Under His Skin. Rita Herron

the world faded into nothingness, where he dreamed about death. He was being buried but someone had stolen his body from the casket…

      GRACE TRIED NOT TO WORRY about Parker during the surgery—after all, this was routine compared to the condition he’d been in when he’d first been admitted. But something about the tissue recalls disturbed her.

      What exactly was the problem with the initial tissues? Although the hospital was affiliated with CIRP and took advantage of all the cutting-edge techniques, it had an impeccable reputation. The area had become a hubbub of high-tech medical research, and patients came from all over the States to utilize the latest treatments available. Sometimes in desperation, they agreed to new treatments offered through the research projects as a last resort.

      But these tissue transplants were fairly common. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with the hospitals but with the tissue banks.

      She spent the morning tending to other patients, and when the orderlies wheeled Parker to ICU after he was released from recovery, she rushed to check on his condition. He was breathing fine, his vitals were normal, and he had come through the surgery with flying colors. He didn’t need her, just a nurse to take care of routine tasks.

      So why did she stay close to his side all morning? Why did she run every time she heard his breathing turn erratic or hear him moan in pain?

      Furious with herself, she allowed another nurse to help him walk the first time. And when they transported him to a regular room, she was relieved. No more making a fool of herself over the man. He was on his own.

      Still, the questions concerning the tissue transplants needled her. When she stepped into the hospital lounge for a midmorning cup of coffee, two surgical nurses hovered together in low conversation. “So far, we’ve had at least twenty patients affected,” one of the nurses said.

      “The hospital will get flack for this,” the other nurse muttered.

      “I just hope the police don’t ask questions,” the first nurse said.

      “Why would they?”

      “With this many patients involved, and with one of them a cop, the press will have a heyday. There’ll probably be lawsuits.”

      Suddenly they spotted her and clammed up. But the rest of the morning, their conversation haunted Grace.

      When she slipped into the hospital cafeteria for lunch, she spotted Dr. Whitehead and his colleague Dr. Nigel Knightly in deep conversation. She grabbed a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of sweet tea, half hoping to avoid Wilson Whitehead, but he cornered her and insisted she join them for lunch.

      Dr. Knightly had performed Parker’s surgery so she decided to broach the subject of the tissue transplant with him. “The surgery with Parker Kilpatrick went okay?”

      “Yes, it was a success,” Dr. Knightly said.

      “This tissue was checked prior to surgery so we don’t expect any more problems,” Dr. Whitehead added.

      She sipped her tea. “Did you get any more details on the recalled tissue?”

      Dr. Knightly shrugged. “It wasn’t processed properly after extraction. That causes infection, rejection in some cases, and in one case now the patient has reacted, become septic and a limb had to be amputated.”

      “Where do you think the problem originated?” she asked, digging for more information.

      Dr. Whitehead arched his blond brows. “Why are you so interested, Grace?”

      “Patients ask questions,” she replied quickly. “Sometimes they’re afraid or hesitant to go to the doctors. I just want to be prepared.”

      He studied her for a long moment as if assessing the truth of her statement, then offered a small smile. “The problem didn’t occur in our hospital, that’s for sure. Probably an inexperienced or sloppy lab technician who didn’t know what he was doing.”

      And since more than one hospital received tissue from designated tissue banks, other facilities and patients might be affected. “Then the problems might be far more widespread than our hospital here. Have the necessary parties been notified?” Grace asked.

      The doctors exchanged an odd look, then Dr. Whitehead covered her hand with his. “Yes. Now, don’t worry yourself over this, Grace. We have the situation under control.”

      She tensed at his patronizing tone. And the strange look in Dr. Knightly’s eyes sent a tingle of nerves up her spine. They obviously didn’t want her asking questions about the transplants.

      THE NEXT WEEK passed in a blur of pain, physical therapy and frustration for Parker. Not wanting to grow addicted to the medication, by midweek he refused the pain pills.

      By Friday, his leg felt remarkably better than after the first surgery.

      He walked the halls with the help of one crutch instead of two, and hoped to be transferred to the rehab facility soon.

      The only downside to the transfer was that he wouldn’t get to see Grace every day. Pathetic though it was, he looked forward to the five-minute, drop-in visits that she’d carved out of her busy day for him.

      Unfortunately while he’d been laid up, several more bodies had been stolen from different morgues, two of which were involved in pranks. Three others had gone missing, only to be discovered later at a different morgue or funeral home. The coroner’s office had argued improper tagging and blamed a shoddy body-moving service.

      Tests were being run to see if any trace evidence had been left on the bodies.

      He’d also heard whispers about other patients being brought in for tissue replacement surgeries. One man had died from an infection.

      He shuddered, knowing he should be grateful. And he wanted to repay Grace by finding out the truth about her brother’s death.

      Dark storm clouds cast a gray fog over the sky, the rolling thunderstorms mirroring his mood. He hadn’t been out in days and missed the sunshine on his face and the fresh air.

      The barometric pressure seemed to affect his knee and made it ache. Thunder burst into a roar, and the power flickered off then back on, making him think about the hospital and potential problems if a power shortage occurred. Backup generators would kick in, but what if they lost a patient during the time that took?

      Funny how he never considered those issues before he’d been imprisoned in the facility. He had too damn much time to think. Which he’d been doing a lot of. The problems with the tissue banks disturbed him. He’d heard rumors that one of the doctors might have known about the problems but used the tissue anyway.

      He was taking a final spin around the hospital wing when he spotted Grace approaching him. She looked tired and agitated but so beautiful his gut tightened, and arousal speared him. At least that part of him hadn’t been injured. The only pleasurable sensation he’d experienced lately.

      Unfortunately he couldn’t assuage the ache.

      He had to spend all his time and energy on getting better. Returning to his job was all that mattered.

      HE CHECKED the toe tags on the stiffs in the crypt, choosing the one that had been preordained for his mission, a John Doe. It was past midnight, the place was deserted, and although corpses didn’t faze him, being inside the cold room alone at night reminded him of the chilling stories his grandmother told about ghosts rising from the dead.

      The heavy scent of formaldehyde and other chemicals blended into the icy air, the shadows casting ominous shades of gray across the chalky-white pallor of the deceased. Sometimes he thought he heard their voices calling from the steel tables, heard whispers of lost ones trying to rise again.

      Dressed in surgical scrubs, he blended in with the other staff members as he zipped up the body bag and pushed the gurney through the side door for transport by the body movers.

      There would be no rest for him tonight, though.