Bone Dus Read online

  Bone Dust

  By

  Bette Golden Lamb

  &

  J. J. Lamb

  TWO BLACK SHEEP PRODUCTIONS

  NOVATO, CALIFORNIA

  Bone Dust

  Copyright © 2015 by Bette Golden Lamb & James J. Lamb

  www.twoblacksheep.us

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical , including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the expressed permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9851986-6-4

  ISBN-10: 0-9851986-64

  Cover Design: Chelsea Erica Lamb

  www.behance.net/chelsealambcreative

  Dedication

  To Shelley Singer and Polly Podolsky

  two creative minds;

  two loving friends.

  &

  To Margaret Lucke, who always

  goes that one step beyond.

  Prologue

  Russell Thorpe stood naked, stared at the straight edge razor, open on the edge of the wash basin.

  He was very still so his heart would stop racing, took deep, even breaths, tightened his gut.

  Pull yourself together, Russell.

  He willed his body to stop the tremors that always threatened to shatter his courage.

  He needed to feel the edge of the blade on his skin.

  Push down, his brain screamed.

  Cut.

  The blood oozed, leaving a lightning jolt of pleasure zigzagging through his groin.

  He turned up the volume on his iPod. Music filled the room. The sound pierced his brain, banged out a beat that made him thrum all over.

  Blood boomed in his veins.

  Blood ran down his arm.

  Blood made him sing.

  “Ah ah-ah ah. Ah ... ah-ah.”

  He danced from one end of the room to the other waggling his butt, letting it flop loose so he could feel his cheeks jiggle.

  Chapter 1

  Gina Mazzio set her fiancé’s picture back on the desk.

  Harry, what have I done?

  You’ve been gone for six weeks and I’ve missed you every day.

  Her computer keyboard was glistening with her tears. She yanked hard at her curls. “Stop it!” But she continued to cry, complain to the walls. “Why is it so quiet?”

  Her rescue cat, Tuva, heard her, left the safety of her hiding place under the bed, and came running into the room meowing like a banshee.

  Another voice heard from.

  The cat jumped into her lap; Gina stroked its fur. “Oh, I’m sorry I upset you.”

  The phone did its beep-beep-beep thing just to show how wrong she could be about things being quiet.

  For one wild second she thought it was Harry. When she read the window on the cell, she was crushed.

  “Hi, Vinnie.”

  “How’s my big sister doing?”

  “Oh, you know. Sort of shutting down, getting ready to hop into bed.”

  “Nicely said, tough girl. Now, come on, tell me, how’s it really going?”

  Hell, Vinnie, I don’t need you sticking in your two cents’ worth.

  Her throat clogged with anxiety. This had to stop, she needed to bring herself under control. Whenever she thought everything was back in place, she’d start bawling again.

  Vinnie waited, finally said, “Life goes on, Gina.”

  “Must you always end up being a brat? That little homily of yours only states the obvious.” Bile was running wild in her throat, rising higher and higher to accompany her anger. “Is that all you’ve gotten from your therapy, Vinnie? Well, hurrah for you!”

  “Yeah, that and the will to keep on living, if you’re making a pie chart. But it’s still a day by day battle with this PTSD therapy. Not much different than when we lived in the Bronx. So just calm yourself, Gina Mazzio, and we’ll both get through all our shit.”

  “I know, I know, Vinnie. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

  “I’m always here for you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Yeah, yeah ... it does. Sorry.”

  “Why won’t you marry that man? He walks around with his heart flapping in the breeze, just waiting for you to snatch it and give it a new home.”

  “I know he loves me ... and I love him. But marriage? Been there, done that. I don’t believe in that arrangement anymore. And he knows it.”

  “You’ve been with the guy for four years, Gina. You’re being way too stubborn. Why?”

  “Do I really have to answer that?” She grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blotted the keyboard of the computer. “Let me refresh your memory: my ex. That’s why. And you already know that. You’re not exactly a fan of Dominick Colletti yourself. Get it now?”

  “Dominick? That’s really, really old news. And I thought I was the fucked-up one.” He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s over and done with. A long time over and done with.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago that Dominick broke parole ... a year ... and now nobody can find him. That’s a big part of why I don’t want to marry Harry. This thing with Dominick is never going to be finished ... not until he’s dead or I’m dead. I can’t have Harry in the middle of it.”

  Gina pressed the phone tighter to her ear, walked to the couch and plopped down.

  “Maybe you should come to one of my group therapy sessions. Have you ever thought about that?”

  “No. It’s something Harry and I have to work out together and the last thing I need is to sit around and spill my guts to strangers.”

  Gina knew this conversation had landed her into dangerous territory. The thought of her brother almost committing suicide was still too real, too raw.

  “Okay. If you change your mind, let me know. I’m here for you, Gina.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  Harry was settled in a room in a brand-new Tucson housing unit built on hospital grounds especially designed to accommodate “On 24/7” travel nurses and laboratory personnel, along with patients’ relatives or any other short-term visitors.

