Insidious Page 9

  “Now, I want to feel those marvelous lips. The ones I watched suck our friend’s come yesterday afternoon. Let me feel that beautiful mouth on my cock.”

  I fell to my knees as the overwhelming scent of sickness infiltrated my senses. Fighting back the bile that threatened my throat, I reached for his limp cock. It flapped in my grasp. As I tried to direct it toward my lips, revolt spurred in my empty stomach.

  “That’s my girl. So good at following directions.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. It was a phrase he used in the warehouse: his idea of praise. In reality, each time he said it, I felt more like a well-trained dog.

  Up and down my head bobbed, my lips chapping as time passed with no result.

  Unabashed, Stewart reached for my hair and pulled my eyes upward. “You’re losing your touch, darling. I think you might need more practice.”

  I reached for his sagging balls in desperation.

  “Oh, yes, I feel it.”

  I was glad he did. I didn’t. Maybe I could convince him of an ejaculation he didn’t really have. I quickened my pace, willing saliva where only dust remained. Dramatically, I changed my pace, gagging with the sound of forced swallowing.

  “That’s it!” he exclaimed as his head wobbled backward and he exhaled an ethereal breath. Pushing me away, he demanded, “Now show me that sexy pussy. It used to be so tight, so wet.”

  I leaned back on my ass, spreading my legs and fingering my lips.

  “You used to be tight.” His eyes gleamed. “I know what’s still tight. We can have some fun with that.”

  My heart raced as I leaned farther back, exposing myself completely.

  “Move my chair to the edge of the bed, and lean over that mattress. I want to fill that tight hole.”

  My feet moved, but just like at the warehouse, my mind went away. When his fingers went inside of me, a hiss left his lips. “What’s wrong with you? Where’s my dripping-wet little whore?”

  I wonder? Maybe you don’t turn me on at all?!

  When I didn’t respond, he continued, “Go get some lubricant. Damn, you’re dryer than the fucking Sahara.”

  No shit, asshole. I would’ve done that earlier if you weren’t such a dick! Of course, I didn’t say that. However, the idea of saying it brought a private smile to my thoughts.

  Once he situated me on the bed, he spread the lube, first fingering my slit and then thrusting into the destination he’d sought. “Oh, yes, darling… that’s what I like. No wonder so many of our friends enjoy pushing their dicks inside your ass. You’ve still got it there.”

  He thrust his finger in and out. As I was getting used to that, he told me to find him the glass plug. Though it was much thicker and longer than his fingers, the smooth surface combined with the lubricant gave little resistance.

  I obeyed, moving appropriately and making the sounds he required. However, the entire time with my eyes closed, I longed for the blindfold of the warehouse, and without the headphones, I had to imagine the Dark Lullaby melody in my head.

  Thankfully, his energy was quickly spent. Slapping my ass, he declared, “We’re done with this. Wheel me into the bathroom. You can continue the show in there: a little shower dancing. I can watch as you suds up that pussy.”

  Like the good wife, I complied, loathing bubbling beneath the surface and a serene smile on my face. After all that he’d done, having him watch as I showered was truly nothing. As the bathroom filled with humid air, I took my time and embraced the warm, cleansing spray. At least I didn’t have the scent of his come to wash away, only the stench of his impending death.

  When I opened the glass door, I found Stewart with his eyes closed, chin on his chest, and slumped in his wheelchair. Though his brow glistened with perspiration, I held out hope as I touched his wrist and prayed.

  Fuck! He still had a pulse.

  DESPITE WHAT HAD happened upstairs, the lower level of our apartment appeared as it always did: perfect. Being only a little after one, the afternoon haze had not yet settled, allowing the Florida sun to glisten as sparkling waves and crystal-clear sky filled our living room with light.

  “Mrs. Harrington?” Travis questioned from behind me as I stood momentarily watching the view.

  Without turning, I replied, “Mr. Harrington is asleep. He’s in his suite. The nurses are attending to him.”

  “And… you are going?” he asked. As I turned I saw him eying me from head to toe, no doubt trying to assess my plans by my attire.

