looked as Irish as her name, with thick red hair pulled into a ponytail swinging down her back. She wore her badge on a loop on her belt like Erica had seen on TV shows. “But we have gotten leads from releasing certain information to the media,” she said, fixing a pair of sea green eyes on Erica. “What did you have in mind?”

Erica hesitated. Her next words—if they actually made it out of her mouth and into the realm of the
real—would change everything. At least for a short while…and maybe forever.

Am I sure I want to do this
? she asked herself.
What if he's wrong? What if—

“Mark has a theory,” she continued, and was glad her voice didn't betray the butterflies of nervousness fluttering around inside. “And I think he's probably right. He wants to make a very specific announcement at this press conference. One that he believes will cause the person responsible to make another move and ultimately reveal herself.”

“Herself?” McAfee repeated, invisible eyebrows rising with his voice.

“I'm pretty sure it's a herself,” Erica said firmly. “And Mark thinks so, too.”

“My money's on that, too,” Angelique muttered, as though her opinion had been solicited. “This is some jealous-woman shit. No doubt.”

“Well, neither one of you are cops, so what do
you
know?” Bitsi thrust out her chin and put a couple of knobby fists on her hipbones like she was fighting for something. “What's this announcement? What exactly does he want to say?”

Erica inhaled.

It's just a ruse…. It's just to find out who did this.

But why couldn't she erase the image of herself in a long, white dress, standing at an altar with Mark Newman on her arm?

“He wants to announce our engagement,” she said in the firmest voice she could muster. “We'll marry as soon as he's well enough.”