Stirred

Two weeks would be more than enough time to do what needed to be done.

“You scared?” she asked.

“Of getting out? Or of what we have to do?”

“Both.”

“Hell no. It’s my only reason for living.”

“Me, too.”

He stood up, waited for the pain to abate a bit, and then headed for the door.

“Just two more days, Donaldson.”

“Two more days, Lucy. Then we go after the bitch.”

He twisted what was left of his face into a smile.

Jack Daniels, here we come…

March 30, One Day Earlier

When the knock finally came, Lucy opened her remaining eye and struggled to sit up in bed. She took several shallow breaths, waiting for the lightheadedness to abate, but it wouldn’t leave. It was the three codeine patches, she figured. Had to be. Enough narcotic-punch to knock out a good-sized dog. But for someone like her, who needed pain relief more than oxygen, it only made her dizzy. She typically got by on two patches. It didn’t kill the pain—nothing could—but at least it brought the level down to a point where it wasn’t all she could think about, where she could sleep, and sometimes, dream. But tonight was a three-patch night, because finally, after three years, she was getting out. And this meant walking.

She scooted her toothpick legs off the side of the bed and eased the soles of her feet down onto the cold linoleum.

He was knocking again, the impatient jerk. Wasn’t like she could just hop out of bed and scamper over to the door, and he knew it.

This was work.

Slow, agonizing work.

The first two steps were the worst—like someone driving spears up the middle of her legs, but by the fifth and sixth steps, she had steeled herself to push through the oceanic pain.

She crossed the dark room, moving slowly toward the door.

The only light came from a streetlamp outside her window, filtering in through the glass behind her and casting eerie shadows of the bars across the floor.

Lucy reached the door, panting and already more exhausted than if she’d run a marathon back in her prime.

The door was unlocked—their angel had seen to that—and she turned the handle with her three-fingered claw.

Donaldson stood in the low-lit corridor just outside her door leaning against the wheelchair, looking positively naked without the rolling IV stand that had come to define them both as much as the hideous hospital gowns.

“What took you so long?” he whispered.

“That’s a good one, fat ass,” she said.

“You ready?”

“Hell, yes.”

Lucy had been through the more recent surgery—just nine days ago—and as bad a shape as they both were in, the skin grafts had left her far weaker.

She took three agonizing steps and then collapsed into the wheelchair, every last nerve she still owned screaming out in a chorus of blinding, white-hot pain that was so intense, she leaned over the armrest and vomited on the floor.

“Lovely,” Donaldson said and started to push.

“How we doing on time?” Lucy asked, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown.

“About a minute behind, thanks to you.”

“But he’ll wait…right?”

“What we’re paying this asshole, he better.”

The progress down the corridor was slow, and after ten feet, slower, Donaldson panting, and Lucy feeling drips of cold sweat raining down off the end of his prosthetic chin implant onto her hairless skull.

“You go

“Go to hell.”

The clock over the nurses’ station read 7:15 P.M., and Donaldson nodded to the young nurse writing in her charts, wrapping up the tail end of second shift.

“Evening,” he rasped.

She ignored him.

Donaldson pushed the wheelchair down the hallway and into the rec room. As usual, it was mostly full after di

They passed the empty table with the painted-on checkerboard. The checkers were still absent, having been confiscated by the staff a month prior, following a fatal bludgeoning over a disputed move. Why couldn’t habitually violent and insane criminals just play nice?

They headed toward the door at the back of the room, Lucy watching the large, mean orderly named Gary out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t paying attention to them, engrossed instead in an issue of US Weekly.

Donaldson wheezed heavily as they approached the door. Felt like cold, salty drizzle pattering on the top of Lucy’s bald head, and though it disgusted her, she didn’t say anything. In truth, she felt sorry for him.

Which was odd. Lucy hadn’t thought she was capable of pity.

She leaned forward, struggling to push in the door handle.

“How’s the coast, D?”

“All clear.”

As rehearsed, Lucy said loudly, “I really have to pee.”

“Seriously? You take forever.”

“Screw you then. I’ll do it myself.”

Donaldson grunted a “whatever” as he pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom.

Their angel, a dour-looking Cuban named Henry, stood waiting behind a laundry cart.

Henry quickly shoved a screwdriver in the door jamb to stop it from opening.

“What took you so long?” he said.

Lucy flashed a smile—one that had once been inviting, but was now monstrous. “We came as fast as we could.”

“Yeah, well, the price just went up.”

“What are you talking about?” Donaldson rasped. “We paid you everything we have.”

“I’m not talking about money.”

Lucy glanced back at Donaldson.

“I know you guys have been hoarding meds. I’ll take your Vicodin.”

Lucy felt a sudden rush of panic. “Henry, no.”

“I got no sympathy for you, bitch. How many poor bastards did you torture to death? The both of you are scum. Only reason I’m helping in the first place is to take care of my mother.”

Lucy knew Henry was full of shit. Ward gossip spoke of his chronic gambling problem, owing big money to a Chicago hood named Dovola

“Just give him the Vicodin,” Donaldson rasped.

Reaching beneath her flimsy gown, Lucy fingered one of the toilet-paper wrapped bundles, squeezing it to determine the type of pill inside. Roundish…that meant Ativan. She tried the next bundle, felt the long pill, and produced the Vicodin.

Henry tore open the toilet paper, dumping vikes into his palm.

“Daaaaaamn. You two been busy.”

“You said we’ll have some civilian clothes,” Donaldson said.

“Yeah, man. In the hamper, under all the sheets.”

The Vicodin disappeared into the pocket of Henry’s scrubs, and he pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He squeezed into them and started pulling linen out of the hamper, stacking it on the floor.

The stench of urine wafted up at Lucy.

“Those are soiled sheets?”

“Pissed in them myself,” Henry said. “We get stopped, no one’s going to search through pissy linen.”

Lucy had never wanted to kill someone so badly before in her entire life, and that was saying something. Also, it was the first time she’d been glad for the incineration of her nasal cavity. She could still smell, just not as potently. Donaldson’s nose, on the other hand, was fully intact. It was the only thing on him that was fully intact.