  The hospital was on the northern far edge of Tucson, in an area of primarily gated retirement and senior citizen communities—people from the East, tired of winter snows, and people from the West, mostly Californians who had sold their expensive homes and set themselves up for luxurious, carefree living in less costly Arizona.

  Harry’s corner room looked out across mesquite, tumble- weed, and cactus-strewn desert, but chemical odors wafting through the room from recently laid carpeting forced him to open the windows, allowing hot air to blow through the room.

  He’d opted for this arrangement over an apartment– it was dirt cheap and his only other need was the car he rented – a red Porsche Boxster, with radar, that chewed up the highways and helped him forget about Gina. At least when he was behind the wheel.

  Maybe I should have stayed in San Francisco.

  No! He couldn’t take one more minute of hearing that bastard Dominick’s name.

  That man seems to be the excuse for everything and anything negative in our lives, and especially Gina’s refusing to marry me.

  And the craziness of her still thinking Dominick was in San Francisco. That was just off the wall.

  Harry flung himself onto the bed. At least it was a full-sized mattress instead of a twin. He’d planned to drive around for a while and sightsee before he had to go to work. But thinking about Gina brought him down. Now he was tired.

  Well, at least he didn’t have to report to ICU for another couple of h
ours. He’d signed on for the swing shift, his least favorite hours, but the thought of spending evenings alone moping over Gina pushed him into it. He was about to pick up a book when there was a gentle tapping on his door.

  He sprang up and opened it. A pretty, dark-haired gal he’d seen when he first arrived was smiling up at him.

  “Hi. You moved in quite a while ago and I decided it was way past time to come over and introduce myself since we’re neighbors.”

  Harry took her hand. “That’s nice of you. I’m Harry, Harry Lucke.”

  “Abigail Singer, but call me Abby. Everybody does.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “A little town about thirty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. A place called Novato.”

  “Shoot, Abby, I’m from San Francisco. I know where Novato is.” She had bright eyes, and a nice smile. Before he could think it through, he blurted, “How about we do some sightseeing in my little Porsche? Do you work the swing shift, too?”

  “Yup. Those are my hours.” There was an awkward moment before she said, “So, that’s your Porsche. I saw that pretty baby parked outside. I drool on it every time I pass by.”

  “Up for a ride?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’d love to go.”

  “It’s a rental, but I’m already thinking about what it would be like to own one of those babies.”

  “Let’s drive with the top down,” she said. “We’ll probably fry, but I want to feel the air on my face.”

  “You got it!” Harry said. “Not a lot of time until work so we can’t wander too far.”

  She gave him a big smile.

  * * *

  The sun was menacing. Dominick was digging into hard pack trying to plant cactus. Always cactus of one kind or another. His hands had been stabbed at every job. It didn’t seem to bother the Mexican crew he worked with. They just did their work planting, cleaning up, and smiling.

  When Dominick squinted through his sunglasses, the world was so hot and bright, it left him breathless.

  Man, this is killing me.

  Standing hunched over, he leaned on his spade handle; had trouble even moving today. He was sweating out last night’s blow-out with the guys―mostly his kind of people: laborers, road workers, landscape specialists, and yeah, they were Mexicans.

  That’s damn funny. Mexican specialists? More like grunts.

  He liked to drink at El Peso, a local joint where most of the wetbacks frequented. He’d seen what happened when one of them poked his head into the other places. They ended up face first on the sidewalk.

  Dominick eyed the others in his garden crew.

  Sick of them. If they’d stay on their side of the border, I might make a decent wage. But they work for nothing and I’m stuck in the same spot. Get whatever they get.

  “Hey, hombre,” said the head man. “Get your ass back to work!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just catching my breath.”

  “Well, fuck that. Get back to diggin’ those holes like I told ya to dig twenty minutes ago. Those cactus got to get planted today.”

  Work for dogshit and I have to put up with this dude. Well, at least he speaks American, not like all the others. Even says he was born here in Tucson, but I don’t buy it.

  Dominick ambled over to the spot where he’d been told to plant some funny looking cactus. Still couldn’t keep the different names of them in his head.

  Crap, they’re all one thing to me–shit with fuckin’ thorns that hurt like hell.

  After he started digging, it didn’t take long before he hit caliche. He grabbed a pickax and put his back into fracturing the white stuff. It seemed to be everywhere, at least in everyplace he had to dig. If he didn’t break it up it was a sure bet whatever he planted would die. Not that he gave a damn. But if word got around that what he planted died, no one would hire him.

  Even after a year, with each stroke, it was still Gina’s face he was smashing.

  A whole year since he’d broken parole, run away from New York to Frisco, and almost nailed Gina’s ass. Stupid drinking, gambling, running out of money. All because of Gina Mazzio.

  Yeah, my ex is still walking around while I’m here busting my balls to stay below the radar.

  Thinking of Frisco and the woman he’d strangled there made his stomach flip-flop.

