The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) (37 page)

There is a gunshot. It is a noise I know.

There is quiet. There is pain. There is a voice.

“
Katrina
, hold on, sweetie,” it says. It is a voice I know.

There is a light. There is softness beneath me, and there is pain. There is movement around me. I open my eyes. I look around. I am in a hospital bed. There are nurses nearby. I scan the room.

I remember the crocodile. I remember the nardo. The spikenard. The lotus.

Where is it?

“Where is it?” I try to ask, and one of the nurses turns to me. Her eyes widen. She is surprised to hear me speak. She is surprised I am awake.

“
Al hamda le lah
,” she says calmly and approaches my bed. She places a soothing hand on my forehead. “What did you say,
ya sayeedatii
?” Her accent is heavy.

My tongue is thick, and my mouth is dry. My throat hurts.

“Where is it?” I try again. “Did I lose it?”

“
Laa, ya sayeedatii
,” says the nurse. “You’ve not lost it.”

“Then where is it?” I repeat again.

The nurse looks up as another nurse approaches. They look at each other.

“She’s delusional,” the other nurse says. Her accent is faint. “
Heeya tatakheyya.
” She steps away. Then I feel a pinch, and the light is gone again.

The light fades back in, and I am awake. I blink. I look around. The hospital room looks familiar. I see a shadow. Someone is approaching. I blink again.

You can’t be here
, I think, and then I am gone again.

I awaken again, and he is still here with me.

“You can’t be here,” I say, and he smiles.

“Well,
someone
had to come rescue my lady from the crocs,” he says cheerfully and leans in to hug me gently.

I begin to weep, and he holds me without saying more.

When I am able to speak, I ask him.

“How are you here?”

“Your HER2 data brought me here,” he says, smiling.

“John—,” I begin, my voice shaking.

“I know,” he says, quietly. “You don’t have to say it—I already know.”

He leans in and hugs me again, more tightly this time, and I think about Jeff’s text message:
Trust no one.

Can I trust John?
I ask myself, and then he answers the question for me.

“I have to tell you something,” he says, and his voice is cracking. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say.”

“Katrina, Jeff would have died from his cancer.”

“I know.”

“And so will Alexis if we can’t finish what he started. And so will thousands of other patients.

“I have never seen anything like this disease. I don’t know what to make of it. Neither did Jeff. But the cancer cells are loaded with the HER2 protein, even though this cancer starts in the pancreas and not the breast.”

“What else?” I ask, and he looks confused.

“What is the common thread between the patients? I can’t think of any just between Jeff and Alexis alone.”

“I don’t know,” John says. “Maybe you can help.”

He reaches down into a small briefcase at his feet and hands me a folder. At the top, it reads “CONFIDENTIAL.”

I open the folder and run my eyes down a list of patient profiles defined blindly by patient number. There is no common denominator—no race, no locale, no smoking or health history.

I turn the page. The second page is the key that connects patient numbers with names. It is this information that is confidential, known only to the physician coordinating the clinical study.

I recognize the list instantly. I lean over and vomit beside the hospital bed, and then I am gone again.

I walk. I walk down the rows of hospital beds, taking in the hopelessness of the nameless victims. An IV drips into one arm of each. A teenaged voice pleads with me. I look toward her.

The girl is Alexis, and she is fifteen.

I continue walking, and I realize that I know their names after all. As I glance at each tortured face in turn, the associated name now sears my memory like a brand. Lisa Adrian. Tracy Hallenback. Aakash Bhat. James Donahee. Alexis Stone. Jeffrey Wilson.

When I come to again, I am surprised to find John smiling.

“How are you feeling, my lady?” he asks. His voice has reverted to its usual cheer, and just a hint of sadness still shines behind his eyes.

I find his question completely inappropriate, and I am confused. It is not like John to be insensitive. I glare at him.

He steps back.

“Oh!” he says and blushes. “Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! You don’t know?”