  “Travis, stay here and do what you do. Watch over Stewart. We wouldn’t want him to wake to both of us gone.”

  Travis stood taller, appearing the intimidating bodyguard he truly was. “Ma’am, after we were unable to reach you last night, Mr. Harrington asked that from now on I drive you. He would prefer you not to be out alone.”

  My lips pressed together as my neck straightened in rebellion. “I can assure you that I’m capable of driving myself. Your services are neither needed nor welcomed.” When Travis started to reply, I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “Back the fuck off and remember who’ll be in charge when Stewart’s no longer here.”

  Lisa’s voice severed the mounting tension. “Mrs. Harrington?”

  Travis and I both turned.

  “Yes, Lisa? I’m on my way out.”

  “Yes, I wanted to catch you before you left. Your mother called, again. She said that she can’t seem to reach you on your cell, and she desperately needs to speak with you.”

  I closed my eyes. I had enough shit to deal with, without adding the great Mrs. Sound to my platter. “Lisa, please inform Mrs. Sound that I’m terribly busy and preoccupied with my husband. I don’t know when I’ll have the opportunity to return her call.”

  Travis’ obvious huff at my preoccupation with Stewart received another narrowing gray-eyed glare from me.

  “I’ll let her know.” Lisa tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips knowingly. “She doesn’t take rejection well.”

  “That’s too bad; she dishes it out like a pro.” Securing my purse, I hit the button on the elevator. “I plan to be back before Mr. Harrington wakes. If I’m not, well, Travis, I know you have my number.”

  “And where am I to tell Mr. Harrington that you went?” Travis asked.

  “Check my car’s GPS,” I said as the doors closed.

  I knew it drove Travis crazy that he couldn’t access my whereabouts with my phone. He’d tried multiple times. Thankfully, money worked both directions. Stewart could afford the means to track me, and I could afford the means to stop it. Continual scans of my number and account by the privacy firm I’d hired stopped any and all GPS apps that mysteriously found their way onto my personal device.

  Stewart had told me before we married that he wouldn’t monitor my movements. Whenever he questioned my phone’s GPS, I innocently reminded him of that promise. One time when he pursued the topic, I gave him two options: A—leave my phone alone and I’ll answer it, or B—monitor it and I’ll leave it at home. Grudgingly, he chose A.

  Starting my car, I thought about its GPS. The privacy firm offered to disable it, and I’d considered it for a while. Then I decided that I liked the false sense of empowerment it gave to both Travis and Stewart. While leaving my car and taking taxis wasn’t my favorite activity, thus far it had worked well.

  I glanced at the text message I refused to allow myself to read earlier in my suite. It was from Brody, received at 6:54 AM. I grimaced. Like I’d ever be awake that early?

  “DID EVERYTHING GO ALL RIGHT?”

  There was a second one, sent later.

  “I’M WORRIED YOU HAVEN’T RESPONDED. BTW – I THINK I FOUND SOMETHING THAT IS IMPORTANT. LET ME DO SOME MORE RESEARCH AND I’LL GET BACK TO YOU.”

  The third was from Val. I’d already accessed it and replied.

  “SORRY ABOUT THE EMERGENCY? HOPE YOU MADE IT HOME ALL RIGHT. WE NEED TO CATCH UP.”

  My response:

  “I’LL BE OVER THIS AFTERNOON. TEXT ME IF
YOU’RE BUSY.”

  Since I hadn’t heard from her, she was my first stop.

  MY KNUCKLES RAPPED on the door of the small apartment not far from Memorial’s medical center. Within mere seconds, the door opened and I was greeted by the same gray eyes I saw every day in the mirror.

  “Hi, sis, come on in,” Val said with a welcoming grin.

  Our gray eyes were our familiar personal trait. Other than that, we looked much different than one another. Many people didn’t realize we were sisters. Val’s light brown, short, spiky hair was about as different from my long, dark hair as possible. Hers was thick and took on a life of its own: the absolutely perfect style for the busy life of a doctor, while mine was sleek and shiny. I often wore mine pulled back, but if I left it down, it easily reached the middle of my back. We also varied in size. Val was shorter and more petite than I. Her body shape was more like our mother’s. Though we were both fit, my five-feet-six-inches held more curves than her five-foot-two. When I wore my usual three- to four-inch heels, I towered above her.

