had two treatments under the A55,” Ripley replied, and Cage’s heart iced at the reminder of another linear accelerator. Another patient. Heather. His wife had gone in for a simple radiation treatment and died mere days later. He barely heard Ripley say, “But that couldn’t account for the contamination. The accelerator beams radiation into the body. There’s no residual source.”
Whistler chimed in from across the room, “And that’s not all, boss. There are hot spots all over the room with varying count levels.” He grinned at the pathologist, who looked as though she might faint. There was a strange, unsettling fascination in Whistler’s expression. “I’ll bet they’ve autopsied radioactive bodies here before and never even knew it.”
“OH, GOD. THAT WAS AWFUL.” Once she and Tansy were back in the R-ONC inner office, Ripley sank to the sofa and covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t believe Ida Mae’s body was radioactive. What the hell had gone wrong?
She’d sat and talked with Ida Mae, just as she visited with each of her patients. She waited with them. Agonized with them. Loved them. And now this? It was unthinkable.
“Nothing was…odd about her treatment, right, Ripley?” Reluctant doubt edged Tansy’s tone. Just back from an overseas assignment with her partner, she hadn’t been in town when Ida Mae had started her treatment.
“It was textbook, Tans. I swear. I have no idea how this could have happened.” Ripley dropped her hands and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “No idea at all. Damn it.”
“What about the other spots Whistler found in the morgue?”
That discovery had chilled Ripley to the bone. She shook her head. “I hope he was wrong. If not, then…” She faltered. If not, it meant radioactive bodies had been processed in the morgue before.
She took a deep breath. R-ONC was her department. Everything that went on inside its walls was her responsibility. Ergo, it was up to her to figure out what had happened to Ida Mae Harris. With a little help from Tansy.
But when she lifted her head to make the suggestion, Ripley saw that her best friend was practically dozing on her feet. She looked terrible. Quick concern rose. “Tansy, you look like you’re ready to drop. Why don’t you head on home? Better yet, page Dale and let him take you home and put you to bed.” Dr. Dale Metcalf, infectious disease specialist, was Tansy’s partner on overseas assignments. And her lover. Though Ripley didn’t believe in happily ever after for herself, it looked as if Tansy and Dale had a pretty good shot at it.
“We broke up.”
“You what!?” Ripley stared at her best friend, finally realizing that the red tint to Tansy’s eyes and the hollows in her cheeks weren’t all due to her friend’s habitual insomnia. There had been a good dose of tears as well. “When? Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.” When Ripley would’ve argued, Tansy held up a hand. “Not now, okay? I think you’re right about taking the rest of the day off, though. I’ll be back on Sunday for rounds.”
Ripley nodded, knowing that for all her outward cheerfulness, Tansy had a private streak that ran deep. She’d talk about her problems when she was ready to and not before. “See you Sunday, then.” Ripley would simply have to work on Ida Mae’s case herself. There had to be a clue in the clinical notes.
“Dr. Rip?” The breathy voice from the doorway had both women turning.
Milo sagged in his wheelchair with a jumble of pens in his lap. At Ripley’s wave, the volunteer, Belle, pushed him in and took the markers from the sleepy boy’s hands.
“Livvy’s gone home, but Milo wanted to return these to you personally. Shall I put them in your office?” Belle was a tiny woman of indeterminate age who had been volunteering at Boston General for many years. When her father had died the year before, leaving her comfortably well-off but alone, she had begun spending more and more time at the hospital. Now, she divided her time amongst her favorite patients and the hospital chapel.
“Thanks, Belle. You can just leave them on my desk. I’ll sort them and put them away later.”
By the time the volunteer had completed her errand and wheeled Milo back out into the hall, the little boy was fast asleep.
“He worries me,” Ripley said to Tansy, thinking that the chemotherapy and radiation treatments were hurting Milo more than they were hurting the cancer. The boy was simply tired, and his family’s continued absence wasn’t helping Ripley keep his spirits up. If she had a precious child like that…
“You should be more worried about your A55 right now, Dr. Davis.” The dark voice was a shock, but it was the touch of his hand on her shoulder that had Ripley jolting and spinning around.
“Cage!” She’d been so caught up in watching Milo slump toward sick, exhausted sleep that she’d missed both Tansy’s escape and the RSO’s entrance. That was why her heart was racing, she told herself, not because the imprint of his hand burned her shoulder like fire. Then she processed his words and the heat of surprise shifted quickly to anger, both at his disregard for the child and for his implication. “And why should I worry about the accelerator? You checked it yourself this morning. It’s fine.”
“A patient that you irradiated is dead, Dr. Davis, and her corpse is contaminated. I think you should worry a great deal.”
He shouldn’t be so appealing, Ripley thought as her eyes glanced over his stubble-shadowed jaw, when he was threatening her. But for some reason, his antagonism was compelling. Perhaps it was the taint of grief at the back of his eyes. She wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to him. Why did he work in a hospital and hate doctors? Who had he lost, and how had it scarred him so?
Why, thought Ripley to herself with a mental shake, are you trying to romanticize him when he’s being a jerk?
Aloud, she replied, “Of course I’m worried about Ida Mae’s contamination.” He had no idea how worried she was, just as he had no idea that Ida Mae shouldn’t have died. “But I can’t see how the linear accelerator could be involved.”
“It’s killed before.”
The flat pronouncement startled her, as did the menace behind the words. The glimmer of an idea formed in the back of her mind, prompted by the tendril of grief she sensed within him. “True,” she said cautiously, “but the last of those lawsuits was settled years ago. The technology’s improved and the linear accelerator doesn’t leave a source behind. Can you honestly think of a way this machine could cause the sort of Geiger counter reading Whistler was getting off Ida Mae today?”
She had to give him credit. He actually thought about it for a minute before his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “No. I can’t.”
Ripley blew out a breath. “Which means she wasn’t contaminated by her treatment.” It was only a minor relief, because that still left two questions. What had killed her, and what had contaminated her?
“Well, in that case,” Cage began, “if we agree for the moment that the A55 isn’t capable of leaving a radioactive source behind, we have to assume that Mrs. Harris was either fed, injected or washed with something contaminated.”
The list was chilling. Ripley suppressed a shiver. “I guess we’ll know more tomorrow, once your lab has done some preliminary tests.” She switched gears. “You are going to allow us to autopsy, right? I mean, the
