Читать книгу Under His Skin - Rita Herron - Страница 6

Grace saw the wheels turning in Parker’s head. Frustration lined his face, as well as pain, and the realization of what another surgery meant.

A setback in his recovery.

Yet the hope that the unhealthy tissue was the reason for his slow progress also glittered in his eyes. And the bad tissue had to be removed. That was a given.

He angled his face toward the doctor. “Do you really think this surgery will make a difference?”

Dr. Whitehead gave a clipped nod. “Yes. The contaminated tissue most likely caused the irritation in your leg, the constant discomfort and the subsequent infection.”

Parker seemed to assimilate the doctor’s comments, then he released a heavy sigh full of resignation. “All right, when do we do it?”

“The sooner, the better. How about first thing in the morning?”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Dr. Whitehead nodded. “I’ll talk to the nurses and make sure they have you prepped and ready.”

He grimaced. “Great.”

Dr. Whitehead turned to her. “Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Walk out with me?”

“Sure. Just give me a minute.”

Parker’s amber eyes pierced her. “Go, Grace. Guess I’d better rest up before the next carving.”

Her heart squeezed for him. But how many times did he have to tell her to leave before she got the message?

Besides, how could he help her now? He would need rest, to recuperate…

She was on her own.

“All right. Good luck tomorrow.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “I’ll stop by to check on you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s my job,” she said defensively. Although she knew she was lying. There were other nurses just as capable. She didn’t have to follow up on his recovery, didn’t have to visit him. Didn’t have to even think about him once he left her care.

But occasionally a patient got under her skin. And while she’d tended to Parker, she’d started to care for him. She not only wanted his help with her brother’s case, but she wanted to see him heal, to regain full use of his leg, because she admired him. She’d never seen a patient so determined to beat the odds and regain his mobility. Any part she played in that progress gave her a sense of accomplishment.

He picked up the newspaper, effectively cutting her off, and she sighed. The most difficult cases were the most challenging, but the most rewarding.

But she wouldn’t throw herself at the man, not when as soon as he recovered, he’d return to the police force. To a job that she hated. One that would most likely get him killed.

So she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

“I was surprised to find you visiting Parker Kilpatrick,” Wilson said.

Grace hesitated. The doctor had expressed interest in her more than once. Had hinted at lunch a couple of times, but she’d managed to avoid a direct rejection.

“I like to follow up on my patients,” she said.

“Are you sure it isn’t because he’s a cop?”

His question rubbed her the wrong way. He knew she’d suffered over her brother’s death. “I take my job very seriously, Dr. Whitehead. Parker has had a tough go of it, and I want to see him make a full recovery.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Grace. You’re a wonderful nurse.” His smile softened. “That’s one of the qualities I admire most about you. That and your legs.”

Buttering her up with a compliment should have made her feel good. Instead she took a step backward. Although she normally didn’t date people she worked with, she had entertained the idea of going out with him.

But a few moments earlier, when she’d seen him standing beside Parker, she had been drawn to Parker instead. Even though he was injured, struggling to recover, and had scars, Wilson Whitehead paled in comparison.

“How about dinner?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m really tired tonight.”

“Grace—”

“Maybe another time, Wilson.” She rubbed her temple, feigning a headache. “I’d better go.” She rushed away before he could respond.

She was tired, and wanted to get to bed early for the morning shift. Whether Parker wanted her nearby for his surgery or not, she intended to be there.

And if he did recover, maybe he’d take her brother’s case. Until then, she had to dig around on her own.

PARKER CURSED as Grace shut the door. Damn it, he shouldn’t have been so brusque, but knowing she’d seen him at his weakest was more than he could bear. And now the thought of undergoing another surgery, more rehab….

He slammed his fist into his pillow, wanting to vent his rage.

But he’d been taught control, he had to exert it now. Irritated at himself for his outburst, he reined in his temper. He refused to give in to despair.

He would endure the surgery, the pain afterward, then walk again, and he’d do it without those cursed crutches.

Maybe the contaminated tissue had impeded his recovery, and this new surgery would do the trick. Then he could resume his life.

He was nothing without his work.

Frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t help with the body-snatcher investigation, he hobbled off the bed, then slowly shuffled over to the small desk in the corner of the room. At least the rehab facility at the Coastal Island Research Park offered more than a plain hospital room, and they had wireless Internet services. Since many of the patients required long-term care, the center encouraged patients to continue their work if possible, and had provided accommodations to ensure that possibility through modern technology.