  Don’t even know if she died.

  Once the tough layer of caliche was shattered, he dug out a generous hole for the plant and carefully set it inside trying to avoid the painful barbs poking out of its tough flesh.

  One of these days soon when I finally have enough money stashed I’m going back to San Francisco and nail that bitch Gina once and for all. After that I’ll get lost in Canada and start to have a real life.

  Chapter 2

  Gina’s Fiat wouldn’t start ... again.

  “Come on, you she-devil,” she mumbled. “It’s first thing in the morning. Too early to give me this crap.” She looked at her watch and hopped out to the street and popped open the hood. After a few minutes she saw the problem.

  Damn distributor cap is packed with crap again.

  She lifted a smock and her tool kit from behind the seat and started cleaning out the accumulated crud. Ten minutes later she was back in the car and hurrying to make up time as she headed to work. She rubbed the dashboard. “You little monster ... keep this up and you’re gone, gone, gone! Hear me?”

  The car purred back at her without skipping a beat.

  After parking, she flew down the side streets to the hospital, slipped inside one of the back exits, and rushed to the elevator.

  Jenni Webb looked up at her as she stepped onto the Internal Medicine Unit. Gina already knew what she was going to say, but Gina let her get it off her chest.

  “The car, huh?”

  “Yes, and don’t tell me to get rid of it again, ‘cause it’s not going to happen.” Gina pulled her keys out and shoved her large purse in the lock-up cabinet in the nurse’s station. “Sorry I missed report.”

  Jenni raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, I know, and that after two days off. All right already, give me the essentials.”

  Jenni scrolled through their patient list on the computer screen. “Mostly, what we have is the growing numbers of complications from the flu – elevated temps, severe headaches, chills, pneumonia. But all of these symptoms are in high gear ... really severe.”

  Jenni pointed to the computer. “You can scroll through the notes and see what I mean.”

  She continued, “Just to add more to the mix of URIs, last night’s admissions added four unexplained GI problems. And another woman has nonstop diarrhea and vomiting in combo with pneumonia.”

  “I don’t get it. We’re barely into the influenza season,” Gina said. “What’s with all the flu complications already?”

  Jenni shrugged. “I just work for the good of humanity, the same as you. As you can see, we’re flooding them with fluids and antibiotics.”

  “Are the meds starting to work?” Gina asked, sitting and logging into another computer.

  “The GIs are only getting Pepto Bismol until the lab work is in. I wish I had stock in that company; I’d be one rich woman. And while I’m at it, I’d also like a piece of the Tylenol action ... even the generic companies. One thing’s for sure, every last one of these patients, URI or GI, are pretty damn sick.”

  Jenni looked up at the ceiling.

  That always puzzled Gina who wondered what she saw up there that helped her think. “You know, I don’t get why we’re getting more and more of these patients with pneumonia.”

  “Yeah,” Gina said. “I’ve been on this unit for close to a year now and I’ve seen a bundle of flu complications and an equal number of treatment failures. It doesn’t seem to matter what the basic problem is, they’re not getting better. Even treating some of them blindly with shotgun antibiotics ought to do something.”

  “I don’t know. I, for one, wish they hadn’t stopped doing that,” Jenni said, keying again
into her computer. “No more antibiotics without confirming blood work or cultures. Although if you ask me, this whole antibiotic resistance business lays right in the lap of the food industry pumping antibiotics into animals.”

  Gina went silent. Jenni stared at her. “Now don’t you worry, I haven’t been mouthing off about this to anyone who counts.”

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean, Jenni?”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t want to get a bad reputation like you, Gina Mazzio.”

  Gina turned her nose up to Jenni. “You mean like I used to have, smartass.”

  “Well, anyway, the team’s out there finishing vitals. We can dish out breakfast for those that can keep it down as soon as you tell me if you heard from Harry.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him.” Gina turned away. “I think he finally got the message once and for all that I don’t want to get married.”

  “He’s been gone about a month, hasn’t he?”

  One of the nurses’ assistants gave Jenni a piece of paper. She immediately tapped into her computer. “I don’t get it.” She pointed at the screen and Gina moved in to see it.

  “This is one of the overnight admissions. Diagnosis: Gastroenteritis, dehydration. And that mug of hers is as red as a Valentine heart.”

  “Interesting analogy,” Gina said. “It’s probably food poisoning.” She looked at the screen. “I see they’re running the gamut on her. Stool cultures, blood cultures ... all pending ... CBC says she doesn’t have a systemic infection. But her temp’s going through the ceiling.”

  Jenni looked at the lab screen. “Yeah, that’s true. Look at her white cells ... right in normal range, and so is her sed rate.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. Has she done any traveling outside the US?” Gina sat down next to Jenni and read the notes. “Oh, it’s Doctor Good-Looking’s patient.”

  “Yeah,” Jenni said. “Brad Rizzo’s patient. The best catch around and he only has eyes for you.”

  Gina could feel her face reddening. “Oh, come on.”