Back in the bathroom, I dumped the remainder of the supplies and swiped down the whole area with alcohol. The sharp chemical smell dizzied me, so that I was well on my way to hyperventilating myself into passing out. I went into the hall to get some air and calm down, pacing and prayer chanting: Please God, let me get this right! over and over until my hands stopped shaking. And it was with a calm demeanor that I went in to rouse my patient for surgery.
“Pete.” I shook his shoulder.
“Hmmph?”
“It’s time.”
His obsidian eyes opened, and I saw the whites of his eyes, usually so brilliant against the dark iris and black pupil, were veined with red—stress and lack of sleep—I knew the look well.
I drew his hand to my chest. “Pete, are you sure?” Eyes tightening with determination, he nodded. “Okay,” I said, “come on.”
Pete hoisted himself up only to slide to the floor, reaching around under my bed for a second before coming up with a small metal disk. Like the boys with their creepy acquisitions, he held it in his palm for my inspection, this thing more revolting than any insect. I shook my head at him. He grimaced back at me and hung his head. I exhaled some sharp air and helped him back up (he almost helped me down), and we made it to the bathroom, where he immediately flushed the dang thing down the toilet. Then he stood, unconsciously stooping a little beneath the low ceiling, his eyes roving over the array of crude surgical instruments lined up on the counter. He picked up the black marker.
“A Sharpie? Duct tape?” Humor infused his tone.
I nodded sagely. “Never underestimate the power of duct tape.”
Pete lifted half a lip. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Suddenly, he yanked me forward. “Kate,” he searched my face, “are you sure you wanna do this?”
I nodded. We were leaned in whispering, in case of waking sleeping boys or bugs without antennae. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “It’ll be quick and I have my leftover pain pills to give you. . . . I know you’re not supposed to take them when you’ve been drinkin’ alcohol, but I think maybe you should take just one before we begin.”
He looked at me intently for a long moment. “No. I mean take the boys and run away with me—it’s the only way I know you’ll be safe, and we can be together.”
My eyes widened a split second before I jerked my head up and down. I’d never been more sure about anything. Pete rewarded me with a sloppy smile and fastened his hand behind my neck, bringing our mouths so close together I almost forgot why we were standing there. We stared, forehead-to-forehead and pupil-to-pupil, until all I could see was my own reflection.
“Okay, Nurse Kate—let’s do this thing.”
I smiled as if lit from within, ridiculously happy despite the morbid circumstances. “Don’t you mean Dr. Connelly?”
He huffed out an amused chuckle. “Right. I’m all yours, Dr. Connelly.”
“Okay,” I said, shifting into business mode again. “First, take this.” I handed him one of my happy pills and Mikey’s Spidey cup filled with tap water.
“Bottoms up,” he said before downing it like a good boy.
“Sit down.” I indicated the stepstool. He obliged immediately, and I drew his head forward, cradling it to my stomach. Brushing aside the soft fringe at the nape of his neck, I fingered along the edge of the thin, precise scar. Sure enough, there was a small sliver of a foreign object. Really really hard, is how I tried not to freak out while I marked it with the Sharpie.
Pausing there to breathe, I detected, right beneath Pete’s euphorically sweet smell, a sharp whiff of sweat coming off him—the odor of anxiety. And my heart squeezed for all the trouble he’d gone to to save us Connelly kids from the same fate. I squeezed him to me, taking a moment to knead the worry knots from his back. After his muscles began to relax, I very gently felt along the side of his head for the small lump. When I bumped up against it, he immediately flinched.
“Look at me,” I commanded, staring deeply into his eyes again. I knew these eyes—had been examining them for the better part of two months. Except for being clouded with fear and pain, they still looked the same—no concussion.
“Okay, take off your shirt,” I ordered.
Pete tilted his head, looking up at me with one eye closed. Grinned. “Yes ma’am” slid out the corner of his mouth before he reached for the bottom of his torn shirt and yanked it over his head.
Oh man! I paused to swallow. He nearly knocked me out. I had to focus, and staring at his bare chest was not the way to do that. After a little throat clearing, I said, “Okay, kneel down and hold your head over the sink.”
He obliged, his neck exposed as one before a guillotine. I picked up the intimidating, straight-edged blade and made to make my first incision.
“Kate, wait!”
Swear to God, my head almost crashed through the ceiling I jumped so high. “Pete! Dagnabbit! Don’t ever do that again!” I hissed. “You almost made me slice your dang neck off!” One hand flew to my chest like it could regulate my heartbeat.
“Sorry. It’s just . . . I can’t guarantee I won’t make any noise.” Pete rose to his feet again, unbuckling his belt before unlooping it from his jeans. I couldn’t help notice how they slipped down an inch or so lower on his hips, revealing an extraordinary V-shape I was suddenly very interested in. I swallowed again. He placed a strip of belt in his mouth, biting down to test the pliability of the leather. He nodded at me.
“Right. Of course,” I hastily said as though I were perfectly in control. So that’s what he was doing outside earlier. Remorse hit me, like a slap in the face. “Ready?” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or me.
He nodded his head again, and leaned back over. I swabbed the back of his neck, my hand, and the edge of the razorblade with alcohol. After a deep breath and a quick finger cross, I proceeded to slice open the beautiful, smooth flesh of his neck. Bright blood bloomed along the incision line, making it impossible to see my marked line immediately. He sucked in a sharp pocket of air but otherwise remained quiet while the blade parted the thin layers of dermis like I was skinning a chicken. (But with the added burden of my subject being alive and bleeding.) His muscles alternately clenched and spasmed, but he held his head steady as was humanly possible with someone slicing into you with a razorblade. Finished with my incision, I put down the blade to lift up the flap of skin and probe for the chip.
My heart sank—the incision wasn’t deep enough.
I would have to recut deeper, down to the bony segments of cervical vertebrae. My stomach lurched at the thought of butchering the one depending on me to get it right. As I relayed what more I had to do, I tried to keep my voice steady, even as my entire being trembled. Pete just nodded his head, gasping and straining to hold still as I sank the razor deeper into his skin. The blade hit upon the object I was searching for, and his head jerked up with a mangled groan. His jaw muscles clenched together. Blood dripped down both sides of his neck, hitting the sink in violent splotches before running down the drain in a river of gore.
“Sorry, Pete! I found it. Hold on just a second longer while I dig it out . . . It’s really small,” I added unnecessarily.