  “Hi,” I greeted, eying her suspiciously. “Have you even slept? What time did you get home from the hospital?”

  “Yeah,” she waved me off. “I’m fine. I didn’t want to pass up a chance to see you. Besides, I felt bad for turning you down yesterday, and I wanted to hear more about that cryptic text.” Her brows rose in question. “Umm, so, we hung out last night?”

  “We did,” I confirmed. “Has anyone called to question it?”

  “Like your husband, or that creep, Travis? No, but if they do, I’m good. I think I’ve got the story straight. We were talking about the U.S. cancer clinics and due to the pile-up on 95, which, by the way, really slammed us hard last night, I was called away.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “And I fell asleep in the doctor’s lounge waiting for you. You found me, woke me, and I finally left after midnight.”

  Val’s head shook from side to side. “I know Stewart’s been an ass, but, damn, his days are limited. Keep your ducks in a row for a little while longer. You don’t want to screw everything up now.”

  I fell into her overstuffed sofa. “It’s complicated. I didn’t mean to be out so late. I was mad, met up with a friend, and believe it or not, fell asleep.”

  Her eyes widened. “Jeez, I know I’m exciting company, and falling asleep in the doctor’s lounge is totally feasible, but your friend must be a riot if you really did fall asleep. Unless…” Her eyes widened. “…it’s a friend who you happened to be seeing in a horizontal position. Which makes sleeping much easier,” she added with a grin.

  I shrugged and reached for the tall glass of iced tea Val offered. “Thanks. When are you leaving for Uganda?”

  “Two weeks. So, see, I would’ve been awake anyway. I have a ton to get done. Right now…” She pointed to the table near the side of the room covered in papers, folders, and her laptop. “…I’m getting all the forms completed. I’ll be meeting with the representative from Doctors Without Borders next week.”

  “Why? Your project is fully funded through the Harrington Society. You don’t need to answer to anyone else.”

  “I’m not answering to anyone. They’re helping me. Vik, you don’t get it. It’s not like I’m transporting antibiotics around the world. The drugs I’m transporting could start an epidemic or perhaps even a pandemic if they fell into the wrong hands.”

  “I thought your clinics were all about treating cancer.”

  She smiled. “They are, but the drugs used in chemotherapy and radiation therapy could conceivably be used in more devious ways. You know the Harrington Cancer Treatment Centers receive donations from all over the country. It isn’t all funded through you. If it were, I doubt Stewart would be as open and giving.” She put her hands in the air. “I don’t know for sure. Call it intuition, but these drugs are expensive. Anyway, hospitals, doctors’ offices, and clinics welcome a legitimate way to rid themselves of expired or nearly expired drugs as well as equipment and other resources. They want a way to write off the expense for tax purposes and not eat the loss. There’s an entire facility here in Miami devoted to nothing but receiving and cataloging those donations. I need to match those donations with the needs at our clinic in Uganda. Some items are easier to get. I mean, as a whole, medications such as Cytoxan, a common chemotherapy agent, are frequently donated. However, the cesium radioactive pellets, like what went missing a couple of years ago, were not. The facility that donated those pellets expected and deserved the tax break they should’ve received from their donation.”

  I nodded. I’d heard the story from other members of the foundation. Hell, I’d spent hours on the phone with the representative from the clinic that made the donation. I obviously knew more about it than she thought. After taking a sip of tea, I said, “That’s why we now have the checks and balances. To be honest, there’s no way of knowing for certain if that clinic ever really donated the pellets or if they only claimed that they did. For your information, I’m the one who spearheaded the new facility. Now, donations are accepted, cataloged, and receipts are immediately issued. Everyone knows exactly what’s happening.” I tilted my head. “Unfortunately, there’s a lot of potential for abuse with so many volunteers. Believe it or not, I’m rather fond of what you’ve accomplished with the Harrington Society. I love that you got this all started while still in med school. And I do know what’s going on, both from you and the board. They report to me. They always have. Stewart’s never cared about the money the Harrington Society has cost; he truly never gave a damn about the foundation. However, he did like the publicity. And…” I leaned forward. “…he wasn’t happy when that was tarnished. Since that incident with the pellets, I’ve made sure nothing like that can happen again.”