He booted up the computer, then accessed the police databases and searched for stories about the missing corpses to see if there were other similar cases in the South or across the States. Several cropped up, so he methodically accessed each one.

The stories of necromancy made his skin crawl—two had occurred in Savannah four years earlier, three in Atlanta, and numerous others in New Orleans and across the States. Most had been solved, although one case in the hills of North Carolina had never been closed.

A satanic cult in the Tennessee mountains had also stolen bodies to burn as a sacrifice. A case in eastern Kentucky noted a serial killer who dismembered corpses after he killed the victims—the killer had been tried and convicted, and was now on death row.

Some bodies had been stolen from morgues around Halloween for pranks. Other cases involved stealing comatose patients for organs to sell on the black market.

A schizophrenic man in North Carolina had stolen corpses because he swore he heard voices telling him to turn them into vampires.

He paused, rubbed his hand over his face. Even though he’d been a cop for years, the depravity of humans still stunned him.

Having read about the questionable projects a few doctors had been involved with at CIRP, he ran a search for medical purposes for which a corpse could be used. Research experiments and medical educational facilities topped the list. But those bodies were donated to science, not stolen. There was no report indicating they had a shortage of donors for either.

Knowing any one of the above could be the motive for the current body snatcher, or that they might be dealing with yet a different scenario, he made a note of the various motives.

One of the nurses poked her head in. “Mr. Kilpatrick?”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Whitehead suggested I give you a sleeping pill to help you relax before your surgery tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a pill.”

She shrugged. “All right, but I’ll be in to get you bright and early.”

Her cheerful smile irritated him. “Fine. I’ll be here,” he mumbled. As if he’d be anywhere else.

He checked the morgues housing the bodies for reports of impropriety but found nothing. In spite of his resolve to work, exhaustion wore on him. Another downside of his injuries; he’d yet to regain his stamina. And he would need his energy to force himself to endure the agonizing therapy following tomorrow’s ordeal.

Within seconds after his head hit the pillow he faded into sleep, but images of Grace’s blue eyes flashed into his mind. He didn’t need her at his side, but he couldn’t help but wish she’d show up anyway. Just hearing her voice before he went under the knife would give him comfort.

DARK STORM CLOUDS HOVERED in the sky, obliterating the moon and stars as Grace drove to Tybee Island and the cottage her parents had owned. Thunder rumbled and lightning crisscrossed the darkness above the palm trees, signs of an impending storm.

Grace hated storms. There had been a terrible one the night her parents died.

Worse, all the Halloween decorations in town and on the island reminded her of the ghost stories and legends of pirates and lost souls in the area, adding to her paranoia.

She tried to focus on the reason she’d moved back to the cottage—because it was so peaceful. She craved the lulling sound of the ocean in the background, the warm fall air, the smell of the marsh and the sway of the palm trees in the late-night breeze. During the summer months when most of the cottages were inhabited, either by homeowners or renters, the island came alive with bikers, joggers, walkers and children. But fall sent vacationers home, and the island felt isolated, even deserted and eerie at times.

Especially at the end of the street tucked back into the cove where she lived.

Tonight, in light of the ghouls and goblins hanging on door fronts and trees, the recent wave of vandalism and stories of missing corpses, she felt on edge, as if someone was watching her. Someone who was waiting in the shadows, ready to leap out and grab her.

Maybe she shouldn’t have returned to her parents’ home. It had stirred all kinds of memories. But pleasant ones mingled with the sad. The rare times when her father had taken vacation days, rented a fishing boat and taken her and Bruno fishing in the inlet. The crabbing expeditions in the marsh. The long walks on the beach searching for sea turtles and shells. Building sand sculptures and flying kites in the spring.

Although her parents hadn’t died in this house, she thought about them more and more since she’d returned.

She parked in the clamshell drive, lifted her hair off her neck to let the breeze brush her skin as she let herself in the cottage. The wind chimes on the front porch tinkled, and inside, lavender and cinnamon scented the air. Remembering the figure running into the woods the night before at the graveyard, she paused in the doorway, listening for an intruder. What if the man in the woods thought she had seen him?

What if he came looking for her?