  “Vikki, I wasn’t implying…”

  “Yes, you were, and I understand. I know I’m not a doctor, but I know my way around the world of money, taxes, and philanthropic organizations. I was thrown neck-deep into that muck over ten years ago. I think overall I’ve done damn well.”

  Val reached for my hand. “Stop. Of course you’ve done well. You’re kick-ass. I’m in no way insinuating lack of knowledge or your ability to oversee. I just mean with everything happening with Stewart, well, I know you have other things to worry about than if a shipment of Adriamycin or a vial or two of powdered Cytoxan has gone missing.”

  “Are those things missing?”

  “No. They’re not. They’re just drugs that could be used, as an example.”

  Pondering her choice of drugs, I watched my glass as the ice melted and floated near the top. “Theoretically,” I asked, “why would anyone take one of those drugs?”

  Val leaned back and sighed. “Well, if we’re talking epidemic or pandemic proportions, it would take more than a vial or a shipment of twelve bottles. You see, Cytoxan is commonly used to treat breast cancer. Since it has a relatively short half-life, it’s transported in powder form. Before administering it to a patient, it’s made into a solution—a liquid.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I may not have gone to college, but I know a solution is a liquid; thank you very much.”

  “Well, it’s not the liquid that’s the issue. It’s the powder. It only takes a small amount of the powder to create the therapeutic dose. Yet, when in that form, this chemical is actually toxic. If that same small amount, or even less, of the powdered Cytoxan is absorbed through the skin, it can be toxic. In a very short amount of time the exposure would result in a dramatic decrease in white blood cells.” She nodded. “Which you know opens the floodgates for infection. Not just infection, like the flu or a cold: with exposure to this chemical a person’s immune system would shut down. It would be like HIV amplified. In only a matter of days, perhaps hours, sepsis could occur. Just imagine if enough was stockpiled? It could be released on an unsuspecting population, and they’d all be dead before anyone ever knew what happened.

  “Adriamycin is known as the red devil. It’s a chemotherapy agent used to treat many kinds of c
ancer, including breast, lung, ovarian, and bladder. It’s commonly used as part of a three-part regimen. It’s administered over a period of time intravenously. It has serious side effects: low white and red blood cell count, low platelets, hair loss, and mouth sores. That’s when it’s given as directed. If it were to be absorbed through the skin or ingested at higher doses, those side effects would be amplified. The effects would be similar to the Cytoxan, but the symptoms would come on slower.”

  “Wouldn’t people know that they were having symptoms?”

  Val moved her head thoughtfully from side to side. “Probably. They’d know something was different, but they wouldn’t know the cause. I mean, a symptom like hair loss can be brought on by something as benign as a change in hormones. Honestly, most doctors wouldn’t take it seriously, taken by itself. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. By the time the drug’s in someone’s system, nothing could stop it.” She shrugged. “Adriamycin also has been shown to have a toxic effect on the heart muscle.”

  “So it could cause a heart attack?” I asked.

  “Essentially.”

  “Damn, you’re like a doomsday postcard.”

  Val laughed. “Hey! I’m not trying to predict doomsday. It’s just that one of my professors at Johns Hopkins was big on hematology and the lack of real knowledge on blood cancers. He sparked my interest.”

  “Blood cancers, like the leukemia Stewart has.”

  “Yes, like that, as well as non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, many other lymphomas, and even multiple myelomas. My professor would talk about the incidences of each etiology and how the CDC was watching for hot pockets.”

  “Did they find any? Hot pockets?”

  Despite missing my final, that year of advanced biology was kicking into gear. I’d always loved this kind of thing. I’d even been accepted into the University of Miami before my life took an abrupt turn. With either this kind of conversation or Stewart’s private shows as a potential use of my time, I much preferred sitting with Val and listening to her dire discussions.